Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The obnoxious blare of sound makes Nick wrinkle his nose; his game day alarm always feels so much more aggressive than his regular alarm. Eyes stubbornly staying closed, he mentally goes through his schedule for the day.
And then someone beside him lets out a quiet groan.
Nick freezes.
“Mmm … ’s too loud.”
Memories of last night flood his mind, and Nick turns his head, opening his eyes to see Matt sprawled on his side with the duvet twisted around his hips, face half-smushed against his own forearm.
He squints up at Nick, lips turned down in a frown.
“Why’s your alarm so evil?” he mumbles, giving the most adorably rumpled glare.
Nick snorts to cover the way his breath hitches.
“Because I hate getting out of bed.” He rolls over, grabbing his phone to turn the alarm off, but doesn’t settle back down. He’s made that mistake before. “But I have to. Because I have a game today.” He groans. “Shit, I have to be at the rink in, like, forty minutes.”
“Time is it?” Nick shows him the phone screen. Matt swears. “Gotta be at the airport by ten. Haven’t packed yet. Ugh.” Then, to Nick’s surprise, Matt reaches one long arm out to drag him closer, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “G’morning.”
Nick lies there, stunned, as Matt proceeds to swing his legs out of bed and get to his feet with a stretch, unashamed in his nakedness.
He smiles, relaxed and cheerful, bending down to retrieve his boxers off the floor.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to feed me or anything.
I can be out of your hair in twenty. Wouldn’t say no to some coffee, though. ”
“I—Sure, yeah.” Nick has no idea what’s going on, but coffee he can do.
He has every intention of getting dressed, but then he hears scratching at his door and an irritated meow, and he snorts. “Oh, poor baby,” he coos as he opens it, grabbing Dolly and holding her up like Simba so she can’t shred his chest with her angry little claws. “So neglected, you poor thing.”
He’s forgotten he has company until he hears Matt chuckle. He blushes, ducking his head and putting Dolly back on the floor, hurriedly finding some sweatpants.
Pointedly ignoring the litany of what the fuck, what the fuck, what happens now running through his mind, Nick turns on the coffee machine and gets Dolly fed—or, rather, puts her food down only for her to completely ignore it.
She’s too preoccupied with staring suspiciously at Matt, who has emerged from the bedroom dressed in his clothes from yesterday.
God, he even makes the walk of shame look good.
Nick can’t keep looking at Matt, or he’ll say something stupid; he turns back to the coffee machine, drumming his fingers impatiently while he waits for it to pour.
“Oh, look at you.” He hears a quiet murmur from across the room.
“I promise I’m not going to steal your breakfast. You can eat it, it’s okay.
I’ll stay over here. You can trust me. Promise. ”
When Nick turns around with coffee, it’s to see Matt squatted down in the large space between the back of the couch and the kitchen island, the no-man’s land in the open plan living area.
He’s got his hands out in surrender and a soft smile on his face, his eyes fixed fondly on Dolly’s bristling form.
Nick’s tiny little cat is arched and glaring, planted solidly in front of her food bowl, the barest little growl rumbling in her chest. Nick snorts.
“Sorry. She’s kind of … fighty.”
“It’s cute. Reminds me of you,” Matt retorts, winking. Then his gaze zeroes in on the coffee. “Ooh, is that mine?” He straightens up, and as he reaches for the mug, Dolly launches herself at his legs. “Oh boy, okay. Ow, those claws are sharp, huh?”
“Shit.” Nick hurriedly sets the mug down, grabbing his renegade pet. “Princess, we’ve talked about this. You can’t attack my guests. God, I’m sorry. Are you bleeding?” It wouldn’t be the first time. There’s a reason they tend to have team gatherings at Marco’s place.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Matt waves him off, far too nice about what is definitely a small rip in his jeans that wasn’t there before.
It’s Nick’s fault, all of it—usually when he has new people over he gives Dolly a chance to get used to them steadily, so that things like this don’t happen.
But he just couldn’t keep his stupid hands off of Matt, and now he’s here and disrupting their morning routine and the cat is freaking out and—
Okay, maybe he’s projecting, just a little.
“So,” the singer starts, once he’s had a long sip of his coffee. “Last night was fun.”
Heat floods Nick’s cheeks. “I—Yeah.”
“I, uh,” Matt continues, dropping his gaze for a moment, “I know you said you don’t, like, do this, but, uh, I had a really good time with you. So if you wanted to, maybe, do it again then I would … that would be cool, y’know?”
Nick blinks. Stares. Matt’s face reddens.
“I mean, whatever you want, it’s totally cool, no pressure.
But like, you travel a lot, and I travel a lot, but if when we’re both in the city at the same time you wanted to keep hanging out and maybe doing this, I would …
like that.” He wraps the arm not holding his coffee around his waist, looking adorably tentative.
Nick continues to stare, panic building tight in his chest.
“So, like … like fuckbuddies?” he croaks out, coughing when his voice cracks.
He’s so caught up in trying to school his face into something neutral, he misses the strange expression that flashes very briefly across Matt’s.
“Sure!” the other man agrees, nodding. “Exactly—friends who sometimes have sex when they’re into it. Y’know, casual. Totally chill. Nobody has to be out about anything they don’t wanna be.”
The words echo in Nick’s mind as he stands there, the only sound the quiet crunching of Dolly wolfing down her kibble at an unholy pace.
He’s done fuckbuddies before, kinda. A handful of other closeted NHL players who are down to hook up in anonymous hotel rooms when their teams play each other.
But that’s not the same; they’re not friends, really.
Not even that into each other, just glad for the safety of mutually assured destruction.
He suddenly feels foolish, remembering his late-night crisis, his heartsick imaginings of having some kind of relationship with Matt.
Of course that’s not what the rockstar wants—like he said, he travels a lot, he’s busy, he lives in a totally different world to Nick.
Why would a guy as charming and attractive as Matt limit himself to just one person—and one who’s so far in the closet he’s practically in Narnia, at that?
Nick is hardly anyone’s definition of a catch.
So yeah, anything like that is obviously going to be off the table. Duh. And that’s probably for the best. The last thing Nick needs right now is a relationship, God; he’s a mess!
He can do casual, right? People do it all the time. And Matt is fun, and easygoing, and they’re definitely compatible in the bedroom.
So, fuckbuddies. That’s a way to keep Matt in his life, without anything complicated involved. He can totally handle it. All he needs to do is shove down that squishy little part of his brain that gets way too attached at the first sign of someone being nice to him.
“That … that sounds like a good deal. Yeah. I’m down for that.” He ignores the nauseous little twist in his belly, the voice in the back of his head telling him this might be a bad idea. He’s twenty-three, damn it. He can have sex with a friend and not let it get weird. It’ll be fine.
Matt relaxes in an instant, a smile taking over his face. “Really? Awesome. Cool. That—We’ll do that, then.”
They stand there, grinning at each other, until Matt glances at the clock on the wall and curses.
“Okay, not to ruin the moment but I really have to go. Thanks for the coffee. I … I’ll text you?
” He scrambles for his boots, the sudden movement sending Dolly rocketing off to hide in her tree in the corner.
“How long are you in LA?”
“I get back on Friday.”
“Shit, that’s when I fly to DC.”
“Damn it.” Matt tugs his sweater over his head, his already messy hair looking even more tousled.
“We’ll figure something out, it’s fine. I’ll text you,” he says again.
Glancing aside to check that Dolly isn’t going to fly out of nowhere and claw his face off, he darts in close to Nick, settling a hand on his hip and pressing a quick coffee-flavored kiss to his lips.
Even though they both have morning breath and are objectively gross, Nick still chases the contact, making Matt chuckle.
“Don’t start something we don’t have time to finish. ”
“You started it,” is Nick’s mature response.
“You’re just so cute, I couldn’t help myself,” Matt replies, sticking his tongue out. He turns towards the door. “Hey, do I need you to like, buzz me out or anything? How do I leave?”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Nick assures. “The security is all one-way, pretty much.”
When he’d first moved in, the realtor had made a point of mentioning the whole system, how it was airtight getting in but the way out was “perfect for visitors to leave discreetly”, no doubt imagining a parade of puck bunnies and starlets.
“Sweet. I’ll, uh, catch you later, then. Good luck tonight.”
“Yeah, thanks. Fly safe.”
Matt hesitates, just for a moment, with his hand on the doorknob. But whatever he’s thinking, he must decide against it; with one last grin and a wave, he’s out the door, and Nick is alone in his apartment once more.
“Well, fuck.”
That’s not how he expected that to go.
Despite his chaotic start to the day, Nick is in full captain mode by the time he reaches the ice. All smooth smiles and charming quips, putting on a show for the fans and the reporters who all want a piece of him.
It’s easy, all of it, as long as he doesn’t think. As long as he ignores the buzzing in the back of his head—ignores everything that isn’t hockey, isn’t his teammates and his coaches and his GMs watching to make sure he shapes the fuck up tonight.
Ignores the concerned looks Marco keeps shooting his way, familiar with the almost manic version of himself that Nick becomes when he’s like this.
It makes him nauseous, just a little bit, how much better his hockey is when he’s like this.
His passes are sharper, his shots are harder, his stick-handling is smooth as butter.
He’s eagle-eyed on the ice, getting exactly where he needs to be before his opponents even realize he’s there.
It’s an energy that carries through to the rest of the team, too; the Dragons have always made a fast-paced game their strength, and that is very apparent tonight.
Anaheim struggle to keep up, their more defensively built roster just not equipped for that kind of speed.
Nick gets pulled for an interview at second intermission.
He stands in the little media zone, still in full pads and drenched with sweat, a Dragons ball cap hiding his absolutely horrendous helmet-hair.
His body aches but he smiles wide, finding it in him to give a decent analysis of their upcoming third period plans and also flirt outrageously with the journalist doing the interviews.
She’s new this season, and unused to having the full force of the Tiernan Smile directed at her.
Nick almost feels bad for how flustered she gets, but he knows the internet will be lapping it up.
Making jokes about him taking her home after the game.
Praising his ability to make women fall at his feet as easily as he gets pucks in the net.
It’s all lies—but that’s what Nick is, these days. Just a pile of bullshit shoved into hockey gear. Gold-plated and fake and full of nothing of real substance.
The universe knew what it was doing when it sent him to Las Vegas, all those years ago.
They win the game 4–1. Nick scores his first hat-trick of the season, living up to his name. He hates how it makes his stomach churn and starts to wonder if he can even call it a lie anymore, when all the things he feels like he’s faking about himself are the only things that people want.