The NHL was Nico’s whole life, ever since he was a kid. The thrill of it, the euphoria after scoring a shot or winning a whole game. That was why he did it.

He got good quickly, and then became great; eventually working up to becoming the captain of the New Jersey Devils. Playing was one thing, but being in charge was another. He simply couldn’t fathom not being on the ice.

Nico had made a name for himself, after all. He was considered one of the best players on his team, with the record to prove it.

And then he met you, and now he not only had his team but you. Cheering him on from the sidelines at every game, and being one more thing to look forward to after each game. He was in a few words, somewhat devoted to you.

But it wasn’t until Nico couldn’t play that he realised just how much he relied on it to hold himself together. All it took was one hard hit, and suddenly he was being pulled out, being told that he most likely wouldn’t be allowed to play for at least a month

It felt like his whole life purpose had been ripped out from underneath him. It wasn’t like he’d never play again, but that break to him felt unacceptable. And you had to sit there the whole time and watch him lose his mind, watching his team play without him while he watched from the sidelines. And then watching them lose, while he sit there, unable to help.

He was healing quickly, but not quick enough for his manager or the doctors.

When you both walked into your shared apartment after the game⎯that he wasn’t allowed to participate in⎯he dropped onto the couch, his head falling forward into his hands.


“I could’ve helped them,” he grumbled, voice muffled by the palm of his hands. “But instead I just watched them get their asses handed to them. This is pathetic.”