Trick Shot (All These Lights #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

NICK THE TRICK REACHING FOR CUP NUMBER THREE

Known as the Golden Boy of Vegas, Tiernan is well-loved for his quick wit and quicker puck-handling.

A prominent figure in the nightlife scene, Tiernan’s party-boy reputation is long-standing, though some have suggested that exact reputation is what caused the team to falter so early last season.

General Managers Tony Murphy and Jasmine Davison continue to affirm that Tiernan is the best man to lead this team to another cup, but this may be a classic case of the Vegas lights being a little too bright to handle.

Tiernan’s contract is set to finish at the end of this season—will his time in Nevada finish with it?

Of course, that’s not the only fire under Tiernan’s skates this season; his former QMJHL teammate, Connor LaPorte, is finally joining him at NHL level, having signed with the Quebec Orignaux this past summer.

The history between these two is well documented (Click here for our previous articles).

Note in particular: LaPorte’s unexpected disappearance from the QMJHL; missing the 2017 draft (in which he was predicted to go first overall, ahead of Tiernan); and a long period of absence until he resurfaced in European hockey.

Many of us thought he would never return to the North American leagues.

Will this clash of the titans prove too much for Tiernan? Has he lost his edge, or will the Nevada Dragons reign supreme once more? Only time will tell.

The Dragons play their home opener against the Arizona Bobcats on October 6th. Tickets available here, broadcasting on ESPN.

—SportsBuzz, October 2nd, 2022

Once. Just once. Nick would love for his name to appear in print without Connor LaPorte’s alongside it.

It’s ridiculous, really. It’s been five whole years since they played together.

Five years since their on-ice connection rocked the world of Major Junior Hockey, getting every NHL scout on the continent sitting up and paying attention, sparking endless articles about how the two of them were destined for the two brand-new expansion teams. A perfect experiment, people thought: take two young stars, hand them each a budding franchise, and see what they do from there.

See which one fails without the other propping them up, because surely they could not both be so talented individually.

Except it didn’t happen that way, did it?

Connor left, and Nick was stuck—stuck with double the attention, double the scrutiny. Stuck with two people’s worth of expectations weighing on his slim shoulders.

Stuck with a hole in his heart that wouldn’t stop bleeding, as the love of his life disappeared without warning and he couldn’t tell a soul.

His entire career, the specter of Connor LaPorte has never gone away.

They just have to shoehorn him in somewhere.

If Nick does well, they question whether Connor would have done better.

If Nick does badly, they joke about whether Connor would let him join Fribourg HC as a back-up plan.

If Nick stubbed his goddamn toe, they’d somehow find a way to tie it back to Connor.

If there’s one thing hockey fans love more than a compelling narrative, it’s a rivalry, and they’ve been clinging desperately to this one in the hopes of a moment just like this.

Nick’s tried to see the humor in it over the years.

Cracked wise-ass remarks about how when they were kids everyone couldn’t wait to separate him and Connor, and how quickly things changed.

Said whatever he’s had to say to the vultures of the press to try and pretend like it’s fine, like it doesn’t bother him, like he and Connor laugh about it together.

Like Connor has spoken to him at any point in the last five years.

Except, now, that’s not true. Connor has spoken to him. Nick still can’t believe it—occasionally finds himself re-reading the email late at night, checking the text threads on his phone to see Connor’s name, reassuring himself he didn’t dream the whole thing.

Half a decade of radio silence, of blocked messages and unanswered calls and sleepless nights wondering what he did wrong—and then there it was, an email sitting in his inbox, asking if they could meet up to “talk things out.”

But Nick knows he didn’t dream it, because if he had, it would’ve gone very differently. Connor didn’t take one look at Nick and realize what a fool he’d been for leaving. There was no kiss in the rain—no kissing at all—no love confession, none of that cheesy shit. But. They talked.

Nick’s stomach starts to churn as the memories come flooding back, and he grits his teeth. Now is not the time for that particular anxiety spiral. He knows, bitterly, that there’s a bigger reason Connor got back in touch.

Hockey season is upon them once more. And for the first time ever, Connor’s name is on an NHL roster.

“Yo, Trix!”

Nick’s head snaps up, a smile immediately sliding across his face as he tries to pretend he has a reason for lurking in the empty equipment room. “What can I do for you, Kat?”

Kat just rolls her eyes, adjusting her headset over her neat dark-red curls.

She looks about as stressed as Nick would expect from their PR manager on opening night.

“You can get your ass to the dressing room. You’re late.

And just a heads-up, you’re gonna be grabbed for media at first intermission.

Give yourself something worth talking about, yeah?

” Her painted lips curl at the corners, and Nick barks out a laugh.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Also, Marco’s looking for you.”

That makes Nick snort. “Goddamn helicopter parent,” he mutters under his breath, though evidently not too quiet for Kat to hear. Her smirk widens.

“I’m telling him you said that.” Before Nick can say anything further, her headset crackles with a call, and she’s on it immediately. A distracted wave goodbye is all he gets, and then he’s alone once more.

The home opener is always a spectacle, but Nevada lives and breathes the motto “Go Big or Go Home”—he’s already walked a red carpet, done what felt like a million interviews and posed for photos, videos, whatever social media hoops Kat needed him to jump through.

He’s got glitter in his hair from the confetti cannons, and even now, an hour before puck drop, he can hear the rumble of the crowd gathering in the stadium.

It’s a rush. It’s almost enough to make him forget he has a whole hockey game to play.

Almost.

“Get your head in the game, Tiernan,” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair and turning in the direction of the locker room.

He can’t afford to have his thoughts with the crowd, or the season ahead, or on Connor fucking LaPorte.

All that matters is right here, right now, one shift at a time.

The locker room is a comforting whirlwind of chaos and noise, sucking him in immediately—he barely gets three steps in before someone’s balled-up sock whacks him in the back of the head.

“Sorry, Cap!” Motormouth calls sheepishly, hurrying to grab the wayward article. “I was aiming for Beau.”

“Oh, screw you,” Beau retorts from Nick’s other side, holding his armor in one hand and flipping his fellow rookie off with the other.

“Children!” Nick mock-scolds, rolling his eyes—he can look forward to plenty more of that, with four entire rookies on the roster. They usually average out as the youngest team in the NHL, but this season is a whole other level.

“Hey, man.” Marco is already half-dressed in the stall next to him, and he meets Nick for a fist-bump without hesitation. “Kat said you were looking for me?”

Bracing himself for a question about his headspace—or worse, about Connor—Nick is startled when Marco’s brown eyes meet his, gleaming. “Yeah, guess what?” He practically bounces as he pulls up his shorts. Before Nick can speak, he barrels on. “Sticks+Stones are in the crowd tonight.”

Nick blinks, the words meaning nothing at first, and then it clicks. “That band you and your sister are, like, obsessed with?” The older man nods. “No way!”

“Yeah! And Kat said they’d be cool to meet us after the game.”

“Us, like…?” Nick gestures to the locker room at large, and Marco snorts.

“Us like you and me, dipshit. And, I guess, if anyone else wants to. Hey!” He raises his voice, grabbing the attention of their teammates. “Any of y’all like Sticks+Stones?”

In the back corner, GJ snorts. “Not all of us are overgrown emo kids, Perez,” he taunts.

“They’re okay, I guess,” Banjo pipes up. “They’re a little … y’know.” He flicks an exaggerated limp wrist, and something inside Nick twists painfully as the locker room fills with snickers.

“I like their vibe,” Sunny says, loud enough to be pointed, though his gaze stays on Marco and Nick. “But, uh, the music isn’t really my jam. Sorry, man.”

“Well, fuck all of you,” Marco declares, but he’s smiling, running a hand through his mussed black hair.

“My daughter likes ’em, Marco!” Tony calls, and the guys snicker again. Nick’s not sure why; their GM’s fourteen-year-old daughter is probably cooler than every damn one of them.

“Oh, come on,” Marco huffs. “I hate you all and you have no taste.”

“Trix is your BFF and he literally likes Britney Spears.” The flat retort comes from Howie, the only one of them not dressing for the game tonight. An off-season knee surgery has the veteran goalie out for another six weeks.

“Trix is well aware of his crimes.”

“I am your captain!” Nick’s protest goes ignored, as usual. He added a Britney song to the team playlist one time and has never lived it down.

“Anyway,” Marco says in a quieter voice, the attention of the locker room now off them as everyone hurries to finish changing.

The clock is ticking down on the wall, and management are starting to get their game-faces on.

“You’re coming with me. No, you don’t get a choice. I’m not going by myself like a loser.”