He’s dressed far more casually than last time, wearing a soft-looking charcoal sweater and well-worn black jeans tucked into combat boots. His hair is un-styled, and all his flashy earrings have been replaced with simple silver studs—if you didn’t know what to look for, you wouldn’t think he was someone famous.
Nick nervously adjusts his baseball cap, takes a deep breath, then heads towards the booth. He can tell the exact moment the musician spots him because he sits up straighter, a wide smile crossing his face. Nick’s stomach swoops.
No, he tells it furiously.We’re not doing that.
“Hey, man. Can I get you a beer?” Nick doesn’t sit down, just stands there with his hands in his pockets.
“So, I, uh, don’t actually drink alcohol?” Matt admits, a touch sheepish. “But I’ll take a Coke, if that’s cool?”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
While he’s waiting at the bar, Nick glances around, trying to see if he’s been clocked yet.
Not that there’s anything suspicious for them to see, of course. Just two buddies getting drinks.
“How was practice?” Matt asks once Nick’s returned with drinks, while under the table their knees knock together. Nick carefully readjusts, angling his legs elsewhere.
“It was good. There’s not much tape to watch on Anaheim’s current roster, but I think we’ve got enough of a strategy to work with. As long as it doesn’t all go to shit like it did Saturday.”
Matt grimaces. “I’m—I feel like I should apologize for that.”
“No, dude, it’s not—It is what it is.” The words stumble across Nick’s tongue. Matt’s grimace deepens, his brown eyes filling with guilt. “My shit is on me,” Nick says, steadier this time. “Tell me how your weekend went.”
This isn’t part of the plan. Nick should have used that to bring the conversation around to how this friendship isn’t good for his hockey career, how Matt’s great but this needs to end now before he makes a fuck-up he can’t walk back from.
But all Nick can focus on is how badly he wants Matt to smile again.
While the guilt doesn’t leave Matt’s gaze, he does brighten a little, telling him about the band’s latest writing session. “It felt really good,” he says, quiet and hopeful, like he might jinx it by saying it out loud. “Like… things have been tough, after this second album, y’know? It’s been doing so well, and that’samazing, but… there’s so much pressure for something bigger and better for the next one. Everyone says the sophomore album is the hardest to survive, but seriously, it’s the third one that’s a career killer. If that tanks, people are just… over it.”
“I know the feeling.” Since winning the cup in both his first and second seasons in the NHL, every season since has felt like—and been treated as—a personal failing on Nick’s part. Regardless of the fact that there are a hundred factors within a team’s dynamics and the luck of the bounce that could change the outcome of a game. Apparently, making it to playoffs every year isn’t enough. Nick needs another win or he’swashed upat the advanced age of twenty-three.
Matt smiles at him shyly, and in that chunky-knit sweater he looks so freakingsoftthat Nick curls both hands around his beer bottle just to stop himself from trying to touch him.
As the conversation turns to the band’s upcoming trip to LA, Nick finds himself relaxing more and more into the worn pleather bench seat, the tension from the last couple of days melting off his shoulders. When their drinks are empty, Matt jumps up to get the second round. When he returns, he presses his leg against Nick’s from knee to ankle, so firmly it can only be intentional. The stomach-swooping feeling is back—now is the time that Nick should pump the brakes, should tell him that things can’t be like that. But he’s comfortable, and Matt is grinning at him with that playful lilt to his brows, and he feelsgoodlike he hasn’t in a long time.
So Nick presses back and tells him about Dolly getting stuck in the couch cushions the other day, leaning over the table to show him pictures. Matt’s laugh huffs against his cheek. “She’s adorable,” he says. “I always wanted a cat growing up, but my mom’s allergic. We had dogs instead.”
“Our apartment didn’t allow pets when I was a kid,” Nick tells him, scrolling through a few more pictures of his princess. “But I spent my rookie year living with Marco and he’s got two cats, so when I moved into my own place it felt so freaking empty.” He smiles, paused on a zoomed-in picture of Dolly with her raggedy half-bitten-off ear perked up in interest. “We dida charity calendar thing with an animal shelter and I took one look at Dolly and fell in love. Took her home with me from that shoot.”
“He’s pretty, he’s got two cup rings,andhe loves animals,” Matt drawls lightly. “How the hell has no one snatched you up yet?”
Nick’s posture immediately goes stiff, his smile too tight at the corners. “Now that’s a story for at least three more beers, and I’ve got a game tomorrow.”
“Oof,” Matt says with a sigh. “One of those, huh?” Under the table, his hand squeezes Nick’s knee. “On the, uh, subject of that… we should really talk.”
Of course. That was the whole purpose of this meeting, after all. And once again, it seems Matt is a braver man than Nick.
“Sure, but… not here?” He looks around pointedly—in the last ten minutes he’s seen at least four people do a double-take at him. “We could go back to my place?”
He watches Matt’s eyes widen, then his lips purse, and he nods. “Yeah, okay. Text me the address and I’ll follow you?”
“Sure.” They drain their drinks and head out, and Nick spends the whole short drive back to his apartment rehearsing what he’s going to say.
“I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for anything right now,” he mutters under his breath for the dozenth time, pulling into his parking spot. “I need to focus on the season, but we can stay friends. No—I need to put my hockey first, but if you want we can—Shit. I’d like it if we could still…” He trails off, tugging at the brim of his cap. “Shit. Okay. I got this.”
He meets Matt by the elevator, swiping his keycard to open it and beckoning him inside. He isn’t the top floor, but for as long asthe ride feels like it takes, he might as well be. He and Matt stand there in silence, and Nick has never been more viscerally aware of the security camera mounted in the corner.
An impatient yowling greets him as soon as he opens his front door, and Nick bends down to catch his little menace. “Hello, baby girl. I’m sorry I’m late. But I brought you a new friend.” Turning to face Matt, he keeps Dolly tucked against his chest. “She can be kinda mean to new people, so, like, sorry in advance.”
