Something about Andrew—perfect hair, pretty brown eyes, wearinghisjersey made Nicholas bite the side of his tongue hard enough to bleed, something he’s pretty sure most people assumed had been from the fight. Not that he cared what anyoneelse thought. All he cared about was knowing Andrew was up there where he belonged like the princess he is—comfortable, safe and cheering Nicholas on, wearinghisnumber.
It was worth having to quite literally beg and grovel for Denise to do it on short notice, because no one had ever looked as good in a Nicholas Whitmore jersey as Andrew King did. With his gorgeously darker complexion accentuated by the colors of the jersey, and his normally perfectly hair mussed just a little, along with a hint of a flush in his cheeks, he’d been the sexiest fucking thing Nicholas had ever seen.
The need to claim Andrew had been fierce. Sure, he was wearing Nicholas’s jersey, but knowing every single person in that arena was looking at Andrew made Nicholas want to jump back out on the ice and break something. Andrew washis,and he needed everyone to fucking know it. Blowing a kiss towards Andrew’s suite, and the heart hands, had been uncharacteristic for Nicki, whose indifference to the people he fucked or dated in the past was common knowledge.
Of course, it’s been clear from the start that Andrew is unlike anyone else. Something about Andrew—his steady countenance and confidence—the way he shows up for Nicholas again and again, even though Nicholas doesn’t deserve it, makes him feel things. The kinds of things he’s never felt for someone else before. It occurred to Nicholas, sitting in the penalty box, that if he didn’t do something and fast, Andrew might not stay his. This fake dating thing has an expiration date, one that is coming up fast, but like hell is Nicholas ready to let Andrew go. After the shit Nicholas said to Andrew when they first met, he probably doesn’t deserve Andrew, but he wants him.
Seeing him up there tonight had cleared up one thing for Nicholas—he wants Andrew King. No deals, nothing fake, just one polo wearing, particular man who syncs their calendars in his phone and gives him spreadsheets and quizzes aboutcompatibility. The man who shows up for everyone else, who shows up for Nicholas, because he’s quite possibly the most decent man that Nicholas has ever known. His honesty, his integrity, how fucking unselfish he is, makes Nicholas want to protect him from the world.
Given Nicholas’s track record, he should be worried about protecting Andrew from himself, but if there’s one thing he’s certain of, it’s that he won’t ever hurt Andrew. Enough people have done that already. No, what Nicholas is going to do is be the world’s best fake boyfriend first—or at least semi-fucking decent—in the hopes of convincing Andrew he’s worth being a real boyfriend. Maybe take things slow, wine and dine him. Nicholas has only got a few games left in the regular season then there’s a full week before his father’s party—the entire reason he wanted a fake boyfriend in the first place. Now that they’re out of playoff contention he can go, which should be perfect. Hell a few months ago, having someone to show off to his dad, to rub in his father’s face that someone did in fact want him, had seemed like the most important thing in the world. Now, all Nicholas can think about is all the ways Andrew’s cemented himself in Nicholas’s life without trying, how real it feels when it’s anything but—yet.
Every single plan Nicholas has to take things slow, to make a smart plan to win over Andrew, flies out the window when he gets home and finds Andrew in the kitchen still wearing his fucking jersey.
Unlike earlier, he’s got on a pair of loose white sweatpants instead of his khakis, his socked feet poking out. What gets Nicholas the most—what has Nicholas all but gnawing on his own fucking hand—is the little drops of water that cling to the back of Andrew’s neck letting him know that Andrew has showered. Andrew isn’t just coincidently still dressed from earlier. No, his princess came home from the gameand showered and put on something more comfortable. Then, instead of a hoodie like he would normally wear, he put Nicholas’s jerseyback on.
This gorgeous, particular man who only wears khakis and polos, or home clothes, is wearinghisjersey. Nicholas might lose his goddamn fucking mind. If he thought Andrew in the stands wearing that was a lot to handle, seeing him at home, comfortable and only for Nicholas’s eyes, has him half-feral.
Fuck taking it slow. Andrew King ishis.
This certainty is cemented when he realizes what Andrew is doing in the kitchen. All of his supplements and preworkouts that were previously shoved into the cupboard chaotically are spread across the kitchen island, and there is what appears to be a label maker out. There’s also a first aid kit sitting open. Who knows where that came from.
This fucker is reorganizing his cupboards, and why that has Nicholas turned on remains to be seen, but he likes it. He likes Andrew in his home, in his business, inserting himself everywhere and being the bossy, take charge man that he is.
“Are you labeling my creatine?”
Andrew jumps, turning to glare at Nicholas while pulling earbuds out of his ears.
“You fucking scared me,” Andrew grumbles. “Should you be home? Did you see a doctor?”
“I was seen by the team doctor,” Nicholas assures him, getting as close as he dares without spooking Andrew too much.
Something is different tonight. Andrew’s shoulders are held high, his body tense. Nicholas doesn't like it one bit.
“And what did they say?” Andrew asks, lowering the bottle of pre-workout he just labeled before taking one step closer to Nicholas. It’s not close enough, but Nicholas knows Andrew well enough by now to tell the difference between when to push and when not to, and this is definitely not the time.
If Andrew is going to be his, then it needs to be on Andrew’s terms tonight.
“She said I’m fine,” Nicholas assures him.
“Did they do a thorough check?” Andrew questions, lifting his hand and skimming it lightly over Nicholas’s cheek where he knows was starting to bruise before he even left the arena. It probably looks a lot worse now.
“They did a full injury assessment. I’mfine.”
Despite his assertions, Andrew is anything but appeased. “Go change and come back, I’ll check for myself.”
“You a doctor now, princess?”
“Fuck you,” Andrew snarks, more bite than usual in the words.
Something has Andrew worked up, and Nicholas needs to figure out what.
“Andrew—”
“Go change. I’ll make you a snack.”
Nicholas doesn’t want a snack. He wants Andrew. But he also can tell this is not one of the times he should be a dick and argue, so he concedes, hurrying upstairs to change out of his game day suit and into something more comfortable. If he chooses a loose cut tank top to show off his muscles and tattoos and the tightest pair of sweats he owns, well he’s only human. He’s pretty sure it’s not going to have any effect on Andrew, but a man can try.
By the time he makes it back into the kitchen, the medicine cupboard mess has been cleaned up, leaving nothing on the kitchen island but the first aid kit, a plate with toast cut in little bite size squares along with a steaming cup of tea.
