“But you’re not having abadseason.” Connor’s tone is insistent, frustrated. “You’re third overall in goals right now.”
“And you’re second in points.” Connor’s always been the playmaker.
“They still shouldn’t have said it like that,” Connor mutters, his accent getting thicker in his irritation. It’s more French than Canadian now, after Switzerland. “I thought we’d have more time before the media started on their bullshit.”
Nick’s not sure they everstoppedtheir bullshit, with him.
“Have they been bad for you?” he asks, and Connor gives a non-committal hum.
“Eh, not really. Front office knows I don’t like doing press stuff, and I’m not really on social media.”
A bitter, childish part of Nick wants to lash out at that—the fact that Connor can justavoiddoing media,avoidbeing online,avoiddoing all the things Nick has no choice in.
“Well, I guess we’ll just see what kind of shit they can come up with between now and game day. You sure you’re ready for it?” Nick asks, trying to inject some humor into his tone, but failing with the way his voice shakes. “Not gonna find some reason to scratch for that game?”
“No,” comes Connor’s immediate response. “I… I want to play you. I’m excited to see how much you’ve improved first-hand. I know… it won’t fix everything. But… you’ve always played incredible hockey, Nicky. I’m looking forward to experiencing it from the ice for once.” There’s a pause, in which Nick is sure he isn’t the only one swallowing hard. And then: “Just don’t forget what year it is and pass to me by accident, okay?”
Nick groans at the bad joke, shaking his head even though Connor can’t see him. “I’m excited, too,” he admits. “I just wish the world would get off our asses about it.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
Silence stretches between them, just long enough to feel uncomfortable, but before Nick can scramble to break it, Sunnyrounds the corner half-dressed in hockey pads, giving him a beckoning wave and a concerned look. “I gotta go. I’ll catch you later, Conn.”
“Of course, man. And Happy Thanksgiving, for tomorrow.”
The call ends, and Nick doesn’t have time to process all of… whatever that was. He turns towards Sunny. “I know, I’m late, it’s a fine.”
“You good?”
“Yeah, man, just… Connor. Saw last night’s interview.” Nick laughs, rolling his eyes, like the media surrounding him and Connor is an annoyance and not something that fills him with crippling anxiety on a regular basis.
Immediately, Sunny’s brow furrows. “He better not be pissed at you for it.”
Man, this kid is Nick’s favorite. “He was apologizing, actually,” he says wryly. “Idiot thinks it’s his fault somehow.” Like the media hasn’t been doing this since Nick’s NHL career began.
“Journos suck,” Sunny mutters sympathetically, shoulder bumping Nick in solidarity.
They reach the locker room, where most of the rest of the team are dressed to skate, and there are jeers at Nick’s late arrival. “What are we bookin’ you for, Trix?” GJ asks, pulling out his phone with a smug look. Voted the least likely to incur a fine himself, GJ gets far too much joy from taking their money.
“I had a phone call, I’mbarelyeven late, give me a break,” Nick groans, earning several laughs.
“Ooh, was it the new girlfriend, Cap?” Motormouth asks, wiggling his eyebrows with a leer. Nick’s cheeks flush. The general team consensus is that he’s got a new girl on the go, with how much time he spends on his phone lately. The other day he overheard some of the rookies taking bets on which starlet it is—and Patts interrupting with his own theory that he’s dating somefreaky-hot alt girl who’s obsessed with Sticks+Stones, hence Nick’s new friendship with the band.
“Or the newboyfriend,” Bam-Bam sneers from his stall, his leer much sharper. The color quickly drains from Nick’s face.
Noteveryoneagrees with Patts’s theory.
He’s lucky, really, that Marco’s sister is a lesbian—Sofia makes an easy shield to hide behind when explaining why they went to the Halloween concert, to such an obviouslyqueerevent. Not that it stopped some people from giving them hell for it, but making the culprits skate suicides for a whole afternoon curbed most of the homophobic locker-room bullshit.
It’s different when Nick gets spotted hanging out with Matt one-on-one. There’s nothing to hide behind except the facade he’s been building since the day he stepped foot in Vegas—a facade he’s worried isn’t enough anymore.
All those women over the years who have publicly lied about sleeping with him to get internet fame have really donewondersfor his reputation as a womanizer, but all it takes is one joke from the wrong person at the wrong time for that web of lies to disintegrate.
“Fuck off,” Nick mutters, rolling his eyes at Bam-Bam. “It was just Connor.”
Understanding fills the faces of several of his friends, while Bam-Bam’s smirk widens.
“Oh, theotherboyfriend,” he mutters, just quiet enough for Nick to pretend he didn’t hear. His stomach twists—he heads to his stall, dressing quickly so he doesn’t hold up the morning any more than he already has.
