Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
[Video Description: The media room of the Nevada Dragons, with Nick Tiernan sitting at the head of the room. He’s dressed in training gear but looks rumpled and tired.]
“We have to wonder,” the first question comes in, “with your first game against the Quebec Orignaux—the first time you’ll share the ice with Connor LaPorte since his unexpected move to Europe—only two weeks away, do you think the history between you two is serving as a distraction in these games running up to that reunion? ”
Tiernan visibly tenses. Several people in the crowd snigger at the word “history.” Tiernan’s eyes dart to make contact with someone off-camera, but then he turns back to the gathered journalists.
“Honestly,” he begins, “no offence to Quebec, but I just don’t think that far ahead in the schedule.
” That earns him a few kinder chuckles, but he doesn’t smile.
“We’ve got, what, four games between now and then?
Five?” He adjusts the ball cap on his head.
“There’s a whole lot of hockey to play before I have to worry about kicking Connor’s ass. ”
Immediately, a buzz of noise rises among the journalists. A new hand goes up. “So you don’t think LaPorte is a threat to you? Despite his stats so far in the season?”
“Look, the dude’s been putting up great numbers. He’s an asset to his team, and it’s great that he’s finally made it to the big show. He’s as much a threat as anybody else—but of course I’m going to go into the game with a winning mindset, just like I do every other game.”
“He’s been putting up great numbers,” the same journalist counters. “Better numbers than yours, in fact, in everything except goals scored. Aren’t you worried that this match-up will reignite the bad blood between you two that caused LaPorte to leave the QMJHL in the first place?”
“Wow, okay,” Tiernan says, looking obviously peeved, “I don’t know which middle-school playground you got your intel from there, buddy.
There isn’t any bad blood between me and Connor LaPorte.
Conn’s reasons for leaving the Q are his own, and if you’re not happy with the information he’s given you on that, then that sounds like a you problem, man. ”
—Post-Game Report, Tampa Bay @ Nevada,
November 22nd, 2022
November starts out as a blur.
The first half of the month is a haphazard travel schedule that has the whole team regularly confused about which time zone they’re in, but soon they’re looking down the barrel of a full eleven days on home ice, and Nick is overjoyed.
Sure, he’s got five games to play in those eleven days, but it’ll be worth it for the comfort of his own bed.
Or Matt’s.
Though they don’t get as much time as they would like together, between Nick’s intense hockey schedule and Matt’s regular band commitments, while he’s in Vegas it’s not unusual for Matt to end up at Nick’s apartment in the evening, often bearing food of some variety.
Nick doesn’t even realize how commonplace it’s become until he walks out of the bathroom one morning to see Matt perched at the breakfast bar drinking an enormous mug of coffee while Dolly eats her breakfast with her back to the intruder, not a care in the world.
Are they spending a lot of time together for two people who are supposed to be casual fuckbuddies, no strings attached?
He would say yes, except … they’re not actually having that much sex.
That’s not a complaint—far from it—and the sex they do have is as spectacular as it was the first time, but half the time they’re both too tired to do anything adventurous in the bedroom.
More than once, Nick has spent a post-game night curled up against Matt’s side on his couch, watching a movie and smothering his aching body in IcyHot, before they both go to bed and cuddle until they fall asleep.
He’s confused, if he’s being totally honest. He’s not an expert on the whole friends-with-benefits thing, but he’s pretty sure snuggling and incredibly un-sexy massages with sports rollers are not usually part of those benefits.
But … he likes it. God, does he like it—so much that he feels like he’s going to choke on those feelings if he keeps them down much longer.
He doesn’t dare say anything to Matt. He just enjoys the time they have together, firmly refusing to acknowledge the warmth in his belly that has nothing to do with being horny.
He’s feeling good; better than he has in a long time. Which is, of course, about the time the universe decides to step in and remind him who he is.
By the time Nick gets home after the Tampa game, the interview has gone live and his mentions are full of people talking about Connor.
People who think Connor would’ve been drafted first if he’d stayed, people who think Connor’s hailed late arrival in the NHL is going to finally show how past his prime Nick is, how he was overrated to begin with…
His social media is going to be unusable for days.
On his way into the rink for practice, his phone buzzes, and he groans—then groans louder when he sees the caller ID. Connor. Of course.
“I guess you saw the interview, huh,” he says, not bothering with an actual greeting. He ducks into a side corridor for some semblance of privacy. Connor’s deep chuckle reverberates through the phone.
“Ouais,” he replies. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, man,” Nick says instantly. “Don’t apologize for having a good season.”
“But you’re not having a bad season.” Connor’s tone is insistent, frustrated. “You’re third overall in goals right now.”
“And you’re second in points.” Connor’s always been the playmaker.
“They still shouldn’t have said it like that,” Connor mutters, his accent getting thicker in his irritation. It’s more French than Canadian now, after Switzerland. “I thought we’d have more time before the media started on their bullshit.”
Nick’s not sure they ever stopped their bullshit, with him.
“Have they been bad for you?” he asks, and Connor gives a non-committal hum.
“Eh, not really. Front office knows I don’t like doing press stuff, and I’m not really on social media.”
A bitter, childish part of Nick wants to lash out at that—the fact that Connor can just avoid doing media, avoid being online, avoid doing all the things Nick has no choice in.
“Well, I guess we’ll just see what kind of shit they can come up with between now and game day. You sure you’re ready for it?” Nick asks, trying to inject some humor into his tone, but failing with the way his voice shakes. “Not gonna find some reason to scratch for that game?”
“No,” comes Connor’s immediate response.
“I … I want to play you. I’m excited to see how much you’ve improved first-hand.
I know … it won’t fix everything. But … you’ve always played incredible hockey, Nicky.
I’m looking forward to experiencing it from the ice for once.
” There’s a pause, in which Nick is sure he isn’t the only one swallowing hard.
And then: “Just don’t forget what year it is and pass to me by accident, okay? ”
Nick groans at the bad joke, shaking his head even though Connor can’t see him. “I’m excited, too,” he admits. “I just wish the world would get off our asses about it.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
Silence stretches between them, just long enough to feel uncomfortable, but before Nick can scramble to break it, Sunny rounds the corner half-dressed in hockey pads, giving him a beckoning wave and a concerned look. “I gotta go. I’ll catch you later, Conn.”
“Of course, man. And Happy Thanksgiving, for tomorrow.”
The call ends, and Nick doesn’t have time to process all of … whatever that was. He turns towards Sunny. “I know, I’m late, it’s a fine.”
“You good?”
“Yeah, man, just … Connor. Saw last night’s interview.” Nick laughs, rolling his eyes, like the media surrounding him and Connor is an annoyance and not something that fills him with crippling anxiety on a regular basis.
Immediately, Sunny’s brow furrows. “He better not be pissed at you for it.”
Man, this kid is Nick’s favorite. “He was apologizing, actually,” he says wryly. “Idiot thinks it’s his fault somehow.” Like the media hasn’t been doing this since Nick’s NHL career began.
“Journos suck,” Sunny mutters sympathetically, shoulder bumping Nick in solidarity.
They reach the locker room, where most of the rest of the team are dressed to skate, and there are jeers at Nick’s late arrival.
“What are we bookin’ you for, Trix?” GJ asks, pulling out his phone with a smug look.
Voted the least likely to incur a fine himself, GJ gets far too much joy from taking their money.
“I had a phone call, I’m barely even late, give me a break,” Nick groans, earning several laughs.
“Ooh, was it the new girlfriend, Cap?” Motormouth asks, wiggling his eyebrows with a leer.
Nick’s cheeks flush. The general team consensus is that he’s got a new girl on the go, with how much time he spends on his phone lately.
The other day he overheard some of the rookies taking bets on which starlet it is—and Patts interrupting with his own theory that he’s dating some freaky-hot alt girl who’s obsessed with Sticks+Stones, hence Nick’s new friendship with the band.
“Or the new boyfriend,” Bam-Bam sneers from his stall, his leer much sharper. The color quickly drains from Nick’s face.
Not everyone agrees with Patts’s theory.
He’s lucky, really, that Marco’s sister is a lesbian—Sofia makes an easy shield to hide behind when explaining why they went to the Halloween concert, to such an obviously queer event.
Not that it stopped some people from giving them hell for it, but making the culprits skate suicides for a whole afternoon curbed most of the homophobic locker-room bullshit.
It’s different when Nick gets spotted hanging out with Matt one-on-one. There’s nothing to hide behind except the facade he’s been building since the day he stepped foot in Vegas—a facade he’s worried isn’t enough anymore.