Reaching across the center console, he gives Sunny’s arm a firm squeeze. “I know it feels like in this game we owe ourselves to other people,” he says, “but you don’t oweshitto anybody, okay? You or Mars.”
Nick feels like such a fucking hypocrite, sitting here and telling his teammate that he doesn’t need to keep himself beholden to the NHL, when that’s exactly what Nick’s been doing his whole damn career.
He clenches his jaw, his resolve strengthening. No matter who else is willing to join him, he is going to fuckingdo something, because he can’t stand feeling like this anymore. Helpless,useless.
Nick has never wanted to be a role model, not in anything, but… fuck it. The world made him one anyway, and they’re going to have to deal with what that means.All of it.
As promised, Howie texts the team group chat first thing in the morning to grab their families and their dogs and as much alcohol as they can carry and get their asses on over, swimwear mandatory.
Trix
I got plans with the band this morning but I’ll swing by later promise
Hugsy
BOOOO
Howie
Dude just bring them with you, they can party too. It’s PLAYOFFS SEASON BABY!
Sunny
Hell yeah! They should come!
The chat floods with messages encouraging Nick to bring his friends—both from guys who have met the band before, and those who have only heard about them from the others.
The idea of seeing Matt for the first time since that phone call while surrounded by his entire team and their assorted families is painful, but Nick can’t really say no. So he leaves a somewhat rambling voicemail for Matt to wake up to, apologizing a dozen times over but giving him Howie’s address and hoping to see him soon.
He’s pretty sure he’s ruined everything up until he gets a text in reply, about half an hour after arriving at Howie’s.
Matt
On our way. Got some good news of our own to share See you soon sweetheart
Nick’s going to die when he sees him. Too late now.
In one corner of the yard, Marshmallow is in some three-way tug-of-war battle with Patts’s labrador and Howie’s spaniel while several tipsy hockey players cheer them on. In another, a group of bikini-clad WAGs are having a passionate discussion about God-only-knows-what while sunning themselves on loungers, drinking bright cocktails with tiny umbrellas. Nick is in the middle of it all, beer in hand and feet in the pool, laughing as Motormouth gets half drowned by a small army of kids.
Nick’s phone buzzes, and his heart skips a beat. Moments later, Spencer is striding through the open back gate in neon-yellow board shorts and a black tank top, a bottle of champagne in his hands. “What’s up, party people!” he calls, earning several whoops in response.
Nick hops to his feet, crossing the patio to meet all four of them with hugs and a wide smile. It takes every ounce of restraint not to kiss Matt when he sees the singer’s sunny grin. This is a man wholoves him. Jesus, how the hell did he get so lucky?
“Congrats on the clinch! You guys fucking crushed it!” Joel exclaims, ruffling Nick’s hair. “We only caught highlights from last night but I think I want to marry Patts’s assist from the third. That wassosexy.”
Nick laughs, looking over his shoulder to seek out the D-man. “You hear that, Patty?” he teases, winking at his friend. “Joel thinks you play sexy hockey.”
“He can get in line!” Patts’s girlfriend retorts, saluting Joel with her cocktail while Patts laughs.
“I’m a very patient boy,” is Joel’s response, quick and unabashed and sending half the WAGs giggling.
As the band splits up to join the party, Nick reaches for Matt, remembering at the last second to grab him by the wrist instead of tangling their fingers together. “Hey, you,” he greets softly, mouth suddenly dry. He’s sure he’s blushing bright red and hopes it can be passed off as sunburn. Matt beams back at him, smoothly slinging an arm over his shoulder to bring him in for a side-hug.
“Hi there,” he says, skin warm against Nick’s. “Patts isn’t the only one who plays sexy hockey,” Matt murmurs, low enough that only Nick can hear.
This is his punishment, it must be. This is the universe getting back at him for being such a dick. Well, message received, he’s learned his lesson, thank you.
Nick sucks in a steadying breath, putting a little more space between them for his own sanity. “Well, I hope y’all are ready to watch some playoff hockey,” he says, cocky media grin plastered on his face as he looks at the rest of the band. “Tony’s happy to have you any time—he’s gained so many cool-dad points since you guys started hanging out at games.”
