Chapter 1 #2
Nick sits to put his shin guards on, sighing like Marco’s request is an enormous hardship. “I guess. Someone’s gotta tell Linds how much of an embarrassing fanboy you are.”
“Oh, she’s gonna be so mad she couldn’t make it tonight.” Marco grimaces. “I mean, she’s already pissed, but like, now she’ll be double pissed.”
“She feeling any better?”
“Had a 101 fever when I left this morning.”
“Yikes.” Nick grimaces sympathetically.
“Yeah. It almost didn’t stop her coming—I guess there’s, like, WAG drama or whatever if she skips tonight—but then she took meds and passed out for six hours, so y’know.” Marco shrugs as he laces his skates.
“There’s always WAG drama.” Nick feels a small stirring of guilt at that.
Traditionally the captain’s wife is in charge of all WAG-related activities, but since he is tragically single, Marco’s wife Lindsay has ended up in that role.
Every couple of months or so there’s a headache-inducing group chat event big enough that he has to buy her cake to make up for inflicting that upon her.
“Exactly. I just wish she could be here for the opener.” Marco sighs, looking forlorn, and Nick’s stomach stirs for a whole other reason.
Marco loves his wife so much it’s kind of sickening, and as much as he gives his friend shit about it, Nick would kill to have someone make that face just thinking about him.
Tony’s piercing whistle cuts through the locker room chatter, and everybody starts to hustle. Nick checks his gear over one last time and is about to reach for his gloves when his phone buzzes on the bench. He almost ignores it, then changes his mind at the last second.
He immediately wishes he’d ignored it.
Conn: 1 New Message
The notification taunts him from the center of the screen, and his heart skips a beat. Swiping it open, he stares for a long moment at the message; just three words, no punctuation, no emojis.
Conn
Good luck tonight
Who the fuck does he think he is, sending that right before Nick hits the ice? Like, he has no idea how much Nick needs to not be thinking about him right now.
A stronger man would ignore it. Nick thinks about it—thinks about letting it sit till the morning even, like it doesn’t matter, like it’s not the first time Connor’s told him good luck before a game since he was seventeen. Like it’s any normal text.
Nick is not capable of being that normal about this.
He types out a quick response.
Nick
Thanks, man!
Simple and complete with an exclamation point because he’s pathetic, and then shoves his phone in his bag and strides across the locker room, ready to be the first player on ice for warm-ups.
The stands are already filling up, everyone eager to get the first glimpse of the new season’s roster.
Nick waves as he skates out, earning a roar of noise that he can’t help but grin at.
His sixth season, and it’s still mind-blowing that he gets to do this.
That he is the kind of player who gets that big a response.
He skates a wide circle, letting the adrenaline fill him as his muscles settle into the familiar movements, turning his attention to his team instead.
Fuck what the media’s saying about him losing his shine—he’s got a damn good feeling about this season.
They’ve been up his ass about his nickname since the beginning; a nickname he got saddled with at sixteen when he scored more hat-tricks than anyone else in a season.
If he’d known then the weight it would hang around his neck, Nick would’ve whiffed a few shots.
It could be worse. His best friend got lost on a team outing once and has been stuck with “Marco Polo” ever since.
Warm-ups pass in a blur, Nick barely even noticing the Bobcats at the other end of the rink, so focused is he on his team and his own movements, getting his mind and muscles ready for what’s to come.
The chemical scent of the ice tickles the back of his brain, kicking his pulse up a notch.
He can’t explain how, but the rink always smells different on game day.
Without long to go before all the fanfare of a home opener, they’re all quick to head back to the locker room.
Tony stands at the head of the room, Jazz leaning on her cane at his side, a united front.
Nick mostly tunes out their speech—he should probably pay more attention, being the captain and all, but honestly it’s the same shit every year.
It gets the boys going, though. As they cheer each other on, Nick steps forward, a defiant tilt to his chin.
“I don’t need to hype you up. The folks out there will do that for me.” He gestures towards the tunnel, where the music and crowd are a low rumble through closed doors. “So let’s start this season how we mean to finish it and give these nice people something to fucking cheer for!”
Whoops and cheers ring out through the crowded room, and there’s an awkward little shuffle as they all try and arrange themselves in number order for the sake of the introductions, several operations staff hovering around to coordinate everything.
Nick and Marco head to the back of the line with Duke and Hugsy, who slings one huge arm over each of them in an embrace that’s equal parts hug and headlock.
The four of them, along with Howie, are the only original Nevada Dragons left—these guys have seen Nick through it all, and he prays he can make them proud for another season.
They start to move forward, one by one, names echoing through the packed arena and answered with screams of praise. One of the rookies lets out a hysterical-sounding giggle in the tense silence.
Nick steadies his breathing, his heart hammering in his throat. He could play a thousand games of hockey and he would still probably feel this dizzying mix of nerves and anticipation before his first game of the season. He hopes he will, after a thousand games.
Hugsy steps out when his name is called, and now it’s just the two of them.
Marco turns to Nick. His dark hair is still damp from warm-ups, messy where he’s run a hand through it half a dozen times, and Nick automatically reaches up to neaten it.
Marco snorts, but lets it happen, then clasps Nick’s shoulders and looks him right in the eye.
“Love you, kid,” he murmurs. Nick pats him on a heavily padded hip.
“Love you, old man. See you on the ice.”
Smacking an exaggerated kiss to his forehead, Marco pulls away grinning, practically skipping those last few steps onto the ice as the booming voice declares “Number fourteen, alternate captain Gabriel Perez!” and the crowd loses their minds.
Nick rocks on his toes, waiting for the guy in the headset to gesture him forward, and then he’s bursting out of the tunnel and through the ridiculous giant dragon’s maw.
The crowd is so loud it turns to static in his ears, the ice vibrating with the force of it, and above it all is the announcer.
“And your captain, number nine, Niiiiiick Tiernaaaan!”
Yeah. It’s good to be back.