Page 135 of Hockey Bois
Nick flashed him a grin, one Brady couldn’t see because he was driving, so he put a hand on Brady’s shoulder and squeezed. “Rain check?”
Brady snorted. “You didnotjust make a pun, did you? Because I have a strict ‘no puns’ rule in my car. If anyone’s making a pun, it’s me.”
“You should’ve told me all the rules before I got in the car. I can be very pun-ny and I don’t know that I can resist the— Hey, eyes on the road! No hitting the passenger!”
Brady stopped punching his bicep, but his hand lingered a moment before he pulled it away. He snuck a glance at Nick and licked his lips, then dutifully went back to watching the road.
Nick could get used to road trips with Brady, and hereallyhoped he got the chance to.
*
Nick typed out another message to Brady—his third attempt in so many days—then his mind wandered, he dozed off, and his head slammed against the Metro window.
“Shit,” he grumbled. He rubbed his forehead, realized he was drifting off again, shook his head violently and pinched himself hard. The last thing he needed was to pass out and get stranded at the end of the line.
Again. That’d happened to him twice his first year working, and he hadn’t much cared for scrambling to find a taxi at midnight in those pre-Uber days. He didn’t want to break his five-year streaknow. All thoughts of Brady were pushed to the background as his entire consciousness focused on the mantrastay awake until you get home stay awake until you get home…
Work was predictably as draining as it was every six months, his duties blurring the lines between “salaried” and “overtime.” He was back in the rut of “I need a new job” but was too tired to do anything about it. By the time his workflow ebbed, his supervisors would have him on projects that didn’t make him hate life, and he’d forget about his woes until the next semi-annual review.
Decembers, they at least took it easy on him. He used his seniority, his accumulated sick days, and a bit of guilt tripping about his birthday to get out of most of the work he’d usually have to do beyond his normal workload. His winter reprieve meant he took the brunt of it every June, so here he was, trapped in accounting hell.
He trudged off the train at his stop in a haze. His feet dragged all the way through the parking lot to his car, too heavy when he tried to make them push the pedals. He was thankfully more alert once he got moving, but the second he’d pulled into his spot and killed the ignition, his eyes fluttered shut, and he debated the merits of taking a nap here versus forcing himself to his bed.
The couch, he finally decided on. That was doable.
He imagined himself a zombie, covered in blood and sweat and grime, as he made the forced march from his car to his townhouse. It was the only thing he could think of that looked human and moved as sluggishly and uncoordinated as he did, and it brought an almost-smile to his face. He’d been a zombie once for Halloween way back when, and tonight he’d finally perfected the walk.
“You look like shit.”
Nick’s body stopped, but his feet kept going, no doubt intensifying the zombie vibe. Nick squinted, not understanding how Brady could be talking to him. This was either a hallucination, or he’d accidentally driven to Brady’s apartment. He was already confused before he took in Brady’s appearance: hair slicked back, a navy-blue polo tucked into khakis, and boat shoes.Boat shoes!Not flip flops or sandals or the rare sneakers, butboat shoes!
“What are youwearing?” he blurted out.
Brady frowned and looked down at himself. He was on Nick’s front steps, which was leading Nick heavily toward the hallucinating conclusion. Why his mind would choose to conjure Brady in that outfit, though, was still a mystery.
“My work clothes…?” He fidgeted awkwardly, his usual ease replaced with what a still-functioning part of Nick’s brain attributed to “post-hookup jitters.” “Why, you don’t like them?”
“Work… clothes…” he repeated. Intellectually, he knew Brady had a job. People had jobs, so of course Brady had one. Right now, though, the concept refused to compute. The only Brady he’d ever known was the hockey one, and any glimpses of other iterations of him had been too obscure for him to build a mental image. Part of him had assumed Brady worked somewhere that allowed joggers, flip flops, and backward caps. “They look… good?” It wasn’t a lie, but he still couldn’t make it come out without it sounding like a question.
Brady laughed. “All right, let’s not have you thinking too hard. Why don’t you let me in, and we can have dinner?”
“Dinner?” His stomach gurgled obscenely. It was emptier than it should be, neglected since his working lunch before noon. He was so exhausted he’d forgotten he should eat and would have happily given in to sleep without food if Brady hadn’t said anything. Now he felt like he’d never be able to fall asleep again if he didn’t get food in his stomach first. “Yes, dinner.” He wanted to add that they’d have to order out. He should explain that his kitchen was bare except for frozen dinners and snacks he could eat on his way to work. There were no ingredients or even the semblance of ingredients, and while it was sweet that Brady was here, it really wasn’t a good time—
“Hope you like pepperoni,” he said, producing a pizza that, to Nick’s scattered mind, had not existed seconds ago. Brady held up his other hand to show off a six-pack. “I brought beer, too. You might not need it, though.”
“You are my favorite personever,” Nick said with a sigh, then rushed up the stairs. He avoided tripping, but only barely.
“Ever?” Brady teased. “Better than Ovechkin?”
“I mean, he brought us a Cup, but you bring me food, so it’s at least a tie.”
“Don’t forget the beer. Foodandbeer.”
“Shit, you’re right. You’re back to being my number-one fav.”
It took a minute to get the key to work in the lock properly, in no small part because he kept staring at Brady and their soon-to-be dinner. This was surreal beyond anything he’d experienced while sleep deprived, and he was still torn between wondering if he was in fact asleep on the Metro dreaming this whole thing… or if Brady was actuallyhere.
When they got inside and he smelled the telltale stink of week-old laundry and abandoned hockey gear, he decided that yeah, this was definitely real.
