Chapter 30 #2
“You’re making history in more than one way today, I might add,” she says, her expression not faltering even when Nick’s does. She adjusts her collar, flipping over her press lanyard. Nick’s eyes dart down reflexively, and he pauses.
There’s a small enamel pin, fastened right above where her press pass sits, of a little rainbow flag. Oh.
He looks back up, and she grins even wider. “You have just become part of the group of the first ever out LGBTQ+ players active in the NHL. There’s a lot of kids out there who are going to be looking at this moment as a beacon of hope for their athletic futures. What do you have to say to them?”
Nick takes a second to gather himself then stares straight down the camera.
“Get out there and pick up a hockey stick. A baseball bat. A football. Whatever sport you love, go out there and do it, because I promise you, you will find your people there, as long as you give it a chance. The best way to make a space more welcoming is to occupy it as unapologetically as possible and reach out to those who want to do the same.” Then he smirks, letting a little of his usual cocky persona seep in.
“And if anyone tries to tell you you can’t, tell ’em to come talk to me and my three Stanley Cup rings. ”
It’s clear the reporter is struggling not to laugh. Nick winks at her, and she bites her lip. “Thank you,” she says, blinking furiously. “On behalf of all of those kids—and plenty of adults who used to be those kids—thank you.”
He swallows the lump in his throat, nodding jerkily. Any doubt he might have had about coming out like he has fades into nothingness—how could he, in the face of reminders like that?
It feels like an age before the tunnel fills with people once more.
Nick lets himself be nudged from pillar to post—none of the further interviews are as polite or as cheerful as the ESPN one, and he quickly loses patience in a way so obvious even Tony sees it, so he rescues Nick by dragging him over to begin the team picture.
That in itself is an ordeal, everyone falling over each other to get in frame, making sure Howie doesn’t fall on his bad knee.
Nick’s front and center with Marco, the cup cradled between them, just like it was the last two times.
But then, finally, they see the group of people led by four women in black and gold denim jackets. Lindsay is one of those four, and the second she hits the ice she sprints towards her husband.
Nick studies the people spilling onto the ice; more black and gold denim bursts out of the cluster to seek their partners. Mars barrels right past Nick, eyeliner streaked down their face, and he turns to watch as they throw themselves into Sunny’s arms so hard the pair of them fall in a heap.
Nick looks back at the crowd, scanning for familiar faces, and then he sees him.
Matt.
He also has smudged eyeliner, though it’s not nearly as bad as Mars’s.
But he’s definitely been crying, Nick notes with a smile, squeezing his way through the crowd until he can fall into his boyfriend’s arms. “Hey, baby,” he says, his limbs finally turning to jelly now he has a safe place to land.
Matt holds him up, hockey pads and all. They’re definitely being photographed, but Nick can’t bring himself to care.
“Hi,” Matt chokes out. “Oh my God, you were amazing.”
“You’re wearing your jacket.” It’s the only thing Nick can focus on—the black and gold denim jacket Matt has on, with a C on the chest and the number 9 embroidered proudly on each arm among the crimson paint splashes and firework designs.
On the back will be the name Tiernan. A WAG jacket—the most concrete proof of love in the NHL, and Matt wearing his in front of the crowd and all its cameras will leave no doubt in anyone’s mind who he belongs to. Who Nick belongs to.
Matt’s cheeks flush. “Lindsay brought it for me,” he says. “Guess she knew something I didn’t.” Matt’s smile gets, if possible, even wider. He shakes his head incredulously. “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of Nick. “Not usually, no.” Matt hasn’t kissed him, hasn’t moved any closer. Nick’s struck with the terrifying realization that he might have been too much. “Is it … okay?”
Brown eyes widen, and hands squeeze his trembling ones. “Baby, I’m so damn proud of you I could kiss you,” Matt says, watching the fear rush out of Nick. “But this is your moment. Not mine. I don’t wanna steal your spotlight. The jacket’s enough.”
“No, it’s really not.” Without a second of doubt, Nick grabs him by the front of that denim jacket and closes the gap between them.
It’s not the best kiss they’ve ever shared—they’re both smiling into it too much.
Teeth clash and laughter bubbles up in their shared breath.
But it might be the most intense thing Nick’s ever experienced.
He’s vaguely aware of somebody wolf-whistling, of a dozen camera-flashes, but he just pulls Matt closer.
Forget the Stanley Cup—this is the best he’s ever felt on ice.
When they pull away, Matt is blushing, a smile splitting his face. “Oh,” he whispers, and Nick laughs.
“No takebacks.” He squeezes Matt’s hands before dropping them. “Wanna do it again?”
At that, Matt snorts. “Now you’re just trying to cause a scandal,” he teases, shoving him gently. “Go, do your thing, be the captain. We can celebrate properly later.”
Of course he’s got responsibilities. Ones that don’t involve making out with his boyfriend for the whole world to see.
Nick’s hugged by probably dozens of people: his mom and Marco’s mom and several people’s wives and girlfriends; Matt’s bandmates; his sister, sobbing loudly and still wearing her ear defenders, clinging to his jersey as she tells him she loves him but also she has to get out of this crowd or she’s going to puke; Connor’s parents with Théo, here more for Connor than Nick, and then Connor himself, hands in his pockets, as at home on the ice as he ever has been.
With Nick in skates they’re finally the same height, and Nick takes advantage of that by smacking a kiss to his forehead.
“How does it feel, man?” he asks, and Connor laughs.
“I should be asking you that,” he retorts. “Three Stanley Cups, Crisse. I dare anyone to say you don’t deserve to be here.”
There’s a tension to his jaw that Nick recognizes all too well—the bitter sting of defeat lingering beneath Connor’s happiness and pride.
“Next year’s on you, buddy,” he insists, clapping his hands on Connor’s shoulders with a grin.
“I promise I’ll try to stop hogging this thing, but only if it’s you taking a turn, ’kay? ”
“You’re on.” Connor wraps long arms around him, squeezing him tight. “You deserve this, Nicky. I’m so proud of you.”
That, of all things, is what brings the tears surging back up. He lets his face hide in Connor’s neck for a few beats more, then pulls away, wiping at his cheeks. “Fuck. Okay. I’m gonna … Team,” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely. “Catch you at the afterparty?”
“You bet.”
He loses track of who he sees and who he doesn’t, but then at last Tony and Jazz start to herd them back towards the locker room.
God, a shower sounds so fucking good right now.
He knows what to expect, but it’s still a shock to see the banner up, the champagne spraying as soon as they enter.
There’s more hugs, and photos, and interviews that Nick doesn’t have patience for.
He starts straight-up walking away from anybody who asks him derisively about his sexuality.
Tonight is not the time for that. They can pester him all they want about that later.
Tonight is about the cup, and his team. The fans—the Dragons family.
And then, he hears it. Rising over the noise of the packed room, a familiar guitar riff. One that has played in their locker room before every playoff game, though only now do the rest of the team truly understand why.
Almost in unison, the entire team freezes, grins splitting their faces. They take a deep breath, together.
“OH, STANLEY! MAKIN’ ALL THE BOYS GO CRAZY!”
Arms around Marco and Sunny, singing at the top of his lungs, Nick wants to live in this moment forever.