Page 80 of Delay of Game

Zach, still trying to collect his scrambled brain, dragged one finger down the mess. It was rapidly getting cold and sticky. They’d have to take a shower soon. He didn’t give one single shit about any of those things. Zach leaned forward to kiss him again, mess and all.

Nate still couldn’t believe that what was happening was actually real. That he had had the courage to say any of that; that Zach had actually listened to him; that they had actually managed to work it out. He was still floating on the endorphins from a ridiculous orgasm, from the relief of having Zach back in his life for good. Zach’s come on his chest was getting tacky and disgusting, but Nate didn’t want to push him away long enough to clean up.

He wasn’t sure if he could push him away even if he’d wanted to. His whole body still felt shaky and unsteady, like a newborn colt stumbling around the green. It had been—a lot, hearing everything that Zach thought about him. Everything that Zach felt about him. It had been embarrassing and wonderful and horrible all at once. Part of him felt like he could float on that high for the rest of his life and part of him, somehow, still didn’t believe it.

“You really believe me?” Zach asked again. Nate looked up at him. He was handsome as always, even though he looked exhausted and silly with his sex-drunk smile and messy hair. And his expression, fond but worried, like even after all of the begging and stupid shit that had come out of Nate’s mouth in the heat of the moment, he still—

The thing was. Deep down, Nate still didn’t—couldn’t—believe it. It was easier to bear, now, but when it came down to it nothing had really changed. The mess in his head was exactly the same, the nasty voice just as loud. He looked up at Zach and said, “Baby, I need so much fucking therapy.”

“Uhh, yeah,” Zach agreed, and somehow, they were both laughing, Nate on the edge of hysteria.

“I’m going to do it,” he said, gasping. “I’m going to do it. After we get done with this playoff run. I’m going to be better. For you. But also for me.”

Zach rolled off of him, and they lay side by side in the bed, looking at it each other. “Nate. Whatever you want to do. I’m gonna be here for it.”

“I know,” Nate said, and couldn’t keep the dumb smile off of his face. “I believe you.”

They beat the Mariners in six games. It took blood and sweat and tears to do it, but they did it. Zach, who usually wasn’t a very physical player, tookimmensejoy in smashing Leo Cohen into the boards during the last game, like it was a bookend on the series, a signature for them to remember him by. He tried not to look too smug in the handshake line, even though it was difficult when he met Cohen’s eyes and saw how fucking furious he still looked. It didn’t matter what Cohen or any of the Mariners thought, though.

The Cons had won.

Zach had been there before. He’d won the Cup in Montreal his rookie year, and that had set him on the trajectory that had almost destroyed his career. He remembered the locker room in Montreal the day they made it to the finals, the way he’d been drenched in beer, looking around at all of his older teammates: the captain, Matthew Safaryan; the Morin twins; Saarinen and Kapadia and Grenier. Making it to the finals was a huge deal no matter what team you were on. The Royal had won it all once before, before he’d even been drafted, in a Cinderella run.

All of those guys had known that it wasn’t guaranteed: they’d suffered through two rebuilds.

Zach hadn’t known. He’d been young and stupid and part of him had felt like that was what it was going to be like every season after that, triumphant and screaming and joyful.

It wasn’t until now, seeing the faces of his teammates on the Cons, the way Nate’s entire demeanor changed, his smile huge and his eyes shining, that he realized that the struggle was part of what made the reward sweeter. That he realized what it meant to win with guys you loved.

They hadn’t won it all yet, of course. Anything could happen when they played Vegas in the finals. But somehow, Zach just had the gut feeling that it was all going to work itself out.

He checked in with Gags and Belsky after. Both of them were still drenched from the celebration, looking a bit like bedraggled stray dogs. Gags still looked tired but some of the shadows below his eyes had smoothed themselves out. Probably winning helped a little with that, although both Nate and Zach sure as fuck knew that even winning couldn’t cure an anxiety disorder.

“You boys good?” he asked, voice low and barely audible under the din of the rest of the team, still yelling. Sometimes the team would post victory videos on the official Twitter, but there were too many dicks and too many loud curses to allow for that, even if they did some careful editing.

Gags and Belsky exchanged a glance, and Gags looked up at him. “Uh, yeah. I mean, it’s still kinda tough, but like... I’m working on it. The dude I’m talking to is pretty flexible about times. And I can do it on Zoom, basically.”

“Cool,” Zach said, and then, even though he knew it was cheesy as fuck, “I’m really proud of you, kid. And you too, Bells. It’s not every day you get to make a run like this as a rookie. And not screw it up after.”

“I already screwed up plenty beforehand,” Gags muttered.

“Bro,” Zach said, patting him on the shoulder. “You gotta talk to your dude about that, like, immediately after you shower,” and was rewarded when both Gags and Belsky started cracking up. Zach beamed at them, and with an ironic little salute, went to go get cleaned up himself.

Under the hot spray in the shower, staring a little dreamily at Nate’s broad back, his skin flushed red from the heat, Zach thought about how far he’d come since he’d gotten drafted, since he’d screwed everything up in Montreal, since he’d gotten traded and thought his life was over. The life he’d built here with Nate, the team of guys they’d helped mentor. The team they’d helped drag, kicking and screaming, to within seven games of the Cup.

It was weird as hell. But damn, it felt fuckinggood.

And going home with Nate after the game felt even better.

On the flight out to Vegas, Nate tried listening to a guided meditation on Spotify, but all it did was make him more anxious, more aware of his body and how amped up he was to play in the first Cup finals of his entire playing career. He turned it off and slipped his headphones back down around his neck.

“You good?” Zach asked sleepily, next to him.

“Yeah, it’s just, uh. I was trying something new, and it really wasn’t for me. Don’t worry about it.”

Zach blinked at him, then shook his head. “We gotta get you some earbuds,” he said, tugging at the headband. “Into the twenty-first century.”

“Earbuds offer an inferior auditory experience,” Nate started to protest, particularly because this was a conversation they had had a million times over the last three seasons, before he realized that Zach was just giving him a hard time. All of the muscles that had been tensed up relaxed suddenly, because this was familiar, this was something he could use to distract himself. For a second, he was so grateful that Zach was there with him for this that he got a little choked up.

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