Chapter 6
Chapter Six
[Video description: Nick Tiernan visible from the shoulders up. He’s in his stall in the locker room, sweaty and stripped to his under-armor, while a microphone hovers by his face.]
“So what do you think went wrong tonight?” A voice from off-camera. Tiernan frowns.
“Everyone has a bad night every now and then, and they took advantage of us on that one. We let them get under our skin, and we suffered the consequences.”
“The comments from intermission reports suggest that the Dragons seemed disjointed tonight. Out of sync. Anything to say to that?”
Tiernan’s jaw tightens. “Like I said, Calgary got under our skin tonight.”
Abruptly, Tiernan is shoved to the side, and Brad Burrows’s face squeezes into frame. He has a bruise on his cheek, and he’s smirking, his arm too tight around his captain’s shoulders. “No more partying on school nights, huh, Cap?”
Tiernan’s flinch is visible. Burrows is yanked out of frame a moment later. “[BEEP] off, man.” The voice is Gabriel Perez, off-camera. It continues, quieter, muffled. “You wanna get into a contest over who’s been out most the night before a game, go ahead, because you ain’t gonna look good there.”
A grimace passes across Tiernan’s face, and the video ends abruptly.
—HockeyTalk, Calgary @ Nevada, October 15th, 2022
There’s a DM from Matt waiting for Nick when he gets home and finally turns on his phone. It’s from hours ago, long before Nick hit the ice. A phone number, with an apology for forgetting it last night.
Nick stares at the number until it burns his eyes. Then he saves it and pulls up a new text window.
Nick
Hey, it’s Nick
He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be going to sleep, or at the very least going over game tape, looking for ways to improve.
Not that he needs to. He knows exactly how to improve—by getting his fucking head on straight. Bam-Bam’s sneering words echo through his head, and bile rises in his throat just like it had in the locker room under the media’s scrutiny.
He can’t tell them the truth: that he was up till 2 a.m. waiting for his Twitter feed to explode with exclusive pictures of Nick Tiernan’s homosexual behavior; that he went to a concert that rattled his entire world-view, his comfort zone, his perception of himself.
That a couple kisses with a pretty boy cracked the mask he’s been hiding behind since the second he arrived in Vegas.
Nick almost throws his phone at the wall when it buzzes in his hand. Jesus, he had not expected that fast a response.
Matt
Hey! Sorry about the game, that looked rough :/ You okay?
Nick’s fingers tremble as he types, glad that it’s so much easier to lie when the person can’t see his face.
Nick
Yeah, fine. It was shit, but it happens. On to the next one, right?
There. Casual, chill, totally normal.
Matt
For sure. I hope it wasn’t because of last night.
Nick’s cheeks burn. God, is he that obvious?? Before he can come up with some nonchalant response, another text comes through that stops his thoughts entirely.
Matt
Totally understand if the answer is no. But. I was wondering if you maybe wanted to hang out sometime? We’re headed to LA on Tues but you have the next couple days off right?
That’s … not what Nick was expecting.
Surely Matt isn’t, like, asking him out, right?
He can’t possibly. He said it himself last night: he knows what kind of world Nick lives in. He can’t just date guys while in the NHL.
But if it’s not that, there’s really only one other thing it can be. Nick hates the cold, twisting sensation that brews in his gut as he thinks up a reply.
Matt gets there first.
Matt
I just feel like we left things in a weird place. And I don’t want it messing with your game. You’re a cool guy, Nick, I’d like to be friends.
Not a hookup request, then. Nick can’t deny the small flicker of disappointment that lingers for a second too long.
Friends. Huh.
Can he do that?
He wants to say yes—confident that he can just shove his attraction into a box and never look at it again, hang out with this beautiful man whose kiss is like fire and whose smile makes him feel things he isn’t willing to acknowledge. He’s friends with lots of hot guys.
But, shit, even he’s self-aware enough to know that this is different.
Nick
Does Monday work for you?
By the time Nick settles down for bed, head swirling with thoughts, he’s got plans with Matt to grab a drink after practice. Then Nick can tell Matt that this needs to end, that he can’t afford to have this kind of distraction right now.
It’s for the best.
Sunday is spent ignoring the entire world and petting his cat while watching too many episodes of Gossip Girl, while most of Monday is spent specifically ignoring Marco—his best friend has been eyeing him suspiciously since the concert.
Nick will take care of this, and Marco never has to know. He’s got a plan.
A plan that would be significantly easier to implement if Matt didn’t look so damn good all of the time.
He’s dressed far more casually than last time, wearing a soft-looking charcoal sweater and well-worn black jeans tucked into combat boots.
His hair is un-styled, and all his flashy earrings have been replaced with simple silver studs—if you didn’t know what to look for, you wouldn’t think he was someone famous.
Nick nervously adjusts his baseball cap, takes a deep breath, then heads towards the booth. He can tell the exact moment the musician spots him because he sits up straighter, a wide smile crossing his face. Nick’s stomach swoops.
No, he tells it furiously. We’re not doing that.
“Hey, man. Can I get you a beer?” Nick doesn’t sit down, just stands there with his hands in his pockets.
“So, I, uh, don’t actually drink alcohol?” Matt admits, a touch sheepish. “But I’ll take a Coke, if that’s cool?”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
While he’s waiting at the bar, Nick glances around, trying to see if he’s been clocked yet.
Not that there’s anything suspicious for them to see, of course. Just two buddies getting drinks.
“How was practice?” Matt asks once Nick’s returned with drinks, while under the table their knees knock together. Nick carefully readjusts, angling his legs elsewhere.
“It was good. There’s not much tape to watch on Anaheim’s current roster, but I think we’ve got enough of a strategy to work with. As long as it doesn’t all go to shit like it did Saturday.”
Matt grimaces. “I’m—I feel like I should apologize for that.”
“No, dude, it’s not—It is what it is.” The words stumble across Nick’s tongue. Matt’s grimace deepens, his brown eyes filling with guilt. “My shit is on me,” Nick says, steadier this time. “Tell me how your weekend went.”
This isn’t part of the plan. Nick should have used that to bring the conversation around to how this friendship isn’t good for his hockey career, how Matt’s great but this needs to end now before he makes a fuck-up he can’t walk back from.
But all Nick can focus on is how badly he wants Matt to smile again.
While the guilt doesn’t leave Matt’s gaze, he does brighten a little, telling him about the band’s latest writing session.
“It felt really good,” he says, quiet and hopeful, like he might jinx it by saying it out loud.
“Like … things have been tough, after this second album, y’know?
It’s been doing so well, and that’s amazing, but …
there’s so much pressure for something bigger and better for the next one.
Everyone says the sophomore album is the hardest to survive, but seriously, it’s the third one that’s a career killer.
If that tanks, people are just … over it. ”
“I know the feeling.” Since winning the cup in both his first and second seasons in the NHL, every season since has felt like—and been treated as—a personal failing on Nick’s part.
Regardless of the fact that there are a hundred factors within a team’s dynamics and the luck of the bounce that could change the outcome of a game.
Apparently, making it to playoffs every year isn’t enough.
Nick needs another win or he’s washed up at the advanced age of twenty-three.
Matt smiles at him shyly, and in that chunky-knit sweater he looks so freaking soft that Nick curls both hands around his beer bottle just to stop himself from trying to touch him.
As the conversation turns to the band’s upcoming trip to LA, Nick finds himself relaxing more and more into the worn pleather bench seat, the tension from the last couple of days melting off his shoulders.
When their drinks are empty, Matt jumps up to get the second round.
When he returns, he presses his leg against Nick’s from knee to ankle, so firmly it can only be intentional.
The stomach-swooping feeling is back—now is the time that Nick should pump the brakes, should tell him that things can’t be like that.
But he’s comfortable, and Matt is grinning at him with that playful lilt to his brows, and he feels good like he hasn’t in a long time.
So Nick presses back and tells him about Dolly getting stuck in the couch cushions the other day, leaning over the table to show him pictures. Matt’s laugh huffs against his cheek. “She’s adorable,” he says. “I always wanted a cat growing up, but my mom’s allergic. We had dogs instead.”
“Our apartment didn’t allow pets when I was a kid,” Nick tells him, scrolling through a few more pictures of his princess.
“But I spent my rookie year living with Marco and he’s got two cats, so when I moved into my own place it felt so freaking empty.
” He smiles, paused on a zoomed-in picture of Dolly with her raggedy half-bitten-off ear perked up in interest. “We did a charity calendar thing with an animal shelter and I took one look at Dolly and fell in love. Took her home with me from that shoot.”
“He’s pretty, he’s got two cup rings, and he loves animals,” Matt drawls lightly. “How the hell has no one snatched you up yet?”