*
Nick heaved and tried desperately not to throw up as he leaned forward on the bench. He didn’t understand how he could possibly be so fucking tired—he was inshape!Really!—but he’d been trapped on the ice for nearly three minutes because of a bad line change on a penalty kill. Line changes weren’t easy during normal circumstances, and with only four people instead of five on the ice, it was a lot trickier than he’d expected. He’d have to remember that the next time he yelled at his TV during a game.
As he was starting to learn, being in good running shape meant jack-shit on the ice.
“I want to die,” he groaned to the ground.
“You all right?”
Nick spared a half-turn of his head to see Gregg-with-Two-G’s (“Just call me GG. Everyone else does.”) looking at him with a frown. He wore sports goggles beneath his visor, the effect making his eyes look comically large. Greg-with-One-G (“That’s Young Greg or Kid—” “I amnota kid!”) peeked around his shoulder, though he pretended to not be interested.
“I’ll let you know on my next shift. We’ll see if I can even fucking stand up.” He experimentally moved his wobbly legs. They obeyed, reluctantly, but didn’t instill him with much confidence.
The Gregs laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Brady asked as he stepped off the ice and joined them on the bench.
The Gregs immediately stopped. Brady seemed to have that effect on people. He was silent, calm, and had an aura of general disapproval that the others respected… but maybe they wouldn’t have respected it quite so much if this no-nonsense man didn’t have half the team’s total points.
“Nicki here’s hurtin’,” Young Greg said and chewed on his mouth guard.
Brady made a face. “How’s that funny?” There wasn’t much bite to it, and he even spared a concerned look toward Nick. “You’re hurt?”
“Mostly regretting that I had Indian food for dinner.” With a great deal of effort, he suppressed a burp and another groan.
Brady’s ever-stoic face broke slightly, the barest trace of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, okay, it’s a little funny.”
“I’m so glad you all enjoy my suffering.” Honestly, Nick didn’t mind, since it was the first time he’d seen even that much of a smile from Brady.
He looked good when he smiled.
Brady opened his mouth to reply only to be interrupted by a shout from the ice.
“Jens!” a defenseman called out for a change, and the whole bench turned to see Mags rushing over. Brady jumped over the boards and raced down the ice, back in Game Mode so fast Nick almost got whiplash.
“He’s fast,” Nick muttered in awe. Even with the improvements he was making, Nick was in fact the worst skater on the team more often than not. And Brady was the best. He skated with the type of speed and ease Nick hadn’t seen in anyone but professionals.
“Jensie’s killer,” Young Greg agreed. “Think he used to play when he was a kid or something.”
“You’re a kid and you play; how come you skate like shit?” GG said.
“You chirping me, old man? I’m nineteen!”
“If I’m an old man at fifty-six, you’re a kid at nineteen.”
Nick had quickly learned that the Gregs chirping each other was a constant backdrop to games, one that had already become familiar and even welcome to Nick. Once or twice a week, like clockwork, they went at it; game in, game out, the Gregs were the foundation of Nick’s game-time routine. They were six games into the season, and Nick already knew to expect his linemates to never shut up. Down a goal, up a goal, on the PK, or waiting for the Zamboni to clean the ice, their banter grounded the team.
Already he felt his stomach settle. If they could pull the same shifts as him and run their mouths, he could catch his breath and be ready when—
“Nicki!” Benns called, hustling to skate over.
Right, then. Up and at ’em.
It was only after the game (and after he’d had time to catch his breath), that Nick nudged GG in the locker room. The older forward paused in drinking his beer to give Nick his full attention, and Nick leaned in to ask, “What am I doing wrong, man?”
“Aside from spicy food before a game?” he asked wryly, then grew serious as he considered. “You’re a little too static. Nothing wrong with crashing the net, but if we can’t get the puck through, there ain’t much point in it.”
Nick nodded, making a mental note and reviewing his own play over the last few games.
