Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
[Image Description: Two pictures side-by-side.
In the first, Connor LaPorte and Nick Tiernan stand outside a hotel, embracing.
There’s snow on the ground, and LaPorte’s truck is parked next to them.
In the second picture, Tiernan is climbing into the truck, while LaPorte walks around towards the driver’s seat. ]
@TopTier_Girl: INTERESTING #TierPorteReunion
@OrignauxOlivie: @TopTier_Girl Ooh secret pre-game rendezvous? ;) ;)
@IceFighter: @OrignauxOlivie Do your friends not hug you? That would explain a lot
[This tweet has been hidden due to inappropriate content.]
@TierPorte4Life: @TopTier_Girl OMG! I can hear the sound of a thousand fanfics being written!
@KellsBells35: @TopTier_Girl Don’t you people have better things to do than take creepshots of strangers?? It’s been years leave the poor dudes alone.
[This tweet has been hidden due to inappropriate content.]
@Puck_erUp: @TopTier_Girl Pro hockey strat: dick down your opponent so hard he can’t walk by puck drop
[This tweet has been hidden due to inappropriate content.]
—Twitter, March 7th, 2023
The picture is all over Twitter by the time Nick lands in San Jose. While his teammates are all laughing over some of the more lewd comments, Nick feels like he’s going to be sick. His phone is in his hands before he really knows what he’s doing.
Nick
Nothing happened with me and Connor in Quebec.
He doesn’t expect a reply, so it’s a surprise when a few moments later, the phone buzzes.
Matt
It’s not any of my business if it did.
Ouch. Okay.
Nick
Still, nothing happened. I had dinner with his folks. I met Théo. That was it. The internet doesn’t know shit.
Matt
When do they ever?
Nick thinks that’s the end of it, until there’s another buzz in his pocket while he’s walking to the team bus.
Matt
Thank you for telling me
He’s not sure if he should reply to that.
Unfortunately, while pure determination and the talent of his teammates carried them into an overtime win against Quebec, it’s safe to say that Nick’s game does not improve after that.
They’re only a handful of points away from securing a playoff spot, but suddenly it’s like Nick can’t score to save his life.
The loss in San Jose is embarrassing, and their back-to-backs against the two New York teams leave them without any of the points they need.
Sinking into an ice-bath with a hiss that’s equal parts temperature-shock and self-disgust, Nick keeps his earbuds in and his gaze low.
His teammates aren’t exactly thrilled with him—he doesn’t blame them, after the performance he just put up.
Fumbled passes, stupid penalties … not the way Nick should be playing if he wants to make playoffs.
Definitely not how he should be playing if he wants a contract extension.
As tempting as it is to stay submerged in ice until his brain is too frozen to finish a thought, Amy is waiting on him. Probably with a whole lot of opinions about the hockey she just watched.
Maybe he’ll stay in the ice bath forever, actually.
So lost in his own thoughts is he that he doesn’t notice the shadow that falls over him until his ice bath rattles from a gentle kick to the side. “Gonna get frostbite if you sit there much longer.”
Nick tenses at the voice, looking up to see his General Manager standing next to the tub, an inscrutable look on his face. One of the man’s graying brows is cocked pointedly. “C’mon, get.”
Stepping out of the ice bath is a torture of its own. Tony holds a towel out to his shivering player, pursing his lips at Nick’s stiff movement. “I’ll stretch out when I’m at my sister’s,” Nick promises, earning a slow nod.
“Damn right you will.”
When Nick walks back through to the main locker room, Tony follows him. Everyone else is gone—to eat or stretch or get whatever medical care they need, or already back at the hotel. Nick’s kind of glad he’s spending the night at Amy’s; no one in that hotel will be happy to see him.
Tony’s silent for a long moment while Nick buttons his shirt. Then: “Shame your good luck charm’s off on a press tour. Could use him when we get back on home ice.”
The way Nick tenses has nothing to do with his sore limbs. “I—My what?” He scoffs out a shaky laugh that isn’t fooling anyone.
“A couple rough losses won’t blow the whole season,” Tony continues, not elaborating.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Nick holds his blazer in a limp grip, wide-eyed.
“However”—the GM meets Nick’s gaze sharply, steel-gray eyes knowing—“having my captain burn himself out before the postseason hits is a whole other story.”
“Tony—” Nick cuts himself off as nausea rises in him, the conversation starting to feel all too similar to the one in Jazz’s office.
“You’re overthinking yourself, kid,” Tony says bluntly. “Got steam comin’ out your ears every time I see you.”
Before he can help it, Nick snorts. “You tell me I’m focusing too much, Jazz tells me I’m losing focus—I can’t win with you people.”
“Your focus isn’t the problem,” Tony retorts, ignoring the poor attempt at a joke. “Doesn’t matter how deep your head’s in the game if you left your heart in the locker room.”
At that, Nick jumps to his feet, blazer dropping to the bench. “My heart is in every damn play I make,” he spits, but the older man doesn’t flinch.
“How can it be when you’re too busy pretending you don’t have one?” is his immediate comeback. He smirks at Nick’s stunned expression. “Give me some credit, kid. I’ve been watching you skate for six damn years. I know you.”
“Then you know it’s not an issue.” Nick’s arms curl defensively around his stomach.
“It never used to be,” counters Tony. His almost fatherly expression makes Nick’s metaphorical hackles raise. “Think we both know it’s been different this year.”
“Look, Tony, I’ll be honest with you: if I put my heart on the ice right now, I don’t think you’ll like what you see.
” It comes out sneering, the faintest tremor betraying how his pulse rabbits in his throat.
Whatever Tony thinks he knows about Nick and his good luck charm, Nick is sick and tired of talking in circles around it all.
If they want him out, they could at least have the grace to be upfront about it.
“Just fucking—Just tell me what you need me to do, okay? Tell me what you need from me to keep me around.”
“What?” That seems to baffle Tony—a rare occurrence. Nick’s bravado falters a fraction.
“Jazz already made it pretty clear you’re waiting to see if I’m still worth the trouble.” He huffs bitterly. “Guess I’ve done a pretty shitty job of proving otherwise, the last couple games.”
“For fuck’s sake, Trix,” Tony sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose.
He sounds strangely … disappointed? Whatever it is, it curdles in Nick’s belly.
“You are the face of this franchise,” he says, low and serious.
“I have a lot of respect for you, as a player and as a man—enough respect that I would give you a hell of an advance warning if I thought you and me weren’t going in the same direction here! ”
The words echo through Nick’s skull. “But … Jazz said…”
“Did she say it, or did you just hear it?” Tony retorts knowingly.
Nick remains silent. The curdling sensation grows, so intense he thinks he might be sick from it.
“You wanna know what I need from you, Tiernan? What I need you to do?” Tony straightens and Nick feels like a bug under a microscope, braced tight under that mercury stare.
“I need you to give me that same respect. I need you to trust this organization. And I need you to play like you deserve to take up space on the ice—because the man I watched tonight? He doesn’t think he deserves shit.
” With a shake of his head, Tony takes a step back. “You’re better than that, Nick.”
He leaves Nick there, sitting in his stall, shell-shocked and half-dressed. That’s… What does that mean for his career? His contract?
If that was Tony’s attempt at reassurance… If he got the wrong idea from his meeting with Jazz…
Maybe he’s thrown away more than he ever needed to, to keep hockey in his grasp.
The buzzing of his phone snaps him out of his fugue state, and he scrambles to find the device. “Where the hell are you?” Amy asks, never one to mince words. “I’ve been waiting out here forever.”
He lets out a slow breath, feeling beginning to return to his limbs in the form of ants crawling across his skin. “Be there in a minute.”
Maybe she’ll know what it all means. She’s always been smarter than him.
Nick hardly sleeps that night, and it’s not because of Amy’s knee digging into his kidney.
His conversations with Connor and Jazz and Tony all keep echoing in his thoughts, and whenever he closes his eyes all he can see is the look on Matt’s face as Nick ended things.
It’s been a week since those texts after Quebec, and he’s heard nothing since.
Even the rest of the band won’t talk to him—which he gets, but it still hurts.
And now, after having spoken to Amy, he’s replaying his meeting with Jazz in a whole new light. Maybe she didn’t actually sound threatening when she said his contract wasn’t her priority right now—maybe she just sounded stressed the fuck out because the trade deadline was imminent.
Nausea burns in the pit of his belly, and he wishes he were at home so he could cuddle his cat. Amy’s not much of a hugger.
He thinks of nights in bed with Matt, those strong arms braced snugly around him, the weight of his larger frame pinning Nick to the mattress, soothing him better than any weighted blanket.
If he remembers Matt’s schedule correctly—which of course he does; he’s had it memorized for weeks—the band should be flying to Oregon right about now. They’ve got a hometown show for Matt, then Michigan and Chicago for the others, then they’re over to New York for the radio thing and some shows.