Relationship Goals #2
Nico Arents Rushed to Hospital After In-Game Fall—Mystery Beau Revealed?
The Fisher Cats defenseman is conscious and in stable condition following a seizure that occurred during the recent game against Buffalo.
Updates indicate that while still hospitalized, he’s hopeful for a quick return to the ice.
The incident raises serious questions after referee August Manning was spotted in the same hospital shortly after Arents was admitted.
Recent rumors have swirled around Arents’ involvement with someone within the league. Could Manning be the mystery man?
A credible source claims the two are engaged. “He has been so doting! He’s barely left Nico’s side.”
Tongues are wagging as their off-ice involvement throws Manning’s on-ice impartiality into question.
How will the league react? Thus far, they have declined to comment but given the new Code of Conduct, there will be some tough questions to answer for these men to keep their romance and their careers.
TRIGGER WARNING: Contains non-graphic scenes involving brain surgery and discussions about brain tumors and cancer. HEA guaranteed but please reach out if you have further questions.
CHAPTER ONE
Nicolaas Arents strutted into the Evanston River Otters ice arena, shooting a wink and a nod at Kelsey Lambert, the intern filming arrival videos for social media.
Kelsey grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
Nico was a fan favorite and he certainly knew how to work it to his advantage.
He suspected it was the only reason the Toronto Fisher Cats Vice President of Communications and Public Relations, Kate Foster, hadn’t actually murdered him yet.
They had a love-hate relationship.
He loved her, she wanted to strangle him.
Just because he’d had a run-in or twelve with the sports gossip sites and an unfortunate sex tape leak shortly after he’d joined the team full-time …
Really, it was unreasonable of her to hold that against him.
It wasn’t his fault he was like catnip to the gossips and his phone had been hacked.
But fans—at least the smart ones with good taste—loved him and Kate was a shrewd woman.
There was no way she’d deny the people what they wanted—more Nico.
Nico went through his usual pre-game routine, eating his typical meal of chicken and pasta in the lounge while he watched some reality TV with Matty and Colton.
He inspected his sticks, deciding to cut one down because it felt a touch too long, wrapped them in tape, then propped them next to his stall.
His skates got a thorough once-over too and he walked into the equipment room to talk to their equipment manager about an issue with one. A tiny, barely noticeable burr in the blade in need of smoothing.
“Sorry about that,” Doug Ferguson said with a smile and took the skate. “I should have noticed when I sharpened them after practice.”
“No worries.”
Pete Santos, their head equipment manager, was out with the flu this week and Nico was fussier than most about his blades.
Nico thanked Doug and watched while he sharpened the blade, the whine of the grinding wheel and the sharp scent of steel and oil so familiar.
After Nico was sure his equipment was in order, he went and played a little two-touch with the guys, then returned to the dressing room.
The team had arrived a little later than usual since this was a special night for their opponents.
It was the number retirement ceremony for three of Evanston’s players who’d hung up their skates at the end of last season.
They were great guys, great players, and queer as fuck. Not to mention ridiculously attractive.
Exactly Nico’s kind of people.
He was still going to kick some Otter ass tonight but the ceremony should be nice.
Someone had tuned the TV to the on-ice feed and Nico watched as he layered on his gear, strapping on pads and taping his socks.
His skate blades were perfect and he gave an appreciative nod at Doug, who beamed, then went off to deal with something else.
The dressing room was a little quieter than usual, the team listening to the speeches about Zane Murphy, Ryan Hartinger, and Anders Lindholm.
Nico was not going to miss them on the ice. Off-ice, they were great guys but Lindholm had always been so damn fast.
Going up against him was like trying to catch smoke and he’d outskated Nico an embarrassing number of times. The man was thirty-nine-years old. Sure, at the end of last season he wasn’t skating like he had in his prime but he’d still skated circles around half the league.
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.
“Ton québécois c’est d’la marde,” Gabriel said disparagingly.
Nico grinned. It was true, his Québécois was absolute shit.
That had never stopped him before though, and besides, he thought Gabriel liked that he spoke a little of his native language.
“Thank you though,” Gabriel said in English now, patting his chest. “It is an honor to be named alternate captain.”
He’d been an angry man when Nico had met him but he seemed calm and peaceful now. Or at least he did when they weren’t battling for a puck.
All bets were off during a game.
“You deserve it,” Nico said.
For a few moments, they caught up about their summers, and Nico studied Gabriel’s handsome face as he talked about his boyfriend, Lance, and their new home.
His dark eyes no longer snapped with anger but turned soft and fond, his contentment radiating from every inch of his body as he leaned on his stick.
“Do you have plans after the game?” Gabriel asked eventually.
Nico shook his head. “Not yet. Why?”
“The team is celebrating tonight. You should come.”
Nico grinned. “Even after we beat you?”
Gabriel made a disparaging noise. “You mean after we make you cry for mercy, non?”
“If you say so,” Nico said with a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll come out for a bit. Text me the info.”
Gabriel nodded.
If Gabriel weren’t absolutely in love with his assistant coach, Nico might have thought he was angling for a hookup for old times’ sake, but Gabriel had made it clear he was firmly committed now.
Ahh well, it had been fun while it lasted.
After a quick goodbye, they returned to their own sides.
Nico skated a few quick laps forward, then reversed directions, watching over his shoulder so he didn’t hit a stray puck or teammate, doing quick crossovers to prepare himself for the game.
After he grew tired of that, he skated up to Dustin Fowler and sprayed him with ice, because annoying his captain was one of his favorite pastimes.
“Hey there, Dusty. Can I go five-hole on you?” He waggled his eyebrows playfully as he toyed with a puck, smoothly batting it back and forth.
His captain rolled his eyes and continued stretching. “No thanks, I’ve got a husband for that.”
Yeah, yeah. Everyone knew Dustin was fucking obsessed with his new husband, Charlie.
Nico didn’t blame him.
Charlie was a hot little ball of sass and the most fun thing to happen to the team—or to Dustin—in years.
Nico had only been half-kidding every time in the past few months when he flirted with Charlie and/or Dustin and Charlie.
If they’d actually been into a threesome, would Nico have gone for it?
Well, maybe. Probably.
Oh hell, fine, Nico would have been all up in that because they were both hot and they had sexual chemistry through the roof.
Which was something Nico was always in favor of getting in the middle of.
It couldn’t be said he had a type but he liked people who knew how to have fun in bed and Dustin and Charlie would be fun.
But they were way too wrapped up in each other to be bothered with the likes of Nico and he didn’t take it personally.
There were plenty of other fish in the sea and people to fuck and Nico was determined to reel in as many of them as he could.
He was young, hot, rich, and got to play pro hockey for a living. Why wouldn’t he squeeze every last drop out of life while he had the chance?
After Nico had finished warming up—which mostly consisted of flirting with fans and annoying his teammates—he left the ice.
He was usually one of the first off.
Some guys had a mile-long list of routines and superstitions they went through but Nico had never needed a long warm-up. He could easily turn on or off his ability to play whenever he needed.
Besides, he was team DJ and needed to get the beats going in the locker room.
Nico loved putting together the playlists, carefully crafting music collections that suited the tastes of the current roster and their needs.
The portable speaker was ready to connect to his phone so he hit play on tonight’s high-energy pre-game selection to get the guys fired up, then settled in his stall.
He thumbed through his notifications, checking to see if he had any messages from his ex-girlfriend Skylar Hanley.
He did.
Look how swollen my ankles are!
The picture that followed showed what looked to Nico like Skylar’s perfectly normal ankles, slender, almost bony.
Sorry, babe,Nico sent back. Elevate and be sure to rest!
There was a weird kind of irony to him being the person who got text messages about pregnancy-related symptoms.
It definitely wasn’t his kid or his responsibility, and he was only doing it because he loved Sky.
Not in any kind of settling-down way. Every time they’d tried to date it had ended messily and with tears on both their parts—okay fine, usually Nico’s—because they somehow managed to rub up against each other in all of the worst ways.
But when his best friend had sobbed onto his shoulder about having to handle a pregnancy alone, he hadn’t been about to tell her to fuck off.
He’d pulled her into a tight hug and promised her he’d be there for her and the baby.
“Hey, is that Sky?” Matty asked, leaning over into his stall to stare at his screen.
“Yeah. Do her ankles look swollen to you?”
“No?”
“That’s what I thought!”
“How’s she doing?”
Nico shrugged. “Grumpy about pregnancy symptoms but otherwise good.”
“I still can’t believe you aren’t going to make an honest woman of her.”
Nico laughed. “It’s not my kid and we’re not dating! Besides, I’m pretty sure if I did propose, she’d punch me in the face.”
“You do have a punchable face,” Matty agreed.
Nico shoved him. Or tried, at least. Matty was like a brick wall.
“I’m just saying, it’s not like that with Sky. I’m not here to raise her kid but I’ll take her to her appointments, hold her hand, buy all of the cute baby shit, and when the kid is old enough, I’m going to teach it to skate. I can promise that much.”
Matty’s expression softened. “You’ll be a good uncle, Nico.”
“Hot Uncle Nico,” he corrected.
Matty gave him a wry smile. “How could I forget?”
“No idea. I’m stunning.”
Matty snorted.
The idea of being Hot Uncle Nico had grown on him. He just wished he was better at knowing how to make life easier for Sky.
He was shit at it and they both knew it but seriously, he was an only child and despite his years of man-whoring he’d been extremely careful to never knock anyone up.
This was not in his skillset.
Nico could create space on the ice for their offense, he had a great one-timer, he could pass on his backhand, and he was a hell of a shutdown defenseman.
He could get most people off in under two minutes with his mouth if he wanted to and he’d been told he kissed like the very devil himself.
But he was useless at reassuring Sky when she panicked about raising a baby alone.
Thanks, Nics. Have a good game,Sky shot back.
Nico was typing out a response when the words on the screen blurred. He blinked but it didn’t help.
What the fuck?
He shook his head, squeezing his eyes tightly shut for a moment before he opened them again.
The words settled back into their normal clear arrangement and he let out a tiny sigh of relief.
Must be exhaustion. His sleep schedule had been really fucked up lately.
“Hey, you okay?” Matty asked.
“Yeah. Trying to get my head ready for the game.”
Matty shot him a funny look but didn’t press.
Or maybe Nico needed to get laid tonight.
He’d been feeling off since the summer and he hadn’t put the energy into hookups the way he had last season.
Clearly it was messing with his head.
Nico thought guiltily of the promise he’d made to his captain earlier this fall that if the headaches persisted, he’d talk to the team doc about it. He probably should have listened to Dustin.
Every morning now Nico woke with a pounding headache at his right temple and he’d thrown up a couple of times.
He’d joked with Skylar that he had sympathy morning sickness and she’d given him a disgusted look as she flicked him in the nose then told him to shut up and stop making it all about him.
Gah. Maybe he should talk to the team doc soon. It was getting harder to ignore that something felt off.
Reallyoff.
Nico had cancelled his annual trip to the Netherlands to visit family and spin in his off-season DJ gig at a club in Amsterdam.
He could tell himself all he wanted that he’d stayed in Toronto to help Sky with the pregnancy and scope out his captain’s new husband but it wasn’t quite true.
By the time both of those bombs had dropped he’d already been feeling like shit.
At first, Nico had chalked it up to still being worn out from the previous season’s playoff run. But as the summer stretched on and he’d rested and resumed easy training, he was still exhausted.
It became harder to blame it on normal post-season hockey fatigue.
Motion in Nico’s peripheral vision made him look up to see Matty dancing to the beat of the music playing, shaking his butt in Nico’s face like he did before every game.
Nico automatically reached out to smack it, more of a reflex than anything at this point.
But it reminded him he needed to get his own rituals going, so he fired off a reply to Sky, then stuffed his phone in his messy bag.
They were barely into the season and the duffel was already cluttered with a couple rolls of tape, scissors, some tubes of lip balm and all of the other crap that accumulated in there.
Nico unzipped the side pocket and pulled out his wallet and keychain. He flipped open the wallet and tapped the photos in there. The one of him and his dad and his stepmom, Noor, and one of him and his mom and Anika, his other stepmom, following the Fisher Cats Cup win two seasons ago.
Still smiling at the memory, Nico reached for the charm he’d carried on a keychain since he was a kid.
He rubbed his thumb across the tiny nautical lantern, smoothing over the shiny brass and green globe.
Nico was Dutch by birth but he held both Canadian and Dutch passports.
Both his biological parents were Dutch, though Nico had been born in Canada because his dad had been playing in the NHL at the time.
An injury had ended Pieter Arents’ career shortly after and Nico had spent most of the first six years of his life in the Netherlands.
But his parents had divorced when he was small and at the age of six, he’d moved back to Canada to live with his dad and new stepmom, Noor.
There had been plenty of screaming fights between his parents about where he’d live, but his mom’s career had been in Amsterdam and his father had wanted to handle his hockey training in person.
Ultimately, his father won.
Nico had been sad of course, but he’d spent happy summers with his mom and Anika in the Netherlands and he’d adored his dad’s new wife, Noor. She’d treated him like her own and he’d never had any shortage of love.
His biological parents had given him the charm before he went off to a Canadian hockey academy in Ontario. It had been a prep school designed for potential NHL players and he’d only been fourteen when he went to live at the boarding school.
During the golden age of sailing, no one had rivaled the Dutch and the little lantern was a reminder of his homeland, of his roots.
Nico remembered his mom cupping his cheek and saying the lantern would always show him the way home.
His parents had been … well, they were a mess and a half when it came to loving each other but they’d been good to him. They still were.
Nico pressed a kiss to the lantern, then carefully tucked the charm back into his bag.
He looked around the room, smiling at the noisy, chaotic energy of it all as guys began to file out into the hallway before they went down the tunnel.
It was game time.
* * *
Augustus Manning took a deep breath. Then another.
No crying in the locker room, he reminded himself.
His eyes burned as he stared at his phone.
The photo on Instagram showed Daniel Townsend grinning as he stared into a mirror and knotted his tie. The social media post was captioned: So excited to be marrying the love of my life tonight!
August swallowed thickly. Funny, he’d thought he was the love of Daniel’s life.
Apparently not.
Apparently, it didn’t go both directions.
That was supposed to be him.
The guy marrying Daniel today was supposed to be him.
It had been planned out and everything had been right on schedule.
August and Daniel had met through mutual friends, hit it off, and started dating. They’d had a handful of nice dates, decided they had the potential for something serious, slept together, agreed they were compatible, dated six months, then moved in together.
After a year, August had picked out a ring and made reservations for their favorite restaurant. He’d planned a stroll along the waterfront in Toronto after dinner and had written down everything he was going to say, then … Daniel had blown up their perfect life.
And now, a year later, Daniel was marrying some prick named Kent Parsons. He was an actor.
August shuddered.
Good luck with that, Daniel.
But they looked happy. They grinned at each other, madly in love, and that was supposed to be him.
“Manning!”
He lifted his head to see Ross Hansen, one of his fellow referees, staring at him.
“Yes?”
“Game time.”
“Shit.” August scrambled to his feet, tucking his phone in his bag. He smoothed down his striped uniform, slipped a whistle onto his finger, then grabbed his black helmet. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, kid.” Ross looked amused. “You don’t always have to be the first one ready.”
But August always was.
He didn’t like being late, didn’t like feeling like he was a step behind.
He’d like to blame Daniel for it tonight but it was no one’s fault but his own.
Daniel certainly couldn’t be expected to schedule his wedding around August’s games.
He’d hated making plans around August’s work when they’d dated. Why would he care now that they’d been broken up for a year?
They’d tried staying friends.
That whole experiment had lasted until Daniel began dating Kent and August realized he was fooling himself. He was never going to be okay being friends with the man he’d planned to marry. He was never going to be okay watching him marry someone else.
“You okay tonight?” Ross asked kindly as they waited to go out onto the ice a few minutes later. “You seem a little off.”
August cleared his throat. “I was a bit distracted but my head’s in the game now,” he said firmly.
Ross gave him a searching look, but he nodded and glanced away.
Ross was a nice guy. Unlike some of his fellow officials, he didn’t treat August like a kid, even if he did call him that.
At forty-nine, Ross was getting up there for a referee, but at twenty-five, August was the youngest. Not the youngest ever, but currently in the league.
Young enough that people didn’t always respect him.
But Ross had treated him with respect from the beginning and August had always appreciated that.
This could have been your wedding day, the sneaky, insidious voice in his head reminded him again.
He ruthlessly tamped it down. Listening to reminders of what he’d lost wasn’t going to do him any favors when he was out on the ice.
Yeah, it was early in the season, but the teams playing tonight still deserved his best, not him being an emotional, distracted mess.
Unfortunately, while the bright energy of a game usually buoyed his own mood, tonight felt like a slog from the moment the puck dropped.
The Fisher Cats took an early lead with a goal within the first two minutes and August nearly got taken out by a puck a few minutes later.
He had to do a quick hop to avoid it, fumbling a little.
“Sleeping on the job there, Manning?” Nicolaas Arents snarked as he blew past, chasing the puck.
August got his feet under him again, glaring at Arents’ retreating back.
People loved the guy but he irritated August.
Arents had been a pain in the ass since day one. He always had some “clever” quip to throw at the officials.
August was grateful when the first period ended with little more than a few icing calls and a 2-0 lead for the Fisher Cats.
He made the mistake of checking his phone during the first intermission, swallowing hard at the picture Daniel had posted a few minutes ago.
It was from their candlelit ceremony, maybe taken after Daniel and Kent had said their vows.
God, the way they looked each other …
Had Daniel ever looked at August like that?
August swallowed thickly and put his phone away again, regretting he’d checked it.
Did he like torturing himself?
Unfortunately, the second period wasn’t much better. Arents was as mouthy as ever and August had to warn him several times to knock it off.
The Fisher Cats were still up 2-0 when Otters’ defenseman Gabriel Theriault stole the puck from the Cats captain, Dustin Fowler.
They traded a few insults in French but it all seemed good-natured. Still, August kept his eye on Theriault.
Few guys were fast enough to keep up with him but Arents did his best, making a nuisance of himself as he whacked at the puck in the neutral zone, trying to knock it from Theriault’s stick.
Theriault went down on the ice, sliding a few feet and August blew the whistle immediately. The hook to Theriault’s skate had been subtle but definitely there.
“Into the box, Arents,” August called out.
Arents skated up, all wide-eyed innocence. “What for? I didn’t do shit, Manning!”
August frowned. “Two minutes for hooking.”
“I’ve never hooked a day in my life. I’m definitely good enough in bed to get paid for it but I don’t exactly need the money.”
August sighed, annoyed. So, it was going to be one of those nights.
He should’ve known.
August latched on to Arents’ waist, steering him toward the box, glaring at the back of his helmet. “Enough with the jokes, number thirty-three. You’re not that funny.”
“Liar!” Arents shot over his shoulder. “I’m almost as hilarious as I am good-looking.”
August wished he could deny that but unfortunately, Arents was attractive. Of course, no one believed that more than him.
Insufferable.
“You’re a pain in my ass is what you are,” August grumbled rather than agree with him.
“Only if you want me to be,” Nico said with a smirk as he glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes dancing with amusement, eyebrows waggling.
“Cut it out.” August planted a hand between Arents’ shoulder blades and pushed him toward the penalty box. “Or I’ll add time on to the penalty.”
Arents stepped inside, then turned to face August, smirking. “For what? Flirting? I can’t help it. You’re so hot when you’re pissed off.” He made a fanning motion with his glove.
“Rule 601,” August snapped. “Abuse of an official.”
“God you’re uptight. I’m starting to think you dislike queer players,” Nico threw back, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared.
Oh buddy, if you only knew, August thought grimly. Aloud, he said, “Yeah, okay. Tell that to my ex-boyfriend.”
The one who was now married to someone else.
Pain sliced into August’s ribs as sharp and vicious as a rogue skate blade.
Arents opened his mouth to respond but his captain had apparently had enough.
“Nico, cut it out! I don’t want to lose this game because you’re harassing a ref,” Fowler snapped.
Arents rolled his eyes, his tone turning playful again. “Aww, you ruin all my fun, D. I thought you were going to support me in my time of need.”
Fowler scoffed. “What time of need? You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to hear it. Get in the box, Nico, or I’ll throw you in there myself.”
Arents gave them both a disgruntled look but he waved his hand and slumped back on the bench. “Is this better?”
“If you keep your mouth shut, yes,” Fowler said as the official closed the penalty box door. “Behave!”
August turned to face the Fisher Cats captain, one eyebrow raised.
Fowler grimaced. “Sorry about that. He gets a little mouthy.”
August crossed his arms over his chest. “Your guy has been pushing every last button I have tonight. If he does it again, it’ll be a game misconduct.”
Fowler nodded seriously. “I’ll make sure he understands.”
“You better,” August warned. “Because I’ve had it up to here with him.”
Sunday Sport Stats
Rules of the Game
Relationship Goals
Brigham Vaughn
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.
EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com
The Head Game #2
Relationship Goals Series
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