Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
NOT QUITE A HAT-TRICK: IS TRIX’S TIME AT NEVADA COMING TO AN END?
Tiernan is unlikely to be traded before the deadline—he has a no-trade clause in his three-year contract, and nothing suggests he is looking to break that on his own terms. That contract expires at the end of this season, and several unnamed sources report that the Nevada front office is not yet convinced they’re going to be offering an extension.
While the Dragons are all set to clinch a playoffs spot this year, one could argue that is largely down to the incredible young talent on the team.
If they were looking to rebuild and take the franchise in a different direction, this would be the time to do it.
Tiernan’s glory days are past him already, and some think it might be time to cut that deadweight and move on to greener pastures.
—CrossCheck, February 28th, 2023
True to his word, Sunny doesn’t say anything.
Not even to Nick himself, which Nick was honestly kind of expecting, but surely Sunny has questions?
Either he doesn’t care to ask or he thinks it’s not his place, and Nick isn’t brave enough to bring it up himself.
The uncertainty isn’t helping his game, no matter how badly he tries to lock it down and put the mask on.
It’s always wild this time of year, with playoffs almost in reach and every team desperate to claim a spot while they can.
Nick can’t afford to be anything less than perfect right now.
He really should clear the air with Sunny.
Trying to imagine how that conversation might go—how he might even begin to talk about it—Nick returns to the locker room after a team practice and discovers a new calendar notification on his phone.
He’s got a meeting with Jazz scheduled for after lunch, apparently.
He frowns to himself, wondering what she could need to talk to him about.
There aren’t any team-related issues going on that he’s aware of.
Unless he’s the issue?
His pulse quickens as he imagines a dozen scenarios, each worse than the last. What if Sunny told front office about him and Matt, or the paparazzi caught them somehow? What if Connor’s been outed, and he’s said something about Nick, and it’s all over the news and he hasn’t seen it yet?
No. He shakes his head. If that were the case, his phone would be ringing off the hook.
Whatever it is, it can’t have hit the public eye yet. But that doesn’t make it okay; dozens of dramas happen within hockey without ever making the newsfeeds.
He forces himself to eat lunch, letting his teammates’ conversations wash over him.
Sunny doesn’t look like he’s secretly ratted his gay captain out to management.
He looks a little tired, kinda strung-out, but at this point in the season, they all do.
All thoughts of talking to him have flown from Nick’s head.
He’s got bigger things to worry about now.
With no small amount of trepidation, he makes his way up to Jazz’s office, double-checking the calendar entry for any clues as to what it might be about. She’s given him nothing, just Meeting with Jazz.
It’s like getting a “we need to talk” text, but ten times worse, because she’s his boss.
“Hey, Trix!” The voice calling out to him has Nick swearing under his breath.
He turns to see Bam-Bam has followed him from the locker room, a vicious glint in his eye.
“In trouble with Mommy, huh?” he taunts.
Squaring his shoulders, Nick draws on every ounce of attitude he’s so famous for on the ice.
“Does that mean you call Tony Daddy?” he retorts, smirking as Bam-Bam blanches.
“I don’t, but I bet you do,” the defenseman sneers. “While you’re on your knees for him. Gotta be the only reason they’ve kept you around so long.”
Hot anger floods through Nick’s veins and his hands clench at his sides. Before he can think of a response, Bam-Bam pushes on, taking two steps closer to him. “Must be hard finding time for that with your new boyfriend around.”
The man is a good four inches taller than Nick, and he’s using all of those extra inches to loom over him.
But Nick is used to larger men trying to intimidate him—has made an entire career out of not letting that happen—though he wishes he had some of that on-ice bravado now.
His hands tremble as the pit of his stomach turns sour.
That’s the thing about Bam-Bam; Nick can never tell if the guy is just spewing generic, rampant homophobia, or if he’s actually seen something. The risk of the latter is enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
“Fuck off, Burrows,” he snaps out. “You really that confident about your own contract to be talking shit about your captain and your GM like that?”
Bam-Bam falters, just for a split second, before that cruel smirk returns.
“I don’t think I’m the one who needs to worry about their contract right now, Tiernan,” he says, blue eyes flashing hatefully.
“You think people don’t know? You think you’ve kept such a good secret?
” He steps even closer, shoving Nick back a step.
“Everybody can see it. They might not talk about it to your face, but that doesn’t mean they’re not saying it behind your back.
Those rumors about you and LaPorte had to come from somewhere, after all.
” The stink of his sweat fills Nick’s nostrils so that it’s dizzying as his heart races, his brain trying desperately to come up with some kind of response that won’t sound like a flimsy denial.
“I’ve been waiting years for the league to get over their obsession with you and realize you ain’t shit, you little bitch—and it looks like I might finally get what I want.
” He grins wide enough for Nick to see the gap of three missing teeth at the side of his mouth.
“I can finally stop sharing a locker room with a fucking fa—”
“BURROWS!”
Nick jumps out of his skin, scrambling backwards.
Looking over his shoulder, he sees Jazz, leaning on her cane outside her office door.
She looks furious, dark eyes blazing. “If you’re done,” she drawls, voice icy as she limps towards them, “Nick’s late for his meeting.
And I’m sure you’re supposed to be in with the nutritionist right now. ”
Under her pointed stare, Bam-Bam gives an easy chuckle, clapping Nick on the shoulder a touch too hard. “Just fuckin’ around, boss. Trix owes some locker room fines, you know how it is!”
“Right.” Jazz’s flat tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe him, but if she heard any of their actual conversation, she would probably be a whole lot angrier.
Unless Bam-Bam is right, and everyone can see what Nick is. Maybe she’s happy to ignore what he does with his dick when he’s winning them cups, but now he’s slipping, that feigned obliviousness won’t last.
Bam-Bam shoots a nasty little wink at Nick, then turns to leave, whistling on his way back down the hall.
“You good, Nick?” Jazz checks, worry furrowing her brow.
Shame burns hot in his blood and his cheeks flush as he realizes how that must have looked.
The team captain, with such incredible respect from his team that he’s getting intimidated by some third-line jackass.
Trembling over a few slurs and threats like they actually have substance.
“I’m fine,” he replies, plastering on an easy-going grin. “Sorry I’m late.” Before she can ask any more, he starts walking towards her office, taking it slow so Jazz doesn’t have to push to match his pace.
“Bam-Bam get like that often?” Her voice is even, conversational, though her eyes are sharp. Nick forces a chuckle.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Please, God, don’t let her read too much into it, whatever she heard.
Sinking into the comfortable chair opposite Jazz’s desk, Nick tries not to slump visibly, the adrenaline draining from his body. Jazz is smiling, but that doesn’t mean much—Nick’s seen her smile while verbally ripping guys to shreds for their behavior.
“Thanks for coming, Nick. I know it was a little short notice. But I had a meeting with Tony and the coaches this morning, and I wanted to talk to you about something.”
And just like that, the adrenaline is back. “Am I in trouble?”
She cocks one eyebrow at him, impassive. “Do you feel like you should be in trouble?”
“That feels like a trick question.”
Jazz lets him sweat for a long, silent moment, then laughs. “Relax, Trix. You’re not in trouble. You’ve cleaned up your act this season. Aside from a few blips—”
“I can’t control what the media prints about me,” Nick retorts.
“That are to be expected,” Jazz continues pointedly around the interruption, “for a player with your … history.”
It’s not quite the glowing praise he was hoping for, but he’ll take it. “Then what’s this about?”
Jazz leans forward, clasping her hands atop the desk. “Trade deadline is in forty-eight hours,” she declares. “And we need to make some moves.”
“I have a no-trade clause.” They legally can’t trade him, not without getting in trouble with the Player’s Association.
“I know.” Jazz’s face is frustratingly unreadable. “You’re not the one we’re looking at right now.”
Right now?? What does that mean?
“You can’t trade Marco either.” Fear grips Nick at the prospect, and this time Jazz actually laughs.
“We’re not trading away your emotional support centerman, don’t worry.
” She pulls some papers out of a drawer and sets them in front of him.
After a few moments of staring at the incomprehensible spread of numbers, he realizes it’s their salary cap calculations.
“The season’s been going well with all the line changes, but you have to admit that our youngster to old man ratio is way off,” she jokes.
In hockey, anyone over the age of thirty is an old man.
Nevada has a grand total of four of them, since GJ’s birthday last month.