Chapter 27 #2
The locker room explodes with noise once more, and Nick lets himself be bundled in half a dozen sweaty, disgusting hugs.
They’re all absolute messes, in more ways than one—nobody’s in top shape at this point in the game.
They’re lean and scruffy-faced and battered and bruised; there’s at least four broken bones being politely ignored, probably twice that number of strains and sprains, and Nick does not like how much KT tape Patts has on his shoulder these days.
Howie’s knee blew out on him in Edmonton, but he still shows up for every single game, hobbling around on crutches and pulling Picard and Noodle into top-secret goalie huddles before warm-ups.
His only comfort is knowing that the Washington guys are probably in a similar sort of state by now. No one makes it through three rounds of playoffs hockey completely unscathed.
There are four days between the end of Conference Finals and the beginning of the Stanley Cup Finals, and they pass in the blink of an eye.
Nick’s been instructed to spend as much of the day before game one as possible resting—so when Marco’s doorbell rings while no one else is home, he groans loudly, hauling himself into a sitting position on the couch he’s practically fused to after several hours binge-watching reality TV.
Marco and Lindsay are out walking Marshmallow, and as tempting as it is to pretend he didn’t hear the bell, Nick can’t.
It might be a teammate, freaking out about what’s ahead.
It might be Jazz, coming to tell him the whole team is deathly ill and they’ll have to forfeit.
It’s probably not that. But you never know.
A cascade of worst-case scenarios fills Nick’s head in the short journey from the couch to the front door. He gets himself so worked up that when he does open the door, he stares blankly, sure he’s somehow hallucinating.
Because Matt’s standing there, duffle bag over his shoulder, wearing the same Dragons long-sleeve he was the night they met. “Surprise!” he says, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave. Nick keeps staring. “Nicky? Babe? … You okay?”
“I … it’s not June,” is all Nick can say, brain sluggish in the face of this unexpected visitor.
“I know.” Matt grins, a touch sheepish. “We, uh … we’ve been pushing really hard to get everything finished, and we were so fucking pumped after watching you win Conference that we just kinda …
powered through to do the last few parts early.
And we—I couldn’t stand being away from you any longer. Not right now. So … here I am.”
Nick blinks. Keeps staring. “You’re done with the studio?
” he repeats, slowly stringing coherent thought together.
Matt’s grin widens, and he steps forward, past the threshold until he’s barely inches in front of Nick.
Nudging the door shut behind him, he drops his bag and dips his chin, meeting Nick’s gaze.
“I’m done with the studio,” he confirms, settling a hand on Nick’s hip. “I’m all yours, baby.”
Later, Nick might be embarrassed by the way he reacts, but right now he’s too overjoyed to care.
He launches himself into Matt’s arms, wrapping his legs around the taller man’s waist and clinging to him like a koala.
Matt lets out an oof but catches Nick with only a slight stumble.
“Fucking missed you,” Nick whispers, then cups the back of Matt’s head and yanks him down into a kiss.
It’s like an out-of-body experience, having Matt’s lips against his once more.
A euphoria that can only be matched by the feeling of lifting the Campbell Bowl, and even that, Nick thinks, falls a little short of this bliss.
He moans when Matt secures one muscled arm around his waist to hold him in place, devouring his mouth with the eagerness of a starving man.
Never breaking the kiss, Nick runs his fingers over metal-studded ears, over the stubble on Matt’s jaw, before twisting his hands once more in soft shaggy hair.
A contented sigh escapes Nick as his back hits the wall, legs locked securely around broad thighs.
“I can’t believe you’re home,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together.
He’s too damn tired for this many emotions; he’s played so much hockey that he hasn’t had the chance to gather his thoughts and become a functioning person again yet.
But Matt is here and warm and smelling a little like airport still, like he hasn’t even been home because he wanted to see Nick so badly.
He doesn’t know what to do with it all. Embarrassingly, his eyes start to tickle with the threat of tears.
“I missed you so much,” Matt murmurs, cupping his cheeks. He smirks as his thumbs brush over pale blond scruff. “Look at you, all rugged with your playoff beard.”
Nick groans, feebly batting his hands away.
“Don’t. I know it’s pathetic.” It’s a better attempt than Nick’s first playoffs, but even at twenty-three he’s too baby-faced to grow anything resembling a real beard.
“Do you know how embarrassing it was looking like this next to goddamn Landy and his majestic-ass Viking genes?” The Colorado captain made Nick look like a pre-teen.
Matt lets out an exaggeratedly lovesick sigh.
“Ahh, Gabe Landeskog,” he murmurs, sounding far too enamored for Nick’s liking.
He laughs at the disgruntled expression on Nick’s face.
“I’m just messing with you, babe. Your beard is sexy.
” Matt runs his fingers over the coarse hair which sends a shiver down Nick’s spine.
Nick hums happily, kissing him hard and chasing away any lingering thoughts of Landeskog, he thinks to himself in satisfaction.
“Next year,” he gasps against Matt’s jaw, “you’re not allowed to go anywhere during playoffs.”
Nick wants him here for next year’s playoffs, and the year after, and every year until he retires from hockey.
And soon, the whole world will know it, too.