Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“… Look, we all know Nevada’s gonna make playoffs. At this point in the season, that’s not in doubt. The question is, will they crash out in round one like they did last year? Quite frankly, I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“The way they’re looking right now, I wouldn’t either—with so many rookies on the team, they’re starting to struggle with the pace of a full NHL season. I just don’t know if they have it in them to go all the way to the final round.”
“Exactly. Making the cut is only half a battle.”
“I’m wondering if they should’ve made bigger moves before the trade deadline.”
“I bet they’re regretting giving Tiernan that NTC.
If they could shift his salary, that would give them a huge amount of funds to play with, pull in some veteran talent to keep the team steady through a long playoff run.
And I don’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass this week, but he is not playing like a cup contender, and he sure as hell isn’t playing like a veteran captain. ”
“That’s for sure. He’d better get it together before the end of the season, or Nevada is really going to struggle when the pace picks up.”
“They’d better hope that playing Quebec tomorrow is the wake-up call he needs.”
—Hockey Night Live, March 5th, 2023
Last time the Dragons played against the Orignaux, Nick spent the time leading up to the game in a constant state of agitation, biting the head off of anyone who dared ask him if he was doing okay, and vehemently ignoring his phone because all his social media feeds were full of non-stop questions he didn’t want to answer.
His stomach was so knotted up he’d thought he might give himself an ulcer.
This time, he feels much the same, but for entirely different reasons.
He’s barely had time to process the breakup with Matt—can he even call it a breakup, if they were never officially a couple?
—before he’s on a plane to Quebec, his teammates eyeing him warily any time someone mentions who their next opponents are.
He’d rather they think he’s surly over facing Connor than suspect anything else is going on.
If there’s one thing Nick knows how to do, it’s focus on hockey when his heart feels like it’s been ripped to shreds in his chest. Yet, somehow, this time feels different. He’s not going to torture himself by contemplating why.
It’s snowing when they land, which delights half the team and aggravates the rest. Nick has always felt a sense of peace coming to Quebec City after his time in the Q, even though Val d’Or is technically closer to Ottawa. It feels like home the same way playing at Madison Square Garden does.
They get the bus together to the hotel, but all Nick does is drop off his bag and use the bathroom—then he’s putting his coat back on and checking his phone.
“Sure you don’t wanna come with? Conn won’t mind,” he says to Marco, who shakes his head.
“Nah. I’ll hang with you guys tomorrow after the game,” he promises. “Let you have your family time.”
“Dude, you are family,” Nick protests, but he lets it slide.
He heads to the lobby to wait. The snow has died down, but there’s still a solid layer on the ground outside, glowing in the streetlights. Nick eyes it wistfully; six years in Vegas, and he still misses snow.
“Wow, and you gave me shit for what I drive,” are the first words out of Nick’s mouth when Connor steps out of his enormous dark gray truck.
“That’s because what you drive is ridiculous,” Connor retorts without missing a beat. He pulls Nick into a solid hug. “Good to see you, Nicky.” They part, and Connor grins. “Get in the truck. You look like you’re going to freeze.”
“Asshole.” It’s been a while since he experienced a Quebec winter. No need to rub it in.
Connor turns out to live about ten minutes from the rink, not far from the waterfront. It’s a beautiful little house, and Nick wishes it weren’t so dark; Amy would love pictures.
Upon stepping inside, Nick finds his feet rooted to the floor.
Connor’s parents are here.
“Hi, Nick,” Marie says softly, standing in the hallway at her husband’s side.
Nick hasn’t seen her in … God, at least four years now.
She and George had come to a couple of his away games, back in his early days, but he was still so bitter after they all but forced him to switch billet families when Connor left the Q that Nick hadn’t tried very hard to keep in touch.
“Surprise,” George adds, waving. He, at least, Nick has seen semi-regularly; he’s still active in all the older hockey circles, popping up at NHL events here and there. “Hope you don’t mind us crashing your evening plans, but when Connor said you were coming over…”
Nick shakes his head, crossing the distance between them to gather both of them in a hug, almost choking on the familiar scent of Marie’s perfume. “Missed you guys,” he murmurs, feeling them hug him tighter.
Nick pulls back when the hug’s gone on for a little longer than is probably considered normal, but they don’t seem any more eager to break it. He peers around, looking for a face he’s only ever seen in pictures. “I thought Théo was joining us tonight?”
Connor runs a hand through his hair, amused. “He is,” he confirms. “He’s hiding in the kitchen,” he adds, louder, and Nick hears a quiet huff through one of the open doors.
“I’m not hiding, you menace!” a French-accented voice retorts. “I’m making sure your house doesn’t burn down!”
Connor laughs, and Théo huffs again.
Coats hung up and boots removed, Nick is led through to a cute little kitchen that smells deliciously of chicken and mushrooms. At the stove stands Théo.
He’s shorter than Nick anticipated, his hair longer than it was in the photo Connor sent on New Year’s.
He’s in a burgundy polo shirt, allowing Nick to see the impressive woodland tattoo sleeve taking up most of his right arm.
Théo smiles shyly, eyes flitting over Nick, and Nick does his best not to feel self-conscious.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward. “It’s really good to meet you. ”
“You as well,” Théo replies, shaking his hand with a smile. “I’m excited to hear all the stories of Connor as a teenage miscreant that he won’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t a miscreant!” Connor protests from behind Nick. Nick grins wider.
“I was mostly the miscreant,” he confirms wryly. “But I have some great stories involving him as my accomplice.”
Théo claps his hands together enthusiastically over the sound of Connor groaning. “Wonderful,” he declares. “Then let’s get dinner on the table.”
The five of them fit comfortably around Connor’s dining table, and conversation flows as easily as the wine, though the two hockey players limit themselves to a single glass.
He keeps waiting for it to be weird. Spending time with Connor’s parents and Connor himself—like the old days but so very, very different.
Being around Connor’s boyfriend, knowing that they both have intimate knowledge of the man sitting across from him.
It should feel strange, wrong, like a life that was almost his but now will never be.
On the contrary, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. It feels like family. Théo is fucking hilarious, keeping Connor on his toes in exactly the way he needs, and every time Nick catches a sweet little moment between the two of them he feels his heart melt a little.
There’s a pain in his chest, but it’s not jealousy.
Through unspoken agreement, nobody talks about playoffs.
None of them want to even slightly acknowledge the possibility of facing each other in a cup final.
They have plenty of other topics of conversation to cover instead: the second Nick mentions Marshmallow, Théo jumps on him with eager eyes and spends the next ten minutes looking at dog pictures on Nick’s phone, turning to Connor with unholy glee.
“Maybe in the off-season,” Connor says, an indulgent smile playing at his lips.
After dinner, they move into the living room where George gets the fire going and Théo links his phone to the speakers, Marie starting up a pan of hot chocolate.
It’s not until the end of the evening when he’s helping carry mugs into the kitchen to be washed up, that Nick and Connor end up alone.
They stand at the sink, elbow to elbow, listening to the soft music and chatter from the other room.
“Théo’s really great,” Nick says, rinsing the mug in his hands.
“You’re so fucking gone on him, man, it’s adorable. ”
Connor’s cheeks go pink, but he doesn’t deny it. “He’s pretty special,” he agrees, eyes all soft and lovestruck.
Connor never looked like that about him, Nick thinks, and it’s a thought that doesn’t cause him pain.
“Y’know, he’s never been to Vegas,” Connor says tentatively. “And, uh, I’ve only ever been for that one game.”
Nick’s not an idiot. “I’d love it if you came to visit,” he confirms. “Come in the summer. You can crash at mine, I’ll take you to all the good shows. Go see the Grand Canyon, all that tourist shit—you guys will love it.”
“That’d be nice,” Connor says. “Maybe I could meet Matt, too?” Nick must flinch or something, because Connor’s lips thin knowingly. “So that’s what’s eating you. Figured as much.” He doesn’t sound the slightest bit surprised.
“God! Y’know … it’s unfair that you were gone for five years and yet you can still read me like a fucking book,” Nick says without malice.
Connor just stares, waiting for him to elaborate.
So he does, relaying the whole tale, not leaving out any of the shameful details. Connor already knows the worst of him.
“I, uh, haven’t heard from him since. So I think that’s … that’s done.” Nick can feel the tension in his own shoulders, and one of Connor’s large hands settles between them.
“That’s really tough, Nicky. I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. Something not unlike a sob rises so suddenly in Nick’s chest that he chokes on it.
“Yeah,” he croaks. Of course Connor gets it, the way nobody else seems to. He’s in the same boat.
“For what it’s worth, the Dragons would be fools to let you go. And if they do, you’ll have half the teams in the league looking to snap you up.”
“You sure about that?” Nick retorts wryly. “According to the press, I’m all washed up.”
“When has the press ever been right about anything? Crisse, Nicky, you should know better.” Connor actually sounds angry, and it surprises Nick.
He turns to see his friend’s dark eyebrows knitted together in an intense frown.
“You’re one of the strongest players out there right now—even your bad days are on par with other guys’ best ones.
And you’ve got so much time ahead of you.
” He reaches out to knock on the wooden cutting board.
“I know you love Nevada, and I hope you get to play your career out there. But even if you don’t, that reflects on them, not on you.
” The frown eases as his lips quirk in a half-smile.
“Even Gretzky got traded, man. That’s just the game. ”
Nick doesn’t know what to say to that. He remains silent, scrubbing at a dish that’s already clean until Connor gently pries it from his grasp.
“It’s understandable to be scared, y’know,” Connor says quietly. “About Matt. But … you just have to trust that sometimes, the worst possible thing isn’t going to happen. And sometimes, the real worst-case scenario isn’t what you think it is.”
Nick immediately thinks of the pain in his chest that night, alone in his bed in the Perezes’ guest room, wishing Matt was there with him. The way that pain has gnawed itself deeper and deeper with every passing hour apart from the other man.
“I think I know what you mean.”
Connor smiles, dipping his head to press his chin to Nick’s temple, just for a moment. “You’ll be okay. You’ve already had one shining example in your life of what happens when you get scared and don’t communicate,” he adds ruefully, and an incredulous snort slips from Nick’s nostrils.
“Oh, we can joke about that now?” He grins when Connor rolls his eyes, before sobering. “Thanks, Conn. I don’t know if I believe you, but … I’ll try.”
He’s heard so many different opinions about his abilities from so many different people that he can’t even tell which way is up anymore. But if there’s one person who knows what hockey talent looks like, it’s Connor. And if he says Nick still has it, then … Nick’s career might not be over just yet.