Connor runs a hand through his hair, amused. “He is,” he confirms. “He’s hiding in the kitchen,” he adds, louder, and Nick hears a quiet huff through one of the open doors.
“I’m nothiding, you menace!” a French-accented voice retorts. “I’m making sure your house doesn’t burn down!”
Connor laughs, and Théo huffs again.
Coats hung up and boots removed, Nick is led through to a cute little kitchen that smells deliciously of chicken and mushrooms. At the stove stands Théo. He’s shorter than Nick anticipated, his hair longer than it was in the photo Connor sent on New Year’s. He’s in a burgundy polo shirt, allowing Nick to see the impressive woodland tattoo sleeve taking up most of his right arm. Théo smiles shyly, eyes flitting over Nick, and Nick does his best not to feel self-conscious. “Hey,” he says, stepping forward. “It’s really good to meet you.”
“You as well,” Théo replies, shaking his hand with a smile. “I’m excited to hear all the stories of Connor as a teenage miscreant that he won’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t a miscreant!” Connor protests from behind Nick. Nick grins wider.
“I was mostly the miscreant,” he confirms wryly. “But I have somegreatstories involving him as my accomplice.”
Théo claps his hands together enthusiastically over the sound of Connor groaning. “Wonderful,” he declares. “Then let’s get dinner on the table.”
The five of them fit comfortably around Connor’s dining table, and conversation flows as easily as the wine, though the two hockey players limit themselves to a single glass.
He keeps waiting for it to be weird. Spending time with Connor’s parents and Connor himself—like the old days but so very, very different. Being around Connor’s boyfriend, knowing that they both have intimate knowledge of the man sitting across from him. It should feel strange, wrong, like a life that was almost his but now will never be.
On the contrary, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. It feels likefamily. Théo is fucking hilarious, keeping Connor on his toes in exactly the way he needs, and every time Nick catches a sweet little moment between the two of them he feels his heart melt a little.
There’s a pain in his chest, but it’s not jealousy.
Through unspoken agreement, nobody talks about playoffs. None of them want to even slightly acknowledge the possibility of facing each other in a cup final. They have plenty of other topics of conversation to cover instead: the second Nick mentions Marshmallow, Théo jumps on him with eager eyes and spends the next ten minutes looking at dog pictures on Nick’s phone, turning to Connor with unholy glee.
“Maybe in the off-season,” Connor says, an indulgent smile playing at his lips.
After dinner, they move into the living room where George gets the fire going and Théo links his phone to the speakers, Marie starting up a pan of hot chocolate.
It’s not until the end of the evening when he’s helping carry mugs into the kitchen to be washed up, that Nick and Connor end up alone. They stand at the sink, elbow to elbow, listening to the soft music and chatter from the other room. “Théo’s really great,” Nick says, rinsing the mug in his hands. “You’re so fucking gone on him, man, it’s adorable.”
Connor’s cheeks go pink, but he doesn’t deny it. “He’s pretty special,” he agrees, eyes all soft and lovestruck.
Connor never looked like that about him, Nick thinks, and it’s a thought that doesn’t cause him pain.
“Y’know, he’s never been to Vegas,” Connor says tentatively. “And, uh, I’ve only ever been for that one game.”
Nick’s not an idiot. “I’d love it if you came to visit,” he confirms. “Come in the summer. You can crash at mine, I’ll take you to all the good shows. Go see the Grand Canyon, all that tourist shit—you guys will love it.”
“That’d be nice,” Connor says. “Maybe I could meet Matt, too?” Nick must flinch or something, because Connor’s lips thin knowingly. “So that’s what’s eating you. Figured as much.” He doesn’t sound the slightest bit surprised.
“God! Y’know… it’s unfair that you were gone for five years and yet you can still read me like a fucking book,” Nick says without malice. Connor just stares, waiting for him to elaborate. So he does, relaying the whole tale, not leaving out any of the shameful details. Connor already knows the worst of him.
“I, uh, haven’t heard from him since. So I think that’s… that’s done.” Nick can feel the tension in his own shoulders, and one of Connor’s large hands settles between them.
“That’s really tough, Nicky. I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. Something not unlike a sob rises so suddenly in Nick’s chest that he chokes on it.
“Yeah,” he croaks. Of course Connor gets it, the way nobody else seems to. He’s in the same boat.
“For what it’s worth, the Dragons would be fools to let you go. And if they do, you’ll have half the teams in the league looking to snap you up.”
“You sure about that?” Nick retorts wryly. “According to the press, I’m all washed up.”
“When has the press ever been right about anything?Crisse, Nicky, you should know better.” Connor actually sounds angry, and it surprises Nick. He turns to see his friend’s dark eyebrows knitted together in an intense frown. “You’re one of the strongest players out there right now—even your bad days are on par with other guys’ best ones. And you’ve got so much time ahead of you.” He reaches out to knock on the wooden cutting board. “I know you love Nevada, and I hope you get to play your career out there. But even if you don’t, that reflects on them, not on you.” The frown eases as his lips quirk in a half-smile. “Even Gretzky got traded, man. That’s just the game.”
Nick doesn’t know what to say to that. He remains silent, scrubbing at a dish that’s already clean until Connor gently pries it from his grasp.
“It’s understandable to be scared, y’know,” Connor says quietly. “About Matt. But… you just have to trust that sometimes, the worst possible thingisn’tgoing to happen. And sometimes, the real worst-case scenario isn’t what you think it is.”
