“You’re better than this, Nicky,” he says in a low, insistent voice. “Just because you can’t be open about everything doesn’t mean your entire personality has to be bullshit.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Nick snaps.
He turns to the bartender who’s been filling pint glasses for him and lifts the tray as carefully as he can. It’s overfull and would be easier with Connor’s help, but Nick would rather spill all of them than ask for his help right now.
By the time he gets back to the group, his smile is plastered on his face, rock-solid and diamond-sharp once more.
Things are easier once the weekend really kicks off—when Nick can fill his schedule with media and signings and meet-and-greets, when he can tell himself his smile feels fake because he’s doing it for strangers rather than because he’s a stranger to himself.
His phone is as much a help as it is a hindrance. It’s a lifeline, getting messages from back home: Lindsay, telling him about some cool queer art installation she saw at a gallery while on vacation, where the artist used glass prisms to refract rainbows over people’s skin; Casey, sending videos of Matt and the band goofing around on the set of their new music video; Matt, sending him pictures of the cats, because he’s currently living in Nick’s apartment to watch over the feline trio since it’s easier than uprooting them to his place.
(Nick has a whole bunch of feelings about that development that he Will Not Be Addressing, thank you very much.)
But at the same time, he almost has to turn the damn thing off because having all these reminders of people who actually care abouthimmake it that much harder to maintain the facade.
All that aside, he’s still glad he came to All-Star. The fans are great, the hockey is a blast. He wins the speed competition again, so his ego is sated for the year.
Connor wins accuracy, which isn’t a surprise. Nick cheers for him, because he might be an asshole but he’s still his friend, and Nick knows what the shadows under his eyes mean.
The shadows are worse by the time they meet on the ice for the All-Star final—because of course it’s Atlantic vs Pacific.Of course.
It’s not quite as dramatic as the Nevada vs Quebec game was, but Nick still feels like he’s got something to prove. He pushes hard, goads Connor a little too much, but it pays off. The Pacific Division win 5–3, three of those five thanks to Nick—Nick the Trick, always showing out—and Nick is given a fuckingcarfor being MVP because apparently they didn’t get the memo that he’s a goddamn millionaire and also lives in an apartment building with only one designated spot in the garage.
Does Amy need a car? Maybe. Someone he knows will need a car. The fuck is he supposed to do with a car?
There’s an after-party back at the hotel, another event Nick would usually be right in the middle of. He makes an appearance but it’s half-hearted at best, laughing along with a couple of the other All-Star veterans when they joke about him joining the ranks of those who are over the hype.
There are still enough people around here expecting him to be the same person he always was as the party gets rowdy, so before they can grab hold of him Nick takes his Coke—that if anyone asks, has vodka in it—and slips out onto the balcony.
It’s cold enough to be an unpopular spot to hang out in this late at night, though there is one of those big patio heaters up and running. Underneath its glowing orange light sits Connor LaPorte, because that’s just the kind of night Nick’s having.
He’s about to back out the way he came in when Connor looks up, catching his eye.Shit.It would be way too obvious to turn around now so he forges onwards, offering a weak half-smile as he sinks into a chair beside his friend. “You know you have a hotel room, right?” he remarks, then realizes how sleazy that sounds. “I mean, like, you don’t have to hide out here. You could leave.”
Connor’s lips quirk ever so slightly. “I’d have to make it through all that first,” he says, gesturing to the doors—or rather,to the party within. “Came out here to get some air and just… stayed.”
“Yeah.” Nick gets that. He notices the phone in Connor’s hand and raises an eyebrow. “Calling home?”
Looking down at his lap, a bigger smile creeps in. “Ouais.” That pang of jealousy sinks through Nick again, the yearning to have home be a person and not a place.
He pushes it away. “How’s that going?”
“Great.” Connor’s smile makes it all the way to his eyes now, bashful and sweet. “Really, really good. It’s… easier, than I thought it would be. Y’know, I—We went to dinner with my captain and his family a couple days before I came out here.”
Nick freezes. Stares at him. “We, like…” He doesn’t want to use names. Even though they feel alone on this balcony, it’s never safe to assume.
But Connor nods, and Nick gapes. “I—Your captain knows?”
Now Connor looks outright sheepish, bringing a hand up to run it through his hair. “I, uh, at this point I’d say maybe two thirds of my team know.” He shrugs helplessly. “Apparently I’m… I’m not subtle.”
The first thing Nick feels is a burning in the hollow of his ribs—jealousy, the dark and twisted andbitterkind. Jealousy that in literally half a season Connor has been brave enough to do something that Nick still hasn’t in almost six. He’sout, if only to a small circle, and it seemsfine, and ofcoursehe has to beat Nick to this too. Has to bebetter. Has to make Nick feel inadequate the way he always used to without even trying.
And then he takes a breath, and pauses, and pushes it away. Because Connor… Connor looksterrified.
He can see it now, beneath the smile, the wry jokes, the flippant attitude—this is the exact thing that had Connor so scared that he left the country; the idea of being so unable to hide his emotions that he would out himself to the whole NHL.
“I get it, now,” Connor murmurs, voice husky, fists white-knuckle tight in his lap. “Why you do what you do. I got mad, that first night, because you’ve always been able to do that. Even when we were kids. You just flip this switch and you’regone. I hated it then and I hate it now, but I get it, because shit, Nicky, I lasted three months. And I’m lucky that all the guys who have noticed are cool with it, but… it only takes one person who isn’t for it to all come crashing down. And I don’t—I don’t know how you’ve done this for so long. Ihateit.” He shakes his head slowly. “But I get it. And I’m sorry I was an ass about it. This weekend has been… not what I expected it to be.”
“It can be a lot,” Nick offers. What else can he say to that? He hates it too, but it is what it is, welcome to the NHL? It’s shit but it’s the price we pay for getting paid a fuckton of money to follow a rubber bullet around an ice rink? If you do it long enough, you’ll stop feeling like you’re a real person?
