Nick studies the people spilling onto the ice; more black and gold denim bursts out of the cluster to seek their partners. Mars barrels right past Nick, eyeliner streaked down their face, and he turns to watch as they throw themselves into Sunny’s arms so hard the pair of them fall in a heap.
Nick looks back at the crowd, scanning for familiar faces, and then he sees him.
Matt.
He also has smudged eyeliner, though it’s not nearly as bad as Mars’s. But he’s definitely been crying, Nick notes with a smile, squeezing his way through the crowd until he can fall into his boyfriend’s arms. “Hey, baby,” he says, his limbs finally turning to jelly now he has a safe place to land. Matt holds himup, hockey pads and all. They’re definitely being photographed, but Nick can’t bring himself to care.
“Hi,” Matt chokes out. “Oh my God, you were amazing.”
“You’re wearing your jacket.” It’s the only thing Nick can focus on—the black and gold denim jacket Matt has on, with a C on the chest and the number 9 embroidered proudly on each arm among the crimson paint splashes and firework designs. On the back will be the name Tiernan. A WAG jacket—the most concrete proof of love in the NHL, and Matt wearing his in front of the crowd and all its cameras will leave no doubt in anyone’s mind who he belongs to. WhoNickbelongs to.
Matt’s cheeks flush. “Lindsay brought it for me,” he says. “Guess she knew something I didn’t.” Matt’s smile gets, if possible, even wider. He shakes his head incredulously. “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of Nick. “Not usually, no.” Matt hasn’t kissed him, hasn’t moved any closer. Nick’s struck with the terrifying realization that he might have been too much. “Is it… okay?”
Brown eyes widen, and hands squeeze his trembling ones. “Baby, I’m so damn proud of you I could kiss you,” Matt says, watching the fear rush out of Nick. “But this is your moment. Not mine. I don’t wanna steal your spotlight. The jacket’s enough.”
“No, it’s really not.” Without a second of doubt, Nick grabs him by the front of that denim jacket and closes the gap between them.
It’s not the best kiss they’ve ever shared—they’re both smiling into it too much. Teeth clash and laughter bubbles up in their shared breath. But it might be the most intense thing Nick’s ever experienced. He’s vaguely aware of somebody wolf-whistling, of a dozen camera-flashes, but he just pulls Matt closer.
Forget the Stanley Cup—thisis the best he’s ever felt on ice.
When they pull away, Matt is blushing, a smile splitting his face. “Oh,” he whispers, and Nick laughs.
“No takebacks.” He squeezes Matt’s hands before dropping them. “Wanna do it again?”
At that, Matt snorts. “Now you’re justtryingto cause a scandal,” he teases, shoving him gently. “Go, do your thing, be the captain. We can celebrate properly later.”
Of course he’s got responsibilities. Ones that don’t involve making out with his boyfriend for the whole world to see.
Nick’s hugged by probably dozens of people: his mom and Marco’s mom and several people’s wives and girlfriends; Matt’s bandmates; his sister, sobbing loudly and still wearing her ear defenders, clinging to his jersey as she tells him she loves him but also she has to get out of this crowd or she’s going to puke; Connor’s parents with Théo, here more for Connor than Nick, and then Connor himself, hands in his pockets, as at home on the ice as he ever has been. With Nick in skates they’re finally the same height, and Nick takes advantage of that by smacking a kiss to his forehead.
“How does it feel, man?” he asks, and Connor laughs.
“I should be asking you that,” he retorts. “Three Stanley Cups,Crisse. I dare anyone to say you don’t deserve to be here.”
There’s a tension to his jaw that Nick recognizes all too well—the bitter sting of defeat lingering beneath Connor’s happiness and pride. “Next year’s on you, buddy,” he insists, clapping his hands on Connor’s shoulders with a grin. “I promise I’ll try to stop hogging this thing, but only if it’s you taking a turn, ’kay?”
“You’re on.” Connor wraps long arms around him, squeezing him tight. “You deserve this, Nicky. I’m so proud of you.”
That, of all things, is what brings the tears surging back up. He lets his face hide in Connor’s neck for a few beats more, then pulls away, wiping at his cheeks. “Fuck. Okay. I’mgonna… Team,” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely. “Catch you at the afterparty?”
“You bet.”
He loses track of who he sees and who he doesn’t, but then at last Tony and Jazz start to herd them back towards the locker room.
God, a shower sounds so fucking good right now.
He knows what to expect, but it’s still a shock to see the banner up, the champagne spraying as soon as they enter. There’s more hugs, and photos, and interviews that Nick doesn’t have patience for. He starts straight-up walking away from anybody who asks him derisively about his sexuality. Tonight is not the time for that. They can pester him all they want about that later.
Tonight is about the cup, and his team. The fans—the Dragons family.
And then, he hears it. Rising over the noise of the packed room, a familiar guitar riff. One that has played in their locker room before every playoff game, though only now do the rest of the team truly understand why.
Almost in unison, the entire team freezes, grins splitting their faces. They take a deep breath, together.
“OH, STANLEY! MAKIN’ ALL THE BOYS GO CRAZY!”
