* * *
“I told you,I’m not fucking playing tonight.”
The pitch of Nicki’s voice rouses Andrew, or maybe it’s the throbbing in his head and the razor blade feeling in his throat when he swallows, possibly from his nose being so dry, he’s been mouth breathing during his nap. Whatever the cause, Andrew feels worse than when he passed out in Nicki’s arms, and despite his curiosity about who Nicki is on the phone with, he has no energy to alert Nicki to the fact that he’s awake and listening to him even if he should.
“He passed out in the fucking bathroom, Tony.” That answers that question then. Squinting at the clock on the nightstand, he’s shocked to see it’s almost three, which meanshe was asleep far longer than he thought and also means Nicki needs to leave soon for tonight’s game. Something he’s apparently still in denial about.
Andrew really needs to correct this. He might not understand hockey rules, but he understands contracts, and he knows exactly what is at stake if Nicki refuses to play. He’d be in breach of contract, at risk of fine, suspension, trade or contract termination. He’s not versed in the specifics of Nicki’s contract, so he has no idea which one is most likely, but since Nicki isn’t the friendliest of guys and is likely not on great terms with his GM, the odds are it wouldn’t be good.
Before he can muster up the energy to share any of these thoughts Nicki is speaking again in hushed, angry whispers. If he was trying not to wake Andrew up, he failed, which is likely for the best. Someone needs to stop him from making a mistake.
“Fuck you.”
“Nicki,” he tries, apparently too quietly to be heard.
“You think he needs to go to the hospital?”
Hospitals are Andrew’s least favorite place in the world. The last time he was in one was after Alec’s accident, and he’s not sure he will ever forget having to see his baby brother broken like that. Before that, his only trip to the hospital had been after he nearly drowned as a teenager. All those machines, the sterile scent of death, Charlie’s terrified face. Hospitals are bad, and Andrew would have to be on his deathbed to go, and even then someone would have to physically drag him. The only reason he held it together after Alec’s accident was because everyone else was falling apart, and needing to be strong for them kept him from falling apart.
“No hospitals,” Andrew croaks.
Nicki swivels towards him. “Princess.”
“You call him princess?” Tony yells, loud enough to be heard through the phone.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Put him on speaker,” Andrew demands, rolling over to find Nicki pacing the room, dressed in nothing but his snug fitting designer boxer briefs. He really is so handsome, it should be illegal. Andrew loves looking at him. He’s aesthetically attractive, sure, but it's something less tangible that Andrew finds the most affecting. He knows firsthand how strong Nicki’s body is, how warm. The tattoos that cover the majority of Nicki’s body from ankle to throat are intimately familiar now, and he likes that so much.
“Fine,” Nicki grumbles, quickly complying, even though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “You’re on speaker phone, dickbag.”
“Is that any way to speak to your captain, Whitmore?”
“You’re on speaker, fuck face.”
“Hi, Tony,” Andrew interrupts, unsure how long these two could go on. Probably longer than he has the mental fortitude to listen to.
“Well, if it isn’t my new favorite person. I didn’t know there was anyone alive who could make our Nicholas into a more tolerable human, but you did it. Good job.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Nicki,” Andrew challenges, forcing himself into a seated position. Sure, Nicki is an asshole, but he’s understanding more and more how much of that is protective measures. Besides, Andrew is rather fond of his giant, grumpy asshole hockey player.
“Damn,” Tony whistles. “Whatever you did to get his loyalty, don’t fuck it up, man.”
This is clearly directed to Nicki who appears deeply displeased by the sentence.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Seriously though, are you alright?” Tony questions, returning his focus to Andrew. “Nicholas said you passed out. If you need to go to the hospital, I can talk to the GM. Given whata shithead our Nicholas is, I’m not sure he’s going to be very lenient, but?—”
“I’m fine,” Andrew interrupts, refusing to let Nicki compromise his career because Andrew was feeling too pathetic to get off the floor.
“I don’t fucking trust your ‘fine’,” Nicki snaps.
There’s tension in him that Andrew needs to appease, so he lays down, pulling the blankets back in a wordless invitation.
Nicki moves with the speed of a professional athlete, phone in one hand as he pulls Andrew’s body against his own with his other, hefting Andrew into his lap. It’s not the position he expected, but letting his cheek settle against Nicki’s bare chest, hearing the steady thrum of his solid heartbeat, does a number on Andrew’s sensory system.
His entire life he’s tried to learn how to relax, read enough books on neurodivergence and anxiety he could’ve gotten a degree in it. He’s tried talk therapy and meditation and everything in between, yet none of it altered his brain chemistry the way Nicki’s strong, steady heart beating under his ear does. Really, there are some untapped research opportunities out there because Andrew is pretty sure laying on his boyfriend’s chest, listening to the calm cadence of his life force, is possibly the most soothing thing in the world.
