Chapter 13 Nicholas #4
By sheer luck, Tony chooses that moment to yell something to Sergei at the end of the table diverting everyone’s attention away from Andrew.
Everyone but Nicholas who hasn’t looked away.
Nicholas grits his teeth so hard his teeth grind.
Mark. That bland as shit weasel who was flirting with Andrew the day he surprised him at work.
“If you wanted to go to a game, you should’ve asked me,” Nicholas all but growls, crossing his arms petulantly. “I can get you rink side seats. Or a private box. Anything you want, I’ll get you.”
“None of that is necessary. I can handle one night in the stands with everyone else,” Andrew tells him, laying a hand on his knee under the table and giving it a squeeze.
That one little touch does more to calm Nicholas than a rage room ever could.
“Mark invited me as a friend, along with a few other guys from our department. It’s not a big deal, but I usually pass.
They pointed that out, and I ended up agreeing to smooth things over. ”
“You can pass on socializing if you don’t fucking want to do it,” Nicholas points out, not liking the idea of Andrew agreeing to things just to make other people happy.
Like he agreed to help Nicholas with his fake boyfriend problem, his brain unhelpfully points out.
“I know and I usually do, but with the season ending, a bunch of the guys wanted to do something, and I guess most of them are big hockey fans.”
That does nothing to placate Nicholas. If Andrew is coming to one of his games then it should be for Nicholas.
“I’ll get you a jersey.”
“I don’t need a jersey. Besides, that material is disgusting. Polyester should be illegal.”
Nicholas frowns. The idea of Andrew at one of his games with other people, not wearing his jersey, has him feeling some kind of way, and he doesn’t fucking like it.
He doesn’t care if some players think it’s cringe or bad luck for a significant other to wear their jersey at a game.
Nicholas wants everyone who looks at Andrew to know exactly who he’s there for—him.
“Besides,” Andrew continues, “I’d much rather watch football or soccer.”
“Bite your fucking tongue,” Nicholas grunts.
Andrew laughs, leaning against Nicholas’s shoulder.
“You’re so easy to tease. Honestly, I’m not a big sports guy.
I watch the Super Bowl every year with Jason and Theo, and I’ll usually watch the World Cup with Alec because he likes to have someone to yell stats and predictions at and it isn’t Charlie’s thing, but otherwise professional sports aren’t my thing. ”
The fact that Andrew only watches sports for other people doesn’t surprise Nicholas.
“Professional sports aren’t your thing,” Tony echoes. “How the hell did you end up with our Nicholas here then? If he didn’t impress you on the ice, he must’ve done something to win your attention. Let me guess, was it the underwear ads?”
“Nicki loves to show off his underwear,” Pavel smirks.
Nicholas envisions being on the ice with Pavel during practice and not so accidentally knocking him over.
“Yeah, he must’ve done something good for you to put up with him.” The taunt comes from Mike, their other winger. The words feel more personal than teasing coming from Mike, who ignores Nicholas unless they’re on the ice, than they had with Tony. “He’s a total asshole.”
“Maybe you don’t know him,” Andrew says easily.
“Nah, Nicholas is a grade-A asshole,” Mike replies smugly. “We all know that. His looks might be for everyone but that personality ain’t.”
If looks could kill, then Nicholas would be sending Mike to the grave with his glare alone. Sure, Nicholas is in fact an asshole, but he doesn’t like the way Mike is saying it, especially not to Andrew.
“Maybe,” Andrew starts, in that familiar pacifying tone of his, “you just don’t have personality privileges.”
“What the fuck are personality privileges?” Mike asks.
With a smirk, Andrew turns to wink at Nicholas as if they’re in on the same secret, as if there is something about Nicholas beneath the surface Andrew knows and other people don’t.
A wink that makes it seem like perhaps Nicholas is more than a handsome face, deep pockets and a talented hockey player.
“Hey, Andrew,” Brayden, one of their second line defensemen yells from beside Mike. “Are those personality privileges his dick?”
Instantly, Andrew tenses while the table breaks out into raucous laughter. Despite the rigidity in his back, his expression betrays none of his rising discomfort—impressive, but also makes Nicholas unhappy.
“Fuck off, Brayden.”
“Aw, did Nicki get his feelings hurt,” Pavel grins.
Nicholas could scream. Pavel is a pain in the ass who isn’t actually an asshole but never knows when to shut his fucking mouth.
“Do us a favor and make sure to fuck him before the next game so we can see if it helps us win. Remember that time we dominated Detroit, and then found out he’d fucked their goalie. Or was it the other way around?”
“Shut the fuck up, Pavel.” Nicki’s tone is sharp enough to cut ice.
“A winger on the ice and off,” Pavel continues, always liking the sound of his own voice.
It’s not really that different from the way the team jokes with each other in the locker room, and Nicholas has never cared about them speculating on his bedroom activities before, especially not since so many of them ended up in the tabloids.
The difference is he knows Andrew is uncomfortable.
“One more fucking word and I’ll shut you up myself.”
“Easy, Nicholas,” Tony tries. “Pavel’s just joking. You know he’s been knocked in the head too many times to have any common sense.”
Pavel flips off his captain but grins.
“Drinks are here,” the table crows when several waiters and waitresses arrive with trays of drinks.
“I ordered you both a beer,” Tony explains when drinks are set in front of both of them.
The second a beer is set in front of Andrew, Nicholas pushes it away before leaning back in his chair to flag down the nearest waitress. “He’ll have a glass of wine. Red. Whatever is the most expensive.”
“Snob,” Andrew smiles, some of the tension leaving his spine. “But thank you.”
“Anything else?” The waitress asks.
“Yeah, bring him some water please. Not tap, bottled.” Andrew turns to Nicholas and shrugs. “Beer is dehydrating.”
Surprise must be showing on Nicholas’s face because Andrew blinks before leaning close enough to be heard over the rowdy table. “What?”
“Not used to people doing that.”
“Ordering you water?” Andrew replies.
No, Nicholas thinks, paying attention to what he needs.
He doesn’t say that because he’s not entirely sure what Andrew’s motivation is.
Is he doing it because he cares whether Nicholas is dehydrated?
Would he do it for anyone because that’s the kind of person he is?
Or is it something he feels compelled to do because of their deal?
The possibilities are too varied, the implication of each one equally so. Needing a drink, he grabs his beer and gulps half down, surprised at how good it actually is.
“Easy,” Andrew whispers, skimming his nails over the back of Nicholas’s scalp.
He shivers at the touch, pressing his head back into Andrew’s hand.
“I’ve never touched a buzz cut before,” Andrew muses, repeating the action. “Feels nice.”
Nice hardly covers how it feels for Nicholas, the feeling of Andrew’s dexterous fingers rubbing the back of his head where the bottom half of his undercut is freshly shorn makes little sparks of pleasure shoot off in his brain.
Surprisingly, Andrew doesn’t stop when Tony gives them a knowing look, not even when his wine comes, which he uses his left hand to drink, or when he ends up in a discussion with Tony and Sergei about player stats for their next game against New York.
The buzz of alcohol and the rhythmic, repetitive motion of Andrew’s fingers lulls Nicholas into a state of calm, making the evening pass in a blur.
By the time the team is clearing up the bill and readying to leave, the buzz from his single beer has worn off but the residual pleasure from being touched by Andrew all night has not.
It took a solid half hour before Nicholas realized that whatever Andrew was doing to his buzzed hair was soothing Andrew as much as it did Nicholas, the contact mutually beneficial for them both.
There’s an interesting hum of energy around Andrew as they say their goodbyes, his smile wide but his posture tight.
It’s not until leaving the brewery and finally alone, that Andrew’s body sags, his earlier exhaustion reappearing.
It’s fascinating to see the subtle yet unmistakable difference as the lines in his face deepen and the smile he wore all night, not fake exactly but often forced, disappears.
“Are you ready to go home?” Nicholas asks, resting his hand at the back of Andrew’s neck to guide him towards Nicholas’s Bentley where he parked it in the corner of the lot.
Andrew nods, his chattiness gone and replaced by something quieter.
Before they reach the car, Nicholas tugs off the sweatshirt he put on after the game, passing it to Andrew, who doesn’t hesitate to pull it on over his head.
When they get in the car, he tugs the hood up, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the window, dozing while Nicholas drives them back home.
The roads are empty this late, the street lights glittering in the rearview while the palm tree lined streets glow in the moonlight.
With no one else around, Nicholas is able to admit, at least to himself, that this fake boyfriend thing is starting to feel anything but fake.