He’s attached a link to the venue’s website, on the listing for a Sticks+Stones concert on October 14th. The little banner says it’s sold out. Nick stares.
So much for never seeing Matt again.
Chapter Four
WHY HOCKEY MEDIA NEEDS TO GET A LIFE
We’ve seen it before. Some kid is put on a pedestal before they’re even old enough to buy beer, thrust under the scrutiny of every hockey fan in North America… and they don’t live up to the hype. Time and time again, a young player doesn’t reach the lofty heights predicted for them by men who haven’t touched NHL ice since before those kids were born, and they’re immediately tossed out like trash. It’s happened to McDavid for years, it sent poor Nolan Patrick to the hospital—it even happened to Crosby back when he had his first concussion.
But what the hockey media has been doing to Connor LaPorte and Nick Tiernan really takes the cake.
I get it. You wanted your big battle between the new franchises. I too wish we could’ve seen what those two players would’ve become in that timeline. But it didn’t happen. For whatever reason, LaPorte went to Switzerland. Maybe the pressure got to him, maybe it really was an argument between him and Tiernan, maybe it was something entirely unrelated.
Either way, he left, and that should have been the end of it. Just because you pinned your entire hopes and dreams on a literal teenager doesn’t mean he owes you anything. And it doesn’t mean the one kid who did stick around needs to bear the burden for both of them.
We don’t need another Yakupov situation. We’re lucky to have LaPorte back at all. Throwing him to the wolves by setting him up as Tiernan’s greatest nemesis—at a time when Tiernan’s game is adjusting as he matures as a player, and deals with an inch growth spurt since last season—seems like a recipe for disaster to me. We’re barely a week in, people!
So get over yourselves. Get a life. And for God’s sake, learn to quit picking on children before the next draft.
—CrossCheck, October 10th, 2022
Never let it be said that Nick does not know how to repress the hell out of his own emotions.
Before leaving to join the team at the airport the next morning, he sends what he hopes is a totally friendly and normal response to Matt’s message, saying that he’d love to come to their show but could he also get tickets for Marco and Lindsay. Matt’s reply is almost instantaneous.
Matt
For sure! I figured you’d wanna bring someone haha. Just three tickets?
Is he fishing for something? As if Nick is capable of maintaining that level of privacy.
With a wish for luck in his upcoming games, that seems to be the end of the conversation, and Nick is left with a vague sense ofconfusion and a squirming, flickering hope in the pit of his belly. If he knew what was good for him, he’d squash it right there.
Nick’s rarely known what’s good for him.
Marco sits next to him on the flight, but the jet’s far too crowded to talk freely. They share headphones and listen to the whole Sticks+Stonesdiscography, including a couple of singles and B-sides Nick hadn’t yet discovered. One, hilariously titled “Oh, Stanley”, sounds like a very gay love song but he realizes halfway through that it’s actually about the Stanley Cup, which isincredible.
Only when they’re settled in their hotel room in Tampa does Nick tell his friend about the concert tickets, and the excitement is enough to distract Marco from their promised conversation. Nick doesn’t bring it up—it’s really not that big a deal. He’s handling it.
The real surprise is that Matt keeps messaging him. Not often enough to feel like athing, but enough. He sends Nick a picture of a TV screen turned to the Nevada–Tampa game at the buzzer, congratulating him on a hard-fought OT win. He asks if NHL private jets are as fancy as he always imagined them to be. He tells Nick about some donut place he loves in Nashville, joking that Nick should bring him back a box after their game there.
It’s… nice. He’s never really had this before—a person back home to text throughout his travels. Nick is sad to turn his phone off before his pre-game nap, but he needs to focus on his hockey, his team.
One member of his team in particular needs him a little extra tonight.
The energy in the locker room is good, everyone eager to get another win under their belts and get home, but Nick’s eyes linger on one of the stalls across the room from him. Hewatches trembling fingers tape socks in place, and bites his lip, abandoning his own gear to sidle on over.
“How you doing, man?”
The rookie goalie’s head snaps up, his eyes wide.
“Oh!” Picard squeaks, then coughs. “I, uh, hey, Cap. I’m—I’m good.”
That would be a lot more believable if he didn’t look like he was about to piss his pants.
“You’re ready for this,” Nick says confidently. “It’s gonna be scary. The Cougars are gonna be right on your ass.” The kid pales beneath his mop of mousy curls, freckles standing out stark. “But we’ve all got your back. Those guys aren’t gonna let you look bad in your first game.” Nick gestures across to where four of their seven D-men are all getting dressed. “Just breathe through it, yeah? You got this.”
He’s soyoung—nineteen and looking all of twelve years old with his curly hair and his big blue eyes and his gangly frame. The one time they tried to sneak him into a bar the bouncer almost had a hernia from laughing so hard. Jonathan Picard is the very definition of a baby goalie, but he’s got talent pouring off him in waves and Nick is excited to watch him flourish.
