Page 2 of The Head Game

Nico glanced at the screen, smiling at the sight of Lindholm holding hands with his cute little red-headed teammate, Kelly O’Shea.

“Ever think you’d see that?” Matt Carlson asked with a nudge of his elbow.

Nico snorted. “Nope.”

He liked the turn the league had taken lately, getting queerer with every couple who came out.

Nico had never hidden that he was open to hooking up with almost anyone and his sexuality hadn’t exactly been a huge secret in the league.

He’d walked the line of being playful and almost flirty and the guys who were interested knew to find him and the ones who weren’t simply pretended he was being friendly.

After the ceremony concluded, the Toronto Fisher Cats assembled in the tunnel to go out for warmups.

When Nico flew onto the ice he was grinning already, blood pumping with excitement.

He loved the cheers of the crowd and the thumping beat of the music echoing in his chest.

He took several quick turns around the Fisher Cats half of the ice then spotted a couple of pretty fans up against the glass with signs for him. He lazily shot a few pucks in the direction of their goaltender, Anton Makarov, then scooped up the discs.

Nico skated over to the glass, smirking at the fans and their signs. One declared him his favorite, the other proposed marriage.

Definitely a big no on the marriage—he wasn’t marrying anyone any time soon—but he appreciated the thought. He flipped the pucks over the glass, posed for a couple of pictures, then left with a wink and a blown kiss.

If they hung around after the game, he’d maybe get one of the equipment guys to slip them his number and see what happened.

It had worked before.

Nico buzzed by Matty, who was stretching, butt thrust out like an invitation.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Nico howled and gave him a smack with the flat of his blade. “Nice ass, Matts!”

Matty grinned over his shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”

Nico laughed and made a big loop around his teammates, his body humming with energy.

The dull ache that had hovered around his temple for months faded into the distance until there was only the smooth surface of the ice below his blades and the weight of his gear on his shoulders.

Nico spotted Gabriel Theriault warming up on the other side of the red line and wolf-whistled to get his attention.

August Manning, one of the referees, tensed, glancing over with a wary look but Nico winked at the ref, then gestured for Theriault to join him on the line.

He wasn’t trying to start a fight. He just wanted to say hi to his former teammate.

Gabriel skated up with a grin.

“Salut,” Nico greeted him. “You look good.”

“I always look good,” Gabriel replied in French.

Nico laughed. He wasn’t wrong. He looked way better than he had two seasons ago when Nico had been bouncing back and forth between the Black Bears—the AHL affiliate team—and the Fisher Cats, in and out of the roster depending on who was injured and what kind of cap space the Cats had.

Gabriel had been in a bad way then. The team had found out later he’d been dealing with some horrible shit with his father’s CTE diagnosis.

It was nice to see his bright smile come easily now.

“Bravo pour ton lettre,” Nico said, lightly thwacking the A over Gabriel’s chest.

Manning gave them another glance and Nico ignored him again. What is that guy’s problem? Every time he refereed a game, he acted like he had a stick jammed so far up his ass he could use it to pick his teeth.

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