Chapter 12 #2
All those women over the years who have publicly lied about sleeping with him to get internet fame have really done wonders for his reputation as a womanizer, but all it takes is one joke from the wrong person at the wrong time for that web of lies to disintegrate.
“Fuck off,” Nick mutters, rolling his eyes at Bam-Bam. “It was just Connor.”
Understanding fills the faces of several of his friends, while Bam-Bam’s smirk widens.
“Oh, the other boyfriend,” he mutters, just quiet enough for Nick to pretend he didn’t hear. His stomach twists—he heads to his stall, dressing quickly so he doesn’t hold up the morning any more than he already has.
It’s a good thing Matt’s gone home to Oregon for Thanksgiving. Maybe a week apart will give people time to find some other celebrity’s life to shove their noses in.
He can hope.
“How you feeling, kid?”
“I’m fine. But I’m gonna shove my hockey stick up your ass if you ask me that one more time.”
Marco barks out a laugh and leers. “Oh, baby, I feel like those kinds of kinks should be negotiated more—Ow!” He breaks out of his dramatics when Nick elbows him in the side.
“Jeez, you’re grouchy today. C’mere.” Then, uncaring that they’re in the middle of a hallway, Marco loops an arm around Nick’s shoulders and pulls him into a solid hug.
“Tonight’s gonna be great,” he promises, brushing a bristly kiss to Nick’s temple.
He’s on a five-game point streak, which means he’s growing his moustache out, and Nick almost wants the streak to break just so he’ll shave off that monstrosity.
“Just like any other game, yeah? Ignore everything the media says, and if LaPorte gives you shit, let me be the one to drop gloves, please.”
“He’s not gonna give me shit,” Nick says, groaning, though he doesn’t wiggle out of the embrace. “We’re friends, remember? Stop treating me like I’m gonna have a meltdown.”
“Hmmm.” Marco doesn’t sound impressed. Every time Nick’s brought it up, all he’s done is remind his younger teammate that he spent an entire year picking up the pieces Connor LaPorte left behind, and someone has to look out for Nick since he clearly isn’t doing it himself.
It’s sweet, but it’s really not necessary. They’re fine. He’s fine.
The word “fine” is starting to lose its meaning.
“I’m just saying,” Marco continues, “if you were to have a meltdown about this, it would be okay. He really fucked you up, and you’re allowed to admit that, even though you’re friends again.
But, and I say this with love, if you are going to have a meltdown I really need it to happen in the next, like, two to three hours tops. We’ve got a game to play.”
“I’m not going to have a meltdown!” He’s an adult, and he is perfectly capable of handling seeing his ex-teammate—ex-everything—on the ice wearing the opposing team’s jersey for the first time in his entire life.
His stomach churns ominously.
“I just need you to let me get on with shit, okay, man? It’s just another game. No crisis necessary.”
“If you’re sure.”
Nick and Marco part ways, and Nick slips into a nearby bathroom, locking the door and staring into the mirror. “I’m not going to have a meltdown,” he repeats, though it’s more like an instruction.
He hasn’t seen Connor yet. The Orignaux had a game in Arizona yesterday, so they’re on a tight travel schedule; they’re due at the rink in about an hour.
But Connor’s texted. He’s fine. Looking forward to seeing Nick. And Nick is…
Nick is not going to have a meltdown.
His phone buzzes in his pocket with a text. Wondering if it’s Lindsay checking up on him, he pulls it out with a scowl, prepared to send a very polite refusal in response.
It’s not Lindsay. It’s Matt.
Matt
Hey stud! Prev plans fell through, so good news … me ) Good luck, kick ass, will text later x
Nick might have a meltdown. Just a little one.
Out in the arena, the crowd is ready. They’ve sold out tonight, Nick knows—with the most expensive tickets of the season to boot.
Everybody wants to be able to say they were in the room when the two shining stars of the QMJHL got their long-awaited reunion game.
Fidgeting with the hem of his jersey, Nick rolls his shoulders, taking a steadying breath.
Ahead of him, his entire team is gathered, waiting.
The music rumbling through the building changes and movement begins.
Marco turns to him, bumping their foreheads together just like always, and then they’re walking down the mirror-lined tunnel and onto the ice.
During warm-ups, Nick didn’t let himself look towards the Quebec end of the ice.
He hasn’t told anyone, not even Marco—not even Connor—but the prospect of tension with Connor isn’t what has him so anxious. They’re good, now, and he can say that with honesty. Being on the ice together isn’t going to change that.
No. What he’s truly worried about is the public—that they will take one look at him and Connor and see everything.
There are already plenty of people out there who think they know exactly what went down in the Q.
Nick’s terrified that they’ll see the way he and Connor interact, and the truth he’s spent five years hiding will be written all over his face.
He’s shared a rink with guys he’s fucked dozens of times, but never with someone he used to love, and Nick can’t shake the fear that he’s become so transparent that “bromance” won’t cut it any longer.
Finally, he turns his head to the other end of the rink. The white and purple and blue jerseys blur as the players skate laps to get their legs moving—but there, near the center line, is a familiar figure.
There’s a moment, just a split second, when the world falls away and the purple on that white jersey turns to dark green, the ice-blue to gold.
He sees a green C on the chest, but the number remains the same.
Nick is seventeen again, looking across at his best friend in the whole world, ready to do the only thing they both love even more than they love each other.
Then he blinks, and the moment is gone, but Connor is still there. He’s moving towards him, and Nick moves too, sliding to a halt barely inches from his friend.
“About time you showed up, LaPorte,” he says, far more casually than he feels. His voice quivers, ever so faintly.
When Connor laughs, his throat cracks. “Yeah,” he agrees, a little breathless. “Better late than never, though, eh?” He smirks like there wasn’t a time when they both thought this day would never come.
Nick’s breath hitches, and then he lifts a gloved hand and places it on Connor’s shoulder, tugging him in closer.
Their helmets clatter together, the world narrowing even further.
“Fucking right,” he mutters, feeling Connor’s hand grip his arm.
“But you made it. You proved all those assholes wrong and you fucking made it,” Nick says.
It’s a celebration in so many ways—a big fuck-you to all the people who said he’d wasted his chance already.
And, most importantly, it’s a celebration of this. Of Nick and Connor, on the ice together, playing in the goddamn NHL. Still friends, despite everything. Still here, still queer, still rocking the socks off this sport in which they have had to fight to feel like they belong.
They pull apart, and Connor is grinning at him, tears in his eyes. Nick grins too, so wide his helmet digs into his cheek.
“No hard feelings when I kick your ass, eh, Nicky?” Connor chirps, and Nick lets out a laugh.
“Oh, you wish, Conn. I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’re new around here.” He shoves Connor, who chuckles.
“Never expected anything less.”
Fuck anyone who dares try to diminish this by making it about sexuality—they will never know what it took to get to this moment, and here on the ice Nick is filled with the confidence that they never will.