Now, Nick knows absolutely nothing about how to construct music—even after hanging out with the band for several months, he still doesn’t really understand how people justmakesongs.
But he knows what sounds good. “That was amazing,” he insists, watching a bashful expression cross Matt’s features.
“You don’t have to butter me up. I already like you,” the musician teases. Nick’s heart thuds hard, but his grin doesn’t falter.
“Then it’s a good thing I mean it,” he retorts. “Seriously, it sounded great. I’m sure it’ll be even better once you all work your magic together on it.” He rests a hand on Matt’s thigh, squeezing lightly. “Hey, throw me that pillow?” He punctuates his request with a gesture, and Matt frowns.
“Shit, does your head hurt? I can—” His thighs tense like he’s going to stand, but Nick tugs on his guitar strap.
“No, it’s fine,” he insists. “It doesn’t hurt.” It’s not even a lie—his side is a little achy where the bruising is, but being on the floor is still pretty great. “I’m just straining my neck a little to look at you like this.” Nick rubs both hands up Matt’s thighs lightly. “But I’m not done looking at you yet.”
As understanding dawns, Matt’s brown eyes flash with amusement and something a little sultrier. He stretches an arm out to reach for the pillow, leaning forward to help Nick get it situated comfortably. His guitar rests against Nick’s chest, and he ducks down even lower to press their lips together. “You like me like this, huh?” he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows. “Is it the guitar?”
“Sure doesn’t hurt,” Nick replies. “Play me more songs?”
“So demanding,” Matt says, shaking his head. “Fine, hang on.” Carefully, without squishing Nick, he arranges his legs a little more comfortably, stretched out in front of him instead of tucked beneath him. It’s a position that feels like it should be more sexual—Matt’s ass pressed right up against Nick’s crotch, Nick looking up from between Matt’s legs—but it’s just… comfortable.Intimate, if Nick dares think it.
It’s a level of closeness Nick’s never really experienced before and he doesn’t know what it means, not with his brain scrambled and his heart too bruised to hope.
But he likes it.
“So where are we going again?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Matt hums contemplatively from the passenger seat of Nick’s car. “A surprise that requires hockey bags, huh?”
“Exactly.” Nick smiles, moving into the next lane over. It’s the first time he’s driven since the concussion, but he’s doing fine. His bruises barely even hurt anymore.
And, more importantly, he’s been cleared to skate.
He’s been back on ice a couple times, making steady laps under the keen eye of the trainers before they’d evenconsiderletting him handle a puck, but he’s been tentatively allowed back for training.
He turns off the road onto a dirt track, snorting when Matt mumbles something about a body-dump. “You think I’d do that in my own car? Please, I’ve listened to the podcasts.”
They’re headed towards a huge house with an even bigger barn behind it. It’s fancy, like so many big houses in Vegas, butit’s out of place in the desert with its country charm. The porch light is on, though the house seems to be empty.
Nick drives past the house, parking round the back. “Here it is. C’mon.”
“What the hell is this place?” Matt grabs their bags before Nick can, shouldering both hockey bags with ease.
Nick just smirks, pulling out a set of keys and walking towards the barn door. “You’ll see.”
When he beckons Matt inside, the musician lets out a low, impressed whistle.
The barn houses a half-size ice rink, a goal at one end and a little bench area on one side. The ice is absolutely pristine, and the warm lighting hanging from the broad beams overhead gives the place a much cozier feel than Nick is used to.
It is, dare he say it, almost romantic.
“Holy shit,” Matt murmurs, then whips around. “You don’t own this, do you?”
“God, no. It’s owned by a friend. One of the many rich eccentrics of Vegas,” he says, grinning wryly. “I train here in the off-season sometimes. He’s a cool guy. Huge hockey fan. Lets me use it whenever I want as long as I let him hang out when I train, sign shit for his grandkids, that kinda thing. Pretty sweet deal.” He holds out an arm in a dramatic sweeping gesture. “But he’s in New Zealand right now, so this place is all ours.” To emphasize that, he steps forward to tug Matt into a brief kiss.
They don’t spend long in the small changing room—neither of them is getting fully geared up, but Nick’s under strict instruction to not evenlookat ice unless he’s wearing a helmet and chest protection. As they walk out to the rink, Nick gives Matt a slow once-over; he’s practically vibrating with excitement, but he moves fluidly, the posture of a hockey player coming back to him like he never left.
“Are you feeling up to this?” Matt asks, eyeing him in concern. Nick waves him off, skating effortlessly.
“I’mfine,” he insists. “I’m not gonna go wild—it’s chill. But don’t let me stop you.” He gestures towards the rest of the ice. “This is your playground. Go play.”
