Page 30 of Hockey Bois
“Yeah, but… I’ve never been to a game outside of Pittsburgh.”
“Really? How long have you lived here?”
Brady made a face as he did some quick mental math. “Like three and a half years, I think.”
“Three—years!?” he said incredulously. “Jesus fucking Christ, dude, how have you not seen a game here? Not even the Pens?”
Brady stared at the passing scenery out the window, most of it obscured into complete darkness, and didn’t answer right away.
“I didn’t have anyone to go to games with,” Brady said eventually.
“Oh.” There was more to it than that, Nick was sure; there was a somberness underneath the confession, something that spoke to a deeper truth than the one he was actually sharing. “Well, now you’re stuck with a whole team of weirdos who will go with you to pretty much any game you want.”
That earned him a small, shy smile. More importantly, Brady turned back to him instead of avoiding eye contact.
“Yeah? Think that applies to Pens games?”
“Seriously, any game. I will personally go with you if you can’t find someone else to tolerate your Jagr-loving ass when the Pens are in town. Just so long as you’re not one of those fans that sings on the Gallery steps after games.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
Nick tried to keep his expression neutral. It was a long-standing tradition among Penguins fans in the DC area to sing on the Portrait Gallery steps after Pens/Caps games if the Pens won. Nick had seen it firsthand, wearing the defeat like a brand and wanting nothing more than to shout at the gathered crowd to shut up.
“…then let’s pretend I didn’t bring it up.”
Brady narrowed his eyes and pulled out his phone. Nick pretended not to notice as Brady did a quick search, and then pretended it didn’t give him butterflies when Brady’s face lit up.
“Oh, I’m singing,” he said as he pocketed his phone. “On an unrelated topic, you mind showing me where the National Portrait Gallery is?”
“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”
“So I just gotta ask someone else on the team. You did give me the perfect disguise. They’ll just think I’m a curious resident and not an incognito Pens fan.”
That startled a laugh out of Nick. “You’re a monster.”
*
By the time they got to their seats after drinks, they’d missed the anthem. Disappointing, since Nick had wanted to see Brady’s bafflement at the crowd gleefully screamingRED!andOH!with the lyrics. Their seats were amazing, though, and he soon fell into the rhythm of watching the game.
The Caps eked out a 2-to-1 win. Nick actually missed the game-winning goal while he was in the concourse with Brady grabbing another beer.
“Uh…” Brady said when the goal horn sounded and saw Nick looking longingly toward their seats. “Whoops?”
“Not a big deal,” Nick mumbled. “Rather it happen and I don’t see it than I see all the non-goals getting not-scored.”
It wasn’t a big deal, in no small part because Brady kept receiving compliments for his jersey. They couldn’t walk through the concourse without someone coming up to talk to him or chantingUSA USA USA!loudly.
“Sick jersey,” a random stranger said as he held out a hand that Brady easily accepted in a handshake. “Think USA’ll take gold again soon?”
“Un-fucking-likely unless they get a good coach,” Brady said smoothly. It was the type of question Nick got all the time when he wore it, one he expected, yet Brady answered it as easily as if it really were his jersey.
“Fuck, ain’t that the truth,” the stranger said. Nick stepped back, biting his lip to keep from smiling, and got them a couple more beers while Brady and the guy talked Olympic woes.
Nick was thrilled to see Brady having fun despite having to “watch the stupid Caps and not a real team.” Every time there was a small pull at the corner of his lips when he got to talk hockey with an enthusiastic stranger, Nick would pat himself on the back, knowing he’d been the one to orchestrate a positive experience for Brady after years without attending a game.
Drinks post-game at a dive bar in Chinatown had the two of them pressed side to side in a small booth while Gail kept them all supplied with booze.
“Don’t spill on my jersey,” Nick warned after a boisterous group toast.
