Page 27 of Hockey Bois
Nearly the whole team agreed to come to the game, and somehow Benns had managed to get their tickets in the same section. They all planned to meet at a bar outside the arena for a quick drink, and Nick had the impression that people planned on hanging out in DC afterward. Basically, he was ready for a long night in the city, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
The real development, though, was that Brady and Nick were heading to the game together. They knew that they lived near each other, and it made sense to take the Metro to the arena. Why not go together, right? This was the logic Nick had laid out for Brady during their last stick-and-puck. He was pleased that Brady hadn’t taken much convincing, and he looked forward to seeing Brady in a jersey that wasn’t the Jagr Bombs’ bright blue and orange.
They’d traded addresses and decided that, because Nick was closer to the Metro, Brady would come to his place, and they’d walk down together.
Nick was lowkey freaking the fuck out about it.
This was Brady, and this was Nick’shouse. There’d been plenty of times when the boundaries between “hockey” and “personal” blurred. Him stopping by Nick’s house made those boundaries completely nonexistent.
“You’re acting like this is a date,” he said to his reflection. He had spent the last twenty minutes trying to fix his hair, which didn’t quite line up with this non-date pep talk, and he was almost satisfied that he’d reached the right balance of perfectly coiffed and naturally amazing. “He’s not even gonna come inside. He’s going to knock, I’m gonna grab my stuff, and we’re going to head out.”
His reflection didn’t seem to believe a damn word of it.
“Judgy bastard,” he grumbled to himself… about himself.
All he had left was put on his jersey—his lucky, well-worn and still-stained-with-beer-on-one-shoulder Oshie one—and grab his wallet and keys from the table by the door. He checked his phone to make sure he wasn’t too far behind schedule (honestly, fuck his stupid hair), only to be interrupted by the doorbell ringing.
“Oh, fuck.” He grabbed the first jersey he could find from his closet and pulled it on as he rushed down the stairs of his townhouse. Hopefully it was Oshie, but he’d make do with whatever.
He was still straightening out the sleeves (it was in fact Oshie) when he unlocked the door, swung it open, and—
“Oh my fucking God, what the actual fuck are youwearing?”
There on his doormat stood stupid Brady Derek Jensen with his stupid perfect hair sticking out from a stupid backward baseball cap. He was wearing a pair of tight khakis that looked amazing on his hockey thighs and actual tennis shoes that didn’t look like they’d ever seen a hint of a rainy day.
All of that was fine. Nick could have survived that easily, even if it was outside of the gym clothes he usually saw Brady in.
No, it was the jersey that threw him for a loop.
It wasn’t Oshie or Backstrom or Ovechkin or a defenseman like Carlson or Orlov. It wasn’t one of the less common jerseys like Eller or Orpik. It wasn’t evenred. No, it was the epitome ofnot the Washington Capitalsin one jersey.
There, in black-and-gold glory, was Brady Fucking Jensen in a damned Penguins jersey.
Brady frowned in confusion. He held out his arms and looked down at himself as if he couldn’t understand the problem with his outfit. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re wearing a Pens jersey,” Nick said with an exasperated sigh.
“Yeah…?”
“Why are you in a Pens jersey?”
“…because I’m from Pittsburgh?”
And suddenly Nick wished he could simultaneously set himself on fire and get swallowed up by a sinkhole. Stupidly cute, amazingly frustrating, inconvenient crush Brady was also apparently his mortal enemy, and he hadn’t even known it.
It makes sense, he thought as the pieces clicked into place. Odd accent that was vaguely midwestern with hints of something stronger. Disdain for how bad Marylanders handled snow. Obvious tolerance to cold weather. Randomly dropping Crosby’s name. Far too good at hockey and skating for a local boy.
Penguins fan, apparently.
Everybody’s got faults, he told himself.Nobody’s perfect.
You mean he’s still hot, a voice not unlike Jenna’s countered.
I mean… he is… He even looks hot in that ugly-ass jersey, so…
Nick shook his head to clear his racing thoughts. This was not a big deal. Except…
“You know we’re going to a Caps game, right?”
