Chapter 7 Nicholas
Nicholas holds his breath, unsure what the fuck he’s gotten himself into.
There’s a mess of black hair against his shoulder, a slim body curled into his side, and every few minutes Nicholas stretches his fingers before reaffirming the hold he has on Andrew, who neither moves nor responds to the gentle squeeze of his shoulder.
If Nicholas didn’t know better, he’d swear Andrew had somehow fallen asleep—except for the way he’s tracing a pattern on Nicholas’s thigh.
Three circles clockwise, then three circles counterclockwise, over and over.
This might be the longest Nicholas has ever touched anyone without trying to fuck them or fight them, and while it’s not bad, it’s unfamiliar enough that he’s growing uneasy.
He’s not even sure what possessed him to sink to the floor and hug Andrew after he’d decimated the room. He just looked so, well—broken.
Once, and only once, has Nicholas been on a team that made it to the playoffs.
The Stanley cup was so close they could all taste it.
They’d played their hearts out and fought harder than any of them ever had, and they’d still fucking lost. That loss haunts Nicholas, but so do the faces of his teammates—the way they’d fallen to the ice in exhaustion as if everything in them was simply gone. That was how Andrew looked.
For an hour, Andrew King had broken every single thing in their rage rooms, unleashing a kind of singleminded fury Nicholas has rarely seen from anyone.
The kind of intensity and anger he never expected to see from Andrew.
He screamed and raged and let everything out, and then he’d fallen to the floor as broken as the room he just destroyed.
Nicholas hadn’t been thinking, had only known he couldn’t let Andrew sit there alone.
Were it anyone else, he’d have shoved them off him already.
Hell, he wouldn’t have let them on him in the first place.
Something about Andrew is different. Maybe it’s because he’s only here because Nicki made him come on this date, or because Nicki needs him to be his fake boyfriend, or maybe it’s because the sight of Andrew—perfectly put together Andrew, with his khakis and polos and patient smiles—falling apart made Nicki feel something he’s not sure he’s ever felt before.
“Our time is going to run out soon,” Nicholas lies.
There’s no time limit here. He paid for the entire night. He just has no fucking idea how else to broach conversation with Andrew.
“Sorry,” Andrew apologies, his voice rough and raw, probably from all the earlier screaming. “I shouldn’t have crashed. I’m sorry, I—”
“Stop apologizing, princess.”
The nickname sneaks out without his permission. What was initially intended to be teasing feels anything but when Andrew sags hearing it.
Andrew might be King in name, but Nicki has discovered the truth—he’s a princess. Strong yet delicate. Gorgeous. Deserving of protection.
“We should go.” Andrew says, attempting to stand with trembling arms and legs.
He’s clearly not used to this kind of physicality, but Nicholas is and he stands first, all but hauling Andrew from the floor and into his arms. Andrew might not be a small man but Nicholas has got a good four inches on him and a hell of a lot of muscles so it’s easy enough to do.
While his own body is built to take hits and score goals, Andrew’s body has sharp angles and long limbs.
He’s masculine, but there’s something delicate about him, his body slumping into Nicholas’s arms.
“I got you,” Nicholas says, unsure what the fuck is coming out of his mouth.
“Thanks,” Andrew whispers, shoving the goggles off. His cheeks are rimmed in red, his eyes bloodshot and his hair a mess.
“You look like shit, princess.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Andrew snorts.
The way he half-smiles, the small curl of his lip and the lilt in his voice, goes straight to Nicki’s cock. He’s kind of gorgeous.
“Think I’m too tired for fucking tonight,” Nicholas says.
“That must be a real tragedy for you,” Andrew says, taking a step back out of Nicholas’s embrace. He lets his arms fall to his sides, wishing he had a reason to reach for Andrew again.
“Yeah, a real tragedy,” Nicholas says, hoping he doesn’t sound as full of bullshit as he feels.
Many times after visiting here, he leaves full of a different kind of pent up energy, driving to a club to find a nameless hookup. That urge is gone, but Nicholas isn’t sure what’s taken its place is any better.
“We could get something to eat,” Nicholas blurts.
“I thought you ate already. You told me to eat first because you weren’t gonna feed me.”
Did Nicholas say that? Fuck, he’s an asshole.
“Dessert then,” Nicholas suggests, feeling reckless and desperate. He’s not ready to leave Andrew yet.
“Dessert,” Andrew hums, almost like he’s thinking it over. A little bubble of hope surges in Nicholas's chest, crushed seconds later. “I need to go home. I need a shower.”
“Can’t handle being dirty, princess?” Nicholas smirks, trying to imbue as much flirting as he can into his tone.
“No,” Andrew answers with a serious expression. He pulls at his coveralls. “These made me all sweaty. I don’t like it. I don’t like being dirty at all. Ever.”
Nicholas stares at Andrew, unsure if the innuendo went over his head, or he’s purposely ignoring it. He tries again.
“I could definitely go for a shower, too. Get naked and wet, maybe soapy, too.”
“Naked and soapy is usually the default for a shower,” Andrew replies, pulling off his gloves. “My fingers are sweaty. Disgusting.”
“I like being sweaty,” Nicholas leers, trying again.
“That must be useful as a professional athlete,” Andrew replies.
There’s no mistaking it this time, it just went completely over his head. Nicholas isn’t sure if he wants to groan or laugh.
“There are other fun ways to be sweaty.”
“No,” Andrew replies, with such a serious expression on his face Nicholas does laugh. “Don’t laugh at me, I’m serious. There are no fun ways to be sweaty. Name one, I dare you.”
“Sex.”
“Oh.” Andrew’s lips purse together. “That’s not fun.”
“Maybe you’re having sex wrong.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say that,” Andrew sighs, his mood crashing hard and fast. Whatever the fuck Nicholas said it was the wrong thing. “We should go.”
“You promised me dessert.”
Andrew’s eyebrows scrunch together adorably. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” Nicholas presses. “Just now.”
“No, I just said dessert then hummed.”
Eager to find a work around, Nicholas thinks.
“Tonight is still my date night, right?”
“Yeah,” Andrew confirms.
“Then I want dessert,” Nicholas says, aware he sounds like a demanding asshole and not caring. He just…wants to be around Andrew. It’s confusing, and he hates it, but not as much as he hates the idea of going home to an empty house.
“Alright,” Andrew agrees, surprising him with his easy acquiescence. “But dessert is going to be a pint of ice cream eaten on my couch because I’m going home to shower and change, and there’s no way I’m leaving my apartment again once I have home clothes on.”
“What the fuck are home clothes?”
“The clean clothes you put on after a shower that you only wear at home,” Andrew answers as if Nicholas should know this. If there are home clothes, no one bothered to tell him.
“Speaking of home clothes, you can’t wear that, so you’re either going to stop at your place on the way and get clothes, or borrow something of mine.”
“None of your clothes are going to fit me, princess.”
“You might be large, but you’re not a giant. Besides, my home clothes are oversized because it's more comfortable. If that’s a dealbreaker, you can just go home and have dessert alone.”
If Andrew thinks any of that is a dealbreaker, he is sorely mistaken.
The only thing better than getting to prolong this date is being invited to his home.
Nicholas is deeply curious about what it might be like, and also about the prospect of seeing him in the shower.
Judging by his lack of reaction to Nicholas’s flirting, that's unlikely but a man can dream.
If nothing else, he can find out what the fuck home clothes are.
“I can handle a shower.”
“Good because you didn’t have a choice,” Andrew replies in a tone that makes Nicholas glad his oversized safety coveralls hide his dick. Why is being told what to do by Andrew kind of hot? “Come on, let's go to my place. This music is giving me a headache.”
“Anyone ever told you that you’re bossy, princess?”
“All the time.” Andrew shoves his gloves in the front pocket of his coverall before lifting an eyebrow at Nicki.
When Nicholas doesn’t immediately follow, he takes a step towards the exit. “Come.”
“I’m not a dog.”
Andrew’s mouth turns up at the corner as he takes another step backward. “Be a good boy and come.”
“Fuck you, princess.”
“You wish,” Andrew grins, turning and walking to the door.
Nicholas is not going to follow.
Nicholas is not a good boy.
“Nicki.”
“Coming,” Nicholas grunts.
Fuck.
* * *
“You can shower first.”
“I can go after you.”
“No, you—just no.” Andrew shoves a towel at Nicholas. “I’ll find you some clean clothes once you’re in the shower. They won’t be as fancy as what you usually wear but hopefully they’ll work.”
“No polos or khakis.”
“I don’t wear polos and khakis at home,” Andrew scoffs as if that is ridiculous. As if Nicholas has any idea what this confusing man wears at home.
“Why?”
“Because those are people clothes.”
“What the fuck are people clothes?” Nicholas asks. “First home clothes, now people clothes.”
“People clothes are the clothes you wear around other people when you have to be, well—a person. Like at work or with friends. And home clothes are the clothes you wear at home when you’re clean and can relax.”
“So you can’t relax in people clothes?”
“No.”
“Can you people in home clothes?”
“Only under duress.”
“I’m confused.”
“And stinky. Go, now.”