Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
[Video Description: Nick Tiernan standing in the tunnel for rink-side interviews, sweaty at second intermission. He’s being interviewed by a skinny man with gray hair and an ill-fitting suit.]
“So, Trix, it looks like you’ve got this round in the bag,” the interviewer says, and Tiernan’s eyes widen visibly.
“Don’t go celebrating just yet. Anything can happen in playoffs.” His wariness earns a laugh.
“Ain’t that the truth! For example, while you were out there scoring your second goal of the game, your buddy LaPorte was watching the Comets lift the Prince of Wales.”
Tiernan’s jaw drops, horror flashing across his face for a split second. “Quebec lost?”
“Oh, had you not seen the score?” the interviewer asks, though from his tone it’s clear he already knew that. “2–1 in OT. Just finished a couple minutes ago.”
“Damn,” Tiernan says. “A close one.”
“How does it feel, knowing that after a whole season of people comparing you two, you’re still in and LaPorte’s not?”
There’s a beat of silence and Tiernan’s jaw clenches tight as he swallows. Then, his charming smile is back on his face. “I’m just focused on finishing this round strong. One game at a time, y’know? So I think I’d better get out there and secure this one for the boys.”
[Tiernan walks off without waiting to be dismissed, leaving the interviewer floundering.]
—The Hockey Network, May 21st, 2023
“That fucker did that on purpose. He knew it would throw you off your game!” Matt’s eyes glimmer with rage as he rants through the screen of Nick’s iPad.
Nick sighs, the emotion settling heavy in his chest. No one’s outright blamed him for their loss last night, but his teammates have made their displeasure known that they’re going to game seven against Colorado despite having led for most of game six.
“I shouldn’t have let him get to me.” The third period was an absolute shitshow, Nick out of sync with his team, a corner of his mind stuck on how devastated Connor must be to be out of the playoffs after getting so close to the finals.
And, guiltily, on how relieved he is, deep down.
“I feel like such an asshole,” he groans.
“Like, he’s my best friend. I want him to do well!
But…” Nick isn’t sure he could have faced down Connor in a Stanley Cup Final.
Doesn’t think he could have played his absolute hardest for his own team, knowing how badly Connor wants that cup and how much he has sacrificed to make it there.
He has a lot of friends in hockey, and they’re all used to leaving personal relationships at the door when it comes to games, but …
Connor’s different. He’s always been different.
“You’re not an asshole,” Matt promises. “It’s totally understandable not to want to have to deal with that kind of conflict. Connor probably didn’t want to face you any more than you did him.”
“But he played so hard—”
“And hockey is just like that,” Matt cuts in. “You know it, he knows it. That’s how the game goes. Sometimes you do everything right and you still don’t win.” He runs a hand through his hair; it’s longer than Nick’s used to seeing it. “Have you talked to him since it happened?”
“Yeah, I called him this morning.” Nick frowns at the memory.
Connor sounded so fucking defeated and it broke his heart.
“We had a good talk. It sucks, y’know?” Nick’s been there, and it’s devastating to get so close but not close enough.
“But … he’s got his family. Théo. The team.
He’ll be okay.” It sounds dismissive, but you can’t get in your head about a loss like that.
You take the time to mourn and then you get your shit together and look to the next season.
Nick just hopes he won’t be going through that whole journey himself after tomorrow night.
“How are you guys doing, anyway?” he asks, not wanting to dwell on the upcoming game any longer than he has to. “How’s the album going?”
It’s been hard, having Matt away for so long, but in a way the timing works out frustratingly well.
He loses track of everything during playoffs.
The only progression of time that counts is the space between one game and the next, and the blissful few days of rest between rounds that never feel long enough.
Nick’s life, already pretty laser-focused, narrows down to exclude pretty much anything that isn’t hockey.
And for Matt, being fully in the zone with the new album, it’s for the best. This way nobody feels neglected, both so busy with their own work.
He thinks the team is a little suspicious, the way he disappears in the evenings for some privacy.
If he’s not at a rink or in a hotel room, he’s at Marco’s, or somewhere with his teammates—it’s a Dragons rule that no one goes home alone during playoffs, especially not the rookies.
The rule was mostly started to make Nick feel less pathetic about moving back in with Marco when times got tough, but it works—especially with so many young guys on the team this year experiencing a deeper playoffs run for the first time.
Nick doesn’t want any of his boys feeling like they don’t have anybody to lean on.
They joke about all living in each other’s pockets enough during the season, but that’s got nothing on this.
It’s nice, in a way; one of the things that always drew Nick to hockey was the camaraderie, the promise that your team would become your family, closer than siblings. For a kid who always felt alone in the middle of a crowded room, it was the answer to his prayers.
But Jesus Christ, as much as Nick loves each and every one of his teammates to death, he’s very much looking forward to not having to be with them for fifteen hours a day.
He lies back against his pillows and runs his fingers through Dolly’s fur as Matt tells him about the band’s day, laughing at the story of Joel tripping over a cactus and getting an ass full of spines.
The sound floods Nick’s body with warmth, his bones aching to reach through the screen and pull Matt into his arms.
Just ten more days, and his love will be home. He can do this.
“You need to get some sleep, babe,” Matt murmurs fondly, after the second time Nick can’t hold back a yawn. Nick groans in protest, and Matt chuckles. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow. Gotta win another game for me, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” Nick vows with a lazy salute, winking. “You gonna be watching?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Matt promises. “I’ll have my jacket on and everything.
” That makes Nick grin. Unbeknownst to him, Lindsay had arranged for a WAG jacket to be made for Matt, bearing Nick’s name and number.
So far, Matt’s worn it for every game, watching from the studio and cheering him on—Nick’s good luck charm, even from so far away.
“I wanna talk to you a little longer.”
“Sorry, say that again but keep your eyes open this time,” Matt teases, earning a sleepy glare. When the musician chuckles, it washes over Nick like molten chocolate. “Go to sleep,” he repeats.
“Ugh, fine,” Nick huffs. “Love you. Night.”
“Love you too.”
Nick barely has the energy to put his iPad on the nightstand and turn off the lamp. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.
His arms shake as he raises the Campbell Bowl above his head, Marco and Hugsy on either side of him helping him keep the trophy aloft while Colorado file off the ice in defeat.
They touched it the last two times they won, and that’s a good enough precedent for Nick; he makes sure that every member of the team brushes their fingers on the shining metal, even the ones who look reluctant.
Superstition be damned, they have earned this trophy. Their ticket to the Stanley Cup Finals—their prize for being the best team in the Western Conference.
He gets blasted in the face with champagne in the locker room, Duke holding the bottle and cackling. Several of them are crying, Nick included, and he can’t be embarrassed about it because he’s just so damn happy.
“All right!” he yells, once the chaos starts to simmer a little.
“We fucking did it, boys!” They whoop and cheer, drumming their hands on the benches gleefully.
“I am so proud of every one of you assholes for what you did out there tonight. What you’ve been doing all week.
All month. But we’re not done yet!” More cheers, and Nick grins as he surveys them all.
“I know you’re tired. I know you’re hurting.
Christ knows I am, too. But we’ve just got to power through that for a little bit longer, and then we’ll have the sweetest damn off-season you boys can imagine, believe me. Twelve wins down, four more to go.”
The members of the team who have held the Stanley Cup before whoop the loudest of all, faces split with grins.
“So get some rest, guys. Take tomorrow off. Regroup on Thursday at Marco’s.
Listen to the trainers. Moose, get some stitches in your face, Jesus Christ, man,” he groans, staring at the man with a blood-soaked rag held to his cheek.
He got a stick to the face about three minutes before the final buzzer and refused to go get treatment till the game was over. Moose laughs, waving him off.
“Barely even feel it!” he insists.
“Oh my God,” Nick says, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “You’re all insane. Let’s fucking do this! Stanley Cup, here we come, baby!”