Page 84 of Seal the Deal
“Sure, let me just pack up my entire closet,” Andrew snorts, like Nicholas is joking.
“I could hire someone.”
“I can pack my own shit, Nicki. I’m also not bringing my entire house. I won’t be with you that long, you’ll see.”
Frustrated by the prospect of Andrew leaving before he’s even fully moved in, Nicholas marches himself to Andrew’s small walk-in closet off the bathroom to get his suitcase. The sooner they can get him back to Nicholas’s house, the better.
It’s not hard to find the suitcase. There is an entire row of polo shirts, organized in a visually pleasing pastel rainbow-esque pattern. There is also an entire row of sweatshirts, all increams and whites, with matching sweatpants hung on adjacent hangers. Lining the wall beneath the sweatsuits are three pairs of identical loafers, and two pairs of identical designer dress shoes—one in black and the other brown. There’s also several suits hung up in suit bags that Nicholas is curious to see, but he’s pretty sure Andrew would have his ass if he snooped. Andrew would look absolutely stunning in a luxury suit, and Nicholas can already imagine dressing him, or at the very least fronting the bill. Nicholas doesn’t really have an eye for style, but he pays a lot of money to stylists to look good. The way Andrew reacted to his car, and the sight of the classic luxury shoes in his closet, makes Nicholas believe this man has an eye for finer things in life. Things Nicholas has in spades. Things Nicholas fully intends to share. By force if necessary, which it will be if Andrew’s reaction to letting Nicholas pay for extra food from his personal chef for him is anything to go by.
Nicholas has a stupid amount of money just from his hockey career, even more from his trust fund and family investments. If he can use even a little bit of it to make Andrew’s life easier and give him a little taste of the kind of luxury he wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford on an accountant's salary, then he is going to do it. Especially since, as far as Nicholas can tell, Andrew is getting the rough end of the deal, as evidenced by his family showing up here today.
There’s no family waiting to ambush Nicholas. No one who cares about his new boyfriend. Not that he’s told his mother or father yet, he was going to save that little surprise for his dad’s big sixtieth birthday party. But even if he had told them, he’s not sure he would’ve received more than indifference or the reminder he’s going to fuck it up. Which he probably is.
Nicholas is so far out of his fucking depth.
* * *
“Fuck,”Nicki curses, throwing his stick to the ice in frustration. If he had something else to throw he would, but he’s already thrown his gloves and his helmet.
This game was supposed to be easy, a sure win. The other team had played dirtier than he was prepared for and better. The latter of which pisses him off the most. There’s nothing that pisses Nicholas off more than when his team plays their best and it isn’t good enough.
You’ll see, hockey won’t last. When you realize you can’t make it, there will always be a place for you with the company, Nicholas. I might be disappointed with you but you’re my son. I won’t let you fail. That would look bad on the family.
The words his father spoke to him the day he signed his NHL contract are burned into his brain. He’d stupidly thought, just this once, maybe his father would be proud of him. It wasn’t an Ivy League school, or something prestigious in finance like his father, but it was the fucking NHL. Nicholas was a damn good hockey player, and he’d worked his ass off to get picked up. Calling his father hadn’t afforded him the praise or pride he thought maybe he’d finally earned. It reminded him that in the end, his father assumed he would fail, and that failure would always be seen as a reflection on him.
Every loss reminds Nicholas of his father’s voice. He’s been playing long enough to know he’s made a solid career out of this. People are in the fucking stands wearing his jersey, not his fucking father’s, yet every time they lose, he feels like a child begging for the love and approval he’ll never get.
“Fuck,” Nicholas yells again, punching his fist into his locker hard enough his knuckles sting.
“Easy, Whitmore.” The words come from his captain, and one of the only people on the team who hasn’t given up on Nicholas. Not that he can blame them. Nearly a year since his transfer and he’s yet to make a single friend on the team. Not that he wants any friends. This is work. He doesn’t need to be invited to the guys’ stupid fucking beach barbecues or team bonding events.
“Fuck off, Tony.”
“Can’t do that, Whitmore. It’s my job as captain to make sure all my players are okay. That was a hard loss.”
Nicholas grunts, yanking his jersey off. His pads come next, followed by his base layer. Every layer he sheds makes his sore body ache. He needs a long, hot shower and something to break.
“The guys are going out for a beer.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish,” Tony laughs, far too goodnatured considering how strenuous and brutal the last two and half hours were.
Honestly Tony’s smiling at all pisses Nicholas off. Fucking positive fucker.
“The team is going out for a beer and something greasy, which is a necessity since we don’t have a game for two days.”
“No,” Nicholas repeats.
“Don’t think I was asking you, Whitmore.” Tony claps him on the back, his large hand oddly warm against Nicholas’s skin, chilled from the drying sweat and air conditioning. “You never come with us.”
“That’s because I don’t want to,” Nicholas gripes, stripping off his pants. “I don’t need any fucking Boy Scout friendship shit.”
“Yeah, none of us were Boy Scouts,” Tony laughs. “Except maybe Anders.”
To Nicholas’s displeasure, Tony cups his hands and screams across the locker room. “Hey Anders, were you a Boy Scout?”
Anders, their youngest player—just nineteen and a goddamn fucking baby as talented as he is young—turns and blushes at the attention. Beside him Pavel, whose locker borders Anders, nudges him with a grin.
