nicocoves

[nicocoves]

✧ loss and hockey ✧

(death mention)

the rink was silent—eerily so—but for the soft scrape of skates slicing through the freshly smoothed ice. the world outside was cloaked in darkness, as if it, too, had chosen to mourn. only the rink was lit: cold, sterile overhead lights humming faintly, casting pale reflections on the glossy ice. niko moved like a shadow, fast and fluid, gliding from one end to the other, breath forming ghosts in the air behind him. there was no music playing. he didn’t need it. the silence was its own kind of song.

it had been a hard day—hard in a way that didn’t shout, but weighed heavily, like wet snow on branches. his mother’s birthday. it always hit like this. not with an explosion of grief, but a slow, steady ache that started behind his ribs and bloomed into something unbearable as the hours passed. she’d been gone for years now, taken when he was nineteen—an age too old to cry without shame and too young to know how to carry sorrow. there had been no instruction manual for this kind of loss. no one had told him that grief wasn't a one-time thing, but a series of echoes that would come back again and again, louder some days, quieter others, but always there.

he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. he never did. earlier that week, he’d asked the janitor at the local rink—an old man who understood the weight behind the request without needing it explained—for the keys. the man handed them over with a wordless nod, and no questions asked. that unspoken permission was one of the few mercies niko clung to.

so now, in the hollow hours of the night, he skated. he pushed hard with each stride, driving himself forward, sharp and fast. the cold bit at his cheeks and nose, stinging tears from his eyes, though he told himself it was just the wind. the rhythmic sound of his blades carving the ice was all he could hear, all he wanted to hear. it was a way of drowning everything else out—his thoughts, his guilt, the memories that bubbled up against his will.

his mother had always loved watching him play. she never missed a game. rain or snow, sickness or health, she was there in the stands, clutching a thermos of cheap coffee and cheering like he was already in the nhl. her voice, loud and proud, had always cut through the noise of the crowd. he missed that most. that unwavering belief. that warmth.

he was skating not for training, not for a match, but to keep himself from breaking. the faster he went, the less he felt. and that was the goal—to feel nothing, if only for a while. he raced from one end to the other until his lungs burned and his legs screamed, until sweat mingled with the cold on his skin. until the line between physical exhaustion and emotional numbness blurred enough to be bearable.

eventually, he came to a stop near the goal. he pulled a puck from his jacket pocket—a single black disk, cold and hard in his hand. he knelt and set it gently on the ice, like it was something sacred, like it was a flower laid on a grave. then he stepped back, adjusted his stick, and took his stance. one breath in. one breath out. he shot.

the puck sailed clean and sharp into the net, slicing through the stillness like a promise. no fanfare. no applause. just the quiet thunk of rubber hitting mesh and the dull echo of memory in his chest. niko looked up. past the rink lights. past the roof. past everything. and he pointed to the sky. he always did that—every time he scored, in any game, public or private. it was his small, sacred ritual. his silent way of saying this one’s for you, mom. but tonight, it wasn’t just a gesture. tonight, it wasn’t just habit. tonight, everything was about her.

afterward, he sat on the bench for a while, skates still on, breath still heavy. the rink lights flickered slightly, and in the dim stillness, he let himself close his eyes. he didn’t cry. he rarely did. but the ache in his chest felt sharper than usual, like it might cut its way out. it was always like this on her birthday—lonely, quiet, raw. a part of him still wanted to hear her voice. still wanted to believe, somehow, that she knew. that she saw him. that she was proud of the man he was trying to become.

eventually, he stood and locked the doors behind him. his apartment was only a short walk away. whether thalia was there waiting or whether the place was dark and empty didn’t matter. either way, he wouldn’t speak of it. he never did. this night was his. his burden. his remembrance. his silent tradition. and as he slipped under the covers, body sore, eyes burning, heart aching in that deep, quiet way that never fully healed, he whispered into the darkness a promise he’d kept every year since she died. "happy birthday, mom. i hope i made you proud."

[nicocoves]

if life was about balance, he didn’t know how to find it. between work, training sessions, and his girlfriend—nico felt like he was constantly dropping something. at first, it had seemed manageable: train, spend time with her, keep everything steady. but being captain came with more than just a title. it meant extra hours, longer practices, being the one who showed up first and left last. and sometimes, it meant putting the team before anything else—even her. he hated that. he hated how it made him look like he didn’t care, when all he wanted was to be good at both. “thalia, please,” he said softly, knocking again. when he heard the door click open, he took a small step back, heart in his throat. “i’m sorry, thalia, i’m really sorry,” he said, voice low, eyes pleading. “this week’s match is important and… we lost track of time. i should’ve texted. i should’ve called.” he swallowed. “i’m sorry i kept you waiting. i didn’t mean to.”

1 and a half hours, that's how long she waited for her boyfriend to show up before she gave up and went home. IT was kind of humiliating, sitting there holding a seat for someone who never showed up. But that wasn't the part that stung; it was him, not being there, as if he didn't even care. But he cared, she knew he did, he just...didn't prioritise her much. She was watching tv and petting her cat when there was a knock on her door and she heard Nico's voice. a part of her wanted to just ignore him and not open up, but eventually she got up, still holding her cat as she walk over and half opened the door, just so her head and her cat's head managed to peek out and look at him. " Whiskers and I are busy" She said kind of bitterly

[nicocoves]

he ran—he ran as fast as he could down the street, nearly knocking over a woman in the process. nico was late. two hours late to their date. and he hated himself for it. “fuck me,” he groaned as he reached the coffee shop where they were supposed to meet, only to realize—of course—she’d probably already gone home. the bag with his hockey gear slammed against his back as he turned and started running again, this time toward her house. he’d only been there a couple of times, but he remembered. he had to. by the time he got there, his chest was burning, lungs aching, sweat running down the side of his face. breathless, desperate, he knocked on her door. “thalia,” he called out, voice loud, cracked. “i’m so sorry.” a pause. “please open the door. training went longer than expected—” he exhaled, shoulders heavy. “but i’m here.” a softer knock. “open, please.” @thebetterowens

[nicocoves]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ this is nico

name:  nicholas (nico) / coves

age: twenty5

sexuality: bisexual

relationship status: in a relationship with thalia.

nico coves is the kind of person who makes silence feel safe. not cold—just steady. grounded. while his teammates laugh too loudly in hotel hallways and fill the air with banter, nico lingers on the edges, quiet but always listening. not shy, not aloof—just observant, deeply intentional. when he speaks, people listen. when he moves, it’s with purpose. and when he’s on the ice, there’s no one like him.

he’s the kind of hockey player scouts whisper about before he even walks in the room—controlled, precise, composed under pressure. captain material. a professional down to the bone. but what most people don’t see is how hard he has to fight to hold that control. migraines hit him like freight trains—random, ruthless, sometimes mid-practice, sometimes hours after a game when the lights are off and the adrenaline fades. he doesn’t talk about them. he doesn't complain. he just pushes through, because that’s what he’s always done.

his mother passed away when he was nineteen—too young to handle the kind of grief that hollowed him out, but old enough to know he had to keep going. she was the one who taught him discipline, who sat in the stands for every game, who remembered every stat, every goal, every bruise. losing her changed something in him. his security code—her birthday—is a small rebellion against forgetting. it's the one part of his life he’s never let the press touch.

nico drives a white tesla. always clean, always quiet. no bumper stickers, no mess. even his apartment reflects that same stillness—neat lines, warm lights, order in a world that rarely offers it. everything in its place. like him.

his favorite movie is coco, though he’ll only admit it when he’s exhausted and his guard’s down. he watched it the first time alone in a hotel room after a loss, when his migraine wouldn’t let him sleep and his chest felt too tight to breathe. he won’t say why it stuck with him, but he knows the real reason—family, grief, memory. it all hit too close.

people assume nico’s confident—and he is. he knows how to lead, how to carry a team, how to show up when it counts. he’s caring, loyal to a fault, the kind of guy who would defend someone before they even knew they were under attack. but he’s also deeply private. emotionally cautious. he doesn’t let people in easily, and when he does, it means everything.

thalia was one of those people. is. he still loves her, completely. but loving her hasn’t been easy—not with how demanding his career is, not with how often he disappears into the rhythm of practices, press conferences, travel, and exhaustion. he forgets dates. shows up late. sometimes, he forgets to respond to texts until it’s been days. not because he doesn’t care, but because he’s drowning in the pressure of being everyone’s everything. and he knows that’s not fair. he hates the look on her face when he lets her down, and he hates even more that he’s started to believe she deserves better.

what makes it worse is that he won’t talk about it. he keeps everything inside. pain, stress, guilt—it all sits behind his eyes like another migraine, building slowly. he’s not the guy who falls apart in front of people. he’s the guy who locks the bathroom door and leans against the sink until his breathing evens out. who throws himself into training because it’s the only place where he feels in control.

beneath all of it—beneath the wins, the quiet charm, the careful image—is a boy who never really recovered from losing his mother. a boy who still wonders if he’d be doing all of this if she were here. and somewhere in him, maybe a small part that still believes in love, even if he doesn't know how to hold onto it without hurting someone.