He suddenly feels foolish, remembering his late-night crisis, his heartsick imaginings of having some kind ofrelationshipwith Matt. Of course that’s not what the rockstar wants—like he said, he travels a lot, he’s busy, he lives in a totally different world to Nick. Why would a guy as charming and attractive as Matt limit himself to just one person—and one who’s so far in the closet he’s practically in Narnia, at that? Nick is hardly anyone’s definition ofa catch.
So yeah, anything like that is obviously going to be off the table. Duh. And that’s probably for the best. The last thing Nick needs right now is arelationship, God; he’s a mess!
He can do casual, right? People do it all the time. And Matt is fun, and easygoing, and they’redefinitelycompatible in the bedroom.
So, fuckbuddies. That’s a way to keep Matt in his life, without anything complicated involved. He can totally handle it. All he needs to do is shove down that squishy little part of his brain that gets way too attached at the first sign of someone beingniceto him.
“That… that sounds like a good deal. Yeah. I’m down for that.” He ignores the nauseous little twist in his belly, the voice in the back of his head telling him this might be a bad idea.He’stwenty-three, damn it. He can have sex with a friend and not let it get weird. It’ll be fine.
Matt relaxes in an instant, a smile taking over his face. “Really? Awesome. Cool. That—We’ll do that, then.”
They stand there, grinning at each other, until Matt glances at the clock on the wall and curses. “Okay, not to ruin the moment but I really have to go. Thanks for the coffee. I… I’ll text you?” He scrambles for his boots, the sudden movement sending Dolly rocketing off to hide in her tree in the corner.
“How long are you in LA?”
“I get back on Friday.”
“Shit, that’s when I fly to DC.”
“Damn it.” Matt tugs his sweater over his head, his already messy hair looking even more tousled. “We’ll figure something out, it’s fine. I’ll text you,” he says again. Glancing aside to check that Dolly isn’t going to fly out of nowhere and claw his face off, he darts in close to Nick, settling a hand on his hip and pressing a quick coffee-flavored kiss to his lips. Even though they both have morning breath and are objectively gross, Nick still chases the contact, making Matt chuckle. “Don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.”
“You started it,” is Nick’s mature response.
“You’re just so cute, I couldn’t help myself,” Matt replies, sticking his tongue out. He turns towards the door. “Hey, do I need you to like, buzz me out or anything? How do I leave?”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Nick assures. “The security is all one-way, pretty much.”
When he’d first moved in, the realtor had made a point of mentioning the whole system, how it was airtight getting in but the way out was“perfect for visitors to leave discreetly”, no doubt imagining a parade of puck bunnies and starlets.
“Sweet. I’ll, uh, catch you later, then. Good luck tonight.”
“Yeah, thanks. Fly safe.”
Matt hesitates, just for a moment, with his hand on the doorknob. But whatever he’s thinking, he must decide against it; with one last grin and a wave, he’s out the door, and Nick is alone in his apartment once more.
“Well, fuck.”
That’s not how he expected that to go.
Despite his chaotic start to the day, Nick is in full captain mode by the time he reaches the ice. All smooth smiles and charming quips, putting on a show for the fans and the reporters who all want a piece of him.
It’s easy, all of it, as long as he doesn’t think. As long as he ignores the buzzing in the back of his head—ignores everything that isn’t hockey, isn’t his teammates and his coaches and his GMs watching to make sure he shapes the fuck up tonight.
Ignores the concerned looks Marco keeps shooting his way, familiar with the almost manic version of himself that Nick becomes when he’s like this.
It makes him nauseous, just a little bit, how muchbetterhis hockey is when he’s like this. His passes are sharper, his shots are harder, his stick-handling is smooth as butter. He’s eagle-eyed on the ice, getting exactly where he needs to be before his opponents even realize he’s there. It’s an energy that carries through to the rest of the team, too; the Dragons have always made a fast-paced game their strength, and that is very apparent tonight. Anaheim struggle to keep up, their more defensively built roster just not equipped for that kind of speed.
Nick gets pulled for an interview at second intermission. He stands in the little media zone, still in full pads and drenched with sweat, a Dragons ball cap hiding his absolutely horrendoushelmet-hair. His body aches but he smiles wide, finding it in him to give a decent analysis of their upcoming third period plans and also flirt outrageously with the journalist doing the interviews. She’s new this season, and unused to having the full force of the Tiernan Smile directed at her. Nick almost feels bad for how flustered she gets, but he knows the internet will be lapping it up. Making jokes about him taking her home after the game. Praising his ability to make women fall at his feet as easily as he gets pucks in the net.
It’s all lies—but that’s what Nick is, these days. Just a pile of bullshit shoved into hockey gear. Gold-plated and fake and full of nothing of real substance.
The universe knew what it was doing when it sent him to Las Vegas, all those years ago.
They win the game 4–1. Nick scores his first hat-trick of the season, living up to his name. He hates how it makes his stomach churn and starts to wonder if he can even call it a lie anymore, when all the things he feels like he’s faking about himself are the only things that people want.
Chapter Eight
“… Sure, Nevada have had a couple rocky games in this first month of the season, but you can’t argue with the fact that they’re 7–2–0 so far. I just don’t think it’s fair to write them off when they’re not even doing badly.”
