Chapter 11 Nicholas #2
“Working out,” Nicholas snaps, trying to hold on to his anger but feeling it slip away. That makes him mad too, but the anger isn’t white hot rage like before, yet it still burns.
“I gotta tell you, you and I must have different versions of working out because last time I checked, that form of cardiovascular health doesn’t end up needing medical care.”
“I don’t need fucking medical care,” Nicholas snaps, yanking his hands back.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Andrew replies in that calm tone of his, reaching for Nicholas’s wrists to pull his hands closer.
Nicholas allows it, but only because he’s not in the mood to argue, and he suspects Andrew might make this a fight. He used all his energy beating up something that can’t fight back, and now all that’s left is emptiness.
“Does this hurt?” Andrew questions, skimming fingertips over his battered knuckles.
It takes a lot of fucking self-control not to wince.
Over the years, he has taken pucks to the thighs, fists to the face, but none of those hurt as much as the gentle way Andrew is touching him.
It’s not as if Nicholas has never had anyone check his injuries before, but that was always in the context of one of the team trainers, or on a few bad occasions, the doctor.
This is something entirely new. Even as a kid, his injuries were never treated like this.
He was sent to one of the nannies while chastised for hurting himself.
Right now, Andrew should be chastising him, probably would be if he knew the truth.
Instead, he’s carefully checking over Nicholas’s wounds like he needs caretaking.
His hands will be fine by tomorrow, or fine enough to handle his stick, but the tenderness in Andrew’s touch is unlike anything he’s experienced before, and Nicholas isn’t sure what to do.
“Can you bend them?”
Not trusting himself to speak, he opens his hands to extend all ten fingers before clenching them again. It hurts like fucking hell, but he doesn’t let it show, refusing to deepen the worry lines on Andrew’s face.
“I’m fine,” Nicholas says, unsure why it comes out sounding like a question and not a statement.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Andrew replies in that no nonsense tone of his.
He lifts Nicholas’s hands, holding them like they’re something fragile.
Most people look at Nicholas like they’re a little scared of him or like they want to be in his bed, but either way, he’s used to being a commodity for other people.
“Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, princess. I’ll be fine to play tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t thinking about your game,” Andrew replies. “Though now that you mention it, maybe you should see one of the team—”
“No.”
Rather than flinch at his tone, the corner of Andrew’s lip quirks up. “Okay big guy.”
Unsure what to make of that response, Nicholas settles for hunching his shoulders and scowling.
That usually makes people realize not to mess with him and leave.
Hell, even his own teammates have taken to mostly ignoring him off the ice.
The only exception is Tony, who for reasons unknown, still makes an effort with Nicholas.
Being left alone to do what he wants whenever he wants is the goal. It always has been. No friends or relationships. No one to rely on him. No one to disappoint, and no one to use him or fuck him over.
“My younger brother Jason used to play football,” Andrew starts, guiding Nicholas towards the sink. He wets a clean cloth before dabbing it at the cracked blood on the back on Nicholas’s aching hands. “He used to end up with a lot of hand injuries, though not quite like this.”
“What’s your fucking point?” Nicholas asks, aware he’s being a dick but unable to stop.
“My point,” Andrew says slowly, allowing those big brown eyes of his eyes to look directly at Nicholas, “is that if you play a sport like football or hockey and ruin your hands you’re fucked. Do you want to be fucked, Nicki?”
“No,” Nicholas grits out.
“Then you’re going to stop doing this.”
“You’re not my dad,” Nicholas scowls.
“No, I’m not. I’m your boyfriend for the time being, and that means I don’t want you hurt, and I don’t think you want that either.”
The words make Nicholas want to hit something, again. This is exactly why he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t need some bullshit fake care.
“Nicki.”
“I’m not a fucking child,” Nicholas growls.
“Then don’t act like one,” Andrew replies, so unruffled by Nicholas’s outburst that something in him deflates. His anger has always gotten a rise out of people, but not Andrew. It’s unnerving and confusing.
“You don’t need to pretend to care, I’m fine.”
“I don’t pretend, Nicki.” Andrew pauses. “I should probably start calling you Nicholas if I want to prove that.”
Andrew smiles but all Nicholas can do is frown. He’s Nicholas to the world. To his fans. To his parents. To everyone who doesn’t matter. Somewhere along the line, he’s grown used to being Nicki to Andrew.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Nicholas growls.
“Uh—”
“You call me Nicki, just like you have been,” Nicholas demands.
“Okay, Nicki.”
Nicholas grunts, his frown firmly in place as Andrew carefully dries off his hands.
“Where’s your pain reliever?”
“I don’t need that.”
“It’ll help with inflammation,” Andrew continues, like Nicholas didn’t just speak. “Where is it?”
“Top left cupboard,” Nicholas answers, because it’s once again easier than arguing.
Andrew makes his way to the cupboard in question, opening it with a bitten off curse in what Nicki is pretty sure is Spanish.
It’s not hard to imagine what has Andrew unhappy—haphazardly shoved inside the cupboard is a mess of supplements, pain relievers, old prescriptions he never finished taking from past injuries and his pre-work out.
Andrew mutters to himself as he riffles through the contents, returning a minute later with two pills in his hand and a bottle of water he found in the fridge.
“Drink.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Not dad, boyfriend,” Andrew corrects.
Fake boyfriend. Fake caring. Fake fucking everything.
“You need to eat,” Andrew announces. “What do you want?”
“There’s takeout menus in the drawer and some pre-made meals from my chef left in the fridge for days he’s not here.”
“Personal chef,” Andrew repeats. “Rich bastard.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yup, someone is hangry,” Andrew hums. “How about you go pick a movie, and I’ll figure out the food.”
Ignoring the hangry part, which is actually pretty accurate, Nicholas settles for, “You know how to use everything?”
“I’m not Alec, but I’m pretty sure I can manage figuring out how to turn on a stove or use your microwave.”
“Who’s Alec?”
“My youngest brother. He’s an amazing cook. We all make him cry with our incompetence in the kitchen. Well, Charlie and Jason make him cry. I’m not great but I can handle the basics.”
Somehow Nicholas suspects there’s not much Andrew can’t handle.
“You got a movie preference?” Nicholas finds himself asking, as surprised by the question as Andrew appears to be.
“Oh, uh…nothing too graphic. My brain will replay the mental images on loop for weeks at the most inopportune moments like when I’m trying to work or sleep. Otherwise, I’m fine with whatever. Usually my brothers pick the movie, so I’m used to watching what someone else wants.”
“Fine,” Nicholas grunts, making his way to the living room.
Scrolling through his streaming channels, Nicholas tries and fails not to tip his head back and watch Andrew move around his kitchen.
He should probably be more concerned about letting a guest make food but all he can do is stare at the way his clothing looks on Andrew’s body—bunched up around his ankles because it’s too long and loose around his lean middle.
Such a handsome man, even sexier in Nicholas’s things.
It scratches a primitive itch in his brain while also making him want to march into the kitchen and sniff Andrew to see if he smells like Nicholas too.
He resists, mostly because he’s pretty sure he’d get sucker punched.
Not even a hefty dose of self-preservation can stop Nicholas from thinking about what Andrew smells like though, those thoughts occupying his brain even when he returns his attention to the television and finally picks an old favorite.
After about fifteen minutes, Andrew makes his way into the living room holding a tray with two plates of food on it. One of them is some kind of chicken and pasta dish he eats regularly, and the other is scrambled eggs.
“Why are you eating eggs?”
“The food was touching,” Andrew answers, triggering the memory of their first not-a-date-date where Andrew’s half of the table had been covered in plates.
He’d thought he was just being difficult, but maybe he misjudged.
“I know it’s ridiculous, people are always giving me shit for it, but once the food touches, something in my brain can’t stomach it.
Plus there were no ingredient lists, and what if there were mushrooms or onions. ”
Andrew shudders dramatically.
“I’ll call the chef tomorrow and have him make you whatever you want. What do you like?”
“You don’t need to do that,” Andrew protests, stabbing at his scrambled eggs like he’d rather be eating anything else.
“I’m calling the chef, princess. If you don’t tell me what you want, there’s just going to be two of everything.”
“That would be a waste. I wouldn’t eat it.”
“I know,” Nicholas smirks.
Andrew groans, slumping into the couch like some kind of shrimp, hunched over with his legs pulled to his chest. Even with Nicholas’s impressive training routine, he’s not sure his body could bend like that.
“I like soup a lot and tortillas, flour, not corn. I don’t mind pasta, but the sauces can’t have any chunks, and if there’s vegetables it needs to be on the side. I like meat or seafood but not reheated, that's just—no. Leftover meat is disgusting.”
“It’s not leftovers, it’s meal prepping.”
“Meal prepping is literally leftovers rebranded.”