Chapter Thirteen The Canada Tournament #3
“I will!” Young Greg whined, then grabbed the remains of his beer and fled to the rest of the team for protection.
Brady turned to Nick, giving him a once over that he hadn’t given Young Greg. “Having fun?” he teased.
“Young Greg is insane, and I’m slightly worried for the future. But thankfully he’s studying programming and not like… science or something. Programmers are weird, right? Quirky?”
“Yeah, usually.” Brady took Nick’s beer out of his hands, smelled it, and put it aside. “You drinking light beers now? They got a good porter on tap. Figured that was more your thing.”
His protest about stolen beer became an open-mouthed gawk. “Did you—did you just make a pun about my name?”
Brady’s lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “What? Nick Porter doesn’t like porters?”
“I hate you.” He really didn’t. “So not fair. There are no jokes I can make about your name.”
Brady’s eyes darkened, and he turned away. “Lucky me,” he muttered, and flagged down a bartender to order them beers. “C’mon, let’s go be social.”
Ten minutes later, the team was hotly debating which version of Spider-Man would make a better hockey player, with most of the votes going to Tom Holland but with the Spider Gwen contingent gaining traction.
For all Nick’s worry about falling drunkenly into Brady’s hotel room if given the chance, he was so caught up in the team dynamics that he had the perfect distraction against temptation.
He got to enjoy Brady’s dry barbs about both characters as much as he got to enjoy Gail arm-wrestling Lexi (and winning) to prove a point.
In this bubble built by the tournament and the hotel bar, he was safe from Brady Derek Jensen’s charms.
Or at least he was safe from acting on his attraction to them.
*
Brady’s Jeep shook as they passed over a speed bump too quickly, and Nick braced himself automatically. It seemed Brady’s speed was increasing as his desperation for a parking spot grew.
“It makes no sense,” Nick said while Brady rounded another corner in the parking garage. “How do we lose to the Louisiana team but beat the Chicago team?”
“I have no fucking clue,” Brady said. He signaled for an open spot, then realized the spot was already taken by a motorcycle. He sighed and kept going. “Hockey’s weird as shit sometimes.”
“Think we’ll do okay in the semi-finals?”
“Honestly? We’re gonna get slaughtered if we go up against that Michigan team again. They’ve won every game so far.”
“We gotta go through New York first. We did okay against them.”
Brady didn’t answer as he backed into an empty spot hidden behind a concrete column. “Yeah, but they’ve got more depth,” he finally said as he shut off his car. “My guess is we have at most two games left. Plenty of time to get some rest before heading out tomorrow.”
“Well, some of us aren’t crazy enough to drive all the way to friggin’ Canada,” Nick said. He had to wiggle around the column, but it was otherwise a good spot close to the main stairwell. “I can sleep on the plane if our games go late.”
“It’s only, like, double driving to Pittsburgh,” Brady said dismissively. He checked his phone. “Looks like Benns’s family is waiting for us at the Hall of Fame.”
That was his new plan for navigating this Brady thing.
The two of them got caught in each other’s orbit too much, and Nick did not want a repeat of PA.
He didn’t want to be pissed or hurt or let down or unhappy, and having teammates around had helped last night for drinks, so why not keep the trend going?
Inviting Benns’s family to the Hall of Fame made sense, both strategically and because his girls would get the most out of it.
Everyone else just wanted to drink and hang out in the hotel lobby, which was extremely boring to kids under the age of twelve.
They took the stairs up to the main level two at a time.
“I’m surprised you didn’t drive. Nice summer vacation in Canada, the freedom to spend an extra day if you want or make some stops on the way back…”
Nick winced, painfully aware that wasn’t an option for him. “I got work shit to deal with. If I were back home, I’d probably be at work today.”
“It’s Sunday, dude.”
“I’m aware. I had to get super-special permission to take tomorrow off, and if I’m feeling it, I might head into the office in the evening.”
“…that’s fucking insane.”
“Mid-year closing,” Nick grumbled. “I have to analyze the accounts I’ve handled this year, report on all of them, finalize—” He realized his job, while moderately interesting to another accountant, was probably boring as shit to Brady. “It’s a lot of work,” he said instead.
“Sounds like it. You get overtime?”
“That is the one perk because yes, yes I do.”
“Sweet. Hey, isn’t that Benns’s kid?”
“I think so.”
Once again, Nick was torn between disappointment at the loss of their private time and relief that they had chaperones.
It didn’t help that Brady was adorable as he raced with Benns’s daughters to the game section of the museum and proceeded to be their personal cheerleader/coach as they did the goalie simulator.
Nick was grateful that Benns’s amusement was there to counterbalance his heart swelling in his chest, the only tether to keep him grounded.
If Benns hadn’t been there? Nick would have been completely screwed. As it was, he was only about 85% screwed. That was a reasonable amount that he could navigate up through the end of the night.
*
“Fuck,” Nick groaned as he missed his check and went into the boards.
His shoulder throbbed, and worse, the guy had gotten out of the zone uncontested because Nick’d made a stupid play.
He made a half-hearted attempt to get back into the action, but the goal horn sounded before he could do anything.
He hadn’t given up the game-winning goal—the other team was already two goals up on them—but his cheeks burned in shame as he skated to the bench.
“Ain’t even a checking league, bro,” Donno said, half scolding, half confused.
“I’m aware,” Nick grunted. He was going to have a bruise for sure. What the fuck was the point of having shoulder pads?
“Okay so, like, don’t?”
“Yeah, thanks. Message received.”
Donno nodded, his job done and his two cents shared, and went back to watching the game.
They didn’t win, as predicted. They’d limped their way to the semi-finals and lost steam early in the first. It was annoying, even if it was expected, that they’d ended the tournament before dinner.
“Should we head into the city?” Benns asked as a group of them left the rink.
He sounded like he was trying to be cheerful, though none of them were particularly happy with their performance.
They’d gone from champions to out-classed losers so quick that Nick felt like they were imposters who’d somehow conned their way into their Wheaton Cup win.
As Brady had tried to point out in the locker room, the experience was important whether they’d left with the W or not, and maybe next week that’d feel true. Right now, it just stunk.
“City could be fun,” Gail said. “Might as well end the night with somethi—”
The automatic doors whirred open to reveal a tsunami in the parking lot. The gray clouds that had threatened rain all weekend were pouring over their attempts to salvage the evening. Thunder cracked, and a few of them jumped.
“Fuck me,” Gail said. She practically had to yell to be heard over the roar. “Thought this place was 24/7 snow, not rain.”
Guy cursed in French under his breath, straightened up with an air of pride, and marched toward his car.
He was drenched within the first few feet.
“This rink doesn’t have a bar, does it?” Mags asked hopefully.
“There’s a shop that has soggy pretzels and questionable poutine,” GG said.
They all grimaced.
“Change of plans. I am heading to my hotel, showering, and spending the rest of the night chowing on room service,” Gail said. “If y’all wanna stop by my room or convince me to leave the creature comforts of said room for a drink at the hotel bar, text me. Otherwise, see y’all next season.”
“Room service sounds really good right about now,” Young Greg said.
“Hotel bar?” Donno offered. “No use messing with something that works, right?”
“Think we could do Uber Eats or something? Eat in the lobby?”
They delayed the inevitable as long as possible. Then, slowly, as if about to step off the plank into treacherous, shark-infested waters, they built up their courage and made the runs to their cars.
Honestly, Nick wasn’t sure he needed the shower anymore. He had to peel off his clothes when he got to his hotel room. The rain pounded against the window. It rang in his ears. Even when he was clean and dry, he couldn’t shake the feeling of water cascading down his body.
And then he had to pay $15 Canadian for an umbrella so he could make it over to the Marriott.
The umbrella did nothing, not with the wind blowing the rain sideways into his face. The parking lot was one massive puddle.
“You look like a drowned cat,” Brady said. His hair was blow-dried to perfection where it poked out from beneath his new cap, fresh from the Hockey Hall of Fame. He came over and ran both hands through Nick’s hair to shake out some water, the unexpected touch leaving Nick’s skin buzzing.
“Your face looks like a drowned cat,” Nick mumbled, breathless.
Suddenly, with vivid clarity, he saw them all staying up late, drinking too much, the rain continuing to pour, and Brady drunkenly suggesting Nick wait out the rain by staying in Brady’s hotel room.
There were no games tomorrow to “rest up for.” He had no excuse to leave as the crowd thinned.
To cut off that possibility, he blurted out, “I have an early flight.”
Brady gave him a look like he was an idiot. “Yeah, I know. We got a deck of cards from the lobby shop. I’m teaching everyone how to play President. You in?”
“Sure.”
*
Brady (6:47 a.m.)
everyone’s freaking out because their flights are delayed
cuz of the storm
you good?