Chapter 14 Andrew #4
“This is Andrew King,” Mark says.
“If I could just see some identification,” the employee behind the window requests.
“What’s going on?” Andrew questions.
“I don’t know,” Mark says. “Apparently the original tickets were voided and there’s new upgraded tickets, I think, but for some reason they’re in your name. Maybe because of whatever you did when you saved them.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Andrew once again points out while withdrawing his wallet from his back packet to produce his driver’s license. He turns his attention to the attendant inside the booth. “Is there a reason the tickets are in my name?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. The system flagged Mr. Smith’s tickets here as connected, but these new ones are in your name.”
“They better not be worse seats,” Mark grumbles.
“They’re not individual seats,” the attendant says, typing away at her computer but clearly listening to the conversation.
“What does that mean?” Mark demands.
“It means Mr. King’s party has been upgraded to one of our luxury suites.”
“No shit,” Mark whistles, looking like a kid whose Christmas came early.
“Indeed.” The employee diverts their attention to Andrew.
“You’ll find the luxury suites on the third floor.
These tickets will also grant you access to the private club elevators, waiter service with our premiere dining menu, an on-call suite attendant should you need anything and a complimentary wet bar. ”
Mark shakes Andrew’s shoulders making him grimace.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr. Whitmore, would it?” Andrew asks.
“I couldn’t say who authorized the upgrade or payment, sir. Only that the change was made in your name.”
“Whitmore,” Mark repeats, dragging Andrew away from the window once they’ve secured their access. “Did your boy toy upgrade us?”
“I told you, he’s not—”
“What did Andrew’s boyfriend do?” Santiago yells over him.
“Upgraded us to a private suite,” Mark answers.
“Told you it wouldn’t be boring if he came,” Steve tells Santiago, though whether Andrew was supposed to hear or not is unclear. Either way, Andrew’s heart sinks.
The guys continue to horse around and laugh like they’re thirteen and not all in their mid-thirties, but then again Andrew supposes it’s kind of a big deal. If Jason ever got a private box at an NFL game, he’s pretty sure his brother would sob.
Andrew can’t help but feel like the splurge was wasted on him.
He hardly understands hockey, and he did tell Nicki this was entirely unnecessary.
The moment they step into the arena he rethinks everything he just said.
It’s loud and crowded, people in his personal space trying to get into food or bathroom lines.
By the time they’re stepping off the elevator onto the club floor, Andrew’s been clapped on the back by Mark three more times and endured two more jokes about the size of Nicki’s dick to wallet ratio.
“Right this way,” an employee announces after verifying their tickets.
They’re guided to a private suite that is easily half the size of Andrew’s small apartment with a small kitchenette laid out with an array of snacks, a massive television on the wall set to silent but playing highlight reels from Nicki’s last game and filled with comfortable leather seating.
There’s also a massive glass wall with a row of leather seats that line a marble counter, affording them an incredible view of the rink where the players are already on the ice stretching.
Andrew might not be wrong often, but he can admit when it happens, and he definitely was wrong about not needing a suite.
This is incredible, and he’s grateful Nicki arranged it.
The idea of being cramped in those other general admission seats, likely being touched or elbowed while also listening to screaming has Andrew itching with unease.
This suite, on the other hand, is amazing. Quiet, private, and big enough to move around while still watching the game. It’s not just the bigger seats or the luxury, it's the extra personal space and privacy that Nicki knows Andrew would prefer but never dream of asking for.
“This is fucking nice,” Santiago whistles.
“No shit,” Steve agrees. “Please keep fucking Whitmore for us.”
“Fuck your own hockey player,” Andrew retorts before he can think better, as surprised by the words as the guys are. There’s about ten seconds of silence before everyone laughs, making the sharpest edge of tension in Andrew recede.
Maybe trying to blend work Andrew with normal Andrew won’t be so hard.
Thankfully, there’s no more jokes after that as the guys settle in, filling their plates with an impressive array of appetizers.
It’s only a few minutes before a waitress appears with a full menu, letting them know their dinner has already been covered before the guys lose their minds like they’ve never been allowed to order anything they wanted before.
Andrew keeps it simple with a sushi platter, but before he can figure out how to ask if it’d be possible for everything to come separate, the waitress smiles and takes his menu.
“Mr. Whitmore already let us know about your dietary preferences and needs, Mr. King.” Andrew exhales a heavy breath, both at the confirmation that this was all Nicki’s doing and the extra care he put into prepping them.
“Everything will be prepared and plated separately. If there’s anything else you need please let me or your suite attendant know. ”
“Thank you. If it’s not too much trouble, I noticed there was only beer in the mini fridge. Do you think I could get a glass of wine,” Andrew asks.
“There’s a drink menu on the table, but Mr. Whitmore has already had a bottle of wine sent for you—a 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Will that be satisfactory?”
Andrew might love a red wine, but usually he and Amanda buy it at Trader Joe’s or maybe a local liquor store when he gets his yearly bonus and wants to splurge. He has no fucking idea how much a bottle like that must’ve set Nicki back. For once, he doesn’t care.
Nicki got him a suite. Nicki is taking care of him. Nicki is spoiling him with good food and wine. Nicki did this for Andrew, and Andrew can’t deny he wants it.
“That’ll be wonderful, thank you.”
“Of course, sir. Would you like your wine brought to you now or with your meal?”
“With the meal,” Andrew answers, offering her a polite smile. It’s not until she’s gone that he realizes everyone is staring at him.
“Damn, Andrew. How did you land money bags?”
“He’s not money bags,” Andrew retorts. “He’s a person with feelings.”
“Who happens to be one of the wealthiest fuckers in the country. His family is loaded. And that’s without his hockey and endorsement deals,” Santiago says wistfully. “Man, I want a sugar daddy.”
“He’s not my sugar daddy,” Andrew groans.
“Also,” Steve says around a mouthful of food. “You’re not gay.”
“Details,” Santiago shrugs.
Andrew barely resists the urge to laugh. As long as their attention isn’t on him, he can handle them fine.
“That reminds me—” Mark starts, cut off when there’s a light knock on the door. Seconds later, it swings open.
“Good evening gentleman, my name is Richard. Apologies for the delay in introducing myself. Normally, I would’ve been here when you arrived but I was personally overseeing the delivery for Mr. King.”
“A delivery,” Andrew echoes, eyes honing in on the box in Richard’s hands.
“Mr. Whitmore asked that this be in the suite when you arrived, but the carrier was delayed in traffic, and there was some confusion about which suite it was to be sent to. Please convey our deepest apologies to Mr. Whitmore that it was late.”
“It’s fine,” Andrew assures him. “But what is it?”
“I couldn’t say.” Richard crosses the room, laying the box on the counter in front of Andrew. “The instructions were clear: it was to be hand delivered to you, unopened. Does anyone need anything else?”
“We’re good,” Mark says, waving some kind of fried appetizer in the air.
“If anyone needs anything, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll coordinate with the waiter to ensure your meal is brought to you as quickly as possible so you don’t miss the start of the game. Puck drop is in fifteen minutes.”
“Shit, we gotta get seats.”
“We don’t gotta do shit, dude, The seats are right there.” Steve shakes his head. “I just wanna see what Andrew got.”
Flashbacks of birthdays and Christmas where Andrew smiled and thanked everyone for the gifts before secretly hiding in his room or bathroom to cry, confused why he was upset by perfectly good gifts or overreacting to being given things he didn’t want, assault him.
He has no problem with receiving gifts, if he’s prepared and not being watched.
“Open it,” Mark prompts.
Even at thirty-two, opening gifts in front of people on holidays is only tolerable because Charlie is such an attention whore, making it easy for Andrew to discreetly open his own gifts without being noticed.
There’s no Charlie here now, and it occurs to Andrew how much he relies on his twin brother as a shield.
He really wishes Charlie had come tonight to take some of the attention off him.
“Show us what your sugar daddy got you,” Santiago demands.
“He’s not my sugar daddy,” Andrew repeats.
“I don’t know, dude.” Steve leans over Andrew’s shoulder, his warm breath on Andrew’s neck. Gross. “Luxury suite, fancy wine and now gifts. Sounds like a sugar daddy.”
“Or you’ve never had a healthy relationship where the other person actually likes you enough to take time to care about what you need,” Andrew replies, his snark slipping out once again.
“Damn,” Santiago snorts. “I didn’t know Andrew was so funny.”
“Fuck off,” Steve groans, flipping Santiago off.
“Well,” Mark says, staring at Andrew with an unreadable expression. “Are you going to open it?”