Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
[Image Description: Center Ice at the T-Mobile Arena, Nick Tiernan and Connor LaPorte stand on the same ice for the first time in over five years. They grip each other by the shoulders, heads bent together to talk, smiling.]
The game between the Dragons and the Orignaux was hard-fought, pushing into overtime after regulation ended at three goals apiece.
And no one fought harder than these two men; teammates as kids, torn apart by some mysterious conflict, now reunited at opposite ends of the ice.
While Quebec eventually took the victory, in part thanks to an equipment malfunction on Tiernan’s behalf, there seem to be no hard feelings from the Nevada captain.
Indeed, when interviewed after the game, Tiernan stated that “Connor is the kind of player that makes everyone on the ice with him want to play their best, even those opposing him. Quebec got the edge tonight, but we put up a good effort, and next time our best will be enough to win.”
“Next time” will be in early March, when Nevada heads to Quebec to face the Orignaux on their own turf.
—The Hockey News, December 6th, 2022
Even putting aside all the drama surrounding Nick and Connor, a match-up of the two top teams in each conference was always going to be an intense game. But God, Nick hasn’t played that hard since last year’s playoffs run.
Hockey is a fickle sport, everyone knows that. Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way. He played his best—his whole team did—and that’s all he can ask of them. A bad bounce and a broken stick, that’s all that got between them and the win. It is what it is.
After, he stands in his stall in nothing but his shorts and socks, sweat cooling on his bare torso, half a dozen cameras in his face. “We didn’t go down easy,” he says, holding his head high. “I’m proud of every one of my boys for what they left on the ice tonight.”
It’s not enough for them, of course it’s not. They push and push with their questions, trying to get Nick to say something derogatory about Connor, or the Orignaux—anything they can use to sell headlines. But Nick keeps on smiling, until eventually Kat saves him.
“Your time is up, sir,” she jumps in, polite as she firmly nudges the camera out of Nick’s face. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
She guides the reporter and his cameraman out of the locker room, and Nick lets out a long, irritated breath.
“Fucking vultures,” Duke agrees sympathetically, walking past with a towel around his waist. “Good job, though, man. Played a hell of a game tonight.”
“Thanks. You too, bro.”
Nick is relieved that no one seems mad at him over the loss—they’re all aware that the Orignaux are strong opponents, with or without Connor LaPorte. Hell, if Nick remembers correctly, they didn’t win a game against them last season either.
What matters is that Nick feels good about how the game went. Obviously he’s not thrilled about losing, but … it felt right, to be back on the ice with Connor, even on opposing teams.
Racking his brain to remember what Connor said about his team’s travel plans, he gets back to his stall after a shower and reaches for his phone.
There’s already a message notification. Nick’s stomach flops.
Matt
Hey! Tough game, shame it didn’t go your way. You wanna come drown your sorrows at my place? Or yours?
Guilt pooling heavy in his gut, Nick bites his lip as he types out a response to Matt.
Nick
Sorry I can’t tonight, I’ve got plans.
It feels like a weak excuse, reading it back, but it’s not a lie. Technically.
Nick sends a text to Connor, asking if he wants to hang out, and by the time he gets an affirmative response to that he’s mostly dressed. He’s also had a response from Matt. A simple,
Matt
oh ok, sure, talk tomorrow? :)
Totally fine. Absolutely no reason for him to be feeling that guilt burn through him like acid, like he’s somehow sneaking behind Matt’s back.
They aren’t anything. Him and Connor aren’t anything.
The burn doesn’t fade.
Nick finds Connor in the entrance to the players’ parking lot, waiting for him in a rumpled navy suit with a duffle bag over his shoulder.
Nick falls into step beside him, their shoulders bumping together—a habit from back in the day when they were desperate to touch each other, caught in an electric orbit and trying not to give the game away in public.
They both seem to realize at the same time what they’ve done, flushing lightly and putting a little more space between them. “I’m parked over here,” Nick says, gesturing to the left, pushing determinedly through the awkwardness.
Connor scoffs, folding himself awkwardly into the Taycan’s passenger seat. “Jesus, the legroom in this thing sucks.”
“Get shorter, bitch,” is Nick’s succinct reply.
The world goes quiet when the doors are shut, but it doesn’t stay that way for long as music starts to play from the car’s sound system. It cuts in automatically with whatever Nick was listening to last—which just so happens to be a Sticks+Stones song. Nick scrambles to switch the playlist.
“Well, thank fuck that game is over with,” he says, then grimaces. “I mean … maybe now they’ll find something else to talk about for a while.”
“We can only hope,” Connor agrees. “You really gave us the run-around, damn.”
“Are you kidding? I was dying out there, you asshole. You had me following you like a fucking puppy.”
“You got two goals!”
“Yeah, and if you hadn’t been there I’d have got five,” Nick says.
It’s not bragging if it’s true. “You barely even let me in the O-zone.” He pauses, shooting a sly grin at Connor when they stop at a red light.
“You’ve still got it, man. Those big ol’ European rinks haven’t slowed you down one bit. ”
“They’re not that much bigger.” The exasperation in Connor’s voice suggests this is a common refrain. “But … thanks. It’s—You’ve always known how to get me at my best.”
“Make that two of us.” No one challenges him like Connor does. “You mind if we go to my place?” He cringes at how that comes out. “I mean, like, I am so tired of being in the public eye.” Whatever conversation they’re about to have, it’s not one he wants to risk being overheard.
Thankfully Connor doesn’t seem to think anything of it. “As long as there’s food.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No offence, but I’m glad we’re in opposing conferences. I don’t think I could handle the media getting that fixated on our history more than twice a year.”
Nick winces. If Connor thinks this is bad, he should’ve been around during Nick’s first season.
“Hey, seriously, though,” Connor says, softer.
Nick glances his way, breath catching in his throat as he looks at the boy he used to love glowing in the neon lights of the strip.
“You’ve done amazing things here. You basically built this team from expansion up, and you should be proud of yourself, Nicky. I sure am.”
Nick swallows hard against the unexpected swell of emotion that rises inside him.
Even when they were at their worst, fighting over every little thing, Connor convinced that the slightest interaction would out them to the world, he had never suggested Nick wouldn’t be able to handle the NHL, only that if they kept going the way they were, he’d never get the chance to try.
And maybe he was right. They’ll never know now. But it doesn’t matter.
Connor is proud of him.
Whatever tentative truce they had settled upon in the car fizzles away once they’re riding in the elevator up to Nick’s apartment—for all that they cleared the air and hung out over the summer, they haven’t actually been alone since they reconnected.
And having Connor here, squeezed into the small metal box with him …
all it does is send Nick through a mental Rolodex of all the hotel elevators he shared with Connor in the Q, shyly brushing fingers and having to fight to keep themselves apart until they got to their shared room.
If Connor’s fidgeting with his jacket cuffs is anything to go by, Nick isn’t the only one taking an involuntary trip down memory lane.
He’s relieved to spill out into the hallway, digging his keys out of his pocket and shoving his bag at Connor. “Hold this, and guard your shins,” he warns cryptically before opening the door.
Sure enough, his little monster makes a break for the hallway. “Hey, beautiful girl,” he coos, kissing her forehead even as she squirms for freedom. Then he looks over her at a bewildered Connor. “Just, y’know, throw my shit wherever. Make yourself at home.”
He promised food, so he focuses on that in order to avoid how strange this whole thing is.
“You want lasagna or chicken casserole?” he asks, staring into his freezer stacked with pre-made, nutritionist-approved meals.
“Either’s fine.”
Nick chooses the lasagna, grabbing two portions and turning the oven on. “Help yourself to drinks or whatever. Can you grab me a beer?” He’s not surprised when Connor chooses one of Matt’s fancy root beers for himself; he never did like drinking when he was nervous.
The fridge door closing seems far too loud in the silence between them, and Nick winces.
“This is weird, right?” Connor blurts out all of a sudden. Nick sighs in relief, nodding emphatically.
“Yes, fuck, I hate this. Why is this so weird?” They both let out awkward little laughs, but the tension in Connor’s shoulders starts to dissipate.
“It’s fine. We’ve just gotta get past the weird.
” Nick slides onto one of the barstools, propping his elbows on the counter.
“Tell me about Quebec. You’re all settled in your new house, right? ”