Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
[Image Description: Two women dressed as zombie cheerleaders, standing either side of a man dressed as a bloodied and battered high school jock.]
@PuckRocketz: What’s Tiernan doing at a party full of queers??
The band doesn’t appear immediately—there’s some kind of meet-and-greet thing upstairs they have to do first. Sofia and Bianca ask if they should go up, but Marco promises they’ll get to meet the band later, and they may as well party.
So far, Nick has watched Marco and Lindsay serenade each other with a screaming rendition of “Sk8er Boi,” been caught in the middle of a small mosh pit during “I’m Not Okay (I Promise),” and had at least ten different people of varying genders sidle up to dance with him. He’s having a great time.
But when the cheering starts and the crowd shifts, his heartbeat kicks up a notch.
Sure enough, the band has arrived, slowly making their way through the crush of people trying to reach them. Spencer is more clothed now, dressed like a sexy pirate.
They have two security guards with them, and Nick can see at least three more waiting on the outskirts for any sign of trouble, but all the same, he’s quietly impressed at how respectful the fans are being—sure, they’re screaming and reaching and holding out phones in the hopes of getting a selfie, but they’re upholding the boundaries of the band for the most part. It’s a mob, but it’s a patient one.
Nick is patient, too—trying not to be obvious about the way he regularly turns his head towards the band, seeing how they’re getting along with their steadily dispersing crowd.
He isn’t going to interrupt them while they’re with fans; he doesn’t want to make himself noticeable.
So he and his friends stay dancing in the lower VIP section, where Nick knows the band will end up eventually.
He can play it cool. Nick isn’t going to be the pathetic loser waiting desperately for a boy to notice him.
That doesn’t stop the white-hot flash of satisfaction that floods through him when a familiar hand catches his shoulder. “So, about that dance…” Matt spins him around to face him, smirking. Nick sticks his tongue out.
“Maybe I’ve had a better offer since then,” he retorts. Matt reels back as if wounded.
“Betrayal!” he cries, mock-dismayed. “Whatever, man. I’ve got all these new friends who will dance with me if you won’t.
” He gestures to the room at large, and Nick hopes the stab of jealousy in his gut doesn’t show on his face.
He’s well aware of how Matt could have anybody in the room—no need to rub it in.
Instead he laughs, running a casual hand through his hair. “You’re such a baby!” he says, with a very hockey-bro punch to the arm for good measure. There are photographers dotted all around this event, and now that he’s standing with the band he has to be more careful.
“Perezes!” Casey calls, draping herself over Marco and Lindsay’s shoulders to kiss them each on the cheek. There’s a half-empty cocktail in her hand, and Nick gets the feeling it’s not her first. “You gonna introduce us?” She’s looking at Sofia and Bianca, who stare back, starstruck. Marco laughs.
“My little sister Sofia, her girlfriend Bianca,” he points to each in turn. “Both huge fans, of the band and of Case personally.”
“Gabriel!” Sofia yelps indignantly, turning red. Nick can’t help but snicker.
“We get it, she’s the prettiest,” Matt agrees, pressing close by Nick on his way to greet the two girls. “It’s awesome to meet you both. We’ve got some merch for you backstage. Don’t let us forget to grab it before you head out.”
“Oh my God,” Bianca murmurs in awe. “That’s—Thank you so much!” A quiet whimper escapes her when Casey leans in to kiss her cheek in greeting.
“Y’know, Gabe,” Sofia says, moving closer to her brother, “it only took you nine years, but your hockey career is finally benefiting me.”
“My hockey career pays your tuition,” Marco points out with a raised eyebrow. His sister flaps a dismissive hand.
“That’s just big-brother shit. You coulda been an accountant and done that for me. But this”—she grins, cheeks dimpling—“this is what I’m talking about. Making friends with rockstars … it’s about damn time.”
That makes everyone laugh, Marco mock-scowling and ducking away when Joel tries to ruffle his hair.
“Aw, we’re officially your coolest friends,” he crows delightedly. “Sorry, Trix.”
“I don’t think Sof’s ever thought I was cool.”
“Poor baby,” Matt coos, patting Nick’s hip. “We still think you’re cool, it’s okay.”
Suddenly, the song changes to something Nick doesn’t recognize, and Matt’s face lights up. He lets his head fall back, raises his arms in the air, and starts to dance.
And boy, can he dance.
It makes sense, Nick supposes, that musicians are also good dancers.
But as the band all starts to move along to the beat, he almost doesn’t know where to look.
They’re fluid, hips moving and shoulders twisting, sexy in that effortless way that comes from just knowing how to move.
It’s something Nick has never mastered; he always feels like he’s thinking too hard about every little movement all the time, except when he’s on ice.
That’s the only time his body becomes an instinct.
Matt does this little hip-roll that sends heat sparking down Nick’s spine.
His hair is no longer slicked down, escaping in sweaty strands that fall over his forehead, and the black makeup around his eyes makes them even more intense.
He moves in a sensual blur of UV paint. Nick can’t look away, but he doesn’t dare inch closer.
If he gets caught in that orbit, he might not be able to hold himself back.
It’s safer, dancing with Lindsay and Sofia and Bianca—dancing near Matt but not with him, not in any way that could be construed as intimate. Matt, thankfully, doesn’t press for more—unless you count the way he locks eyes with Nick before rocking his hips, black-painted lips curled in a taunt.
This is what you could have if you weren’t such a coward, Nick’s brain whispers poisonously.
For the next song, he ends up between Matt and Joel, entirely by accident but he’s not mad about it. They’ve got a few of the pin-up-girl-maybe-Instagram-models dancing around them, and Nick plasters on his best straight-guy smile, keeping a polite distance from them all the same.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” one of the girls asks drunkenly. Nick shakes his head, laughing awkwardly.
“I’ve just got one of those faces!” There’s a not-insignificant chance that they’ve met before, given the social overlap of NHL players and hot female internet celebrities.
When the models have left to find better targets for the night, Matt closes the distance between them, leaning on Nick’s shoulder to speak into his ear. “You’re killing me in those fucking shorts, Tiernan,” he growls, all while their posture says “two bros having a conversation.” Nick chuckles.
“What, these old things?” he demurs. “Like you don’t know how good your arms look in that shirt.”
He feels Matt’s stubble catch against his cheek, along with the corner of a smile. “Hey, follow my lead.”
Before Nick can ask for clarification, the musician is pushing away and looking across their little group, pointing at Spencer. He mimes drinking, the question obvious. Spencer grins, giving a thumbs-up.
The pointing finger moves through each of them—by the time he’s pointing at Marco, Nick has caught on. His linemate shakes his head and gestures a cutting-off motion, then does it again in Sofia’s direction; the younger Perez flips off her brother, giving Matt a thumbs-up with her other hand.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Nick offers, loud enough to explain away him following Matt out of the dancing chaos.
They turn towards the stairs, but instead of going up there, Matt says something to the security guard and nudges open the Staff Only door beside them.
Nick only hesitates for a second before following him through, his ears ringing when the door swings shut and suddenly the world is so much quieter.
It’s a déjà-vu of the last concert, following Matt through a maze of narrow corridors looking for a bathroom. He doesn’t know what they’re looking for this time, but he stays silent, sticking close. They don’t pass anyone on their way.
“It should be … aha!” Matt murmurs, reaching for a door to the side and pulling it open. In the same movement, he grabs Nick by the front of his tattered shirt and shoves him into whatever’s beyond the door. Nick stifles a yelp, throwing a hand back to steady himself against the wall.
It helps that Matt glows in the dark right now, because the room they’re in is near-black as soon as Matt shuts the door. “Are we in a broom closet?” Nick asks, incredulous. Familiar hands sneak beneath his letterman jacket, settling on his bare waist.
“I’m sorry, are you complaining?” Matt retorts, before his lips are on Nick’s, muffling anything else he might have said.
Nick hums, pulling Matt towards him till their chests are flush, licking the taste of fruit juice and sugar off his tongue.
Heat floods through him—the flimsy little gym shorts do absolutely nothing to disguise how turned on he’s getting, and as Matt presses him back against the wall he thrusts a leg between Nick’s, smirking wickedly into the kiss at the reaction it gets.
“Oh, baby,” he whispers, hot breath on Nick’s cheek, stroking teasing fingers up the fine trail of blond hair on the hockey player’s stomach. “You’re that happy to see me, huh?”
“Been a while,” Nick bites out, wishing he could bite something else but not wanting to get a mouthful of face paint.
It doesn’t stop him from staring intently at Matt’s black-painted throat, watching where it blurs at the edges as he’s been sweating it off, staining the collar of his tank top.
“Do we have time for this?” People will notice if they’re gone too long, surely.