Chapter 19 Nicholas
Stepping onto the ice, all Nicholas can think about is Andrew. For as long as he can remember the most important thing in his life, the only thing that ever actually mattered, was hockey.
As a kid, it was the first thing he loved that someone else didn’t control, likely because his parents hadn’t realized what it came to mean to him.
By the time they did, Nicholas was a strong-willed teenager who his parents didn’t care enough to fight with.
Getting drafted had been a dream, something to throw in his father’s face sure, but also a chance to have something just for himself.
Something he earned. It wasn’t given to him because of his last name or his bank account or his looks, but because he was a damn good player.
Somewhere along the way, it became the only thing he cared about.
Fucking, fighting and hockey. That was it.
The idea that he thought he was happy is laughable, because if he had to go back to that life now, after only a few weeks with Andrew, he knows he couldn’t.
Andrew King has changed him, and Nicholas likes it.
He likes being the kind of man who might deserve someone as fucking perfect as his princess.
What he doesn’t like is leaving him, especially when he’s sick.
He’s never had anyone or anything to leave.
The brutal training and playing schedule was a breeze for Nicholas because he didn’t have a life outside of hockey.
Now he does, and while he still loves hockey, he thinks he might love Andrew more.
“One last game, Whitmore,” Tony reminds him as he skates up beside Nicholas. “Play for that pretty princess you have at home.”
Tony grins before popping in his mouthguard.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Nicholas growls.
Tony’s laughter echoes loudly as he skates away, leaving Nicholas on the ice hyper aware of the rapidly filling seats and the one person not in them. Determined to play well for Andrew in case he’s feeling well enough to watch from home, he begins his pre-skate stretching.
When the puck drops, Nicholas is off, taking possession and moving down the ice.
Until suddenly thoughts of Andrew on the floor flash through his mind, making bile rise up the back of his throat.
Before he can refocus, the puck is gone, and he’s left in the dust, the breakaway goal for the other team causing raucous cheers and earning him a verbal lashing from the coach.
For once, Nicki doesn’t argue, uncharacteristically quiet while the coach demands he get his head in the game.
Unfortunately, he does not get his head in the game. As the clock ticks down, his head is back at home, imagining the way Andrew looked on the couch cozied up in Nicki’s favorite hoodie, wrapped in a blanket. Unnaturally pale, exhausted, but still so fucking beautiful.
Nicholas is so fucked, and he knows it, counting down the minutes until the game ends. By the time he’s skating off the ice, the morale is low, and Nicholas is ready to bolt. The only thing that stops him is knowing how disgusted Andrew would be if he came home stinky and sweaty.
“I’ve never seen you play like that,” Tony says, leaning against the stall next to Nicholas as he peels off his pads. It’s not Tony’s stall, so why the fuck he’s there is beyond Nicholas, who throws his pads into his locker with such force the walls rattle.
“Fuck off, Tony.”
“Mmm, no.”
“You’re so fucking annoying.”
“Says the most charming man in Santa Leon. Your personality ain’t winning any awards, Whitmore.”
“What’s your fucking point?” Nicholas bites, embarrassed and disappointed in himself. Two feelings he’s not used to experiencing. Turns out being with Andrew is unlocking a lot more than just happiness, including a range of emotions Nicholas thought he was incapable of experiencing.
Usually when he feels anything close to emotions, he would head to the rage room until he broke enough shit he didn’t have the energy left to think about anything, especially not his own feelings.
That, or he would find someone to fuck. Neither of those options are healthy, nor do they hold any appeal anymore.
What Nicholas wants is to go home and crawl into bed, to have Andrew safe in his arms and breathe him in, to see with his own two eyes that he’s doing okay.
“He’s good for you, you know.” Tony’s expression is far too knowing for Nicholas’s liking, but then again that’s probably why he’s their captain. He’s not just likable, he's smart, observant on and off the ice in ways people often underestimate because of his congenial temperament.
“We just fucking lost,” Nicholas points out.
“Well, yeah, that was shit. You played fucking awful. Do better next season.”
“Such a morale booster, Captain.”
“Like you need a morale booster,” Tony scoffs.
“You don’t need me to tell you that you’re one of the best players on this team.
Next season, you better show up and play like it.
But this game? It didn’t mean shit, Nicholas.
It was a formality. Am I happy you played so badly?
Not at all. Is it nice to know after an entire season of knowing you that you’re actually human and can care about someone besides yourself? Damn fucking right it is.”
“Why am I friends with you?” Nicholas grouses.
“Because unlike you, I actually have a charming personality. Now go home to Andrew, and when I call you or text you in the off season, don’t ignore me.”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want in the off season.”
“I’ll just call Andrew if you ignore me. He always answers my calls and texts.”
Tony is trying to get a rise out of him, and it works.
“He’s mine.”
“Down boy,” Tony laughs, flicking Nicholas’s chest. “Andrew King is a stronger man than me. See you later, Nicholas. Don’t forget—answer your fucking phone.”
With that, he departs, leaving Nicholas free to do exactly what he wants—go home.
* * *
Nicholas’s good mood lasts until he’s getting in his car to drive home and notices a missed call. It’s from an unfamiliar number, and Nicholas quickly taps play in case it’s from Charlie or Eden, but the voice is neither, and Nicholas almost wishes it was.
“Forced to leave a voicemail for my own son, really, Nicholas. I can’t believe none of the expensive boarding schools and nannies we paid for managed to instill an ounce of manners in that obstinate head of yours.”
“I was fucking playing which you’d know if you gave a shit about me,” Nicholas snarks, halfway to hitting delete on the message when he realizes what this message is about.
“The party has been moved to next weekend, something you’d know if you had any investment in the wellbeing of the family name.
There was a mixup in the mayor’s schedule, and he would have been unable to attend.
I have a private deal I’m working on and I need him there.
I don’t want to hear any excuses about games either.
Family is more important than hockey. You can miss one game.
I need you there, not making a scene. I know that’s difficult for you, but my assistant tells me you’re dating someone which I had to learn about secondhand.
I trust you’ll ensure you bring them, and you both behave in an appropriate manner to ensure nothing compromises my business dealings or the Whitmore name. ”
Without warning the line goes dead. Not an accidental hang up. No goodbye. Just his father done with him, the same as always. Nicholas suddenly changes his mind about the rage room. He wants to punch something.
Somehow, he makes it home, though how he does that with the haze of anger and frustration rolling through him, he hardly knows. The longer he goes without speaking to his parents, the easier it is to forget they exist, that nothing they do can hurt him, but that’s not true.
The idea of taking Andrew into that sordid, power hungry world his parents live in makes Nicholas’s hands clench the steering wheel tightly.
Andrew would hate the social games, the lies and half-truths.
The only thing keeping Nicholas from flat out screaming is knowing that Andrew can handle himself, even if he’d dislike it.
He’s fucking smart and handsome, and good at putting people in their place.
In fact, Nicholas’s father will probably hate him the same way he hates Nicholas because Andrew doesn’t cower to people.
It’s selfish to want Andrew to come with him knowing he’ll hate it, but Nicholas needs this.
He needs to show his father that someone cares about him, and then—then fuck him.
Just the party. His parents can meet Andrew once, get a glimpse of what a real man looks like, one who actually gives a shit about Nicholas, and then he can go back to ignoring them like he does three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.
On autopilot, Nicholas drives down his palm tree lined street, turning into his driveway and parking near the front. Charlie’s hideous yellow car is there too, and while Nicholas is no fucking mood to deal with him or Eden, he’s grateful they’re here still because that means Andrew isn’t alone.
Attempting to reel his emotions in, he heads inside, anger simmering just below the surface, no matter how hard he tries to shove it down.
All the lights on the bottom floor are off, the only glow in the room coming from the television, illuminating Charlie’s face where he sits, alone, on the couch. His princess is nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Andrew?” Nicholas demands.
“I’m right here,” Charlie replies.
“Fuck off, you don’t look anything like him,” Nicholas snaps, not at all in the mood to deal with Charlie after that voicemail.
Charlie rises from the couch, head cocked to the side in the same way Andrew does when he’s studying something. He looks so much like his Andrew yet nothing like him too, their mannerisms and the way they hold themselves worlds apart.
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I have fucking eyes.”