The man is a good four inches taller than Nick, and he’s using all of those extra inches to loom over him. But Nick is used to larger men trying to intimidate him—has made an entire career out ofnotletting that happen—though he wishes he had some of that on-ice bravado now. His hands tremble as the pit of his stomach turns sour.
That’s the thing about Bam-Bam; Nick can never tell if the guy is just spewing generic, rampant homophobia, or if he’s actually seen something. The risk of the latter is enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
“Fuck off, Burrows,” he snaps out. “You really that confident about your own contract to be talking shit about your captainandyour GM like that?”
Bam-Bam falters, just for a split second, before that cruel smirk returns. “I don’t think I’m the one who needs to worry about their contract right now, Tiernan,” he says, blue eyes flashing hatefully. “You think people don’t know? You think you’ve kept such a good secret?” He steps even closer, shoving Nick back a step. “Everybody can see it. They might not talk about it to your face, but that doesn’t mean they’re not saying it behind your back. Those rumors about you and LaPorte had to come from somewhere, after all.” The stink of his sweat fills Nick’s nostrils so that it’s dizzying as his heart races, his brain trying desperately to come up with some kind of response that won’t sound like a flimsy denial. “I’ve been waitingyearsfor the league to get over their obsession with you and realize you ain’t shit, you little bitch—and it looks like I might finally get what I want.” He grins wide enough for Nick to see the gap of three missing teeth at the side of his mouth. “I can finally stop sharing a locker room with a fucking fa?—”
“BURROWS!”
Nick jumps out of his skin, scrambling backwards. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Jazz, leaning on her cane outside her office door. She looks furious, dark eyes blazing. “If you’re done,” she drawls, voice icy as she limps towards them, “Nick’s late for his meeting. And I’m sure you’re supposed to be in with the nutritionist right now.”
Under her pointed stare, Bam-Bam gives an easy chuckle, clapping Nick on the shoulder a touch too hard. “Just fuckin’around, boss. Trix owes some locker room fines, you know how it is!”
“Right.” Jazz’s flat tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe him, but if she heard any of their actual conversation, she would probably be a whole lot angrier.
Unless Bam-Bam is right, and everyone can see what Nick is. Maybe she’s happy to ignore what he does with his dick when he’s winning them cups, but now he’s slipping, that feigned obliviousness won’t last.
Bam-Bam shoots a nasty little wink at Nick, then turns to leave, whistling on his way back down the hall.
“You good, Nick?” Jazz checks, worry furrowing her brow. Shame burns hot in his blood and his cheeks flush as he realizes how that must have looked. The team captain, with such incredible respect from his team that he’s getting intimidated by some third-line jackass. Trembling over a few slurs and threats like they actually have substance.
“I’m fine,” he replies, plastering on an easy-going grin. “Sorry I’m late.” Before she can ask any more, he starts walking towards her office, taking it slow so Jazz doesn’t have to push to match his pace.
“Bam-Bam get like that often?” Her voice is even, conversational, though her eyes are sharp. Nick forces a chuckle.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Please, God, don’t let her read too much into it, whatever she heard.
Sinking into the comfortable chair opposite Jazz’s desk, Nick tries not to slump visibly, the adrenaline draining from his body. Jazz is smiling, but that doesn’t mean much—Nick’s seen her smile while verbally ripping guys to shreds for their behavior.
“Thanks for coming, Nick. I know it was a little short notice. But I had a meeting with Tony and the coaches this morning, and I wanted to talk to you about something.”
And just like that, the adrenaline is back. “Am I in trouble?”
She cocks one eyebrow at him, impassive. “Do you feel like you should be in trouble?”
“That feels like a trick question.”
Jazz lets him sweat for a long, silent moment, then laughs. “Relax, Trix. You’re not in trouble. You’ve cleaned up your act this season. Aside from a few blips?—”
“I can’t control what the media prints about me,” Nick retorts.
“That areto be expected,” Jazz continues pointedly around the interruption, “for a player with your… history.”
It’s not quite the glowing praise he was hoping for, but he’ll take it. “Then what’s this about?”
Jazz leans forward, clasping her hands atop the desk. “Trade deadline is in forty-eight hours,” she declares. “And we need to make some moves.”
“I have a no-trade clause.” They legally can’t trade him, not without getting in trouble with the Player’s Association.
“I know.” Jazz’s face is frustratingly unreadable. “You’re not the one we’re looking at right now.”
Right now??What does that mean?
“You can’t trade Marco either.” Fear grips Nick at the prospect, and this time Jazz actually laughs.
“We’re not trading away your emotional support centerman, don’t worry.” She pulls some papers out of a drawer and sets them in front of him. After a few moments of staring at the incomprehensible spread of numbers, he realizes it’s their salary cap calculations. “The season’s been going well with all the line changes, but you have to admit that our youngster to old man ratio is way off,” she jokes. In hockey, anyone over the age of thirty is anold man. Nevada has a grand total of four of them, since GJ’s birthday last month.
“That’s our thing, though,” Nick points out. “That’s how we work. That’s how we’ve always worked.” Ever since they tookhim at eighteen, gave him four months to prove himself, then made him captain to “spearhead the direction of the franchise.” It shouldn’t work, but it does, because their scouts are damn talented, and Nick knows first-hand what it takes to prepare for the transition up from juniors without floundering.
