“I’m sorry,” Matt starts. Nick brushes him off with a too-bright smile, shaking his head.
“It’s fine. I didn’t mean to get all into my family shit, that’s my bad.” He’s dangerously comfortable around Matt—henevertalks about stuff like that.
“I don’t mind,” Matt insists, curling his ankle a little tighter around Nick’s. “But we can change the subject if it’s a sore one. It’s okay.”
He’s saved from coming up with a response by Cindy arriving with their coffees. Nick’s has a small mountain of whipped cream and some caramel syrup on top, and Matt goggles at it. “You are achild.”
“Look, okay, if I’m going to survive this stupid charity gala tonight, I’m going to need this. Let me have my vices.”
“Sometimes,” Cindy mock-whispers, leaning in towards Matt, “when he’s having areallybad day, he orders a hot chocolate with about half a cup of mini marshmallows.”
“Cindy!” Nick whines. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”
Matt’s head tips back with the force of his laugh, his slouchy beanie almost falling off his head. “I love it,” he declares, delighted. “You’ve got a secret sweet tooth, huh?”
“Apparently, notthatsecret,” Nick grumbles, shooting Cindy a look of betrayal. She pats his shoulder sympathetically.
“Don’t worry, hun, I won’t tell him about the pancakes.”
“What pancakes?” Matt asks, but she’s already walking away. He turns to Nick. “What pancakes?”
“No,” Nick says, shaking his head. Matt’s lower lip sticks out, his brown eyes going wide in the most exaggerated puppy-dog expression Nick’s seen since Howie’s daughter tried to get a piggyback ride out of him. “No. Damn it, don’t look at me like that!” Matt doesn’t look away, letting that pouting lip wobble. “Ugh. Fine. During playoffs I come here once a week after closing time and stress-eat my weight in pancakes,” he confesses, arms folded defensively across his chest. “It’shard, okay, and by that point in the season I need to eat, like, a million calories. There’s only so much pasta I can take.” It’s still carb-loading,kinda.“And now I know who to come for if that makes it into the gossip blogs.”
Matt mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the keys, eyes sparkling. “You’re adorable,” he murmurs under his breath, bringing a pink flush to Nick’s neck.
He’s grateful when Cindy brings their meals over—without sharing any more embarrassing tidbits of information—to give him a distraction from how good Matt looks when he smiles like that.
The conversation turns to Matt’s time away, both in LA and Phoenix. Nick admits to having watched one of the LA interviews on YouTube, which garners some teasing, but he can tell Matt is flattered.
“The festival was awesome,” Matt relays. “It was kinda small and we were on right before the headliners so it was a littlechaotic, but we got to hang out for the whole weekend and see some of the other bands perform, which was rad. And the crowd was super nice—they even seemed to know a bunch of our songs!”
“Well yeah, you’re kinda famous, dude,” Nick points out with a grin. Matt, mouth full of sandwich, flips him off.
“Iguess, but I never really feel it, y’know? I’m just a dude who plays in a band. Like, I still feel like the kid playing in some sweaty basement to fifty college students or whatever. And then we step out on stage and there’s thousands of people who know our lyrics. I’ll never get used to it.”
“Yeah, I get what you mean.” Nick still doesn’t feel like the kind of player whose face is on merchandise, whose name is on their most-sold jersey, who fans line up for hours to try and meet on publicity days. “You guys got big pretty fast, huh?”
“Sofast,” Matt agrees with a half-grimace. “We never expected it. People like us, with songs like ours, actually getting big in the rock scene?” He shakes his head incredulously. “My teenage self couldn’t evenimagine.”
Nick swallows hard—yeah, he knows what that’s like. “It’s really cool,” he says, wishing he could think of something more eloquent. “Was it hard? At first? Like, even when you started, you were…”
“Out and proud?” Matt finishes with a rueful grin. Nick nods—even their first EP makes no pains to hide it. “Yeah. Can’t say it was smooth sailing, but we wanted to make the music we wanted to hear, even if we never got out of those college basement gigs.” He shrugs. “Honestly, even when we got a little bigger it didn’t get truly rough until Case started transitioning after we graduated. Seems the only thing conservative rock fans hate more than gay people is women,” he adds with a bitter sort of sarcasm. “Unfortunately for them, the scene is a whole lot fruitier than their narrow little minds could fathom—and peoplereally love hearing songs that feel relatable in ways that straight bands just don’t cover.” This time, when Matt smiles, it’s a small, proud thing. “It’s a great community, and our fans have really rallied for us. We’re lucky to be part of it.”
“You’ve earned it,” Nick insists. “I can’t… What you guys have built up is really incredible. I couldn’t imagine…” He snorts a little too sharply. “Well, let’s just say I wish hockey had that kind of community.”
“Hockey’s problem isn’t community,” Matt replies. “It’s culture. The community is there, it’s just getting forced out by theculture perpetuating toxic behaviors and stereotypes, from the top all the way down to kid leagues. It’s—” He stops, ducking his head to take a sheepish sip of his coffee. “Sorry, that’s not exactly chill lunch conversation. I’ll put the soapbox away,” he jokes, bumping their knees together with a chuckle. “But it’s probably for the best that college destroyed my NHL dreams, huh? Don’t know if I’d have survived it.”
“You wanted to go pro?” Nick isn’t going to touch the other half of the conversation. Not that Matt’s wrong, he’s just… not ready to have that kind of discussion in public.
“When I was a kid, oh yeah. When I hit bantam age I kinda knew I didn’t have the skills to make it, and that’s when music took the front seat. I still hoped to make the AHL or something though, up until I got my wrist broken in junior year of college, had to have pins and surgery and everything. I’m just glad I can still play guitar.”
Nick tries his best not to flinch when Matt holds out his right arm, twisting it to show a set of scars half-hidden by a floral tattoo, curving across the back of his forearm and down to about two inches below the base of his thumb. They’re pale and silvery, obviously long healed, but he’s seen scars like those on so many guys who never got back on the ice because of them, and it makes his stomach churn.
“What… what happened?” he asks softly, eyes tracing over the faint scarring. He’s surprised he hasn’t noticed them before.
Matt grins sharply. “Blocked a shot with my arm, like an idiot. Hit merightwhere the pads don’t cover, andman, he was not holding back. Broke both the bones in multiple places. I waspissed.”
Nick can only wince in sympathy—that kind of injury would have a guy out for a whole season, at least. He says as much, and Matt nods. “Sure did. It was right at the start of my season, too. I spent the whole winter sulking in my room and angstily writing the lyrics to what would becomePenalty Minutes.” He shrugs, smile turning lopsided. “So, y’know, it all worked out for the best.”
