Chapter Thirteen The Canada Tournament #4
cuz I know you have that work stuff
Nick swiped away the message notifications as each came in.
He was stressfully scrolling through flight details because yes, his flight was delayed, and yes, he had “that work stuff.” If he didn’t find some way out of this Godforsaken country within twenty-four hours he was screwed, but the weather hadn’t let up overnight and the whole Toronto airspace was grounded.
Nick (7:02 a.m.)
yeah i’m fucked
Brady (7:04 a.m.)
come hang out? you can stress eat breakfast while refreshing the flight info
Nick (7:11 a.m.)
check out isn’t until noon
Brady (7:12 a.m.)
and you wanna be able to gtfo if a flight opens up. just check out now
Nick (7:15 a.m.)
fine but you come to my hotel to eat you lazy shit i’m not getting rained on again until i leave
Brady (7:17 a.m.)
fair
Within an hour, he had all his stuff behind the main lobby desk waiting for him to rush out if he got the chance. He pushed overcooked eggs back and forth on his plate, his stomach too unsettled to keep anything down.
“Are they gonna fire you?” Brady asked by way of hello. He’d loaded up a plate with bacon, eggs, sausage, fruit, a chocolate donut, and an English muffin.
Nick’s stomach turned again. “I fucking hope not, and I doubt it.”
“Okay,” Brady said around his first bite. “That’s a plus. But you’ll be up shit creek if you don’t make it back into the office tomorrow?”
“Something like that.”
Brady was quiet for a good minute. He ate his food, but Nick sensed that there was more coming.
Like he was only pretending to eat to fill the time, to put the necessary space between his previous questions and his next one.
“You know,” he said, dragging out the words, “it’s only a nine-hour drive back. ”
Nick blinked at him. “Okay.”
“I got room in my car,” Brady said conversationally, like he didn’t know what he was doing. “For your gear, too. I can leave whenever. Get you there by this evening.”
Nick sat there frozen. Half of him really wanted to accept, because fuck he needed to get back and this was an easy way to do it. He liked road trips, though he rarely went on them, and he got along so well with Brady. But the other half of him knew it was a bad idea because… well… because…
“Yeah, okay. You sure it’s fine? I can pay for gas—”
“Dude, shut up. I gotta drive anyway. It’s not like you’re weighing down my car enough for me to get worse gas mileage.”
“I could buy you lunch,” Nick insisted, because if this were more of a business transaction than a favor, maybe that would let Nick dodge whatever it was that terrified him about spending nine hours alone with Brady in the confined space of his Jeep. “Snacks for the road?”
“Well, obviously,” Brady agreed. “I also put my breakfast on your room tab, so we’ll start with that.”
Nick kicked him under the table. “You’re an ass.”
“I’m offering to smuggle you across country borders. More like a ‘godsend’ and ‘hero.’ ”
“Look, if you’re gonna rub it in that you’re helping—”
“Eat your breakfast and we can head out. I wanna get out of here before the weather gets worse.”
Nick didn’t think that was possible—what’s worse than grounding all flights?—but he didn’t argue. If his flight was postponed indefinitely, then maybe it was getting worse.
Fuck.
*
They were twenty minutes onto the road, the wipers going full blast as rain pelted down and cast the road ahead of them into gray obscurity, when Nick got a text from the airline.
Unknown Number (9:19 a.m.)
United Flight 827B canceled. Please text “Help” to connect with an agent who can assist you with finding hotel accommodations or making alternative travel arrangements.
“Great,” he snorted. If he’d waited until now to make a move, he’d have been stuck with his rental car and a solo drive home.
“Problem?” Brady asked, voice raised over the rain.
It was one of the hidden perks of the storm.
Nine hours in the car was a lot, and Nick still dreaded the possibilities that could come up…
but conversation was nearly impossible. Nick couldn’t fall harder for a guy if they couldn’t actually talk to each other.
Right?
Nick held up his phone, not that he expected Brady to read it. “Flight is officially canceled. Guess I made the right call.”
Brady nodded and hummed in agreement. Or at least that’s how Nick imagined it, a deep rumble that was a rare show of approval.
Better than the grunts he gave during games when he was too winded to talk, better than his small smiles because those had only seemed rare when he first met Brady but were actually pretty common—a brightness that started in his eyes, twitched at his lips, and maybe crinkled his eyes if Nick was lucky.
No, the low hum was one Nick had only heard a few times, most recently when Nick had reluctantly praised the Pens’ PK unit this season.
Shit, apparently the silence wasn’t helping. Instead of bitching about the tournament, he was thinking about eye crinkles and cataloging casual ways Brady showed happiness. That wasn’t very platonic of him, was it?
They pushed on for a few hours, attempting to listen to the radio but unable to hear more than the rumble of the bass.
It was nearly noon, not that they could tell from the dark sky overhead or Brady’s car clock that mysteriously read 3:42 p.m. when Nick’s watch said 12:07 p.m. They’d opted to keep driving and get a late lunch or early dinner, though Nick’s stomach rumbled every few miles. Thankfully, Brady couldn’t hear it.
They passed a large sign that advertised a roadside motel and service station.
It didn’t offer much in the prospect of food, but there might be a diner around.
It said ten miles, and Nick debated if he should suggest they stop to eat and hopefully let the rain clear out.
Up to now, they’d experienced the hardest rain he could imagine. It had to stop eventually, right?
He hadn’t quite made a decision, about five miles gone already, when the clouds opened up and dumped a damn tidal wave onto the highway. Turns out his imagination had been well shy of how hard rain could actually fall.
The road was impossible to see. The headlights did nothing. The wipers did nothing. The cars in front of them disappeared. The world was reduced to the lane line only a few feet in front of the car.
Brady downshifted and hit the brakes, going from a reasonable 50 miles an hour down to under 20. The tires hydroplaned enough that Nick braced against his seat. Brady quickly regained control and guided the car close to the shoulder where he could see the lines a little better.
“Stop?” Nick suggested.
“Yep.” Brady was white knuckling the steering wheel, so Nick reached out and flipped on the hazard lights for him.
“You see that sign for the motel?”
Brady nodded. His jaw was clenched so hard he probably couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to.
“You focus on the road. I’ll look for the exit.”
They crawled along, existing in a world of water, the car, and the five feet in front of them.
Nick was thankful he wasn’t driving; his nerves were shot just from being on lookout duty.
His nose was pressed against the passenger window, fogging it so badly he had to wipe it off every few seconds, and even so, he could hardly see.
Eyes peeled, he looked and looked, but could see nothing but asphalt and puddles until…
It wasn’t so much an exit as a gravel lot with the promise of light and a building at the far end.
If they’d been going faster, they’d have missed it, but Brady had plenty of time to pull off into the bumpy lot.
Even after he’d killed the engine, he sat there rigid in the deafening rain.
“Hey,” Nick said gently, or as gently as he could while half shouting over the patter of drops on soft-top. “You okay?”
Brady jerked. Finally, he let go of the wheel and turned to face Nick. His eyes were glazed, and he blinked like he was waking up from a nightmare. “Huh?”
Nick suppressed the urge to pull him in for a hug.
Nick didn’t care about getting in trouble at work. They were both too stressed out from driving in this weather; however long it took for the downpour to ease up, they’d wait it out here.
“Let’s eat,” he said with a nod toward the building. Brady had parked right up front, though they’d still get drenched before making it inside. It wasn’t easy to tell what they were looking at even from this close, but Nick thought it was a motel with a small dining area.
“Good idea.”
*
Nick felt disgusting. His clothes clung to him unpleasantly, and even if he could wrap himself in fresh towels, he felt like he’d never be dry again.
The lone waitress had looked at them pityingly as they’d dripped their way to a table. She’d brought them hot chocolate without a word and hadn’t complained when they soaked the seat cushions.
“Thanks,” Nick said when she dropped off their food. “You know how long this storm is supposed to last?”
She sighed. “All night, I think. I came in when it was just a drizzle, but I’ll have to leave in the thick of it. You going to wait it out?” Nick nodded. “You and everyone else. I suggest you get a room while we still have some. We’re not a big place, and the rain’s got us almost booked full.”
“Great,” he muttered when she was out of earshot. “Take a motel room and leave in the morning, arrive late to work… or endure the worst driving conditions I’ve ever seen just to get a few hours of rest before I go in.”
Brady rubbed his forehead and sipped at his cocoa. “Both pretty shitty options.” He was quiet for a moment. “Hey, I promised I’d get you back in time for work tomorrow—”
“Dude, don’t even.” Nick waved off his concern. “I can handle it. Yeah, I’d prefer to be bunkered down at home, but whatever. Safety first, and driving in that storm isn’t something I want to brave just to get some good ol’ accounting done tomorrow.”