Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“I think a fight is exactly what we’re going to get, Phil. The tension down here is thick enough to cut a skate through.”
“You said it there. Tiernan’s always been one to get under a guy’s skin and he’s certainly been doing that all night to Winnipeg. It seems like Ohlson is learning to take after his captain, too. He’s just drawn a tripping call, and once again Nevada’s on the power play.”
“Beaucage wins the face-off, passes back to Duchesne. Tiernan finds a space on the left side and takes the puck. He’s blocked by Fields, but sticks with it, gets the puck back to Beaucage.”
“It looks like some words are being exchanged there, Mark. Fields is staying on Tiernan’s back.”
“He is indeed—the puck is with Davis, Davis passes wide Tiernan gets around Fields and stretches for it. Shoots a one-timer and—Goal for the Nevada Dragons!”
“And Tiernan is down! A blatant cross-check from Winnipeg’s Wendell Fields sends him crashing into the boards. Jeez, that’s a solid hit!”
“If there’s ever a straw that broke the camel’s back, that hit is it. Patterson drops his gloves and is straight on Fields, and he’s not the only one. The Dragons are not gonna let that stand.”
“Tiernan is still down. Is he even conscious? Nevada’s brought a medic onto the ice. Let’s hope he just got his bell rung a little, because that was one heck of a collision there.”
“Officials have finally broken up the fight—Oh, my, we do apologize to those watching for the language the microphones just picked up from Fields there.”
“That’s going to be a fine, for sure. Right after Pride Night, too, jeez.”
“Those of you watching the previous game will remember that Fields is one of a handful of players this season to refuse to wear their team’s Pride jersey for warm-ups, citing religious reasons.”
“Well, I don’t think that same excuse is gonna slide here. Fields is escorted off the ice. None of his teammates seem to want to come to the defense of that—rightly so—and good news, Tiernan is on his feet and being assisted towards the bench. Sadly, I’d say he’s done for the night.”
“Keeping our fingers crossed for Tiernan’s quick recovery. The last thing the Dragons need is to lose their captain for a long stretch.”
“Too right. Well, it’s 5–2 to the Nevada Dragons, sixteen minutes remaining. Let’s see how the penalty minutes shake out after this mess.”
—Live Broadcast, Winnipeg @ Nevada, January 3rd, 2023
He got lucky.
That’s what Rachelle, their team doctor, tells him when the scans come through. A grade 2 concussion, and nothing but bruises on the rest of his body. From the force and the angle at which he hit the boards, it could’ve been a whole lot worse.
Nick will take her word for it. All he knows is, he hurts.
“I want you off the ice for at least seventy-two, and then you’re day-to-day after that,” she tells him, though half her gaze is on Jazz, who’s sitting by the side of his hospital bed looking grave.
Nick almost protests—that’ll keep him at home for the entire four-game road trip—but he keeps his mouth shut. Having Jazz around—living proof that it only takes one bad hit to end your hockey career and your mobility—has taught them all how careful they need to be about recovery protocol.
And he won’t admit it, but that hit has shaken him.
When Marco shows up to take him home, his hair is still damp from his post-game shower and there’s a bruise on his cheek that Nick’s pretty sure wasn’t there at first intermission.
How bad did things get after he was hit?
His memory is fuzzy—he was unconscious for about fifteen seconds on the ice there—but from the tightness to his best friend’s jaw, it can’t have been good.
It’s only when Nick is tucked up in bed at Marco’s place with a bowl of soup and his cat curled against his side that he finds out what really happened.
Marco shows him the video and holds his hand while the foul slurs Fields used echo through the linesman’s mic for everybody to hear.
Nick’s stomach churns for reasons that have nothing to do with his concussion. “Shit.”
“If it helps, the general consensus is that he was already so mad off the back of Pride Night, he was just looking to take it out on somebody, and you happened to be there,” Marco offers. It does help, a little, but it still fucking sucks.
If he can take a hit like this for just being there, how bad would it be if the truth ever got out? There have been a few jabs over the years just based on rumors, but if they had anything substantiated… Nick may not just lose his career.
He says as much to Marco, heart fluttering anxiously. His best friend frowns hard, concern in his dark eyes.
“Hey, man, you can’t think like that, okay?
First off, you don’t need to go stressing about shit that hasn’t happened and maybe never will,” he scolds gently.
“And second, if you think this whole fucking team wouldn’t step up to protect you if that does happen, you’ve lost your goddamn mind.
Did you see the chaos that came after that hit?
The way Patts fucking destroyed Fields?”
Nick did see—Marco made sure to show him the clip that covered the on-ice fighting after the hit. Fields was barely visible under the sea of red and silver jerseys.
“Even Fields’s teammates were pissed about what he did.
Hell, we could hear the chewing out he got from their leadership core in our own damn locker room.
” Marco smirks wryly, giving Nick a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.
“I know it’s hard to believe when shit like this happens, but there’s more decent guys in the league than bigots—even if the bigots are louder. We’ve got your back, kid.”
Nick smiles back, though his anxiety remains a tight little knot in the center of his chest. He wishes he could believe that with as much confidence as Marco, but as today has shown, it only takes one hit. Nick’s luck will run out eventually.
The team heads off on their road trip, Nick’s bruises start to heal, and his brain starts to clear. It doesn’t hurt to move after the first couple days.
Wendell Fields is given a three-game suspension and the maximum fine allowable, as well as some mandatory sensitivity training. It’s better than Nick expected.
He’s bored without hockey to play. He’s never been great on IR, and it’s worse with the team on the road without him.
But being stuck at home for a week isn’t all bad—not with the right company.
Nick stretches his arms out at his sides, letting his fingers dig into the plush rug he’s lying on.
Turning his head, he looks up at where Dolly’s tail dangles over the edge of the coffee table, swinging like a metronome.
His audiobook has been abandoned, his focus on the faint music coming from his home gym.
He can just about catch a guitar riff stopping and starting, repeating over and over but a little different each time, like the person playing it can’t make their mind up. Sometimes, if Nick closes his eyes and listens really closely, he can hear singing.
Then the music stops and he hears the door click and quiet footsteps padding down the hall.
“Hey, you hungry? I—Oh.” Matt pauses, staring down at the hockey player. He’s still got his guitar slung over his shoulders—the slightly battered sunshine-yellow one covered in stickers that usually lives in the studio room at his apartment. His college guitar, his baby.
“Hi,” Nick says, eyes only half-open. Matt’s brows draw together.
“Hi. You, uh, doing okay down there?”
“All good,” he assures him. “Just needed to not be on the couch for a bit, y’know?” Nick isn’t used to this much inactivity, and he’s going a little stir-crazy. He’s not even allowed to look at screens until the doctor clears him—which is probably for the best, honestly.
“How’s the songwriting going?” he asks, bending his knees up with his feet flat on the ground, humming happily as something in his back loosens off.
“It’s going. Think I’ve figured out the bridge for this one song I’ve been stuck on for, like, the last week, so I’m pretty hyped on that.” Matt grins and Nick smiles back.
“Will you play it for me?” he asks hopefully, making the musician huff.
“C’mon, you know it doesn’t work like that,” he teases, walking further round the couch to stand right by Nick’s feet. “You gotta trust the creative process.”
The whole time Matt has been staying at his place, using his gym as a makeshift studio, he’s refused to let Nick in to listen to what he’s working on; insisted that he needs to wait to hear the songs in their complete, intended form; that he’ll quickly get sick of hearing the same twenty seconds played over and over; snatched away his lyric notebook every time Nick tries to take a peek.
“I thought the whole point of being a hot rockstar was to serenade people into dropping their pants for you,” Nick teases, tilting his head to let his hair fall into his eyes and batting his eyelashes.
“Pretty sure I’m way ahead of that with you,” Matt retorts, smirking. “If you really want me to play you something, I guess I can oblige. Maybe you can help me out, actually.”
Suddenly, he steps over Nick, one foot on either side of his ribs. Then, he lowers himself down carefully, until he’s perched in the cradle of Nick’s hips, leaning back against his thighs. He’s got his guitar placed perfectly in his lap, and Nick stares at him, suddenly a whole lot warmer.
“Well hello there,” Nick drawls, eyes bright and lips curled. “Exactly what kind of help are you after?”
The quiet laugh that Matt lets out rumbles through both of them, a flirtatious glint in those brown eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter,” he scolds. “I’m not set on the lyrics yet, so I won’t sing, but … let me know what you think of this, yeah?”
Nick is immediately intrigued, but then Matt shifts slightly, taking up his guitar in hand, and Nick’s breath catches.