“Come look.”
Nick follows Bianca to where she plugs the camera into her laptop, leaning over her shoulder while she brings up the photos. There are dozens of them, from all kinds of angles. In most of them he can see that his smile looks too fake, too seductive.
But Bianca keeps scrolling, and Nick sees when she started taking pictures without him paying attention. Some of them are blurry, his body mid-movement or his mouth open while he talks, but between them he looks…
He looks like a lovestruck fool, in the best kind of way.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, studying his own face. He’s never seen himself like that, his eyes glowing with love and his smile soft and fond at the corners. He looks relaxed, at peace.Comfortable.
Bianca giggles, scrolling through a few more. There’s one Nick likes, even though they won’t be able to use it, of him grinning and flipping off Sofia out of shot with his rainbow-painted left hand. He’ll find something else to use that one for. Instagram, maybe, when the inevitable homophobes pop up.
But the very last one, of him looking just past the camera, the faintest pink tint to his cheeks and the affection practicallydrippingfrom his every pore as he smiles—yeah, Bianca’s right. They got the shot.
“It’s good, right?” Bianca murmurs, glancing up at him. “With a little editing I can get the colors to really pop.”
Nick leans down and kisses her dark hair. “You’re a genius, Bee.”
He’s weirdly sad to wipe the paint off. It looksright, in a way he can’t explain.
Maybe it’s time to think about getting another tattoo.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
[Video Description: Nick Tiernan standing in the tunnel for rink-side interviews, sweaty at second intermission. He’s being interviewed by a skinny man with gray hair and an ill-fitting suit.]
“So, Trix, it looks like you’ve got this round in the bag,” the interviewer says, and Tiernan’s eyes widen visibly.
“Don’t go celebrating just yet. Anything can happen in playoffs.” His wariness earns a laugh.
“Ain’t that the truth! For example, while you were out there scoring your second goal of the game, your buddy LaPorte was watching the Comets lift the Prince of Wales.”
Tiernan’s jaw drops, horror flashing across his face for a split second. “Quebec lost?”
“Oh, had you not seen the score?” the interviewer asks, though from his tone it’s clear he already knew that. “2–1 in OT. Just finished a couple minutes ago.”
“Damn,” Tiernan says. “A close one.”
“How does it feel, knowing that after a whole season of people comparing you two, you’re still in and LaPorte’s not?”
There’s a beat of silence and Tiernan’s jaw clenches tight as he swallows. Then, his charming smile is back on his face. “I’m just focused on finishing this round strong. One game at a time, y’know? So I think I’d better get out there and secure this one for the boys.”
[Tiernan walks off without waiting to be dismissed, leaving the interviewer floundering.]
—The Hockey Network, May 21st, 2023
“That fucker did that on purpose. Heknewit would throw you off your game!” Matt’s eyes glimmer with rage as he rants through the screen of Nick’s iPad. Nick sighs, the emotion settling heavy in his chest. No one’s outright blamed him for their loss last night, but his teammates have made their displeasure known that they’re going to game seven against Colorado despite having led for most of game six.
“I shouldn’t have let him get to me.” The third period was an absolute shitshow, Nick out of sync with his team, a corner of his mind stuck on how devastated Connor must be to be out of the playoffs after gettingsoclose to the finals.
And, guiltily, on howrelievedhe is, deep down.
“I feel like such an asshole,” he groans. “Like, he’s my best friend. I want him to do well! But…” Nick isn’t sure he could have faced down Connor in a Stanley Cup Final. Doesn’t think he could have played his absolute hardest for his own team, knowing how badly Connor wants that cup and how much he has sacrificed to make it there. He has a lot of friends in hockey, and they’re all used to leaving personal relationships at the door when it comes to games, but… Connor’s different. He’s always been different.
“You’re not an asshole,” Matt promises. “It’s totally understandable not to want to have to deal with that kind of conflict. Connor probably didn’t want to face you any more than you did him.”
“But he played sohard?—”
“And hockey is just like that,” Matt cuts in. “You know it, he knows it. That’s how the game goes. Sometimes you do everything right and you still don’t win.” He runs a hand through his hair; it’s longer than Nick’s used to seeing it. “Have you talked to him since it happened?”
