Page 35

Xander, March 8th

I ring the doorbell, then hurry to hold up the bags of chips and popcorn. It’s good that I did, because Nicko tears the door open only a few seconds later.

“Pregame has already started!” he throws at me, then hurries back inside. He stops to whirl around after two steps and snatches the popcorn from my hands.

“Hello to you too,” I snort and shake my head, pulling the door shut. The rest of the team decided to watch the last game of the regular season together. For that I’d have been right on time. I prefer this, though, even when Linden and Yardley are also sitting on the couch. Nicko has claimed a two-seater near the windows, open bag of popcorn on his lap, enraptured by the interviews on screen.

I sink into the cushions next to him.

“Hello, Xander,” Linden smiles shyly, and I return the gesture gladly. Since I’ve become a regular visitor at his shelter, he’s forgiven my comments. I still take Lila out for walks whenever I can, though by now he’s introduced me to some other dogs.

“Ready to have your fate decided for you, Soft?” Yardley snarks. He grabs a handful of popcorn from Nicko’s bag and throws it straight into his mouth.

I raise a brow at him and crunch on a couple of chips before answering him.

“This won’t decide anything for me. I’ve done what I can, now it’s out of m–”

“Shhh! The game is starting!” Nicko interrupts us, reaching up to cover my mouth with his hand. I want to protest, but relent when he sneaks a few pieces of popcorn between my teeth.

The game is boring as hell. BostonU puts the pressure on high from the start, scoring in the first ten minutes. I groan and let my head sink against Nicko’s shoulder. I didn’t expect anything else. BostonU has been chasing us all season, waiting to pull ahead. Considering our last few losses, they finally took their chance now.

On the other hand, the New Hampshire Wildcats had terrible luck ever since we beat them, simmering at the bottom of the conference.

Immediately after the scoring player finishes his celebration lap, Boston clams up, keeping to the back. Likewise, the Wildcats seem to be nearly frozen in place, barely shuffling to make sure no one gets through their tightly knit defense—again. Unfortunately, it also kills any chance for a breakaway.

“So you’re really out of the…tournament? Because they won?” Linden asks halfway through the third period. His voice is gentle, like he’s worried to hurt me with his question.

I turn my head to look at him. There’s nothing happening anyhow; less than ten minutes left and BostonU is glued to the puck, just waiting out the time. In theory a solid strategy, but it means that this game is practically done, and with it the Bats’ chance to get to the Frozen Four.

“Yes. Only the first and second places in the conferences advance to the regionals. And now,” I nod at the TV, “Boston is above us in ranking.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.” Linden ducks his head.

Next to him Yardley snorts: “Come on, Lind, Soft is a big boy, I’m sure he’ll get over it, right?”

I frown, only reluctantly looking at Nicko’s other roommate. I have no idea why Nicko likes Yardley when everything about him is grating, especially his personality. Something I know well from the Alliance meetings.

“Of course I will, but I can be disappointed, can’t I?”

“Should’ve tried harder when you had the chance.”

“Olli, stop,” Linden throws in, putting a hand over the others’ arm. It doesn’t deter either of us.

”I did try! What do you even know about hockey?”

“Uh, I know that the little round thing is supposed to get into the square net thing.” Yardley sticks out his tongue.

I just shake my head. “You’re an idiot.”

“You asked! ”

“Because you–”

“THEY SCORED!”

We all jump when Nicko bursts out, shooting up from his seat and spilling popcorn everywhere. There’s a sting of disappointment going through me—I knew BostonU would eventually stop toying with the Wildcats and bring it home—until I turn to look at the screen. The TV shows the crowd screaming their heads off. But their faces are all painted…red?

“What?”

“Look, look!” Nicko points, jumping up and down.

Finally, the replay starts. The Wildcats’ right winger intercepts a sloppy pass by the BostonU center and makes a break for it. He’s a scarlet blur across the ice. The defense narrows in on him, but the puck is already in motion. It sails by the gobsmacked goalie. The camera angle shifts, showing a close-up of the puck hitting the net, the shooter’s exhilarated face—and then it cuts back to the stadium in uproar.

“Oh, my God!” I can’t believe it. They’re tied! The game will go into overtime!

For the next few minutes, we’re all spellbound by the TV, barely daring to breathe. All of a sudden, there’s action on the ice. The players flit back and forth. The Wildcats are fighting back, breaking out from their locked in defense. Meanwhile BostonU struggles to keep up.

“Come on, come on, COME ON!” Nicko and I shout in unison as the Wildcats’ center narrowly avoids a tackle, tripping over a D-man’s stick, but he shoots before he falls and–

“YES!”

We cheer, drowning out the noise of the crowd on TV. Moments later the horn sounds, finalizing the result I didn’t dare hope for: New Hampshire just beat BostonU, kicking them down to third place! The Bats are back in second place! We’re going to the regionals!

“Holy shit!” I shout again, jumping up as well. Nicko’s hands find mine and we’re bouncing up and down like we were the ones shooting that goal.

“Congrats,” Linden chimes in, but I barely pay him any attention as I wrap Nicko up in a hug. We’ll have to worry about possibly playing against one another soon enough; for now I’m too excited to think about that.

Nicko apparently doesn’t need any time for that adjustment: “I can’t wait to destroy you and Nate!” he chirps gleefully and hops off toward the kitchen.

I snort and shake my head, raising my brows at his roommates as they follow; Yardley with a grin and Linden with a short wave to me.

I pull out my buzzing phone to not eavesdrop on their potential kitchen conversations. There’s wave after wave of texts from Nate coming in, each a wall of exclamations along with an onslaught of Snaps of him and our team and their blurry celebration. I grin and send some emojis and GIFs back at him.

Nicko still hasn’t returned when Nate goes back to celebrating, so I take a quick selfie in front of the happy Wildcats on the TV screen. Loading up Instagram I lean back into the couch. I smile when I see the posts of Nate and the others sitting at the top of my notifications. I upload the picture and type a short text.

Congrats to @NHWildcats for kicking BostonAss! We #St.BBats owe you big time! ;)

I decorate it with a bat sticker before posting it to my Story.

“Growing your following, Xanxan?” Nicko snarks as he returns from the kitchen. He leans over the back of the couch, and I show him my post. He snickers.

“Yeah, you couldn’t have done it without all this luck. And me, of course.”

I laugh at his addition, tipping my head back to look at him.

“Without Nate you mean.” I wink, reaching out to cup the back of his head and pull him down. His breath tickles along my throat as his lips brush over mine.

Our tongues slide together as his hands wander down over my chest. His fingers tease at my waist, and I grab his wrist before he can sneak too low. Nicko tugs on his hands but eventually relents, leaning back just far enough to look into my eyes.

“We should take this upstairs.”

“Sure,” I tell him, but pull him back in for another one, two short kisses. Finally, he huffs and pushes himself backward away from the couch.

“Come on!”

I get up and follow him to the stairs, turning off the TV and the lights as I go.

“I’ll be right back,” Nicko mutters once we’re upstairs and in front of his room. I tilt my head, but he glances down the hallway. I look after him for a moment, then walk into his room and sit down on the edge of Nicko’s bed.

After a few minutes of waiting, I take out my phone. Opening Instagram again, I do a double take when there’s already dozens of notifications popping up. I lay back on the bed, settling in with a pillow, then take a deep breath before I tap into my inbox. I close my eyes for a moment when it’s exactly what I feared; a whole lot of hate mail now that it will be the Bats, not BostonU, competing to get to the Frozen Four.

Radbrad420: How does YOUR ass feel after taking all that referee d1ck?!

ballin-in-my-skin: Hope the rebels drop you, f4gG0t piece of shit

peachy.katie: You don’t deserve to even smell the ice! Boston deserved to be in the F4!!

2000YardKick: Bet you fucked the referee, dirty fAg! You’re a disgrace to hockey!

I bite my tongue, take another breath. Whenever I make a post, I get hundreds of these comments. I always delete them, most often without even reading them. I certainly don’t engage with their bigotry. Still, it always hurts. Some of those comments already have dozens of likes too.

“Okay, I’m– What’s wrong?”

Of course, Nicko picks that moment to come back, closing the door behind himself. He looks alarmed, but I shake my head before he can worry more.

“It’s nothing,” I hum and scoot over to make room for him.

He disregards all the empty space and slumps down on top of me.

“Liar.”

I huff, debating not to, but in the end show him the screen of my phone. His eyes narrow as he reads the last comment I opened, then his lips part. I shake my head again, putting my hand over his mouth. I can’t take his anger about the comments right now.

Nicko’s brows almost meet, he’s pulling them so far together, but finally he nods and rolls off of me.

I sigh and lock my screen again, letting it drop onto my chest.

“There’s always assholes like that,” I say into the suffocating quiet between us. It’s what I keep telling myself. It just feels worse when only minutes ago I was so excited over New Hampshire’s win.

“...yeah, I guess,” Nicko mutters, shifting to settle in next to me. His shoulder presses against mine, but the topic sits uncomfortably between us.

I continue deleting messages as if that eradicates the problem.

Eventually, Nicko pulls out his own phone, huffing at it. He shows me the dozens of notifications of Nate’s messages. I chuckle and open up the messenger to show him the texts I got earlier.

Nicko hums, then looks back at his own phone. He taps—then his face falls.

“What the hell,” he says out loud.

I stretch my neck to see what makes him upset, blinking when I recognize my own Story. Someone has reposted it with some choice slurs as well as various shit emojis accompanying it.

“Nicko, as I said, there will always be assholes, you shouldn’t–”

“Yeah, some assholes! But this one I know !”

I frown and then look closer, squinting at his phone. He’s not just pointing at the post, but the likes under it. Liked by BadgerXL , it proclaims. I tilt my head. Nicko huffs and taps on the name, opening the guy’s profile, and now I also feel a lot angrier than if they were just some nobodies. Linus Zollweg, clad in his orange Badgers uniform, smirks up from every other post on the profile.

“My freaking Captain?! And after I–” Nicko interrupts himself, biting his lip so hard I’m worried he’ll break the skin. My stomach churns, and I close my eyes for a moment. It doesn’t hit me as personally, but I still feel queasy when I think about our last encounter. The guy who smiled in my face as I shook his hand before our match apparently spends his free time liking posts with shit emojis pasted over my face.

“Fuck!” Nicko squeezes his eyes shut. I take his phone before he throws it against the wall, locking the screen and putting it away on his nightstand. When I look back at him, Nicko has his arm draped over his forehead.

“I’m sorry, I know this sucks.”

“No. No, you don’t.” He takes a deep breath, then turns his head to look at me. “Remember that I barely told anyone? About me being bi?” he swallows thickly, hiding behind his hand again. “I told Linus.”

I bite my tongue, my heart aching for him. “I’m so sorry, Nicko.” I shift closer, even when I’m not sure if the contact will be welcome considering the topic. But he doesn’t move away, so I lay one arm over his middle.

“But,” I start, grasping at straws, “you’ll be rid of him in only a few months. We’ll be playing together for the Rebels, and you won’t have to deal with this Linus fucker ever again.”

“Will we though?”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer at first, just gnaws on his lower lip.

“Nicko?” I prompt, my chest squeezing with apprehension.

“What if the Rebels won’t sign me?”

I almost laugh at that. “Of course, they will! Nicko, you’re a Top Ten draft pick; the Rebels would be absolute idiots not to sign you!”

“I–” Nicko makes a noise like someone cut off his air. I push myself up onto my elbows to look at him, but he’s hidden behind his hands again.

“Hm?”

He makes the same noise again, and I sigh. Leaning down I press a short kiss against his knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me, but don’t…” I frown, weighing my words, “don’t let Zollweg get to you. Focus on finishing the season, play amazing games, and…” and then I don’t know what’s going to happen. Or rather, I know exactly what will happen, but I don’t allow the thought to register.

“I haven’t heard from them since my surgery!” Nicko finally breaks out, his voice hoarse, strangled.

It’s not what I expected, so I have to blink a few times to orient myself around the new information. I can’t imagine how that must have built up in his head, dealing with his knee and worrying that the Rebels might be ghosting him.

I swallow thickly. “That...that’s over a year ago.”

“No shit, Sherlock!”

I duck my head, but I just had to say the obvious out loud to sort it in my head.

“But you’ve been playing amazing games, Nicko! Maybe they’re just waiting until you’ve finished your season? I...I think that’s how it works?”

“You’ve had contact with them.”

“I...yes, some,” I admit, “but most of that was for the anniversary of Pride Night.”

We both wince at that.

Somehow, we keep making the loop back to that damn interview, where so many of our misunderstandings started. It’s a bitter pill to swallow that at least some accusations that Nicko flung my way weren’t entirely unfounded: Apparently, I do get more attention from the Rebels.

I bite my lip, carefully shifting onto my side, leaning my head into my hand. My other hand settles over his hip. “If they didn’t contact you, did you…?” I cut myself off when Nicko just raises his brows at me.

“Okay, yes, sorry. Your dad couldn’t get into contact with them either?”

“So you can accuse me of being a nepo-baby again?”

“I never accused you of that, that’s something you misunderstood,” I raise my voice when Nicko pulls his hands away to glare at me. “Besides, I too would use all my channels. I never meant to condemn anyone who has those possibilities. I merely wanted to point out that some people do have certain advantages over people like me, who don’t have them.”

I look at him, sighing when he still frowns at me, dissatisfied with my explanation.

“Look, when I said that, I didn’t mean that it’s bad that parents helped their children get better at a sport they love and enjoy. I merely meant that there should be more institutions like that. I wouldn’t have started hockey if it hadn’t been for the foster care sports program. They paid for all my equipment back then.” If I hadn’t had all that help, I might have never made it past those first hurdles.

“That’s all I wanted to say back then, that it should be possible for everyone to get that sort of help, and–” I swallow, taking a deep breath, “I never meant to imply that you didn’t deserve your draft. You do,” I finish, hoping that my point has come across.

Nicko scoffs, but then rubs at his eyes, heaving a sigh.

“Okay, that...makes sense.”

I hum, glad that we have managed to dispel this misunderstanding between us. I lean in to brush my lips against his cheek when he stops me with his hand to my chest.

“But you could’ve said that without making me look like a spoiled brat on a live radio show.”

I snort, leaning in further now. “You don’t need me for that,” I remind him.

“Ass,” he grumbles, there’s no heat behind his words, but his hand still lays over my heart.

I hum, reaching out to pluck his glasses off of his nose, cupping his cheek after I’ve put them away on the nightstand. I search for his eyes, holding the contact. “I’m sorry. I never meant to make you look bad. Especially not on a live show.”

“Ugh, of course you’re saying that now!” Nicko protests, but his hand wanders to my neck and our lips meet. The kiss is chaste and comforting. I smile when we part and this time Nicko doesn't need any prompting before he nestles his head in the crook between my shoulder and neck.

For a while, we just lie there, comfortable in each other’s presence. Nicko is the first to break the silence.

“I thought about going to Europe if…” he starts, then leaves the rest unsaid.

I blink a few times, unsure why my body is already reacting with some uncertain pain before I have fully grasped the words. If Nicko gets picked up in Europe, he will be hours, no days away. Is this why he was so adamant about us not being a possibility in the future?

“But hey, at least one Van der Hoff will make it to the NHL.” He looks at me when I just blink at him. “Nate. He’s going to play for the Pioneers after all.”