A cascade of worst-case scenarios fills Nick’s head in the short journey from the couch to the front door. He gets himself so worked up that when he does open the door, he stares blankly, sure he’s somehow hallucinating.
Because Matt’s standing there, duffle bag over his shoulder, wearing the same Dragons long-sleeve he was the night they met. “Surprise!” he says, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave. Nick keeps staring. “Nicky? Babe?… You okay?”
“I… it’s not June,” is all Nick can say, brain sluggish in the face of this unexpected visitor.
“I know.” Matt grins, a touch sheepish. “We, uh… we’ve been pushing really hard to get everything finished, and we were so fucking pumped after watching you win Conference that we just kinda… powered through to do the last few parts early. And we—Icouldn’t stand being away from you any longer. Not right now. So… here I am.”
Nick blinks. Keeps staring. “You’re done with the studio?” he repeats, slowly stringing coherent thought together. Matt’s grin widens, and he steps forward, past the threshold until he’s barely inches in front of Nick. Nudging the door shut behind him, he drops his bag and dips his chin, meeting Nick’s gaze.
“I’m done with the studio,” he confirms, settling a hand on Nick’s hip. “I’m all yours, baby.”
Later, Nick might be embarrassed by the way he reacts, but right now he’s too overjoyed to care. He launches himself into Matt’s arms, wrapping his legs around the taller man’s waist and clinging to him like a koala. Matt lets out anoofbut catches Nick with only a slight stumble. “Fucking missed you,” Nick whispers, then cups the back of Matt’s head and yanks him down into a kiss.
It’s like an out-of-body experience, having Matt’s lips against his once more. A euphoria that can only be matched by the feeling of lifting the Campbell Bowl, and even that, Nick thinks, falls a little short of this bliss. He moans when Matt secures one muscled arm around his waist to hold him in place, devouring his mouth with the eagerness of a starving man. Never breaking the kiss, Nick runs his fingers over metal-studded ears, over thestubble on Matt’s jaw, before twisting his hands once more in soft shaggy hair.
A contented sigh escapes Nick as his back hits the wall, legs locked securely around broad thighs. “I can’t believe you’re home,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. He’s too damn tired for this many emotions; he’s played so much hockey that he hasn’t had the chance to gather his thoughts and become a functioning person again yet. But Matt is here and warm and smelling a little like airport still, like he hasn’t even been home because he wanted to see Nick so badly. He doesn’t know what to do with it all. Embarrassingly, his eyes start to tickle with the threat of tears.
“I missed you so much,” Matt murmurs, cupping his cheeks. He smirks as his thumbs brush over pale blond scruff. “Look at you, all rugged with your playoff beard.”
Nick groans, feebly batting his hands away. “Don’t. I know it’s pathetic.” It’s a better attempt than Nick’s first playoffs, but even at twenty-three he’s too baby-faced to grow anything resembling a real beard. “Do you know how embarrassing it was looking like this next to goddamn Landy and his majestic-ass Viking genes?” The Colorado captain made Nick look like a pre-teen.
Matt lets out an exaggeratedly lovesick sigh. “Ahh, Gabe Landeskog,” he murmurs, sounding far too enamored for Nick’s liking. He laughs at the disgruntled expression on Nick’s face. “I’m just messing with you, babe. Your beard is sexy.” Matt runs his fingers over the coarse hair which sends a shiver down Nick’s spine. Nick hums happily, kissing him hard and chasing away any lingering thoughts of Landeskog, he thinks to himself in satisfaction.
“Next year,” he gasps against Matt’s jaw, “you’re not allowed to goanywhereduring playoffs.”
Nick wants him here for next year’s playoffs, and the year after, and every year until he retires from hockey.
And soon, the whole world will know it, too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“At the end of game five of the Stanley Cup Finals, it’s 3–2 in favor of the Washington Comets. Nevada’s giving it everything they’ve got out there, but the fact of the matter is, they’re playing game six on Washington ice and the Comets are a team hungry for the cup. Could this game be the end of the road for the Dragons?”
“Honestly, I don’t think so. The games they’ve lost, it’s been by a narrow margin, and as much as the Comets are crushing it, I think Nevada will be doing everything they can to push this to a seventh and bring the game to a home crowd one last time. These boys have a fire in their bellies, and I don’t think they’re ready to call it quite just yet.”
—Hockey Talk, June 10th, 2023
There’s a reason the Washington Comets made it to the cup finals this year.
But the same could be said for Nevada.
It’s a battle, every single second. The checks are harder and the shots are faster and Nicklivesfor this kind of hockey, dancing his way around the opposing players and speeding across the ice, puck securely on the blade of his stick. Washington’s not stupid—they know how much Nevada’s strategy revolves around Nick. They’re on his back constantly, but Nick is the fastest skater in the NHL and he’s happy to prove it any time.
That’s the thing about playoffs; when each round has you playing the same team over and over, travelling back and forth on such a tight schedule, something that during the regular season might have been a minor annoyance can easily become a deep-seated grudge. In the final round, that energy is intensified tenfold. They’ve played Washington five times in the last nine days, and Nick’s pretty sure most of the Comets roster would happily murder him if given half the chance. Anything to gain the advantage that’ll give them that all-important fourth victory.
His team’s a mess: Patts’s torso is more tape than skin and Noodle’s face blanches every time he bends at the waist. Picard blanches too, watching him, because he knows what that means. They all do. They’re going into the home stretch with their babiest goalie at the helm, and maybe that would terrify any other captain but Nick takes it in his stride, putting his hands on the kid’s shoulders and promising that he can handle it.
He can’t look at the internet right now. He can’t turn on the TV for fear it’ll end up on some kind of sports channel and he’ll have to hear somebody discussing the odds of Washington winning the cup in game six. Heknows, he knows it’s possible, but he just can’t think it. It’s not over till it’s over.
This is hockey. Anything can happen. Until somebody is lifting the cup into the air, Nick’s not giving up.
For the first time since its inception, Nick starts to regret his grand coming-out plan. Not because he’s changed his mind—far from it—but because not once in his decision to have Sofia send everything live the second playoffs were over did he factor in the possibility of that happening on his loss, away from home.
She texts him, the day before the game, asking if the plan is still in place. She doesn’t say explicitly why he might want to change it; she knows hockey well enough to know you don’t test the gods that way.
Nick bites back the nausea and texts an affirmative; if it happens, at least it’ll give him something to talk about in pressers other than how absolutely devastated he is. Some people might think it’s a dick move, overshadowing another team’s cup win like that, but the whole point of it is to let the cup win overshadow the announcement so that the NHL can’t afford to have a full-blown tantrum about the reveal of several active queer players.
Besides, Nick isn’t going to lose. Not today, and not in the inevitable game seven.
