Finally, he turns his head to the other end of the rink. The white and purple and blue jerseys blur as the players skate laps to get their legs moving—but there, near the center line, is a familiar figure.
There’s a moment, just a split second, when the world falls away and the purple on that white jersey turns to dark green, the ice-blue to gold. He sees a green C on the chest, but the number remains the same. Nick is seventeen again, looking across at his best friend in the whole world, ready to do the only thing they both love even more than they love each other.
Then he blinks, and the moment is gone, but Connor is still there. He’s moving towards him, and Nick moves too, sliding to a halt barely inches from his friend.
“About time you showed up, LaPorte,” he says, far more casually than he feels. His voice quivers, ever so faintly.
When Connor laughs, his throat cracks. “Yeah,” he agrees, a little breathless. “Better late than never, though, eh?” He smirks like there wasn’t a time when they both thought this day would never come.
Nick’s breath hitches, and then he lifts a gloved hand and places it on Connor’s shoulder, tugging him in closer. Their helmets clatter together, the world narrowing even further. “Fucking right,” he mutters, feeling Connor’s hand grip his arm. “But you made it. You proved all those assholes wrong and you fuckingmade it,” Nick says.
It’s a celebration in so many ways—a big fuck-you to all the people who said he’d wasted his chance already.
And, most importantly, it’s a celebration ofthis. Of Nick and Connor, on the ice together, playing in the goddamn NHL. Still friends, despite everything. Still here, still queer, still rocking the socks off this sport in which they have had to fight to feel like they belong.
They pull apart, and Connor is grinning at him, tears in his eyes. Nick grins too, so wide his helmet digs into his cheek.
“No hard feelings when I kick your ass, eh, Nicky?” Connor chirps, and Nick lets out a laugh.
“Oh, youwish, Conn. I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’re new around here.” He shoves Connor, who chuckles.
“Never expected anything less.”
Fuck anyone who dares try to diminish this by making it about sexuality—they willneverknow what it took to get to this moment, and here on the ice Nick is filled with the confidence that they never will.
Chapter Thirteen
[Image Description: Center Ice at the T-Mobile Arena, Nick Tiernan and Connor LaPorte stand on the same ice for the first time in over five years. They grip each other by the shoulders, heads bent together to talk, smiling.]
The game between the Dragons and the Orignaux was hard-fought, pushing into overtime after regulation ended at three goals apiece. And no one fought harder than these two men; teammates as kids, torn apart by some mysterious conflict, now reunited at opposite ends of the ice. While Quebec eventually took the victory, in part thanks to an equipment malfunction on Tiernan’s behalf, there seem to be no hard feelings from the Nevada captain. Indeed, when interviewed after the game, Tiernan stated that “Connor is the kind of player that makes everyone on the ice with him want to play their best, even those opposing him. Quebec got the edge tonight, but we put up a good effort, and next time our best will be enough to win.”
“Next time” will be in early March, when Nevada heads to Quebec to face the Orignaux on their own turf.
—The Hockey News, December 6th, 2022
Even putting aside all the drama surrounding Nick and Connor, a match-up of the two top teams in each conference was always going to be an intense game. ButGod, Nick hasn’t played that hard since last year’s playoffs run.
Hockey is a fickle sport, everyone knows that. Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way. He played his best—his whole team did—and that’s all he can ask of them. A bad bounce and a broken stick, that’s all that got between them and the win. It is what it is.
After, he stands in his stall in nothing but his shorts and socks, sweat cooling on his bare torso, half a dozen cameras in his face. “We didn’t go down easy,” he says, holding his head high. “I’m proud of every one of my boys for what they left on the ice tonight.”
It’s not enough for them, of course it’s not. They push and push with their questions, trying to get Nick to say something derogatory about Connor, or the Orignaux—anything they can use to sell headlines. But Nick keeps on smiling, until eventually Kat saves him.
“Your time is up, sir,” she jumps in, polite as she firmly nudges the camera out of Nick’s face. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
She guides the reporter and his cameraman out of the locker room, and Nick lets out a long, irritated breath.
“Fucking vultures,” Duke agrees sympathetically, walking past with a towel around his waist. “Good job, though, man. Played a hell of a game tonight.”
“Thanks. You too, bro.”
Nick is relieved that no one seems mad at him over the loss—they’re all aware that the Orignaux are strong opponents, with or without Connor LaPorte. Hell, if Nick remembers correctly, they didn’t win a game against them last season either.
What matters is that Nick feels good about how the game went. Obviously he’s not thrilled about losing, but… it felt right, to be back on the ice with Connor, even on opposing teams.
Racking his brain to remember what Connor said about his team’s travel plans, he gets back to his stall after a shower and reaches for his phone.
There’s already a message notification. Nick’s stomach flops.
