Arms around Marco and Sunny, singing at the top of his lungs, Nick wants to live in this moment forever.
Chapter Thirty-One
[Image Description: A group photo of the Nevada Dragons, gathered together in a dimly lit bar. They’re all still in their game-day suits, championship caps on most of their heads. They’re in various states of dishevelment, ties loosened and sleeves rolled up and jackets abandoned, some with their shirts unbuttoned entirely. All of them crowd around the Stanley Cup, which appears to be filled halfway with champagne.]
@50Hughes: Apparently I’m not allowed to post the other pictures. But FUCK IT check my stories for the raddest afterparty in the world #ThirdTimesTheCharm #StanleyCupChampions #KatPlsDontKillMe
@NevadaDragons: @50Hughes please do not
@50Hughes: @NevadaDragons I CANNOT BE CONTAINED
—Instagram, June 13th, 2023
His head hurts, and his mouth tastes like something died in it.
Those are the first two things Nick registers once he wakes up. The third is that they forgot to lower the blackout blinds before going to bed last night. Sunlight beams through the window, obnoxiously bright even with his eyes closed. Nick groans in protest and buries his face in the pillows.
His movement must be enough to nudge Matt into the land of the living; the musician is half-sprawled over Nick’s back, and he reflexively curls tighter as he wakes.
“Ugh,” he grumbles against Nick’s shoulder. “What time did we go to bed last night?”
Nick has absolutely no memory of that—he knows how he got home, but everything after that is a blur. He says as much, and Matt’s low, raspy chuckle fills the room. “Aw, baby, did you drink too much?” he coos, running his fingers through Nick’s hair. “Are you still drunk?”
“Probably.” Nick rolls over to face his partner, squinting against the light. Even after partying all night, Matt looks beautiful, which is unfair because Nick feels like some kind of gutter goblin. “I need a shower.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Matt agrees, pecking him on the forehead. “And a toothbrush, because I love you, but I amnotkissing you right now.”
Nick’s too busy laughing to be offended. The way his tongue feels, he wouldn’t want to kiss him either.
In the silence that lingers while Nick tries to gather the energy to sit up, he hears the faint sounds of movement from elsewhere in the apartment. “Do you know who all’s still here?” The afterparty came back to his place for a while, but it might have moved on from there.
“No idea,” is Matt’s cheerful reply. He squeezes Nick’s hip. “How about you go make yourself human again and I’ll figureout who the stragglers are. How long until you have to be at the rink?”
Just the thought makes Nick grimace. There’s lots to be done in the aftermath of winning a cup: there’s going to be press stuff, and more celebrations, and planning for victory parades. Several of his teammates will probably not be sober again for at least a week.
And, Nick realizes, that’s not even taking into account whatever he’s going to have to face as one of the eight newly out members of the NHL.
Maybe he should just stay in bed.
Thankfully, a hot shower goes a long way to soothing his many pains—both hockey-related and alcohol-induced. After brushing his teeth and putting some moisturizer on his poor intoxicated body, Nick does actually feel somewhat presentable. Pulling on a pair of gym shorts and a Sticks+Stones T-shirt that might have once been Matt’s, he leaves the safety of his bedroom. Time to see what’s become of his apartment.
There’s a pile of bodies on his couch. The other three members of the band are puppy-piled together on one end, while Motor, Sunny and Splits lie in a tangle of limbs across the remaining space. Across the divide, Moose and Casey are loosely holding hands. Nick’s eyebrows shoot up, and he gets a flash of memory of walking in on the two of them making out in his guest bathroom.
Interesting.
On the floor beside the couch, Mars is half propped up on a stack of cushions, with Beau’s head in their lap as the centerman sprawls on the rug, dead to the world. In the armchair, Connor is asleep sitting up, Théo sleeping on top of him with his legs thrown over the arm, one hand loosely curled in Connor’s shirt collar.
He thought for sure that there would be more people in his apartment. He turns towards the kitchen, and the question is answered—watching Matt work the coffee machine with unfiltered gratitude in their eyes, Picard and Duke slump at the breakfast bar, still wearing the same clothes from last night.
“Morning, boys,” Nick greets quietly, though the pair of them still wince. “This everybody?”
“Marco and Lindsay are in the guest room,” Matt volunteers. “And Noodle’s asleep on your desk. Literallyonit, curled up like a baby. It’s ridiculous. I took pictures.”
Nick snorts. “You’re my favorite.” He sidles in beside his boyfriend, going for a proper kiss now his breath is minty-fresh.
The coffee machine beeps, and Nick steps smoothly out of the way of the resulting chaos. Instead, he goes straight for the Gatorade in the fridge. It’s going to bedaysbefore he feels properly hydrated again.
Not least because there’s only going to be more alcohol in his future.
