Chapter Fourteen
[Image Description: Nick Tiernan and Connor LaPorte, standing in front of a hotel. It’s dark out, though the street is well-lit. Connor has a hand on Nick’s shoulder, and the pair are standing very close together. Both of them are wearing gym shorts and hoodies.]
@CentreIce_Baby: Looks like this is a rivalry that’s been well and truly put to bed! Remembering all the rumors about these two in Juniors…
@HookingCall95: The rivalry isn’t the only thing being put to bed
@MattyQC: Fellas is it gay to spend time with your friends get over yourselves.
@OtterlyDallasFan: “rivalry” more like breakup amirite? Looks like the boys are back together, finally!
@HockeyRocker_: Were you literally staking out their hotel for this??? Y’all are what’s wrong with hockey these days. Keep that shipping shit on Tumblr where it belongs.
—Instagram, December 7th, 2022
Matt
Hey, not to be That Guy, but you never text me back last night. Everything okay?
Guilt churns within Nick as he reads the text from Matt for what feels like the thousandth time. He is stretched on the rug in the center of his living room with his cat snuggled on his chest, her tiny purrs rumbling against his ribcage.
He’s home for a few hours before his game tonight, trying to gather the motivation to make a sandwich. That text has been sitting unanswered for the last three days, taunting Nick whenever he picks up his phone. He doesn’t know what to say, not with all these stupidfeelingsswirling around in his chest, threatening to claw their way up his throat.
Why can’t he just benormalabout this?
The corners of Nick’s eyes burn. “Fuck!” he growls, startling Dolly as he tosses his phone onto the couch.
He’s going to have to talk to Matt eventually—the longer he leaves it, the less likely it is that he can just gloss over things like nothing happened. He can’t even blame his schedule; they’ve had home games all week.
Maybe he should just end it now, before he gets in over his head. The thought makes his veins turn to ice, but it soothes the anxiety buzzing on his skin. He can’t be outed if he’s not hiding anything—anyone. The numerous Reddit threads speculating onhis sexuality and the history between him and Connor—threads that have tripled in number since the game (he’s checked)—will die out with nothing to fuel their flames.
He’s not sure what’s worse: the homophobes wanting proof so they can kick his pansy ass out of the league, or the “fans” who think he should live his truth no matter the consequences—and no matter his personal feelings, apparently.
“Fuck,” he says again, this time a sigh of a word, emphatic and sad. “I hate hockey.”
It’s a lie, mostly. He loves hockey. Always has, since the very first time he picked up a stick. He loves everything about the game: watching it, playing it, teaching it.
But he hates that the sport will never love him back. Not the real him. The Nick Tiernan who lights up the league is nothing but a pack of lies held together with stick tape and anxiety.
Suddenly, his phone rings, dragging him out of his shame spiral. He’s tempted to ignore it. If it’s Marco, he’ll see him in a few hours. If it’s anyone else, he doesn’t care.
But then it rings again. Nick bites his lip—it could be some kind of emergency.
Dragging himself off the floor, the contact picture filling his screen makes his eyebrows rise. “Hey, squirt. What’s up?”
“You didn’t call me yesterday.” Amy’s voice is unimpressed.
Nick swears. He was supposed to do that, wasn’t he? “Sorry, I got caught up in stuff.” A feeble excuse and they both know it.
“You’re forgiven,” she assures him lightly. “Do you want to reschedule, or can you talk now? I tried to time this right. I know it’s a game day.”
“You timed it perfect, Ames. I’m all yours. How was DC, and the architecture museum thing?”
“I’d much rather talk about whatever’s going on with you and Connor that had you so in your head you forgot to call me.” It’s a statement, not an accusation. Ever since he started going awayto play hockey as a teenager, Nick’s had a standing weekly call with his little sister. Even when he was at his worst, he still made time for Amy.
“Nothing happened with me and Connor!” he protests. “Jesus Christ, I know I’m pathetic but I’m notthatbad. We hung out, caught up. He told me about his new boyfriend that he’s super into.” He can’t help the way his voice wavers just a fraction. Amy makes a sympathetic noise down the phone, and he lets out a grumble of irritation. “No, it’s not that. I told you, I’m over him.” It doesn’t even sound like a lie anymore. “I’m happy for him. Seriously. It’s just…” A shaky huff of breath slips between his lips. “He always gets it easy, y’know?”
Connor’s the one who can flee the goddamn country without a care for those he’s left behind and return whenever he fucking pleases with the same lack of attention for Nick’s feelings. Now, on top of that, he’s barely been back in Canada six months and he’s already head over ass for some dude who sounds perfect for him.
