Thank you for telling me
He’s not sure if he should reply to that.
Unfortunately, while pure determination and the talent of his teammates carried them into an overtime win against Quebec, it’s safe to say that Nick’s game doesnotimprove after that. They’re only a handful of points away from securing a playoff spot, but suddenly it’s like Nick can’t score to save his life. The loss in San Jose is embarrassing, and their back-to-backs against the two New York teams leave them without any of the points they need.
Sinking into an ice-bath with a hiss that’s equal parts temperature-shock and self-disgust, Nick keeps his earbuds in and his gaze low. His teammates aren’t exactly thrilled with him—he doesn’t blame them, after the performance he just put up. Fumbled passes, stupid penalties… not the way Nick should be playing if he wants to make playoffs.
Definitelynot how he should be playing if he wants a contract extension.
As tempting as it is to stay submerged in ice until his brain is too frozen to finish a thought, Amy is waiting on him. Probably with a whole lot of opinions about the hockey she just watched.
Maybe he’ll stay in the ice bath forever, actually.
So lost in his own thoughts is he that he doesn’t notice the shadow that falls over him until his ice bath rattles from a gentle kick to the side. “Gonna get frostbite if you sit there much longer.”
Nick tenses at the voice, looking up to see his General Manager standing next to the tub, an inscrutable look on his face. One of the man’s graying brows is cocked pointedly. “C’mon, get.”
Stepping out of the ice bath is a torture of its own. Tony holds a towel out to his shivering player, pursing his lips at Nick’s stiff movement. “I’ll stretch out when I’m at my sister’s,” Nick promises, earning a slow nod.
“Damn right you will.”
When Nick walks back through to the main locker room, Tony follows him. Everyone else is gone—to eat or stretch or get whatever medical care they need, or already back at the hotel. Nick’s kind of glad he’s spending the night at Amy’s; no one in that hotel will be happy to see him.
Tony’s silent for a long moment while Nick buttons his shirt. Then: “Shame your good luck charm’s off on a press tour. Could use him when we get back on home ice.”
The way Nick tenses has nothing to do with his sore limbs. “I—My what?” He scoffs out a shaky laugh that isn’t fooling anyone.
“A couple rough losses won’t blow the whole season,” Tony continues, not elaborating. Heart hammering against his ribs, Nick holds his blazer in a limp grip, wide-eyed. “However”—the GM meets Nick’s gaze sharply, steel-gray eyes knowing—“havingmy captain burn himself out before the postseason hits is a whole other story.”
“Tony—” Nick cuts himself off as nausea rises in him, the conversation starting to feel all too similar to the one in Jazz’s office.
“You’re overthinking yourself, kid,” Tony says bluntly. “Got steam comin’ out your ears every time I see you.”
Before he can help it, Nick snorts. “You tell me I’m focusing too much, Jazz tells me I’m losing focus—I can’t win with you people.”
“Your focus isn’t the problem,” Tony retorts, ignoring the poor attempt at a joke. “Doesn’t matter how deep your head’s in the game if you left your heart in the locker room.”
At that, Nick jumps to his feet, blazer dropping to the bench. “My heart is in every damn play I make,” he spits, but the older man doesn’t flinch.
“How can it be when you’re too busy pretending you don’t have one?” is his immediate comeback. He smirks at Nick’s stunned expression. “Give me some credit, kid. I’ve been watching you skate for six damn years. I know you.”
“Then you know it’s not an issue.” Nick’s arms curl defensively around his stomach.
“It never used to be,” counters Tony. His almost fatherly expression makes Nick’s metaphorical hackles raise. “Think we both know it’s been different this year.”
“Look, Tony, I’ll be honest with you: if I put my heart on the ice right now, I don’t think you’ll like what you see.” It comes out sneering, the faintest tremor betraying how his pulse rabbits in his throat. Whatever Tony thinks he knows about Nick and hisgood luck charm, Nick is sick and tired of talking in circles around it all. If they want him out, they could at least have the grace to be upfront about it. “Just fucking—Just tell me what youneed me to do, okay? Tell me what you need from me to keep me around.”
“What?” That seems to baffle Tony—a rare occurrence. Nick’s bravado falters a fraction.
“Jazz already made it pretty clear you’re waiting to see if I’m still worth the trouble.” He huffs bitterly. “Guess I’ve done a pretty shitty job of proving otherwise, the last couple games.”
“For fuck’s sake, Trix,” Tony sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He sounds strangely… disappointed? Whatever it is, it curdles in Nick’s belly. “You are the face of this franchise,” he says, low and serious. “I have a lot of respect for you, as a player and as a man—enoughrespect that I would give you a hell of an advance warning if I thought you and me weren’t going in the same direction here!”
The words echo through Nick’s skull. “But… Jazz said…”
“Did she say it, or did you just hear it?” Tony retorts knowingly. Nick remains silent. The curdling sensation grows, so intense he thinks he might be sick from it. “You wanna know what I need from you, Tiernan? What I need you to do?” Tony straightens and Nick feels like a bug under a microscope, braced tight under that mercury stare. “I need you to give me that same respect. I need you totrustthis organization. And I need you to play like you deserve to take up space on the ice—because the man I watched tonight? He doesn’t think he deservesshit.” With a shake of his head, Tony takes a step back. “You’re better than that, Nick.”
He leaves Nick there, sitting in his stall, shell-shocked and half-dressed. That’s… What does that mean for his career? His contract?
