Falling is Like This, Part I-III
Title:: Falling is Like This
Author: speakingwosound
Pairing: Nick Leddy/Jeremy Morin
Rating: NC-17
Words: 24, 500
Summary: Nick Leddy is gay. He’s also on the brink of making it to the NHL. He thinks he’s reconciled these things. Until he meets Jeremy Morin.
Disclaimer: Not real, sadly.
A/N: Takes place between Rookie Development Camp in June and World Junior Champions in January. I’ve kept it mostly accurate, although I’ve fudged a bit on the types of players that show up at Rookie Development Camp. Just go with me for that, yeah?
Part One. Rookie Development Camp. July 17, 2010. Chicago, IL.
Nick Leddy has a bruise on his left thigh. Right where the padding in his pants meets his jock-strap, and he knows how sketchy it looks that he keeps rubbing himself there, but it’s turning purple and it hurts like hell and if he applies pressure right there then it hurts a little less.
There are really too many people in here right now for anyone to take notice of him, anyway. They’ve opened the door between Kyle Beach’s room and Jake Dowell’s, so in theory there are two rooms. Except, Dowell’s rooming with Corey Crawford, and Crow’s a goalie and weird and stuff, so he goes to bed at 9 and is huddled under the covers in the bed closest to the wall, doing a good imitation of tuning them out. Most of the boys feel guilty enough to leave things be and avoid the room. The Nintendo is in Beach’s room anyway, so no one’s complaining. Which leaves 18+ nineteen to twenty year-old-boys crammed into one room at the Chicago Marriott, a quite nice hotel when it doesn’t smell like beer and sweat and teenager.
The whole idea of rookie camp is a little strange to Nick. It’s July, early July, so it’s blisteringly hot and humid and most of the Blackhawks organization is traipsing around the world with the Cup. Still, they amble over to Johnny’s IceHouse everyday and compete as if the whole world is watching. Which is weird, ‘cause this is training camp for fuck’s sake, rookie training camp, and no one’s supposed to care about this.
Except, well, the fans have been reinvigorated by the first Stanley Cup won in forty-nine years and Nick figures that if three million people went to the parade, at least half of them tried to cram into the bleachers at Johnny’s today to watch a bunch of kids fight to take one of the eleven spots opened due to salary cap restrictions on a team salivating to repeat for the first time in Hawks history.
Nick thrives on the nerves and the excitement, but even he thinks it’s a little bit much, as he presses down on the bruise on his thigh and teethes his lip to bite back a hiss. At least he doesn’t have a black eye, like Beach does after his fight with Kurtz. Scrimmage is supposed to be fun, where they can show off and deke at times when they never could in a game, but any fan would be forgiven if he thought that the Stanley Cup was theirs to win or lose on the ice this afternoon. And, Nick can’t lie, he got into it. He’s a competitive guy, and the nerves and the emotions got to him.
Or maybe he just needs to get laid.
He presses on his thigh again and there’s a tap on his shoulder and he jumps, blushing, and tares his hand away as he looks up to see his old friend Nick Mattson grinning at him. Asshole.
“Having fun?”
“Bruise,” Nick mumbles, but there’s some screaming from the vicinity of the TV and he assumes that Matts doesn’t hear him. “I said-”
Matts shakes his head, waving at the TV, and motions for Nick to follow him into the other room. Nick sighs, groaning when he puts weight on his leg, and hobbles a little pathetically into the next room, where it’s amazingly quiet and calm in comparison. Except that Crawford’s trying to sleep and Nick feels a little bad about that.
“Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, let him sleep?”
“What?” Matts follows his gaze and shrugs his shoulders. “Crow? He can sleep through anything.”
“Um-” Nick feels weird and a little bit voyeuristic being in here, just Matts and Crow and another guy sitting on the unoccupied bed, but Matts just takes his elbow and leads him over.
“There’s someone you should meet. Nick, this is Jeremy Morin.” He motions to the guy on the bed, who looks really familiar and he knows they’ve played together on US junior teams, but he’s never actually been introduced to the kid.
Nick holds out his hand. “Nick Leddy.”
“I know. Matts has told me a lot about you.” The kid shakes his hand and it’s strong and a little big clammy. “Jeremy, by the way.”
Matts claps them both on the back. “Sit. Chat. You’ll be fast friends. Promise.” Matts winks at Nick as he leaves, and Nick groans, but there’s nothing he can really do about it with this kid staring at him with big, wide raccoon eyes and Nick settles on the bed next to him, flinching as his thigh hits the mattress a little hard.
“Fuck.”
The kid glances down at his thigh. “I saw you do that. Nice shot block.”
“Thanks.” Nick shifts. “Hurts like a mother fucker.”
“I bet.” The kid - Jeremy - grins and it’s wide and shows all his teeth and fuck if Matts wasn’t right after all.
“So, how do you know Matts?”
“Under-18 team. They made us roommates. Hated him ‘til he moved out, but then we became good friends. You?”
Nick shrugs. “We go way back. One time, we must have been fourteen, fifteen years old, we were roommates at a tournament up in Winnipeg. He got me to help him put whip cream mustaches on everyone. I figured I was safe, having helped him and all, and I got halfway through breakfast before Coach pointed it out to me.”
Jeremy laughs. It’s light and easy and conspiratorial and Nick smiles at him, settling into the mattress. “Terrible roommate.”
“Who you rooming with here?”
Jeremy waves towards the other room. “Makarov. Beach is teaching him Mario Kart.”
Nick laughs. “He’s good.”
“I know.” Jeremy glances around, as if making sure that there’s no one here with them, except Crow, and apparently the goalie really can sleep through anything. “You think you have a chance to make it?”
Nick shrugs and they’re sitting close enough that their shoulders brush. “Maybe. There’re some good guys here.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy frowns and Nick bumps his shoulder. He thinks he’d do almost anything to make the kid smile again. Fuck Matts.
“You’re scrappy. Coaches like that.”
Jeremy blushes. “I get angry sometimes.” He pouts his lips and Nick chuckles, forgetting about his thigh and bending his knee, swearing.
“You should put some ice on that.”
“I’m fine.”
Jeremy shakes his head and gets up. Nick watches him as he bends to reach the small fridge/freezer combo set up in the corner. It’s not strictly legal to have one in a hotel room, but they’re hockey players and ice packs are part of the package, so he’s not surprised when Jeremy climbs back on the bed, holding up the pack triumphantly.
Nick reaches for it, but Jeremy isn’t paying any attention to him, focused on the ice pack and pressing it against Nick’s thigh. Nick closes his eyes, focusing on the cold seeping through the very thin layer of his pants, and not on how much he’d like it if Jeremy’s hand slipped just a couple inches higher.
“Um, sorry.” Nick opens his eyes to see Jeremy peering up at him, biting his lip. Nick drops his hand to hold the ice in place, and Jeremy scoots back on the bed, his face red. “Keep that on for twenty minutes.”
Nick rolls his eyes, grinning. “I know. How many of these do you think I’ve had?”
“Lots?”
“Yep.” Nick shifts so that their shoulders are touching again. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous, but he doesn’t really care when Jeremy seems to settle down again at the contact.
“So, who’d you play for last year?”
“University of Minnesota. I’m from there.”
“Really?” Jeremy grins and practically starts bouncing. Nick raises an eyebrow at him.
“Um, yes?”
“Sorry.” He settles back against the pillows, but he’s still grinning. “I’ve always loved Minnesota.”
“Why?” Nick knows he sounds incredulous, but he racks his brain and can’t think of anything that would make someone want to grow up in his hometown.
Jeremy shrugs. “I love snow.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jeremy bites his lip but Nick doesn’t back down and, eventually, Jeremy sighs. “Fine.” He bites his lip, dropping his head and speaking quickly. “I like The Mighty Ducks.”
Nick laughs. Real, true, from his belly laughs.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m sorry, I-” Nick tries to get his breathe back, but really can’t stop laughing. “It’s just - that’s ridiculous.”
“Fuck you.”
Nick sucks in a breath, holding his chest as it aches from laughing. “Sorry.” He grins. “That’s adorable. It really is.”
Jeremy shoves him and crosses his arms. “Everyone loves The Mighty Ducks.”
“Sure.”
“They do.”
“I believe you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you have any other insults?”
“Yes.” Jeremy frowns. “I just can’t think of any right now.”
Nick laughs again, twisting his leg and his thigh feels numb and damp. He lifts off the ice pack. “I think it’s been twenty minutes.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy glances at the clock. It’s late, much later than they should be up since they have to skate again in the morning. “It seems to be getting quieter in there.”
Nick realizes that he hasn’t thought about the other room for a while now and, tilting his head, he doesn’t hear much going on in there. “Guess we better get to bed, huh?”
Jeremy shrugs. “I guess.” He reaches over and takes the ice pack from Nick’s hand, hopping up to drop it in the bathroom sink. It’s a nice gesture and, suddenly, Nick needs to leave right now.
“It was really nice to meet you, yeah?” Jeremy’s grinning at him, holding out his hand, and it’s somehow old-fashioned and gentlemanly and Nick’s chest aches.
“Yeah, yeah, it was.”
“Okay. Good night.” Jeremy smiles and waves and slips into his room back-first so that he can grin at Nick until the door closes.
Nick is so screwed.
Part II. Rookie Tournament. September 11-14, 2010. Toronto, On.
“How was your flight?”
Nick looks up with his sock halfway on his foot. “Fine. You?”
Jeremy shrugs. He looks great, tan and toned and he did some nice work on his arms in the two months between rookie development camp and the rookie tournament. “I drove.”
“Right. How far’s Syracuse from here?”
“Five hours. If you drive slow.” Jeremy takes the stall next to him and starts pulling out clothes. “I don’t drive slow.”
It sounds reckless, dangerous, the way he says it and Nick laughs. “I’m sure.”
“You don’t believe me.” He’s pouting now, biting that lip, and text messages really do not do Jeremy Morin justice.
“Not really,” Nick admits and Jeremy hits him with an elbow pad. “Hey, watch it with the violence.”
“Whatever.” Jeremy slips on an Under Armor shirt. “You can take it.”
Nick snorts.
Jeremy rolls his eyes and pulls out his stick to start taping it. “I asked for us to room together.”
Nick shouldn’t be surprised. They’re friends, after all. Good friends, if four days at rookie camp and a summer of texting count as the beginnings of a friendship.
“I hope that’s okay.” Jeremy looks inexplicably nervous, and Nick kicks himself.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s great.” Nick shakes his head. He’d be lying if he says that he hasn’t been waiting for this moment all week, this moment where they’re in the same room again and he can look at Jeremy instead of imagining his expressions, and he grins. “It’s gonna be awesome.”
***
Nick has known what he’s wanted for a long time. When he was eight, one of the boys on his peewee hockey team had stolen an issue of Playboy and while the other boys had crowded around to ‘ohh’ and ‘ahh’ and make derogatory faces, all Nick had wanted to know is why their boobs looked so big.
When he was ten, he had invited the new neighbor kid over to play video games. His mom had made them hot cocoa with little marshmallows, and everything had been going well until the kid - his name was Matt, if Nick remembers correctly - had taken one look at the collage on his bedroom wall and asked why it was made up of X-Men and Nick Lidstrom posters.
“That’s what I’m in to.” Nick had said, and he had been naïve enough to point out Spiderman’s package. “Isn’t that cool? I want one like that someday.”
“Fag.” Matt had thrown the controller at him and his mother had come to pick him up while Nick spent five hours in the emergency room getting three stitches in his left eyebrow where the controller had hit just right and cut the skin. His mother had explained fag in the nice way that mothers have of sugar coating nasty words for their young children, and Nick had walked away thinking it was a nice word for boys who like comic books and hockey players a whole lot more than they like string bikinis and pig-tails.
He didn’t think about it again, until the first night he got drunk. It was a chilly December evening in Minnesota, but the high school hockey team had a reputation for throwing the best beer bashes in the state, and Nick really never thought of it as hazing until years later. It had stopped feeling cold, anyway, by the time one of the older boys had pulled him out back and given him a handjob that left him feeling raw and chapped and better than he had ever felt in his life.
His mother had woken him up the next morning, three hours after he had stumbled in and fallen into bed. “I think I’m still drunk,” was the first thing he had said to her.
She had given him that look, the one that told him she was once a teenager, too, and that Nick could never do anything that would surprise her. “I know.” She had pulled back the covers and swatted at his hip to get him out of bed. “Go take a shower. I’m going to wash these.”
“I’m too tired to practice.”
“I don’t care.”
Nick had sighed, but there was never any point in arguing with her, so he had gotten as far as sitting at the edge of the bed, his feet barely touching the floor yet and his head spinning. “Also, I think I’m gay.”
“I know.” She hadn’t missed a beat, continuing to gather up his sheets and shoo him towards the bathroom.
“Okay.” Nick had said and that had been that.
Nick knows that he had gotten off easy. Coming out is usually the hardest thing in a young man’s life, but Nick has never had to tell anyone. His mother, when later pressed, had admitted that she’d known since he was three years old. His high school boyfriend had come on to him, and the boys he fooled around with at the University at Minnesota had just sort of fallen into bed with him.
Jeremy Morin is different.
There’s this thing they’ve developed, this best friend thing that Nick’s never had before. He’s either been beat up, fucked, or just sort of ignored. He’s never had a best friend who jokes around with him in the locker room and then walks around in his boxer briefs in their hotel room, as if maybe Jeremy doesn’t know about Nick, as if he doesn’t have the faintest clue that his best friend isn’t entirely straight.
It makes Nick feel dirty. When he comes back to the hotel after a long day of practice and weight training and a game, and falls into the shower with his hand on his dick and Jeremy in his mind, all skin and muscle stretching out from those boxer briefs as if he’s everything Nick’s ever wanted. And, maybe, he is, it’s just, well, Nick’s never been a professional hockey player before, either.
Professional hockey players, Nick’s been warned, are not gay.
Not openly, at least. He had wondered, often, at University if this idea of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ was just a rouse to get him on his knees in some dark storage room, but no one is out in the NHL. Nick had done a google search. And Nick just doesn’t quite know what to do with himself in a league that treats his homosexuality like a particularly nasty plaque that must be squashed out and, when that doesn’t quite work, locked up behind closed doors. Ignored.
Coaches turn a blind eye, he’s been told. Other players won’t hit you harder unless you act particularly gay. Unless you say something, do something, inappropriate. Or unless you come across Chris Pronger or Sean Avery, but they’re all-around assholes and Nick has some ideas about why they feel the need to hit other guys so hard.
Nick knows he should keep his mouth shut. He’s never wanted something as much as he wants to play in the NHL, and if that means keeping his mouth shut, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he can do it. For a little while at least. Until Matts had had the gal to introduce him to Jeremy fucking Morin, that is.
Nick is a terrible liar. He’s never been good at it. His mother has always told him that he has the world’s worst poker face, and the best refuge for it is to just tell the truth, ‘cause it always comes out eventually. Jeremy is fast becoming his best friend, and Nick just isn’t comfortable lying about that.
It doesn’t help that he’s had a lot to drink tonight. Their last game ended hours ago, and they’re in Toronto, where the drinking age is nineteen, so the entire Blackhawks rookie team has staked out spots in one of Toronto’s flashiest clubs. It’s loud, the music setting a rhythm in the floorboards, and half the team is on the dance floor dancing as only teenage hockey players can dance.
Nick is content to lean back against the cushions and listen with one ear as Beach reenacts the hit he made in the game earlier. His shoulder is pressed into Jeremy’s. Jeremy, who is leaning back against the cushions and drinking something that is pink and orange and he says reminds him of sunsets in Hawaii, as if he’d rather be in Hawaii than Toronto, which Nick knows is a bald-faced lie but he smiles anyway and allows Jeremy to have this one. ‘Cause Jeremy looks adorable, his eyes shining with the alcohol, his cheeks red and his lips pressed together as he peers at Nick.
Nick shifts, feeling a shiver of warmth slip down his spine. “What?”
Jeremy tilts his head, as if contemplating for a moment, before smiling. “Wanna dance?”
“I’m not very good.” Nick warns.
“I don’t care.”
Jeremy’s palm is clammy, rough from his hockey gloves and still smelling a little like months of built-up sweat, as he pulls at Nick and drags him to the center of the dance floor. Nick knows that this is something he should be good at, as a proud member of the gay community or whatever, but his muscles have always seemed built for hockey rather than dancing. When he moves his arms it sort of looks like he’s trying to crosscheck Jeremy and his legs are braced shoulder-length apart as if he might try to hit someone at any minute.
Jeremy, the asshole, is a natural, swaying his hips and leaning in close to scream in Nick’s ear over the noise. “You’re terrible.”
“I told you,” Nick screams back, but Jeremy just shakes his head and rests his hands on Nick’s hips.
“Let me,” he says into Nick’s ear and it’s a puff of hot air that lingers against the shell of his ear, a tiny laugh that grounds Nick enough to not go completely hard right there. Which would be a problem, ‘cause Jeremy is staring down, looking at his hands as they move Nick’s hips to make them sway in time with the music and Nick feels Jeremy’s heartbeat in his fingertips where they brush against the skin above Nick’s low-riding pants and Nick can’t tell where the bass beat ends and Jeremy’s heartbeat begins and his own heart pounds to keep rhythm with both.
“See?” Nick looks up to see Jeremy grinning at him. “You just needed a little help.”
Nick can’t breath. There isn’t enough oxygen going to his head and if he doesn’t do something he’s just going to fall over and Jeremy’s going to have to catch him and he’s going to feel his hardness and that is exactly the way Nick doesn’t want him to find out.
“Come with me.” Nick doesn’t lean forward to shout in Jeremy’s ear, doesn’t think he’d be able to stay standing if he did, so Jeremy is left to read his lips and he frowns. Nick shakes his head, pointing up, to the lights and the music, and he wraps his fingers around Jeremy’s and tugs. Nick pulls him bodily through the press of bodies until they’re in a hallway that’s at least a little darker and empty, except for the giggling, drunken couples that keep pushing past, and Nick thinks how much easier this would all be if he could be one of those couples, but he cares about Jeremy and that’s all that really matters.
Another couple comes rushing past, and Nick is pushed so that he’s pressing Jeremy tight against the wall and willing his dick to remember that they’re best friends despite this position they’re in right now. “Sorry,” he whispers.
Jeremy does that thing again, the thing where he bites his lip and Nick is momentarily distracted as his eyes are drawn to the spot. Until Jeremy raises a hand to his ear and pulls on it gently to get his attention. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, I-” Jeremy looks worried and Nick feels terrible, ‘cause they really should have had this conversation that first night and Nick suddenly has the terrifying feeling that maybe it’s too late. “Um, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“I should have told you months ago. I’m sorry.”
“Nick.” Jeremy’s voice is calm, too calm for the situation and the number of girly drinks he’s had this evening, and Nick swallows.
“I’m gay.” He’s never said it before, not to someone who doesn’t already know, and he doesn’t know any other way to say it.
“Oh.” Jeremy goes still. The bass beat thrumming through them feeling weird and off-kilter as Jeremy’s body fights against it and Nick feels like he might just fall again. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna kill Matts.”
There were many things Nick was expecting, hundreds of possible scenarios culled from other experiences he’s been told about and all the “Coming Out” columns he read as a teenager in The Advocate, but that wasn’t one of them. His own body feels limp with surprise, uncertainty, and he doesn’t know what to do, so when Jeremy pushes him back and slips under his arm, Nick follows his lead and lets him go.
He knows it was the wrong call the minute he does it. Knows he should have followed him, made sure he’s alright, ‘cause they’re in a strange city and Nick knows that Jeremy’s had more to drink than Nick has and Nick has a hard time remembering the name of the hotel as he stumbles into a cab.
Their room is a mess. Four days of being too tired to do anything more than fall into bed and fight for control of the remote has left little time for cleaning, and Nick’s is suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of stale sweat and he stumbles to the window to throw it open. There’s a little balcony out there, and he collapses into the chair, pulling his phone out and dialing Jeremy’s number. Again.
“Look, Jeremy, I know why you don’t want to talk to me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. Or, not that way or something. But, I didn’t know what else to do and - shit, I’m sorry, okay. If you never want to talk to me again, that’s fine, just, text me and tell me you’re not in a ditch somewhere. Please.”
He’s left at least eight of the same messages in varying degrees of self-recrimination, and he knows it’s futile. He knows that if Jeremy were willing to talk to him, he’d have contacted him already. He’s even resorted to leaving his phone number in case Jeremy somehow lost it between the thousands of texts they’ve sent all summer and an hour ago.
The worst part is, he knows this is his fault. If he would just keep his mouth shut, if he had subscribed to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ everything would be fine. He’d probably be in the shower by now, fantasizing about his best friend while said best friend was passed out on the bed, where Nick could watch him and know that he’s safe. It terrifies him, that the next call he could get could be from the Toronto Police Department or, worse, from the hospital, some nurse telling him that he got his number from Jeremy’s phone and could he please come down immediately.
Nick’s chest hurts. He’s been naïve, so naïve, and everyone’s warned him but he just couldn’t bring himself to listen and now Jeremy might be paying the price. This is one of those turning points, one of those times where he feels out-of-body, as if he might never fit inside his own skin again. It’s terrifying and Toronto in September is warm, but he shivers and crosses his arms across his chest as if, just maybe, if he holds hard enough, he might be able to keep himself in.
***
The door opens. It could be hours, minutes later and Nick wouldn’t know except that the sun is just starting to peak over the Toronto skyline and Nick is out of his chair, barreling across the room and engulfing Jeremy in a hug that takes Jeremy off his feet.
“Breathing.” Jeremy ekes out. “Breathing, good.”
Nick drops him, stepping away and leaving Jeremy to steady himself against the door as he closes it again. Nick shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re all right. I-” he swallows, “I thought you might be dead and that I’d have to go ID your body and I couldn’t bear that and, well, you’re here and you have all your limbs so, I’m going to get out of your way.” He says it all in one breath and he doesn’t look up until Jeremy stops him with a hand on his chest as he tries to scoot past him and out the door.
“You’ve watched way too many episodes of CSI.” Jeremy says, and even without looking Nick can tell that he’s smiling.
But, no, that can’t be right. Jeremy can’t be smiling. He can be hurt or he can be very, very angry and those are the only options Nick could come up with in the hours sitting out on the balcony. Jeremy seems to be very good at rattling Nick’s assumptions, and the question vomits out of Nick’s mouth before he can stop it. “You’re smiling. You were wandering around a strange city all night, and I thought you were raped or murdered or, or - I thought you were dead and I left you fifteen messages, and you’re smiling.”
Nick would have thought that he’d have learned to think before he speaks after tonight, but, apparently not, and Jeremy isn’t smiling anymore as he pushes back from the door and sits on his bed, toeing off his shoes and refusing to look at Nick. “I’m fine. I just needed some time to think. And I know this city. I grew up a few hours away and I’ve been here hundreds of times. Remember?”
“I’d forgotten that.” Nick feels foolish, but Jeremy doesn’t seem to be either running away or punching him, and Nick is exhausted, so he sits down on the other bed. “I’m really sorry I told you.”
Jeremy sighs, running a hand through his hair and finally, finally looking at Nick. “No, you shouldn’t be. I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. It wasn’t fair.”
Nick shrugs. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Would you shut up for a minute?” Jeremy shakes his head, but he’s wearing a half-amused smile and Nick nods, his eyes wide. “Good.” Jeremy shuffles his feet. “It wasn’t fair of me to react that way, ‘cause I’ve kinda suspected all along that Matts was playing a joke on us.”
Nick frowns. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with Matts?”
Jeremy clears his throat. “Matts is the only one in the world who knows that I’m gay.”
“What?” Nick is stupefied, bewildered, and the last two and a half months shift and refocus and, when they’re done, they look utterly different than they had five minutes ago. Nick’s jaw drops. “Matts was setting us up?”
Jeremy shrugs. “I suspected so, but I never asked, ‘cause, well, I didn’t want to know.” Nick frowns and Jeremy runs a hand through his hair again, and it’s beginning to take on the wild, just-got-done-with-a-nap look that makes Nick’s heart ache. “I’ve never told anyone. Matts only knew ‘cause he walked in on me in juniors. I’ve always been told that you can’t be gay and play hockey and I love hockey so-” Jeremy drops his head into his hands and peers up at Nick through his eyelashes and he looks so utterly terrified that Nick wants to drop to the floor and close the space between them, but he doesn’t dare.
“I never thought that it was worth it, you know? I’ve never met anyone worth the risk, and Matts always said that I would, someday. But not now. And, fuck,” Jeremy chuckles brokenly and Nick’s eyes slide shut at the sound, “Matts was right and fuck him.”
Nick doesn’t know what to say, but he hasn’t been able to get Jeremy out of his mind for weeks and, “I was so scared. Last night, when I thought you were gone, I was so scared.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy whispers. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I can do this.”
Nick slips from the bed, closing the distance between them and bracketing Jeremy’s face with his hands. “I’m going to kiss you right now,” which is sort of a foregone conclusion, but Nick doesn’t want to scare him away as he leans forward and their lips touch.
It’s feather-light, barely a touch, and Nick holds there until he can’t breath anymore and he has to pull away. Jeremy’s eyes slip open, and they’re large and blue and he nods and Nick pushes Jeremy’s knees apart gently so that he can rest between them. This time, he lets his hands go to the back of Jeremy’s head as he pulls him down. He parts his lips gently, licking across Jeremy’s and asking for entrance, worrying away at that little spot Jeremy’s always biting until Jeremy is groaning and his hips are thrusting off the bed, short, truncated little ruts against Nick’s chest and Nick wants more.
He gets up off the floor slowly, not breaking the kiss as his hands drop to Jeremy’s hips and urge him to move back. He pulls away just long enough to lie on his side against the pillows and pull Jeremy to him, kissing him again. He drops a hand to Jeremy’s waistband, slipping under his shirt and resting against his lower back, urging his hips forward in a rhythm that knocks their clothed erections together and they both moan.
Jeremy tries to snake his hand between their bodies, but they’re pressed too tightly together and he grunts in frustration, fingernails digging into Nick’s hips and scratching at the cloth. “Please,” he whispers, throaty and hoarse and Nick chuckles.
“Demanding,” he whispers, biting Jeremy’s lip in just that spot and Jeremy groans.
“Fuck you.”
“Mmm.” Nick urges Jeremy up just enough to scoot his pants and boxers down to his knees. Jeremy settles back on the bed and moves his mouth to Nick’s ear. It’s wet and moist and a lot hotter than it should be and Nick pushes his own clothing down his thighs as quickly as he can.
They don’t have lube and the lotion is in the bathroom, way too far for either of them to walk in their condition. Nick shrugs his shoulders and drops his hand, but Jeremy hisses at the friction. “Sorry,” Nick whispers. “I don’t - here.” He spits into his palm and wraps it around both their dicks. It’s just enough pressure and Nick knows he makes an embarrassing keening noise.
The room is quiet except for the slapping of their bodies moving together and their heavy breathing, punctuated with little moans and cries. It’s been a long night for both of them, and Nick feels strung out, as if he’s just played a five-minute shift and he’s still not sure that this body is his, except that it feels too good not to be.
Jeremy drops his forehead to Nick’s shoulder, his eyes wild as he peers down at Nick’s hand on them. “Beautiful,” he whispers, and he doesn’t sound much better than Nick and the idea that Nick is doing this to him is too much. Nick spills between them with a cry, closing his eyes and taking a few seconds to come back down. Until Jeremy thrusts against his over-sensitive dick and Nick tightens his hand so that it’s just around Jeremy. His own come slicks the way and it only takes a couple thrusts before Jeremy cries out.
“Fuck, that was hot,” Nick breathes, wiping his hand on his jeans. Jeremy laughs as he shimmies out of his pants and pulls up his boxers, slipping under the covers and watching Nick do the same with half-lidded eyes.
“We should set the alarm clock,” Jeremy murmurs, but he’s already half asleep, so Nick fishes around for his phone to set the alarm. They only have a couple of hours before they have to leave, but Nick plans on taking full advantage of them.
Nick punches out a quick “thank u” text to Matts before he places the phone on the bedside table and curls up behind Jeremy, pulling him tight and laying a contented kiss on his shoulder.
Part Three. Chicago Blackhawks Training Camp. September 18-October 3, 2010. Chicago, IL.
“Leddy, come on. We’re late.”
The only times Nick has ever heard Duncan Keith sound cross is when he’s running late and, this time, Nick knows that it’s his fault, but he really doesn’t have the willpower to care at the moment. “Hold your horses, asshole,” he yells through the door.
He’s standing in the middle of Duncan’s guestroom in his boxers, a pile of discarded clothes on the bed. He feels ridiculous, like if he cares this much he might as well start drawing little pink hearts around Jeremy’s name in his playbook.
“Fuck this.” Nick grabs his jeans off the bed and pulls a green Nike shirt over his head. He even remembers to slip his wallet into his back pocket as he jogs down the stairs.
“Finally.” Brent Seabrook greets him at the bottom of the stairs, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Nick just glares at him as Seabs grins. “Finish doing your makeup?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get in the car.” Duncan pushes them both out the door and Nick climbs into Duncan’s backseat.
He should probably wonder more why Seabs is always driving Duncs’ car while Duncs is happy to backseat drive from the passenger seat, but he’s too busy biting his nails and reading through the texts Jeremy has sent him over the last few days. They didn’t have much time to talk when they woke up that morning in Toronto, both groggy and rushed as they hustled to get to the airport in time. And with Jeremy staying with Patrick Sharp and Nick staying with Duncan, they haven’t had a chance to do anything more than send shy, nerve-wracking texts since.
Nick doesn’t have a lot of experience with morning afters via text.
“Earth to Leddy.”
Nick shakes his head. “Yeah? Sorry.”
“What’s with you man?”
Which is when Nick realizes that the car has stopped and not only has he not heard a single word that Duncs and Seabs have said the whole drive, but they’re here and that means that he’s really going to have to get his act together. “Nothing. I’m good.”
Seabs turns in his seat, but Nick is out of the car before they can say anything more. He can feel Seabs’ eyes in the back of his head and he takes the steps up the front walk two at a time, grinning at Abby Sharp as she greats him at the door.
“Nick Leddy.” He holds out his hand and grins at her, knowing that he’s giving her a false impression at how upbeat he is as a person, but he’s just so happy that she’s here to save him from his self-appointed defensive fathers. “This is from Duncan, Brent and I.”
She takes the bottle of wine and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Aren’t you just adorable. I’m Abby, Sharpie’s wife. It’s nice to meet you.” She winks at him and Nick blushes as he ducks inside, leaving her to hug and kiss Duncs and Seabs as if she hasn’t seen them all week.
The house is already pretty crowded. Training camp starts tomorrow, and Tazer had thought it would be good team bonding to get everyone together. Except, he still lives in a two-bedroom condo, so he happily volunteered Sharpie to host 40 plus angsty, antsy hockey players in his home. Nick’s heard all about it, since Seabs likes to gossip more than a group of prep-school girls.
“Hey, Leddy.” Nick looks over to see Kaner waving a beer at him, and he crosses the room gratefully. He’s okay with this, leaning against the wall, sipping his beer and watching Jeremy mingle across the room. He looks good, dressed in jeans and flip-flops and if the shirt is a little too baggy for his taste, Nick knows what’s going on under there so he doesn’t have a lot of trouble imagining it.
He takes a long drag of his beer and when he lowers the bottle, Jeremy is in front of him, smiling at him, cheeks red, and his head tilted to the man next to him. “I wanted you to meet Nick Leddy. He was my roommate at the rookie tournament. Nick, this is Patrick Sharp.”
Oh, this is Sharpie. Well. That hair, and the way Jeremy’s smiling at him, makes Nick want to push Jeremy against the wall and remind him of everything they went through in Toronto. Except, all he can do is shake Sharpie’s hand a lot harder than he would normally, and bite out, “Nice to meet you.”
Sharpie sort of frowns at him and Nick kicks himself. Whatever this is that’s going on between him and Jeremy, what he’s here for is to play hockey and, from what he’s heard, pissing on the Hawks’ alternate captain is not the best route to go.
“Welcome. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jeremy blushes even harder and Nick feels like an ass. “Yeah, yeah, me too. Seabs doesn’t really shut up about you.” And, fuck, that probably wasn’t the way to smooth things over.
Sharpie’s laughing, though, slapping his knee and grinning at Nick. “Ah, Seabs is never gonna hear the end of that one. Thank you, Nick. I owe you one.” He winks, before taking off and Nick is left standing with Jeremy. His stomach feels like it’s in his feet and he really shouldn’t be drinking.
“Hey.” Jeremy bites that lip and Nick comes back to himself, grinning and rolling his eyes.
“I just made a fool of myself.”
Jeremy shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’ve done it a few times in the last couple days.”
“Good.” Nick grins. “Rookie solidarity.” Jeremy’s face falls and Nick hates himself a little bit for putting that look there, but he really has to know before this goes any further. “Sharpie’s, um-“ He leans forward, his lips inches from Jeremy’s ear as he whispers, “attractive.”
Jeremy shivers and the way he looks at Nick chases any doubts from his mind. “No, no, I-”
Nick grins, taking a sip of his beer to calm himself. “Good. ‘Cause, you know, I’ve missed you.”
Jeremy glances around. “Not here,” he whispers before he takes off and Nick supposes that means he’s supposed to follow. He nods at a few of the players he vaguely knows, shaking a couple hands even though his own palm is sweaty with anticipation, before he finally comes out in an empty hallway.
“Hey,” Jeremy says again and this time Nick can cross to him and tip Jeremy’s chin down to kiss him. It’s too heavy for Sharpie’s hallway, tongues dueling and hands groping, and Nick’s hardening too fast, his hips thrusting against Jeremy’s thigh. Jeremy pulls away with a little moan and Nick pulls his hand out from under Jeremy’s shirt to cup his cheek.
“Sorry,” Nick whispers, “I’m sorry, that was-” He drops a quick, close-mouthed kiss on Jeremy’s lips. “I want you.” Nick drops his hand between them to cup Jeremy through his jeans.
“Fuck.” Jeremy closes his eyes. “We can’t.”
“I know.” Nick eyes the mess that he’s made of Jeremy’s clothes. He reaches out to smooth the front of Jeremy’s shirt, leaning up for a quick kiss. It’s ridiculous how much more he wants this now that he’s had a taste.
“There you are - oh.”
Before Nick has a chance to register that the voice isn’t coming from either of them, Jeremy pushes him away, his hands burning, and Nick stumbles back until his back hits the other wall and he holds himself upright against it. He looks at Jeremy, who looks flushed and angry and embarrassed and Nick follows his horrified eyes to the doorway. Sharpie.
“Fuck.” Nick looks back at Jeremy and his stomach drops as he realizes that Jeremy’s not going to say a single thing in this conversation, so Nick straightens his shirt and turns back to Sharpie. “This isn’t what you think.” Except Nick knows he’s a terrible liar, and if his face isn’t giving him away, the bulge in his pants certainly is. Especially since Sharpie is glancing right there with a raised eyebrow and a half-grin.
“I think it’s exactly what I think it is.”
And Nick’s always known that he’s not a guy to hide this. If he had just been upfront about it, he wouldn’t be here having this ridiculous conversation, exchanging cliché things like that, things that are only said in the free gay porn that he used to sneak-download on his dad’s computer when he was thirteen. He’s never wanted to hear them come out of his own mouth, and he grimaces. “Yeah, sorry.”
Sharpie laughs. “I like you, Leddy.”
“Um, thanks?” Nick tilts his head, not sure if he should really believe that getting caught wrapped up with another man is an endearing trait, but, he’s not going to question it. He glances over at Jeremy, wishing that his touch wouldn’t be so unwanted, ‘cause he wants to kiss him again and Jeremy’s looking so red that Nick’s sure he hasn’t taken a breath in minutes.
“Breath, Mo.” And thank god Sharpie notices, too, ‘cause Jeremy is likely to listen to him a lot more than he is to Nick at the moment.
Jeremy starts coughing, the air going down the long way and Sharpie steps over to him, patting him on the back. “Relax, kid. You’re gonna fit in here just fine.”
***
Nick honestly figures that that is going to be it. Jeremy has always been clear about how uncomfortable he is with his sexuality, and at the first opportunity, Nick manages to get them caught in their captain’s hallway the night before training camp. Even Nick can admit that it could have been bad. Disastrous, even. And the fact that Patrick Sharp is the apparent poster-child for the Blackhawks’ gay-straight alliance doesn’t really ease the pit that has developed in his stomach.
Nick, apparently, is as bad at not-telling as he is at lying and, perhaps, he’d be better off if he just gave up on relationships for the next twenty years or so. He’s always enjoyed his right hand and, well, if he keeps playing hockey the way he has been, it might just be satisfying enough.
They’re nine days and two games into camp, and both he and Jeremy are playing brilliantly. Nick tries to keep his head out of the media, but he knows that headlines like “Leddy, Morin forcing Hawks to make tough decision” are floating around nhl.com. It’s hard to ignore them all, when, after every practice, the media sticks a microphone in front of him and asks him questions.
“Are you going to turn pro?”
“Will the University of Minnesota miss you next year?”
“You turned down the US National Development team to finish up your high school years at Eden Prairie. Will you do the same now?”
Nick doesn’t know how to answer any of them. Truthfully, he had been assuming all along that the Hawks organization, like the Minnesota Wild before, would want him to spend another couple years at Minnesota. He’s never really considered going pro. He’s never had any reason to, until now.
“What do you think of going pro?” Nick asks as he settles into the chair in Duncan’s living room. Seabs is there, playing video games on the couch. Nick doesn’t know where Duncs is.
Seabs pauses the game. “I went the Juniors route, so there wasn’t any question for me.”
“Yeah.” Nick sighs, tilting his head back in the chair and staring at the ceiling.
“Duncs played two years at Michigan State.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s a really personal decision. You’re a good kid. You can’t go wrong.”
His parents aren’t a lot more help when they finally have a three day stretch between games and he has time to set his computer up on the desk in Duncan’s guestroom and skype them.
“Hey.”
“We’re so proud of you.” His mother’s been telling him that since he was six-years old, and she’s started every conversation with it since he left home. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that saying it so often makes it lose some of its meaning.
“Thanks.” Nick rubs his forehead. “Did you read the article this morning?”
“It’s not good to lose your head in the media. They’re fickle.” His dad this time, and his dad’s as bad a liar as he is.
“Did you read it?”
“Ahh,” his parents glance at each other, before they both nod.
Nick groans. “Maybe I should go pro.”
“I thought you wanted to spend another couple years at Minnesota.”
“I did.” Nick shrugs. “I do.”
“You like your teammates.”
“I know. But-” Nick swallows. “The guys here are good guys, too. I’m fitting in pretty well.”
“Nick, is this about a boy?”
Nick rolls his eyes. “No, mom, this isn’t about a boy.”
She holds up her hands in defense. “Okay, okay.”
Nick feels his phone buzz and he glances down, his heart dropping a little when he sees that the text’s from Sharpie. He feels a little bad, ‘cause maybe his mother isn’t wrong. Jeremy hasn’t done more than send him one text, not only ur fault, I wanted 2, which sounds sort of promising, except that it had only come after seventeen iterations of im sorry from Nick. Nick’s spent the 72 hours after receiving it obsessing over the past tense in wanted and hoping for another one.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay. Be safe. We miss you.”
Nick promises to call them more often and closes his computer. Sharpie’s text says something about shopping and picking him up in fifteen minutes, so he rushes to throw on some clothes and run down the stairs.
Nick’s pretty sure that this is a set up, Sharpie playing matchmaker even though he doesn’t really know Nick or Jeremy that well yet. It had been just a bit too convenient, when the conversation about Tazer’s Chicago Magazine photo shoot had let to quips about how bad a dresser Kaner is and had culminated in Sharpie mentioning that, on separate occasions, he’d heard both Jeremy and Nick mention that they haven’t had a chance to explore Michigan Ave yet.
Sharpie had had this gleam in his eye when everyone had agreed to this little shopping expedition on their off day, and Nick hadn’t been able to back out. Not that he had wanted to. An afternoon with Jeremy is a desirable proposition, even if Jeremy is furious with him.
When Sharpie drives up, Nick climbs into the back without even thinking about it and it takes him a minute or so to realize that Kaner’s in the front seat and Jeremy’s in the back, staring at his hands, cheeks flushed as he’s stealing little glances in Nick’s direction.
Definitely a setup.
When they get out of the car and meet up with Tazer, who’s decided that he needs to serve as chaperone for this little expedition, Jeremy sort of hangs back to walk next to Nick and Nick has the insane urge to reach over and take his hand. Maybe Nick has a chance after all.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing that it’s not enough, but it’s all he has.
Jeremy shrugs. He doesn’t say anything, but when they duck into the biggest Levi store Nick’s ever seen, Jeremy helps him find a couple pairs in his size. He comes out of the dressing room in a pair that has to be too tight, except this is Chicago, and maybe guys wear their jeans differently here, ‘cause Sharpie whistles and makes him spin around.
It’s terribly embarrassing as Nick holds the bottom of his shirt in his hand so that they can get the full effect, so that there’s a sliver of skin showing between the jeans and his hands and he knows that he changes in a locker room every day with these guys, but this is different. Except, Jeremy’s staring at him, eyes wide, jaw-dropped, every clichéd sign that shouts I want you and the things are a ridiculous $329 but he buys them anyway.
Their last stop is a suit shop. A specialty men’s tailor shop and Nick stops checking the prices when the first one hits more digits than he can count to. It doesn’t even seem worth looking, but Kaner’s in the dressing room so Nick finds a mirror and tries on a ‘20s-style, pin-striped gangster hat.
“Looks good on you.”
The hat falls off his head when he whips his chin up fast enough to catch Jeremy glancing at him in the mirror. Nick puts it back on, turning his hip a little and trying to look gangsta or something. “It’s ridiculous.”
Jeremy laughs, nodding. “Yeah.” He blushes. “Dashing, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jeremy glances down, his fingers playing with the shopping bag in his hand. “Look, um, I’m not gonna pretend that what happened at Sharpie’s wasn’t the most terrifying moment of my life.”
“I know.” Nick swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said.” Nick flinches, but Jeremy softens his words with a smile as he looks up. Finally. “But I had a talk with Sharpie and he convinced me that I was being a bit of an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“Asshole.” But it’s affectionate and Nick can’t stop grinning as Jeremy plows ahead. “No more making out in public, okay?”
Nick nods, ‘cause, at this point, he’s pretty sure he’d agree to anything Jeremy asks of him.
“Good.”
Nick wants to kiss him, but that would break the rule already, and he’s done being a fuck up, for the moment at least. Instead, he nods his head towards the dressing rooms, and Jeremy falls into step beside him. They get back just in time to catch Kaner standing in front of a mirror in the worst all-white suit that Nick has ever seen.
“But, it’s cool.” Kaner whines, turning around to look at the suit from the side. He juts his hip and Nick has to smother his laugh in his hand.
Tazer doesn’t bother, laughing and shaking his head. “It’s really not.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone wears these, asshole. They’re in.”
“I promise, they’re not.”
“Tazer-“
“When have I lied to you?”
Kaner frowns. “All the time.”
“About fashion?”
“What do you know about fashion? You wear Team Canada shirts every day, fucker.”
Tazer shrugs. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re wrong.” Kaner turns in the mirror again. “I swear this is cool.”
“In Miami, maybe.”
Kaner sighs. “We should live in Miami. Why don’t we live in Miami?”
Tazer raises an eyebrow at him. “’Cause we play hockey. Here.”
“Right.” Kaner’s shoulders slump and he looks sad and dejected and, even though Nick is still laughing, he notices that Tazer’s expression has softened.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“When we retire, okay? Miami’s going on the list.” It’s said with so much affection, so much conviction, that Nick really doesn’t think that Tazer was using the royal we there and Nick wonders how many people on this team are gay for each other. Maybe he and Jeremy really will fit in fine, just like Sharpie promised.
***
By the end of training camp, Nick is really starting to feel like part of the team.
He’s decided to go pro. He’s telling the media it’s because he’s had a long talk with his parents, his agent, and the youth coaches that he still trusts. He says it’s because Soupy is hurt and there’s a good chance that he will at least start the year in Chicago, and, if not, there’s a lot he can learn in Rockford. He definitely does not say that he made the decision the minute Jeremy looked at him in that Levi store.
Things with Jeremy are going pretty well, too. It’s still hard, since neither of them have their own place, but they’re roommates on the road and they’ve used the time for quick handjobs to blow off steam after games. In the locker room, too, Jeremy’s warmed up and they’ve become practically inseparable off the ice.
More often than not, they warm up with a game of soccer before games and practices, and if their soccer is filled with more laughter and wrestling than soccer usually is, no one mentions it. That’s where they are today, Jeremy with the ball trapped between his feet and Nick practically plastered to his back in an attempt to steal it away, when
Tazer clears his throat and they both look up.
“Coach Q wants to see you, Mo.”
Jeremy doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t say anything. They’ve known this was coming, one way or the other, and the little look Tazer throws Nick’s way before following after Jeremy isn’t very comforting.
Nick waits. He dribbles the ball. He throws it against the wall until his arms are tired. He stretches until his thighs protest the pull. He goes back to dribbling again.
Conversations with Coach Q never take this long, although Nick doesn’t wear a watch and his phone is back in the locker room. It crosses his mind that maybe Jeremy doesn’t know that he’s still here, waiting like an idiot, and he’s just decided to go back and get his phone when Jeremy finds him.
He doesn’t have to say anything. Nick can read every line on his face and he doesn’t know what to say. Jeremy was supposed to be sent to Rockford before they ever played a preseason game. He was supposed to be a distant prospect. They both were, actually, but they’ve played well, Jeremy even brilliantly. But, Nick has the advantages of being a defenseman and of having a much smaller salary hit than Jeremy does.
They should have talked about this, before, because now Nick doesn’t know what to do. After two shaky starts, they’ve had less than a week to feel things out and Nick knows that Jeremy’s been happy, that they’ve had fun, but that’s it. They’ve never had that conversation, about where they stand, how they feel, what they want, and Nick can’t very well ask Jeremy to wait for him now, to wait the six or so weeks until Soupy heals, when Jeremy looks devastated and one more thing might just serve to push him over.
“Rockford?” Nick asks, finally, ‘cause the silence is killing him and Jeremy bites his lip, nods.
“Yeah. It’ll, um,” he kicks at the ball with his left foot. “It’ll be good. Coach Q says that they like how I play, that they’ll be watching me. Rockford is good.”
“It is.”
“You’re staying here.”
Nick doesn’t know Jeremy well enough yet to know if it’s an accusation or if it’s jealousy or if it’s something else, the beginnings of what they’ve been trying to built since they met in June. The only thing he knows is that it’s true, all of it, and Nick wraps his fingers around Jeremy’s wrist and pulls him into the closest supply closet.
“I’ll probably be in Rockford in a few weeks.”
“Don’t say that. You’re good, Nick.”
“So are you.” Jeremy shrugs and Nick tilts his chin up. “You are.” He leans forward and kisses him. He uses a lot of tongue, mapping Jeremy’s map as he pulls his hips close and aligns their cocks. They’re both wearing two layers of clothing, but they’re young and horny and neither really cares. Jeremy turns them, pressing Nick against the door and moving against him, hard, painful movements and Nick’s hips jerk, hard and fast, and they both come with a groan, shooting hard and wet in their shorts.
Nick laughs, kissing Jeremy’s ear ‘cause, if nothing else, no one else has ever made him feel like the teenager that he still is. Jeremy grins, kissing him again, slipping his hand under Nick’s t-shirt and resting his palm against the damp crease in the small of Nick’s back. Nick sighs, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’m going to miss this.” It doesn’t mean anything more than just this, the kissing and the getting off. It doesn’t promise anything more, but Jeremy smiles at him anyway.
“Me too.”
Part IV
Author: speakingwosound
Pairing: Nick Leddy/Jeremy Morin
Rating: NC-17
Words: 24, 500
Summary: Nick Leddy is gay. He’s also on the brink of making it to the NHL. He thinks he’s reconciled these things. Until he meets Jeremy Morin.
Disclaimer: Not real, sadly.
A/N: Takes place between Rookie Development Camp in June and World Junior Champions in January. I’ve kept it mostly accurate, although I’ve fudged a bit on the types of players that show up at Rookie Development Camp. Just go with me for that, yeah?
Part One. Rookie Development Camp. July 17, 2010. Chicago, IL.
Nick Leddy has a bruise on his left thigh. Right where the padding in his pants meets his jock-strap, and he knows how sketchy it looks that he keeps rubbing himself there, but it’s turning purple and it hurts like hell and if he applies pressure right there then it hurts a little less.
There are really too many people in here right now for anyone to take notice of him, anyway. They’ve opened the door between Kyle Beach’s room and Jake Dowell’s, so in theory there are two rooms. Except, Dowell’s rooming with Corey Crawford, and Crow’s a goalie and weird and stuff, so he goes to bed at 9 and is huddled under the covers in the bed closest to the wall, doing a good imitation of tuning them out. Most of the boys feel guilty enough to leave things be and avoid the room. The Nintendo is in Beach’s room anyway, so no one’s complaining. Which leaves 18+ nineteen to twenty year-old-boys crammed into one room at the Chicago Marriott, a quite nice hotel when it doesn’t smell like beer and sweat and teenager.
The whole idea of rookie camp is a little strange to Nick. It’s July, early July, so it’s blisteringly hot and humid and most of the Blackhawks organization is traipsing around the world with the Cup. Still, they amble over to Johnny’s IceHouse everyday and compete as if the whole world is watching. Which is weird, ‘cause this is training camp for fuck’s sake, rookie training camp, and no one’s supposed to care about this.
Except, well, the fans have been reinvigorated by the first Stanley Cup won in forty-nine years and Nick figures that if three million people went to the parade, at least half of them tried to cram into the bleachers at Johnny’s today to watch a bunch of kids fight to take one of the eleven spots opened due to salary cap restrictions on a team salivating to repeat for the first time in Hawks history.
Nick thrives on the nerves and the excitement, but even he thinks it’s a little bit much, as he presses down on the bruise on his thigh and teethes his lip to bite back a hiss. At least he doesn’t have a black eye, like Beach does after his fight with Kurtz. Scrimmage is supposed to be fun, where they can show off and deke at times when they never could in a game, but any fan would be forgiven if he thought that the Stanley Cup was theirs to win or lose on the ice this afternoon. And, Nick can’t lie, he got into it. He’s a competitive guy, and the nerves and the emotions got to him.
Or maybe he just needs to get laid.
He presses on his thigh again and there’s a tap on his shoulder and he jumps, blushing, and tares his hand away as he looks up to see his old friend Nick Mattson grinning at him. Asshole.
“Having fun?”
“Bruise,” Nick mumbles, but there’s some screaming from the vicinity of the TV and he assumes that Matts doesn’t hear him. “I said-”
Matts shakes his head, waving at the TV, and motions for Nick to follow him into the other room. Nick sighs, groaning when he puts weight on his leg, and hobbles a little pathetically into the next room, where it’s amazingly quiet and calm in comparison. Except that Crawford’s trying to sleep and Nick feels a little bad about that.
“Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, let him sleep?”
“What?” Matts follows his gaze and shrugs his shoulders. “Crow? He can sleep through anything.”
“Um-” Nick feels weird and a little bit voyeuristic being in here, just Matts and Crow and another guy sitting on the unoccupied bed, but Matts just takes his elbow and leads him over.
“There’s someone you should meet. Nick, this is Jeremy Morin.” He motions to the guy on the bed, who looks really familiar and he knows they’ve played together on US junior teams, but he’s never actually been introduced to the kid.
Nick holds out his hand. “Nick Leddy.”
“I know. Matts has told me a lot about you.” The kid shakes his hand and it’s strong and a little big clammy. “Jeremy, by the way.”
Matts claps them both on the back. “Sit. Chat. You’ll be fast friends. Promise.” Matts winks at Nick as he leaves, and Nick groans, but there’s nothing he can really do about it with this kid staring at him with big, wide raccoon eyes and Nick settles on the bed next to him, flinching as his thigh hits the mattress a little hard.
“Fuck.”
The kid glances down at his thigh. “I saw you do that. Nice shot block.”
“Thanks.” Nick shifts. “Hurts like a mother fucker.”
“I bet.” The kid - Jeremy - grins and it’s wide and shows all his teeth and fuck if Matts wasn’t right after all.
“So, how do you know Matts?”
“Under-18 team. They made us roommates. Hated him ‘til he moved out, but then we became good friends. You?”
Nick shrugs. “We go way back. One time, we must have been fourteen, fifteen years old, we were roommates at a tournament up in Winnipeg. He got me to help him put whip cream mustaches on everyone. I figured I was safe, having helped him and all, and I got halfway through breakfast before Coach pointed it out to me.”
Jeremy laughs. It’s light and easy and conspiratorial and Nick smiles at him, settling into the mattress. “Terrible roommate.”
“Who you rooming with here?”
Jeremy waves towards the other room. “Makarov. Beach is teaching him Mario Kart.”
Nick laughs. “He’s good.”
“I know.” Jeremy glances around, as if making sure that there’s no one here with them, except Crow, and apparently the goalie really can sleep through anything. “You think you have a chance to make it?”
Nick shrugs and they’re sitting close enough that their shoulders brush. “Maybe. There’re some good guys here.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy frowns and Nick bumps his shoulder. He thinks he’d do almost anything to make the kid smile again. Fuck Matts.
“You’re scrappy. Coaches like that.”
Jeremy blushes. “I get angry sometimes.” He pouts his lips and Nick chuckles, forgetting about his thigh and bending his knee, swearing.
“You should put some ice on that.”
“I’m fine.”
Jeremy shakes his head and gets up. Nick watches him as he bends to reach the small fridge/freezer combo set up in the corner. It’s not strictly legal to have one in a hotel room, but they’re hockey players and ice packs are part of the package, so he’s not surprised when Jeremy climbs back on the bed, holding up the pack triumphantly.
Nick reaches for it, but Jeremy isn’t paying any attention to him, focused on the ice pack and pressing it against Nick’s thigh. Nick closes his eyes, focusing on the cold seeping through the very thin layer of his pants, and not on how much he’d like it if Jeremy’s hand slipped just a couple inches higher.
“Um, sorry.” Nick opens his eyes to see Jeremy peering up at him, biting his lip. Nick drops his hand to hold the ice in place, and Jeremy scoots back on the bed, his face red. “Keep that on for twenty minutes.”
Nick rolls his eyes, grinning. “I know. How many of these do you think I’ve had?”
“Lots?”
“Yep.” Nick shifts so that their shoulders are touching again. It’s stupid and it’s dangerous, but he doesn’t really care when Jeremy seems to settle down again at the contact.
“So, who’d you play for last year?”
“University of Minnesota. I’m from there.”
“Really?” Jeremy grins and practically starts bouncing. Nick raises an eyebrow at him.
“Um, yes?”
“Sorry.” He settles back against the pillows, but he’s still grinning. “I’ve always loved Minnesota.”
“Why?” Nick knows he sounds incredulous, but he racks his brain and can’t think of anything that would make someone want to grow up in his hometown.
Jeremy shrugs. “I love snow.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jeremy bites his lip but Nick doesn’t back down and, eventually, Jeremy sighs. “Fine.” He bites his lip, dropping his head and speaking quickly. “I like The Mighty Ducks.”
Nick laughs. Real, true, from his belly laughs.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m sorry, I-” Nick tries to get his breathe back, but really can’t stop laughing. “It’s just - that’s ridiculous.”
“Fuck you.”
Nick sucks in a breath, holding his chest as it aches from laughing. “Sorry.” He grins. “That’s adorable. It really is.”
Jeremy shoves him and crosses his arms. “Everyone loves The Mighty Ducks.”
“Sure.”
“They do.”
“I believe you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you have any other insults?”
“Yes.” Jeremy frowns. “I just can’t think of any right now.”
Nick laughs again, twisting his leg and his thigh feels numb and damp. He lifts off the ice pack. “I think it’s been twenty minutes.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy glances at the clock. It’s late, much later than they should be up since they have to skate again in the morning. “It seems to be getting quieter in there.”
Nick realizes that he hasn’t thought about the other room for a while now and, tilting his head, he doesn’t hear much going on in there. “Guess we better get to bed, huh?”
Jeremy shrugs. “I guess.” He reaches over and takes the ice pack from Nick’s hand, hopping up to drop it in the bathroom sink. It’s a nice gesture and, suddenly, Nick needs to leave right now.
“It was really nice to meet you, yeah?” Jeremy’s grinning at him, holding out his hand, and it’s somehow old-fashioned and gentlemanly and Nick’s chest aches.
“Yeah, yeah, it was.”
“Okay. Good night.” Jeremy smiles and waves and slips into his room back-first so that he can grin at Nick until the door closes.
Nick is so screwed.
Part II. Rookie Tournament. September 11-14, 2010. Toronto, On.
“How was your flight?”
Nick looks up with his sock halfway on his foot. “Fine. You?”
Jeremy shrugs. He looks great, tan and toned and he did some nice work on his arms in the two months between rookie development camp and the rookie tournament. “I drove.”
“Right. How far’s Syracuse from here?”
“Five hours. If you drive slow.” Jeremy takes the stall next to him and starts pulling out clothes. “I don’t drive slow.”
It sounds reckless, dangerous, the way he says it and Nick laughs. “I’m sure.”
“You don’t believe me.” He’s pouting now, biting that lip, and text messages really do not do Jeremy Morin justice.
“Not really,” Nick admits and Jeremy hits him with an elbow pad. “Hey, watch it with the violence.”
“Whatever.” Jeremy slips on an Under Armor shirt. “You can take it.”
Nick snorts.
Jeremy rolls his eyes and pulls out his stick to start taping it. “I asked for us to room together.”
Nick shouldn’t be surprised. They’re friends, after all. Good friends, if four days at rookie camp and a summer of texting count as the beginnings of a friendship.
“I hope that’s okay.” Jeremy looks inexplicably nervous, and Nick kicks himself.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s great.” Nick shakes his head. He’d be lying if he says that he hasn’t been waiting for this moment all week, this moment where they’re in the same room again and he can look at Jeremy instead of imagining his expressions, and he grins. “It’s gonna be awesome.”
***
Nick has known what he’s wanted for a long time. When he was eight, one of the boys on his peewee hockey team had stolen an issue of Playboy and while the other boys had crowded around to ‘ohh’ and ‘ahh’ and make derogatory faces, all Nick had wanted to know is why their boobs looked so big.
When he was ten, he had invited the new neighbor kid over to play video games. His mom had made them hot cocoa with little marshmallows, and everything had been going well until the kid - his name was Matt, if Nick remembers correctly - had taken one look at the collage on his bedroom wall and asked why it was made up of X-Men and Nick Lidstrom posters.
“That’s what I’m in to.” Nick had said, and he had been naïve enough to point out Spiderman’s package. “Isn’t that cool? I want one like that someday.”
“Fag.” Matt had thrown the controller at him and his mother had come to pick him up while Nick spent five hours in the emergency room getting three stitches in his left eyebrow where the controller had hit just right and cut the skin. His mother had explained fag in the nice way that mothers have of sugar coating nasty words for their young children, and Nick had walked away thinking it was a nice word for boys who like comic books and hockey players a whole lot more than they like string bikinis and pig-tails.
He didn’t think about it again, until the first night he got drunk. It was a chilly December evening in Minnesota, but the high school hockey team had a reputation for throwing the best beer bashes in the state, and Nick really never thought of it as hazing until years later. It had stopped feeling cold, anyway, by the time one of the older boys had pulled him out back and given him a handjob that left him feeling raw and chapped and better than he had ever felt in his life.
His mother had woken him up the next morning, three hours after he had stumbled in and fallen into bed. “I think I’m still drunk,” was the first thing he had said to her.
She had given him that look, the one that told him she was once a teenager, too, and that Nick could never do anything that would surprise her. “I know.” She had pulled back the covers and swatted at his hip to get him out of bed. “Go take a shower. I’m going to wash these.”
“I’m too tired to practice.”
“I don’t care.”
Nick had sighed, but there was never any point in arguing with her, so he had gotten as far as sitting at the edge of the bed, his feet barely touching the floor yet and his head spinning. “Also, I think I’m gay.”
“I know.” She hadn’t missed a beat, continuing to gather up his sheets and shoo him towards the bathroom.
“Okay.” Nick had said and that had been that.
Nick knows that he had gotten off easy. Coming out is usually the hardest thing in a young man’s life, but Nick has never had to tell anyone. His mother, when later pressed, had admitted that she’d known since he was three years old. His high school boyfriend had come on to him, and the boys he fooled around with at the University at Minnesota had just sort of fallen into bed with him.
Jeremy Morin is different.
There’s this thing they’ve developed, this best friend thing that Nick’s never had before. He’s either been beat up, fucked, or just sort of ignored. He’s never had a best friend who jokes around with him in the locker room and then walks around in his boxer briefs in their hotel room, as if maybe Jeremy doesn’t know about Nick, as if he doesn’t have the faintest clue that his best friend isn’t entirely straight.
It makes Nick feel dirty. When he comes back to the hotel after a long day of practice and weight training and a game, and falls into the shower with his hand on his dick and Jeremy in his mind, all skin and muscle stretching out from those boxer briefs as if he’s everything Nick’s ever wanted. And, maybe, he is, it’s just, well, Nick’s never been a professional hockey player before, either.
Professional hockey players, Nick’s been warned, are not gay.
Not openly, at least. He had wondered, often, at University if this idea of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ was just a rouse to get him on his knees in some dark storage room, but no one is out in the NHL. Nick had done a google search. And Nick just doesn’t quite know what to do with himself in a league that treats his homosexuality like a particularly nasty plaque that must be squashed out and, when that doesn’t quite work, locked up behind closed doors. Ignored.
Coaches turn a blind eye, he’s been told. Other players won’t hit you harder unless you act particularly gay. Unless you say something, do something, inappropriate. Or unless you come across Chris Pronger or Sean Avery, but they’re all-around assholes and Nick has some ideas about why they feel the need to hit other guys so hard.
Nick knows he should keep his mouth shut. He’s never wanted something as much as he wants to play in the NHL, and if that means keeping his mouth shut, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he can do it. For a little while at least. Until Matts had had the gal to introduce him to Jeremy fucking Morin, that is.
Nick is a terrible liar. He’s never been good at it. His mother has always told him that he has the world’s worst poker face, and the best refuge for it is to just tell the truth, ‘cause it always comes out eventually. Jeremy is fast becoming his best friend, and Nick just isn’t comfortable lying about that.
It doesn’t help that he’s had a lot to drink tonight. Their last game ended hours ago, and they’re in Toronto, where the drinking age is nineteen, so the entire Blackhawks rookie team has staked out spots in one of Toronto’s flashiest clubs. It’s loud, the music setting a rhythm in the floorboards, and half the team is on the dance floor dancing as only teenage hockey players can dance.
Nick is content to lean back against the cushions and listen with one ear as Beach reenacts the hit he made in the game earlier. His shoulder is pressed into Jeremy’s. Jeremy, who is leaning back against the cushions and drinking something that is pink and orange and he says reminds him of sunsets in Hawaii, as if he’d rather be in Hawaii than Toronto, which Nick knows is a bald-faced lie but he smiles anyway and allows Jeremy to have this one. ‘Cause Jeremy looks adorable, his eyes shining with the alcohol, his cheeks red and his lips pressed together as he peers at Nick.
Nick shifts, feeling a shiver of warmth slip down his spine. “What?”
Jeremy tilts his head, as if contemplating for a moment, before smiling. “Wanna dance?”
“I’m not very good.” Nick warns.
“I don’t care.”
Jeremy’s palm is clammy, rough from his hockey gloves and still smelling a little like months of built-up sweat, as he pulls at Nick and drags him to the center of the dance floor. Nick knows that this is something he should be good at, as a proud member of the gay community or whatever, but his muscles have always seemed built for hockey rather than dancing. When he moves his arms it sort of looks like he’s trying to crosscheck Jeremy and his legs are braced shoulder-length apart as if he might try to hit someone at any minute.
Jeremy, the asshole, is a natural, swaying his hips and leaning in close to scream in Nick’s ear over the noise. “You’re terrible.”
“I told you,” Nick screams back, but Jeremy just shakes his head and rests his hands on Nick’s hips.
“Let me,” he says into Nick’s ear and it’s a puff of hot air that lingers against the shell of his ear, a tiny laugh that grounds Nick enough to not go completely hard right there. Which would be a problem, ‘cause Jeremy is staring down, looking at his hands as they move Nick’s hips to make them sway in time with the music and Nick feels Jeremy’s heartbeat in his fingertips where they brush against the skin above Nick’s low-riding pants and Nick can’t tell where the bass beat ends and Jeremy’s heartbeat begins and his own heart pounds to keep rhythm with both.
“See?” Nick looks up to see Jeremy grinning at him. “You just needed a little help.”
Nick can’t breath. There isn’t enough oxygen going to his head and if he doesn’t do something he’s just going to fall over and Jeremy’s going to have to catch him and he’s going to feel his hardness and that is exactly the way Nick doesn’t want him to find out.
“Come with me.” Nick doesn’t lean forward to shout in Jeremy’s ear, doesn’t think he’d be able to stay standing if he did, so Jeremy is left to read his lips and he frowns. Nick shakes his head, pointing up, to the lights and the music, and he wraps his fingers around Jeremy’s and tugs. Nick pulls him bodily through the press of bodies until they’re in a hallway that’s at least a little darker and empty, except for the giggling, drunken couples that keep pushing past, and Nick thinks how much easier this would all be if he could be one of those couples, but he cares about Jeremy and that’s all that really matters.
Another couple comes rushing past, and Nick is pushed so that he’s pressing Jeremy tight against the wall and willing his dick to remember that they’re best friends despite this position they’re in right now. “Sorry,” he whispers.
Jeremy does that thing again, the thing where he bites his lip and Nick is momentarily distracted as his eyes are drawn to the spot. Until Jeremy raises a hand to his ear and pulls on it gently to get his attention. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, I-” Jeremy looks worried and Nick feels terrible, ‘cause they really should have had this conversation that first night and Nick suddenly has the terrifying feeling that maybe it’s too late. “Um, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“I should have told you months ago. I’m sorry.”
“Nick.” Jeremy’s voice is calm, too calm for the situation and the number of girly drinks he’s had this evening, and Nick swallows.
“I’m gay.” He’s never said it before, not to someone who doesn’t already know, and he doesn’t know any other way to say it.
“Oh.” Jeremy goes still. The bass beat thrumming through them feeling weird and off-kilter as Jeremy’s body fights against it and Nick feels like he might just fall again. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna kill Matts.”
There were many things Nick was expecting, hundreds of possible scenarios culled from other experiences he’s been told about and all the “Coming Out” columns he read as a teenager in The Advocate, but that wasn’t one of them. His own body feels limp with surprise, uncertainty, and he doesn’t know what to do, so when Jeremy pushes him back and slips under his arm, Nick follows his lead and lets him go.
He knows it was the wrong call the minute he does it. Knows he should have followed him, made sure he’s alright, ‘cause they’re in a strange city and Nick knows that Jeremy’s had more to drink than Nick has and Nick has a hard time remembering the name of the hotel as he stumbles into a cab.
Their room is a mess. Four days of being too tired to do anything more than fall into bed and fight for control of the remote has left little time for cleaning, and Nick’s is suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of stale sweat and he stumbles to the window to throw it open. There’s a little balcony out there, and he collapses into the chair, pulling his phone out and dialing Jeremy’s number. Again.
“Look, Jeremy, I know why you don’t want to talk to me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. Or, not that way or something. But, I didn’t know what else to do and - shit, I’m sorry, okay. If you never want to talk to me again, that’s fine, just, text me and tell me you’re not in a ditch somewhere. Please.”
He’s left at least eight of the same messages in varying degrees of self-recrimination, and he knows it’s futile. He knows that if Jeremy were willing to talk to him, he’d have contacted him already. He’s even resorted to leaving his phone number in case Jeremy somehow lost it between the thousands of texts they’ve sent all summer and an hour ago.
The worst part is, he knows this is his fault. If he would just keep his mouth shut, if he had subscribed to ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ everything would be fine. He’d probably be in the shower by now, fantasizing about his best friend while said best friend was passed out on the bed, where Nick could watch him and know that he’s safe. It terrifies him, that the next call he could get could be from the Toronto Police Department or, worse, from the hospital, some nurse telling him that he got his number from Jeremy’s phone and could he please come down immediately.
Nick’s chest hurts. He’s been naïve, so naïve, and everyone’s warned him but he just couldn’t bring himself to listen and now Jeremy might be paying the price. This is one of those turning points, one of those times where he feels out-of-body, as if he might never fit inside his own skin again. It’s terrifying and Toronto in September is warm, but he shivers and crosses his arms across his chest as if, just maybe, if he holds hard enough, he might be able to keep himself in.
***
The door opens. It could be hours, minutes later and Nick wouldn’t know except that the sun is just starting to peak over the Toronto skyline and Nick is out of his chair, barreling across the room and engulfing Jeremy in a hug that takes Jeremy off his feet.
“Breathing.” Jeremy ekes out. “Breathing, good.”
Nick drops him, stepping away and leaving Jeremy to steady himself against the door as he closes it again. Nick shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re all right. I-” he swallows, “I thought you might be dead and that I’d have to go ID your body and I couldn’t bear that and, well, you’re here and you have all your limbs so, I’m going to get out of your way.” He says it all in one breath and he doesn’t look up until Jeremy stops him with a hand on his chest as he tries to scoot past him and out the door.
“You’ve watched way too many episodes of CSI.” Jeremy says, and even without looking Nick can tell that he’s smiling.
But, no, that can’t be right. Jeremy can’t be smiling. He can be hurt or he can be very, very angry and those are the only options Nick could come up with in the hours sitting out on the balcony. Jeremy seems to be very good at rattling Nick’s assumptions, and the question vomits out of Nick’s mouth before he can stop it. “You’re smiling. You were wandering around a strange city all night, and I thought you were raped or murdered or, or - I thought you were dead and I left you fifteen messages, and you’re smiling.”
Nick would have thought that he’d have learned to think before he speaks after tonight, but, apparently not, and Jeremy isn’t smiling anymore as he pushes back from the door and sits on his bed, toeing off his shoes and refusing to look at Nick. “I’m fine. I just needed some time to think. And I know this city. I grew up a few hours away and I’ve been here hundreds of times. Remember?”
“I’d forgotten that.” Nick feels foolish, but Jeremy doesn’t seem to be either running away or punching him, and Nick is exhausted, so he sits down on the other bed. “I’m really sorry I told you.”
Jeremy sighs, running a hand through his hair and finally, finally looking at Nick. “No, you shouldn’t be. I’m glad you told me. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. It wasn’t fair.”
Nick shrugs. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Would you shut up for a minute?” Jeremy shakes his head, but he’s wearing a half-amused smile and Nick nods, his eyes wide. “Good.” Jeremy shuffles his feet. “It wasn’t fair of me to react that way, ‘cause I’ve kinda suspected all along that Matts was playing a joke on us.”
Nick frowns. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with Matts?”
Jeremy clears his throat. “Matts is the only one in the world who knows that I’m gay.”
“What?” Nick is stupefied, bewildered, and the last two and a half months shift and refocus and, when they’re done, they look utterly different than they had five minutes ago. Nick’s jaw drops. “Matts was setting us up?”
Jeremy shrugs. “I suspected so, but I never asked, ‘cause, well, I didn’t want to know.” Nick frowns and Jeremy runs a hand through his hair again, and it’s beginning to take on the wild, just-got-done-with-a-nap look that makes Nick’s heart ache. “I’ve never told anyone. Matts only knew ‘cause he walked in on me in juniors. I’ve always been told that you can’t be gay and play hockey and I love hockey so-” Jeremy drops his head into his hands and peers up at Nick through his eyelashes and he looks so utterly terrified that Nick wants to drop to the floor and close the space between them, but he doesn’t dare.
“I never thought that it was worth it, you know? I’ve never met anyone worth the risk, and Matts always said that I would, someday. But not now. And, fuck,” Jeremy chuckles brokenly and Nick’s eyes slide shut at the sound, “Matts was right and fuck him.”
Nick doesn’t know what to say, but he hasn’t been able to get Jeremy out of his mind for weeks and, “I was so scared. Last night, when I thought you were gone, I was so scared.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy whispers. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I can do this.”
Nick slips from the bed, closing the distance between them and bracketing Jeremy’s face with his hands. “I’m going to kiss you right now,” which is sort of a foregone conclusion, but Nick doesn’t want to scare him away as he leans forward and their lips touch.
It’s feather-light, barely a touch, and Nick holds there until he can’t breath anymore and he has to pull away. Jeremy’s eyes slip open, and they’re large and blue and he nods and Nick pushes Jeremy’s knees apart gently so that he can rest between them. This time, he lets his hands go to the back of Jeremy’s head as he pulls him down. He parts his lips gently, licking across Jeremy’s and asking for entrance, worrying away at that little spot Jeremy’s always biting until Jeremy is groaning and his hips are thrusting off the bed, short, truncated little ruts against Nick’s chest and Nick wants more.
He gets up off the floor slowly, not breaking the kiss as his hands drop to Jeremy’s hips and urge him to move back. He pulls away just long enough to lie on his side against the pillows and pull Jeremy to him, kissing him again. He drops a hand to Jeremy’s waistband, slipping under his shirt and resting against his lower back, urging his hips forward in a rhythm that knocks their clothed erections together and they both moan.
Jeremy tries to snake his hand between their bodies, but they’re pressed too tightly together and he grunts in frustration, fingernails digging into Nick’s hips and scratching at the cloth. “Please,” he whispers, throaty and hoarse and Nick chuckles.
“Demanding,” he whispers, biting Jeremy’s lip in just that spot and Jeremy groans.
“Fuck you.”
“Mmm.” Nick urges Jeremy up just enough to scoot his pants and boxers down to his knees. Jeremy settles back on the bed and moves his mouth to Nick’s ear. It’s wet and moist and a lot hotter than it should be and Nick pushes his own clothing down his thighs as quickly as he can.
They don’t have lube and the lotion is in the bathroom, way too far for either of them to walk in their condition. Nick shrugs his shoulders and drops his hand, but Jeremy hisses at the friction. “Sorry,” Nick whispers. “I don’t - here.” He spits into his palm and wraps it around both their dicks. It’s just enough pressure and Nick knows he makes an embarrassing keening noise.
The room is quiet except for the slapping of their bodies moving together and their heavy breathing, punctuated with little moans and cries. It’s been a long night for both of them, and Nick feels strung out, as if he’s just played a five-minute shift and he’s still not sure that this body is his, except that it feels too good not to be.
Jeremy drops his forehead to Nick’s shoulder, his eyes wild as he peers down at Nick’s hand on them. “Beautiful,” he whispers, and he doesn’t sound much better than Nick and the idea that Nick is doing this to him is too much. Nick spills between them with a cry, closing his eyes and taking a few seconds to come back down. Until Jeremy thrusts against his over-sensitive dick and Nick tightens his hand so that it’s just around Jeremy. His own come slicks the way and it only takes a couple thrusts before Jeremy cries out.
“Fuck, that was hot,” Nick breathes, wiping his hand on his jeans. Jeremy laughs as he shimmies out of his pants and pulls up his boxers, slipping under the covers and watching Nick do the same with half-lidded eyes.
“We should set the alarm clock,” Jeremy murmurs, but he’s already half asleep, so Nick fishes around for his phone to set the alarm. They only have a couple of hours before they have to leave, but Nick plans on taking full advantage of them.
Nick punches out a quick “thank u” text to Matts before he places the phone on the bedside table and curls up behind Jeremy, pulling him tight and laying a contented kiss on his shoulder.
Part Three. Chicago Blackhawks Training Camp. September 18-October 3, 2010. Chicago, IL.
“Leddy, come on. We’re late.”
The only times Nick has ever heard Duncan Keith sound cross is when he’s running late and, this time, Nick knows that it’s his fault, but he really doesn’t have the willpower to care at the moment. “Hold your horses, asshole,” he yells through the door.
He’s standing in the middle of Duncan’s guestroom in his boxers, a pile of discarded clothes on the bed. He feels ridiculous, like if he cares this much he might as well start drawing little pink hearts around Jeremy’s name in his playbook.
“Fuck this.” Nick grabs his jeans off the bed and pulls a green Nike shirt over his head. He even remembers to slip his wallet into his back pocket as he jogs down the stairs.
“Finally.” Brent Seabrook greets him at the bottom of the stairs, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Nick just glares at him as Seabs grins. “Finish doing your makeup?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get in the car.” Duncan pushes them both out the door and Nick climbs into Duncan’s backseat.
He should probably wonder more why Seabs is always driving Duncs’ car while Duncs is happy to backseat drive from the passenger seat, but he’s too busy biting his nails and reading through the texts Jeremy has sent him over the last few days. They didn’t have much time to talk when they woke up that morning in Toronto, both groggy and rushed as they hustled to get to the airport in time. And with Jeremy staying with Patrick Sharp and Nick staying with Duncan, they haven’t had a chance to do anything more than send shy, nerve-wracking texts since.
Nick doesn’t have a lot of experience with morning afters via text.
“Earth to Leddy.”
Nick shakes his head. “Yeah? Sorry.”
“What’s with you man?”
Which is when Nick realizes that the car has stopped and not only has he not heard a single word that Duncs and Seabs have said the whole drive, but they’re here and that means that he’s really going to have to get his act together. “Nothing. I’m good.”
Seabs turns in his seat, but Nick is out of the car before they can say anything more. He can feel Seabs’ eyes in the back of his head and he takes the steps up the front walk two at a time, grinning at Abby Sharp as she greats him at the door.
“Nick Leddy.” He holds out his hand and grins at her, knowing that he’s giving her a false impression at how upbeat he is as a person, but he’s just so happy that she’s here to save him from his self-appointed defensive fathers. “This is from Duncan, Brent and I.”
She takes the bottle of wine and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Aren’t you just adorable. I’m Abby, Sharpie’s wife. It’s nice to meet you.” She winks at him and Nick blushes as he ducks inside, leaving her to hug and kiss Duncs and Seabs as if she hasn’t seen them all week.
The house is already pretty crowded. Training camp starts tomorrow, and Tazer had thought it would be good team bonding to get everyone together. Except, he still lives in a two-bedroom condo, so he happily volunteered Sharpie to host 40 plus angsty, antsy hockey players in his home. Nick’s heard all about it, since Seabs likes to gossip more than a group of prep-school girls.
“Hey, Leddy.” Nick looks over to see Kaner waving a beer at him, and he crosses the room gratefully. He’s okay with this, leaning against the wall, sipping his beer and watching Jeremy mingle across the room. He looks good, dressed in jeans and flip-flops and if the shirt is a little too baggy for his taste, Nick knows what’s going on under there so he doesn’t have a lot of trouble imagining it.
He takes a long drag of his beer and when he lowers the bottle, Jeremy is in front of him, smiling at him, cheeks red, and his head tilted to the man next to him. “I wanted you to meet Nick Leddy. He was my roommate at the rookie tournament. Nick, this is Patrick Sharp.”
Oh, this is Sharpie. Well. That hair, and the way Jeremy’s smiling at him, makes Nick want to push Jeremy against the wall and remind him of everything they went through in Toronto. Except, all he can do is shake Sharpie’s hand a lot harder than he would normally, and bite out, “Nice to meet you.”
Sharpie sort of frowns at him and Nick kicks himself. Whatever this is that’s going on between him and Jeremy, what he’s here for is to play hockey and, from what he’s heard, pissing on the Hawks’ alternate captain is not the best route to go.
“Welcome. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jeremy blushes even harder and Nick feels like an ass. “Yeah, yeah, me too. Seabs doesn’t really shut up about you.” And, fuck, that probably wasn’t the way to smooth things over.
Sharpie’s laughing, though, slapping his knee and grinning at Nick. “Ah, Seabs is never gonna hear the end of that one. Thank you, Nick. I owe you one.” He winks, before taking off and Nick is left standing with Jeremy. His stomach feels like it’s in his feet and he really shouldn’t be drinking.
“Hey.” Jeremy bites that lip and Nick comes back to himself, grinning and rolling his eyes.
“I just made a fool of myself.”
Jeremy shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’ve done it a few times in the last couple days.”
“Good.” Nick grins. “Rookie solidarity.” Jeremy’s face falls and Nick hates himself a little bit for putting that look there, but he really has to know before this goes any further. “Sharpie’s, um-“ He leans forward, his lips inches from Jeremy’s ear as he whispers, “attractive.”
Jeremy shivers and the way he looks at Nick chases any doubts from his mind. “No, no, I-”
Nick grins, taking a sip of his beer to calm himself. “Good. ‘Cause, you know, I’ve missed you.”
Jeremy glances around. “Not here,” he whispers before he takes off and Nick supposes that means he’s supposed to follow. He nods at a few of the players he vaguely knows, shaking a couple hands even though his own palm is sweaty with anticipation, before he finally comes out in an empty hallway.
“Hey,” Jeremy says again and this time Nick can cross to him and tip Jeremy’s chin down to kiss him. It’s too heavy for Sharpie’s hallway, tongues dueling and hands groping, and Nick’s hardening too fast, his hips thrusting against Jeremy’s thigh. Jeremy pulls away with a little moan and Nick pulls his hand out from under Jeremy’s shirt to cup his cheek.
“Sorry,” Nick whispers, “I’m sorry, that was-” He drops a quick, close-mouthed kiss on Jeremy’s lips. “I want you.” Nick drops his hand between them to cup Jeremy through his jeans.
“Fuck.” Jeremy closes his eyes. “We can’t.”
“I know.” Nick eyes the mess that he’s made of Jeremy’s clothes. He reaches out to smooth the front of Jeremy’s shirt, leaning up for a quick kiss. It’s ridiculous how much more he wants this now that he’s had a taste.
“There you are - oh.”
Before Nick has a chance to register that the voice isn’t coming from either of them, Jeremy pushes him away, his hands burning, and Nick stumbles back until his back hits the other wall and he holds himself upright against it. He looks at Jeremy, who looks flushed and angry and embarrassed and Nick follows his horrified eyes to the doorway. Sharpie.
“Fuck.” Nick looks back at Jeremy and his stomach drops as he realizes that Jeremy’s not going to say a single thing in this conversation, so Nick straightens his shirt and turns back to Sharpie. “This isn’t what you think.” Except Nick knows he’s a terrible liar, and if his face isn’t giving him away, the bulge in his pants certainly is. Especially since Sharpie is glancing right there with a raised eyebrow and a half-grin.
“I think it’s exactly what I think it is.”
And Nick’s always known that he’s not a guy to hide this. If he had just been upfront about it, he wouldn’t be here having this ridiculous conversation, exchanging cliché things like that, things that are only said in the free gay porn that he used to sneak-download on his dad’s computer when he was thirteen. He’s never wanted to hear them come out of his own mouth, and he grimaces. “Yeah, sorry.”
Sharpie laughs. “I like you, Leddy.”
“Um, thanks?” Nick tilts his head, not sure if he should really believe that getting caught wrapped up with another man is an endearing trait, but, he’s not going to question it. He glances over at Jeremy, wishing that his touch wouldn’t be so unwanted, ‘cause he wants to kiss him again and Jeremy’s looking so red that Nick’s sure he hasn’t taken a breath in minutes.
“Breath, Mo.” And thank god Sharpie notices, too, ‘cause Jeremy is likely to listen to him a lot more than he is to Nick at the moment.
Jeremy starts coughing, the air going down the long way and Sharpie steps over to him, patting him on the back. “Relax, kid. You’re gonna fit in here just fine.”
***
Nick honestly figures that that is going to be it. Jeremy has always been clear about how uncomfortable he is with his sexuality, and at the first opportunity, Nick manages to get them caught in their captain’s hallway the night before training camp. Even Nick can admit that it could have been bad. Disastrous, even. And the fact that Patrick Sharp is the apparent poster-child for the Blackhawks’ gay-straight alliance doesn’t really ease the pit that has developed in his stomach.
Nick, apparently, is as bad at not-telling as he is at lying and, perhaps, he’d be better off if he just gave up on relationships for the next twenty years or so. He’s always enjoyed his right hand and, well, if he keeps playing hockey the way he has been, it might just be satisfying enough.
They’re nine days and two games into camp, and both he and Jeremy are playing brilliantly. Nick tries to keep his head out of the media, but he knows that headlines like “Leddy, Morin forcing Hawks to make tough decision” are floating around nhl.com. It’s hard to ignore them all, when, after every practice, the media sticks a microphone in front of him and asks him questions.
“Are you going to turn pro?”
“Will the University of Minnesota miss you next year?”
“You turned down the US National Development team to finish up your high school years at Eden Prairie. Will you do the same now?”
Nick doesn’t know how to answer any of them. Truthfully, he had been assuming all along that the Hawks organization, like the Minnesota Wild before, would want him to spend another couple years at Minnesota. He’s never really considered going pro. He’s never had any reason to, until now.
“What do you think of going pro?” Nick asks as he settles into the chair in Duncan’s living room. Seabs is there, playing video games on the couch. Nick doesn’t know where Duncs is.
Seabs pauses the game. “I went the Juniors route, so there wasn’t any question for me.”
“Yeah.” Nick sighs, tilting his head back in the chair and staring at the ceiling.
“Duncs played two years at Michigan State.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s a really personal decision. You’re a good kid. You can’t go wrong.”
His parents aren’t a lot more help when they finally have a three day stretch between games and he has time to set his computer up on the desk in Duncan’s guestroom and skype them.
“Hey.”
“We’re so proud of you.” His mother’s been telling him that since he was six-years old, and she’s started every conversation with it since he left home. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that saying it so often makes it lose some of its meaning.
“Thanks.” Nick rubs his forehead. “Did you read the article this morning?”
“It’s not good to lose your head in the media. They’re fickle.” His dad this time, and his dad’s as bad a liar as he is.
“Did you read it?”
“Ahh,” his parents glance at each other, before they both nod.
Nick groans. “Maybe I should go pro.”
“I thought you wanted to spend another couple years at Minnesota.”
“I did.” Nick shrugs. “I do.”
“You like your teammates.”
“I know. But-” Nick swallows. “The guys here are good guys, too. I’m fitting in pretty well.”
“Nick, is this about a boy?”
Nick rolls his eyes. “No, mom, this isn’t about a boy.”
She holds up her hands in defense. “Okay, okay.”
Nick feels his phone buzz and he glances down, his heart dropping a little when he sees that the text’s from Sharpie. He feels a little bad, ‘cause maybe his mother isn’t wrong. Jeremy hasn’t done more than send him one text, not only ur fault, I wanted 2, which sounds sort of promising, except that it had only come after seventeen iterations of im sorry from Nick. Nick’s spent the 72 hours after receiving it obsessing over the past tense in wanted and hoping for another one.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay. Be safe. We miss you.”
Nick promises to call them more often and closes his computer. Sharpie’s text says something about shopping and picking him up in fifteen minutes, so he rushes to throw on some clothes and run down the stairs.
Nick’s pretty sure that this is a set up, Sharpie playing matchmaker even though he doesn’t really know Nick or Jeremy that well yet. It had been just a bit too convenient, when the conversation about Tazer’s Chicago Magazine photo shoot had let to quips about how bad a dresser Kaner is and had culminated in Sharpie mentioning that, on separate occasions, he’d heard both Jeremy and Nick mention that they haven’t had a chance to explore Michigan Ave yet.
Sharpie had had this gleam in his eye when everyone had agreed to this little shopping expedition on their off day, and Nick hadn’t been able to back out. Not that he had wanted to. An afternoon with Jeremy is a desirable proposition, even if Jeremy is furious with him.
When Sharpie drives up, Nick climbs into the back without even thinking about it and it takes him a minute or so to realize that Kaner’s in the front seat and Jeremy’s in the back, staring at his hands, cheeks flushed as he’s stealing little glances in Nick’s direction.
Definitely a setup.
When they get out of the car and meet up with Tazer, who’s decided that he needs to serve as chaperone for this little expedition, Jeremy sort of hangs back to walk next to Nick and Nick has the insane urge to reach over and take his hand. Maybe Nick has a chance after all.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing that it’s not enough, but it’s all he has.
Jeremy shrugs. He doesn’t say anything, but when they duck into the biggest Levi store Nick’s ever seen, Jeremy helps him find a couple pairs in his size. He comes out of the dressing room in a pair that has to be too tight, except this is Chicago, and maybe guys wear their jeans differently here, ‘cause Sharpie whistles and makes him spin around.
It’s terribly embarrassing as Nick holds the bottom of his shirt in his hand so that they can get the full effect, so that there’s a sliver of skin showing between the jeans and his hands and he knows that he changes in a locker room every day with these guys, but this is different. Except, Jeremy’s staring at him, eyes wide, jaw-dropped, every clichéd sign that shouts I want you and the things are a ridiculous $329 but he buys them anyway.
Their last stop is a suit shop. A specialty men’s tailor shop and Nick stops checking the prices when the first one hits more digits than he can count to. It doesn’t even seem worth looking, but Kaner’s in the dressing room so Nick finds a mirror and tries on a ‘20s-style, pin-striped gangster hat.
“Looks good on you.”
The hat falls off his head when he whips his chin up fast enough to catch Jeremy glancing at him in the mirror. Nick puts it back on, turning his hip a little and trying to look gangsta or something. “It’s ridiculous.”
Jeremy laughs, nodding. “Yeah.” He blushes. “Dashing, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jeremy glances down, his fingers playing with the shopping bag in his hand. “Look, um, I’m not gonna pretend that what happened at Sharpie’s wasn’t the most terrifying moment of my life.”
“I know.” Nick swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said.” Nick flinches, but Jeremy softens his words with a smile as he looks up. Finally. “But I had a talk with Sharpie and he convinced me that I was being a bit of an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“Asshole.” But it’s affectionate and Nick can’t stop grinning as Jeremy plows ahead. “No more making out in public, okay?”
Nick nods, ‘cause, at this point, he’s pretty sure he’d agree to anything Jeremy asks of him.
“Good.”
Nick wants to kiss him, but that would break the rule already, and he’s done being a fuck up, for the moment at least. Instead, he nods his head towards the dressing rooms, and Jeremy falls into step beside him. They get back just in time to catch Kaner standing in front of a mirror in the worst all-white suit that Nick has ever seen.
“But, it’s cool.” Kaner whines, turning around to look at the suit from the side. He juts his hip and Nick has to smother his laugh in his hand.
Tazer doesn’t bother, laughing and shaking his head. “It’s really not.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone wears these, asshole. They’re in.”
“I promise, they’re not.”
“Tazer-“
“When have I lied to you?”
Kaner frowns. “All the time.”
“About fashion?”
“What do you know about fashion? You wear Team Canada shirts every day, fucker.”
Tazer shrugs. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re wrong.” Kaner turns in the mirror again. “I swear this is cool.”
“In Miami, maybe.”
Kaner sighs. “We should live in Miami. Why don’t we live in Miami?”
Tazer raises an eyebrow at him. “’Cause we play hockey. Here.”
“Right.” Kaner’s shoulders slump and he looks sad and dejected and, even though Nick is still laughing, he notices that Tazer’s expression has softened.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“When we retire, okay? Miami’s going on the list.” It’s said with so much affection, so much conviction, that Nick really doesn’t think that Tazer was using the royal we there and Nick wonders how many people on this team are gay for each other. Maybe he and Jeremy really will fit in fine, just like Sharpie promised.
***
By the end of training camp, Nick is really starting to feel like part of the team.
He’s decided to go pro. He’s telling the media it’s because he’s had a long talk with his parents, his agent, and the youth coaches that he still trusts. He says it’s because Soupy is hurt and there’s a good chance that he will at least start the year in Chicago, and, if not, there’s a lot he can learn in Rockford. He definitely does not say that he made the decision the minute Jeremy looked at him in that Levi store.
Things with Jeremy are going pretty well, too. It’s still hard, since neither of them have their own place, but they’re roommates on the road and they’ve used the time for quick handjobs to blow off steam after games. In the locker room, too, Jeremy’s warmed up and they’ve become practically inseparable off the ice.
More often than not, they warm up with a game of soccer before games and practices, and if their soccer is filled with more laughter and wrestling than soccer usually is, no one mentions it. That’s where they are today, Jeremy with the ball trapped between his feet and Nick practically plastered to his back in an attempt to steal it away, when
Tazer clears his throat and they both look up.
“Coach Q wants to see you, Mo.”
Jeremy doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t say anything. They’ve known this was coming, one way or the other, and the little look Tazer throws Nick’s way before following after Jeremy isn’t very comforting.
Nick waits. He dribbles the ball. He throws it against the wall until his arms are tired. He stretches until his thighs protest the pull. He goes back to dribbling again.
Conversations with Coach Q never take this long, although Nick doesn’t wear a watch and his phone is back in the locker room. It crosses his mind that maybe Jeremy doesn’t know that he’s still here, waiting like an idiot, and he’s just decided to go back and get his phone when Jeremy finds him.
He doesn’t have to say anything. Nick can read every line on his face and he doesn’t know what to say. Jeremy was supposed to be sent to Rockford before they ever played a preseason game. He was supposed to be a distant prospect. They both were, actually, but they’ve played well, Jeremy even brilliantly. But, Nick has the advantages of being a defenseman and of having a much smaller salary hit than Jeremy does.
They should have talked about this, before, because now Nick doesn’t know what to do. After two shaky starts, they’ve had less than a week to feel things out and Nick knows that Jeremy’s been happy, that they’ve had fun, but that’s it. They’ve never had that conversation, about where they stand, how they feel, what they want, and Nick can’t very well ask Jeremy to wait for him now, to wait the six or so weeks until Soupy heals, when Jeremy looks devastated and one more thing might just serve to push him over.
“Rockford?” Nick asks, finally, ‘cause the silence is killing him and Jeremy bites his lip, nods.
“Yeah. It’ll, um,” he kicks at the ball with his left foot. “It’ll be good. Coach Q says that they like how I play, that they’ll be watching me. Rockford is good.”
“It is.”
“You’re staying here.”
Nick doesn’t know Jeremy well enough yet to know if it’s an accusation or if it’s jealousy or if it’s something else, the beginnings of what they’ve been trying to built since they met in June. The only thing he knows is that it’s true, all of it, and Nick wraps his fingers around Jeremy’s wrist and pulls him into the closest supply closet.
“I’ll probably be in Rockford in a few weeks.”
“Don’t say that. You’re good, Nick.”
“So are you.” Jeremy shrugs and Nick tilts his chin up. “You are.” He leans forward and kisses him. He uses a lot of tongue, mapping Jeremy’s map as he pulls his hips close and aligns their cocks. They’re both wearing two layers of clothing, but they’re young and horny and neither really cares. Jeremy turns them, pressing Nick against the door and moving against him, hard, painful movements and Nick’s hips jerk, hard and fast, and they both come with a groan, shooting hard and wet in their shorts.
Nick laughs, kissing Jeremy’s ear ‘cause, if nothing else, no one else has ever made him feel like the teenager that he still is. Jeremy grins, kissing him again, slipping his hand under Nick’s t-shirt and resting his palm against the damp crease in the small of Nick’s back. Nick sighs, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’m going to miss this.” It doesn’t mean anything more than just this, the kissing and the getting off. It doesn’t promise anything more, but Jeremy smiles at him anyway.
“Me too.”
Part IV