“Oh.” It must have transferred over while they were kissing. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” They’re still only scant inches apart, Matt’s hand hovering between them. Matt’s brown eyes look almost black in the low light, especially against the stark makeup of his skeleton eye-sockets. Nick thinks about later, the two of them in a bathroom together, wiping the paint off themselves, jostling for space in the mirror. Maybe taking turns to scrub at each other’s difficult spots—an excuse for playful touches.
It sounds so domestic and his chest burns once more. He wants, and he wants, but his wants are not enough in the face of public judgement, so he’ll take what he can get.
Chapter Twelve
[Video Description: The media room of the Nevada Dragons, with Nick Tiernan sitting at the head of the room. He’s dressed in training gear but looks rumpled and tired.]
“We have to wonder,” the first question comes in, “with your first game against the Quebec Orignaux—the first time you’ll share the ice with Connor LaPorte since his unexpected move to Europe—only two weeks away, do you think the history between you two is serving as a distraction in these games running up to that reunion?”
Tiernan visibly tenses. Several people in the crowd snigger at the word “history.” Tiernan’s eyes dart to make contact with someone off-camera, but then he turns back to the gathered journalists.
“Honestly,” he begins, “no offence to Quebec, but I just don’t think that far ahead in the schedule.” That earns him a few kinder chuckles, but he doesn’t smile. “We’ve got, what, four games between now and then? Five?” He adjusts the ball cap on his head. “There’s a whole lotof hockey to play before I have to worry about kicking Connor’s ass.”
Immediately, a buzz of noise rises among the journalists. A new hand goes up. “So you don’t think LaPorte is a threat to you? Despite his stats so far in the season?”
“Look, the dude’s been putting up great numbers. He’s an asset to his team, and it’s great that he’s finally made it to the big show. He’s as much a threat as anybody else—but of course I’m going to go into the game with a winning mindset, just like I do every other game.”
“He’s been putting up great numbers,” the same journalist counters. “Better numbers than yours, in fact, in everything except goals scored. Aren’t you worried that this match-up will reignite the bad blood between you two that caused LaPorte to leave the QMJHL in the first place?”
“Wow, okay,” Tiernan says, looking obviously peeved, “I don’t know which middle-school playground you got your intel from there, buddy. There isn’t any bad blood between me and Connor LaPorte. Conn’s reasons for leaving the Q are his own, and if you’re not happy with the information he’s given you on that, then that sounds like a you problem, man.”
—Post-Game Report, Tampa Bay @ Nevada,
November 22nd, 2022
November starts out as a blur.
The first half of the month is a haphazard travel schedule that has the whole team regularly confused about which time zone they’re in, but soon they’re looking down the barrel of a full eleven days on home ice, and Nick is overjoyed. Sure, he’s got five games to play in those eleven days, but it’ll be worth it for the comfort of his own bed.
Or Matt’s.
Though they don’t get as much time as they would like together, between Nick’s intense hockey schedule and Matt’s regular band commitments, while he’s in Vegas it’s not unusual for Matt to end up at Nick’s apartment in the evening, often bearing food of some variety. Nick doesn’t even realize how commonplace it’s become until he walks out of the bathroom one morning to see Matt perched at the breakfast bar drinking an enormous mug of coffee while Dolly eats her breakfast with her back to the intruder, not a care in the world.
Are they spending a lot of time together for two people who are supposed to be casual fuckbuddies, no strings attached?
He would say yes, except… they’re not actually having that much sex.
That’s not acomplaint—far from it—and the sex they do have is as spectacular as it was the first time, but half the time they’re both too tired to do anything adventurous in the bedroom. More than once, Nick has spent a post-game night curled up against Matt’s side on his couch, watching a movie and smothering his aching body in IcyHot, before they both go to bed and cuddle until they fall asleep.
He’s confused, if he’s being totally honest. He’s not an expert on the whole friends-with-benefits thing, but he’s pretty sure snuggling and incredibly un-sexy massages with sports rollers are not usually part of those benefits.
But… he likes it.God, does he like it—so much that he feels like he’s going to choke on those feelings if he keeps them down much longer.
He doesn’t dare say anything to Matt. He just enjoys the time they have together, firmly refusing to acknowledge the warmth in his belly that has nothing to do with being horny.
He’s feeling good; better than he has in a long time. Which is, of course, about the time the universe decides to step in and remind him who he is.
By the time Nick gets home after the Tampa game, the interview has gone live and his mentions are full of people talking about Connor. People who think Connor would’ve been drafted first if he’d stayed, people who think Connor’s hailed late arrival in the NHL is going to finally show howpast his primeNick is, how he was overrated to begin with… His social media is going to be unusable fordays.
On his way into the rink for practice, his phone buzzes, and he groans—then groans louder when he sees the caller ID. Connor. Of course.
“I guess you saw the interview, huh,” he says, not bothering with an actual greeting. He ducks into a side corridor for some semblance of privacy. Connor’s deep chuckle reverberates through the phone.
“Ouais,” he replies. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, man,” Nick says instantly. “Don’t apologize for having a good season.”
