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peggyrose19 · 3 years

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Day 19: Soulmates

Jeez formatting this was a bitch. Advent for tonight is a little bit different, because the prompt was an accidental double. So, instead of being a sensible human being and just writing a different one-shot off it again, I decided I should get my O’Knutzy soulmate AU done instead, thinking it’d be fairly simple. Oh how wrong I was. Who knew writing an actual plot and developing a relationship was so hard? Me, but I started it anyway so really I did this to myself. So if it’s complete shit, I apologize in advance. Some day I will go back and edit and add to it. Characters by the always amazing @lumosinlove

Summary: Finn and Logan were soulmates, and had been since the moment they were born. Both had a journal filled with messages to each other, given to everyone once they turned 18. When Leo turned 18, he opened his journal to discover something rather peculiar. What did one do with two soulmates?

Sorry the summary is shit, I suck at them :) Journal entries are in italics and text messages are in bold because tumblr won’t let me underline. Hope you guys enjoy, leave a comment and I’ll love you forever <3

Leo stared down at the paper in front of him. His mind had gone blank when he’d opened the book. His soulmate journal, given to him today, on his 18th birthday. He had imagined this going hundreds of different ways. It had consumed his every waking thought for the past six months at least, what he would say, how his soulmate would respond, the possibility of words waiting for him already. What he hadn’t imagined was the words from two distinct hands written on the pages.

He thumbed through the book as word after word flashed by. Conversations flowed between these two people, going back nearly three years, according to the dates on each page. The handwritings were different. One was messy, scrawled, and Leo caught a few words of French here and there. The other was neater, script-like, and the ink was dark and consistent.

Unsure what to do, Leo began reading some of the journal. He had never heard of this happening before; he wondered if the other two knew.

What’re you doing up, it’s nearly 3 am? was the first thing Leo’s eyes fell upon.

Can’t sleep. What’re you doing up?

Reading. But that’s irrelevant. Go to bed. I’ll be here when you wake up.

Okay fine. Night, Fish.

Night.

Leo could feel the affection between the two, even just from those simple words. He kept reading, flipping back through conversations that felt too private for him to be reading. His eyes found the words “I love you” written in big stark letters, filling nearly half a page. He slammed the book shut.

What was happening? Why did these two already seem to have a life? Why were they in his soulmate journal? He pushed back the tears forming in his eyes and slowly opened it again. Words began appearing on the page.

Finn, you there?

A moment later, answering words appeared, Yeah, what’s up?

Shit day. Then, I miss you.

Leo wasn’t sure how to feel about all of this. He didn’t know who these people were, why they were in his journal, what to make of the clear connection they had. The best way, he supposed, to resolve this was to see who they were.

Hesitantly, Leo grabbed a pen and set it to a blank page.

Hello?

Umm… hi? one of them wrote back quickly, the messy one.

Who are you? the other, Finn, added.

I’m Leo, he wrote, unsure of what else to say. I just got my soulmate journal, he added.

There was no answer for a while. Leo had just about given up when words began appearing on the page.

This is our journal. We’ve had it for about four years now. I’m Logan, by the way, he added.

I’m Finn.

Uh, well it’s nice to meet you both.

Neither Finn nor Logan were sure what to make of the situation. Finn grabbed his phone, watching Leo’s words spread across the page, telling them about who he was and what he’d discovered when he’d opened his journal for the first time that morning.

Lo, is it even possible he’s also our soulmate? Is that even a thing? He sent the message to Logan, turning back to the journal.

Leo, where are you from? he asked curiously.

New Orleans, came the response. Born and raised. What about you both?

New York City, Finn responded right before his phone pinged.

He pulled up Logan’s response. I’m not sure, maybe? I’ve never heard of this happening before but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t.

Quebec, came Logan’s response in the journal a moment later. Leo answered, but Finn wasn’t paying attention.

He was focused on the message on his screen, mind running through all the soulmate stories and tales he’d heard over the years. He remembered his brother getting his, being ecstatic at the messages he’d received. His friends all getting theirs, writing excitedly to their soulmates from the first moment. Even his parents talked fondly about it, the two of them meeting after a year and already being in love. None of them had two soulmates.

But then, in the back of his mind, a memory surfaced. His grandmother, telling him a story, late one night when he couldn’t sleep, about her best friend from high school. She had had a girlfriend when they went off for college, her soulmate. When they connected some years later there had been a boy too. She had never questioned it. After all, this had been the 60s. People didn’t ask questions like that.

But maybe it was possible. Maybe this could explain the hole that still seemed to exist between him and Logan, no matter how much they loved each other.

As the months passed, Leo slowly made it through the journal. Finn and Logan had both given him permission to read it, although initially he had been surprised. He barely knew these people, why were they trusting him with their deepest secrets? But Finn said that’s what a soulmate journal was for and so Leo spent each night before bed reading a few pages, getting to know his apparent soulmates better and better with each word.

He learned that Finn was a year older than Logan, 23 now, and his birthday was in August. Logan’s was in December, four days before Christmas. He read page upon page about their siblings, Finn’s older brother and Logan’s three older sisters. He wondered briefly what it was like living with siblings.

They’d met before, in person, two years ago, Logan flying from Quebec, where he lived, to New York City for New Years. Leo’s heart ached when he read that. He wondered what the city had been like, what it had been like when they met.

He wished he could meet them.

He learned the small things about them, too. Logan had a terrible sweet-tooth. He was French-Canadian and could speak it fluently. (Canadian French was very different from New Orleans French). He couldn’t dance to save his life, despite his sisters trying. Finn knew how to figure skate, but had switched to hockey early on. He still kept up with it.The only food he could make without burning was hot chocolate the way his brother showed him. Finn liked to feel useful, to make people feel better. He liked to read. He liked to write letters to Logan while he slept. And Logan would scold him for staying up late, then absolutely melt at the words written on the page.

Leo wanted one of those letters.

By the time he reached the entry from his birthday, three months had passed. It was quickly becoming summer in New Orleans, despite it being only May. As he got to know his boys better, and they got to know him, Leo wished more and more that he could meet them, see them. He wished he’d known them four years ago when they first met. He wished they’d had that time together.

He wanted them to fall in love with him.

Hey Le! Logan wrote cheerfully late one afternoon. Leo sat outside in the shade of a nearby tree, flipping aimlessly through the journal. He felt conflicted. But the nickname sent flutters through his heart. What’re you up to?

Not much, he replied. Sitting in the garden. What’re you up to?

You have a garden?

Leo chuckled. Yeah. I can see the ocean from here actually.

You can see the ocean?? Jealous.

Yeah, it’s also 85 degrees.

Nope, I’m out.

That made him laugh again. That’s what I thought.

I just don’t know how you do it! It’s like a million fucking degrees there all the time. I would actually die.

And it’s always a million fucking degrees below freezing where you live.

….touché. Leo could sense his reluctance through the paper. He wished desperately to see Logan’s face in that moment, see the pout he undoubtedly was wearing right then. To kiss it away, maybe press him back against his bed…

No. He wouldn’t let himself think of that. Because if he started down that path there was no coming back. And he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Finn we need to talk

The text came one day as Finn was getting ready for bed. He paused in brushing his teeth, typing out a response.

FaceTime in 5?

Sounds good

If he was being honest with himself, Finn had expected this a while ago. He had known it was coming, knew it needed to happen. From that first message, Logan laughed at something Leo had written. Finn knew in that moment he was gone. They both were. The only problem now was how to say it.

The ringing of his phone shook him from his thoughts.

“Hey, Lo,” he answered as the call connected.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from your text.” Logan didn’t laugh, and that’s when Finn knew this was really bothering him.

“Logan, I know what this is about. It’s okay.” Logan’s eyes snapped to his face.

“What- how?”

“Babe, you’re not exactly subtle. And, well, neither am I. I know it’s about Leo. It’s okay.”

Logan sighed. “I just- I know he’s our soulmate, obviously. But it still feels like I’m betraying you? How can I love both of you? How does that even work?” Finn’s eyes widened at Logan’s words.

“You love us? Both of us?”

“Harzy, how could I not? You’re my soulmates. But it’s more than that. I love you for you, not just because of some match in the system. And I want us, all of us, to be together.”

Finn was quiet for a long time. Eventually, he said quietly, “That’s why we never made sense. Why there always seemed to be a, a hole. We need Leo to complete us.”

Logan smiled. “Exactly.”

Leo, you there? Finn wrote.

Yeah, came the reply a moment later.

We have something we want to tell you.

We?

Hi Nut, Logan added hurriedly. Finn smiled at him through the phone screen. He wished he was there in person. He wished both of them were.

Logan?

Yeah, it’s me. Fish and I talked. About this, us. We want-

“Don’t take my moment!” Finn scolded playfully. “Besides, no one can read your shitty writing, I would know.” Logan pouted, but let Finn continue.

Sorry about that. What we were trying to say is that we want you. If you’ll have us. I know all of this is new for you, it is for us too. But we need you. You’re the missing piece of our puzzle, and we don’t work if we don’t have you.

Leo read the words over and over. Silence buzzed in his ears. It didn’t seem real, that these two boys, who had been each other's for so long, now wanted him. His mind couldn’t make sense of it all, of the love he could feel even through the thin pages of his notebook.

Leo, you there?

I’m here, he managed. I just don’t know what to say.

Good or bad? Finn asked cautiously.

Good, he laughed. Of course I want you two, do you know how long I’ve wished for this to happen?

Oh yeah? Tell us.

“Logan!”

“Sorry.”

Okay, you don’t have to tell us. But please tell me you’ll come see us? I need to see your face.

Please? Finn added for good measure.

Leo could have jumped up and down in that moment. Of course I will come visit. Of course. Then, a moment later, heart in his throat, he added, I love you guys.

#o'knutzy #cubs #lumosinlove #coast to coast #soulmate au #how do i write relationships #plot? what's that #falling in love #remus john lupin #advent #december 19

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bigbrotherlouis · 4 years

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i’m obsessed with joel farabee and morgan frost and you should be too: a primer

hello! welcome! recently i have become infatuated with morgan frost and joel farabee for a lot of reasons but mostly because of that one post that i spent like twenty minutes searching various blogs for that said “people are freaking out about sexualising hockey players, meanwhile joel farabee is one instagram comment away from telling morgan frost he’d suck him dry.” in my head rent free. hit a girl up if you have the post.

anyway! frosty and beezy:

[hard cut to me whispering “oh my god even their nUMBERS are friends” i’m fine.]

this is more like about vibes and less about facts, so you can google if you want to know more about their, like, bios and stats and stuff that’s not 99% rpf or conjecture. this primer is just the things that make me scream. however, that being said, they do play well on a line together and both are very good players.

joel farabee is american, from new york i believe but his dad is from philly, and falls neatly into the category of BORN TO BE A FLYER. longtime fan, hugely excited to play for the team, brings it up all the time.

morgan frost, from ontario canada, was not.

a real, actual tweet. he tweeted this with his WHOLE chest and then joined the flyers like three years later. i adore it. another real actual tweet i adore:

sweet, sweet joel. he misses his buddies :( no doubt including morgan because they are, by all appearances, obsessed with each other. i’m trying not to keep using the word obsessed in this primer but it’s hard because they are. morgan’s a year older, a first round draft pick in 2017 and joel’s a first round pick in 2018, but they didn’t start playing together until 2019, i believe, because joel played for a college team in boston. side note: he also captained team usa and wore a number 28 in honour of claude giroux and i am absolutely not okay about it.

e! mo! tion! al! incidentally, frosty wears danny briere’s number when he plays for the flyers, which. take from that what you will. iykyk. their NUMBERS are FRIENDS. HERITAGE SOULMATES. joel’s been called up to play on the flyers (and did really well in the playoffs!) but we’re still waitin’ for morgan to come along too but the coaching staff hasn’t recognised the raw power of true love yet so.

at this point, you’re probably saying “sasha shut up about their fucking numbers and talk about why they’re obsessed with each other” but good news! i do not need to do that because the official flyers media has done that for me! (x) i’d recommend watching it because it’s a lot packed into a neat 100 seconds, but notable moments include the voice over saying “joel farabee and morgan frost have found that going at it together has its benefits” within the first thirty seconds. that is a real direct quote. i can’t believe it either. there’s also a lot of light homoerotic bonding over playing chel, them sitting across from each other on their beds, the admission of being ROOMMATES (oh my god they were roommates), this shot of them sitting with their mouths wide open on either side of their dad,

and also joel wearing a hat with a canadian maple leaf on it, despite being from the the united states. wonder where he got that from. please watch the video.

when they’re not playing chel or, you know, going at it together, they’re being horny in each other’s instagram comments. there’s honestly.... so many of these that i can include but we’re just gonna go with my favourites.

when i say i think about this comment on a picture of morgan with isaac ratcliffe, a fellow flyers prospect on a daily basis, i mean it. i’ll be just doing my thing, minding my own business, and MORGAN MAKES ME VENMO HIM JUST TO TALK will pop into my head, completely uninvited. king shit for morgan to do and king shit for joel to admit on social media for the world to see, but joel admitting things he maybe shouldn’t is a running theme.

cool. TOTALLY not flirting or anything.

joel. also both their exhibitionist streaks should be explored in fic more i am JUST sayin.

ok but bee you were lookin. like you can chirp but you were lookin, don’t lie.

when ur in love with ur roommate but ur both hockey players so u can only communicate that love via chirping when he’s with the boys :(

what’s it called when you vibe really well with someone and also live with them and also comment on their shirtlessness and also maybe kiss them on the mouth a little? d... da... dating?? can’t be it.

morgan is a little more composed in the comments and mostly just posts inside jokes i cannot comprehend, or compliments. it’s still cute.

this was on a playoffs pic where joel’s wearing #28 love 2 see it love a supportive boyf always

this one was of joel with a fish he caught and i’m sorry but i did not want it on my phone.

but morgan can’t hide his affection for long. (me, in the distance: TWENTY EIGHT TWENTY EIGHT TWENTY EIGHT!!!!!!!)

there’s more comments but they’re boring and this is long, mostly joel chirping morgan for wearing baseball or football stuff. however! they are also on twitter where they keep each other humble after incredible goals, like bros do,

this is DEFINITELY flirting. like, blatant. it’s like that kind of flirting when you’re thirteen and you don’t know what to do with your body so you just kinda steal your crush’s stuff or insult them because all attention is good attention, right??

but when push comes to shove, beezy is always gonna look out for his boy (because they are in love):

some important pictures of them together, for your pleasure:

this is so DUMB and i love it

friends supporting friends!!!

this is them meeting their hockey dads :) so cute :) joel is promising g that he’ll have morgan back by ten yessir he will be respectful of boundaries and curfew. jake is high fiving morgan on getting some. this is facts i just call em like i see em.

and finally!

is this allowed????? is this allowed???? it’s hard to tell but i’m pretty sure that’s joel on his knees for in front of morgan and i just??? how is that allowed???? it’s been five days and this picture has RUINED me. someone write me an essay to have on my desk by morning, stat.

also v unrelated but here is a video of morgan frost reading, proving he’s the smart one in the relationship. that’s not saying much but, hey! at least there’s proof he can read.

obviously different ships capture people in different ways but there’s something about them to me, personally, that is just so captivating. there’s a lot of potential for different fic vibes, and joel in particular always has a really fun voice to read (and also to write). they definitely have chemistry, they’re pitted against each other so there’s a good-natured rivalry going on, CLOTHES SHARING AND HERITAGE SOULMATE NUMBERS, and, like, they just genuinely seem to enjoy each other. someone PLEASE write more fic for them or by god i’ll have to do it myself.

ok that’s everything for now, i believe. they’re in love and don’t care who knows it and i’m obsessed. (however, i’m also obsessed with joel farabee and andrei svechnikov together, for which i have a one-picture argument for here.)

(p.s. anything not linked i screenshotted myself thank youuu for reading have a good day and remember: morgan makes joel vemno him just to talk 😌)

edit: hello. i wrote this on election night as a way to take off the edge of my nerves and it is not as funny or screechy as i wanted it to be so i’m going to add some now.

#this is a mess but idec #joel farabee #morgan frost #flyers #hockey #hockey bros #farabeefrost #frostbee #idk which one #:)#i should be writing #long post #masterpost #primer #i blame meghan and la entirely

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needlepcint · 3 years

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INTRODUCING...

HALLE BAILEY, CIS WOMAN, 20, SHE / HER ⟨ ✽ ⟩ hey, you haven’t bumped into nia williams lately, have you ? they have been living here for the past two years ( during the school semester ) and during that time, locals have gotten to know them as quirky & charming. a little birdie told me they can be quite vain & devious though. explains why they’re an architecture major at whitby university. they really remind me of field time at six am and still making your eight am looking flawless, spandex shorts under short skirts paired with high heels you can run in, && impeccably manicured hands handling any power tool with ease. if you’re ever looking for them, i bet you can find them around the retro room.

HIGHLIGHTS...

the daughter raised by a single father, a former nhler, though also with the help of his teammates’ wives and girlfriends — a unique situation that shaped her life ; a lover of beauty, no matter what it may be, but a little obsessed with it when it comes to herself ; tiny but with a nose for scoring, speed, and elusiveness on the field that’s made her a two time women’s soccer mvp and she’s only a junior ; sometimes comes across as a little ditzy and airheaded, but though she has the look of a girly-girl, looks can be deceiving and certainly don’t underestimate her ; has an incredible knack for turning old things into new and desired items, mostly with regards to furniture and knicknacks.

THE STORY...

— cole harbour, nova scotia, the birthplace of sidney crosby the next one, eight years later — nathan mackinnon, and six years after that : nia williams. her birth was unplanned, however ; her mother only twenty and working towards med school. her father a halifax mooseheads player just having fun at her conception, now twenty-two and playing out his dreams in the nhl with the montreal canadians.

— things always work out in the end, though, and at twenty-two her father became her sole guardian and growing up quite a bit in the process, her mother vanishing from her life at that point and never re-entering.

— she was technically raised by a single father, but she was also perhaps raised by the veterans on the team and most importantly, the wives and girlfriends of her father’s teammates whose care she was left in the care of during games. it was them that taught her the things that her father couldn’t, and nia never wanted for her mother, that space happily and willingly filled by almost two dozen women who were older sisters, mothers, aunts... they were family.

— but even with all the make up and fashion advice, nia was very much her father’s daughter as well : crawling around the outdoors, going one-on-one on the ice, swimming in the ocean and still looking flawless while doing it. michael williams was a good father in the end, and grew into the role.

— she play hockey and soccer growing up, seeming to have a nose for offense, as elusive on skates as in cleats. nia could’ve been great at both sports, was great at both sports, but in the middle of high school she made the switch to focus on soccer full time. her passion for the ice remained, but the opportunities in soccer were stronger — and she loved the outdoors, loved the field in the early hours of morning.

— it was in the summer after grade 11 that she was offered a scholarship from whitby university to play women’s soccer ( amongst others ), but whitby fit the bill for what she wanted, and port briar reminded her a lot of home in cole harbour with the chilly sea. so after graduation, she was off to whitby to play soccer.

— on the college scene, it became obvious that nia simply put, was a star. a small but ever elusive forward who had speed that didn’t seem possible with her stature and an ability to score like no one else. the campus loved her, the team loved her, and opposing teams loved to hate her on the field. she was named mvp of the team as a freshman, a feat she would repeat her sophomore year as well. she’s currently gunning for her third.

MISC...

— architecture feels like an odd choice for those who don’t know nia well. she tends to come across as a little bit of an airhead, ditzy, not always the greatest with common sense. but she is actually quite book smart and sometimes, the ditziness is just a bit of an act. she had fostered a bit of FASCINATION with arenas having been in so many growing up, she began to harbor a desire to design one ( and to do it better ). sketching had been something that held her attention when she needed to be seated and still, and that fit in perfectly. after entering whitby undeclared, nia found herself drawn to the architecture department and program, officially declaring at the end of her freshman year.

— nia is hardly ever still : tapping fingers, jumping knees, sitting and then standing. she was diagnosed with adhd when she was seven. she is medicated for it now, but it also still manifests in attention deficient for her, leaving a wake of unfinished projects in her wake. sports had been one of the few things that held her attention, kept her occupied, and one of the few things she worked to hone her skills in.

— because of her tendency to jump from one thing to another, it’s no surprise she had a litany of hobbies that she’s tried : you name it, she’s likely tried it once. everything from yoga, to sewing, to painting, to rock climbing. in some ways it’s made her a bit of a jack of all trades, though she always comes back to soccer in the end.

— however, one of thing did stick, kinda. in high school she took a woodworking class and from that spawned a hobby of furniture upcycling. her father had always been good with his hands and she knew her way around power tools, still does. she takes great pride in being able to fix things to be usable again, and loves to shop around the retro room or drive around port briar looking for things left at the curb. it can’t be a huge project though, like anything, if it’s not done in one go, chances are she may never return to finish the project.

— she lives in an off-campus apartment this year after spending the first two in dorms. she’s looking forward to having her own space and kitchen ( even with roommates ).

— rigid schedules help her to keep organized when her natural tendency is to fall back into messiness and chaos. living with a neat roommate has helped her in some ways, because though messiness is her tendency, she finds that neatness helps her to keep focused and on track. being reminded to clean every week has been good for her.

— her favorite color is red and she has a penchant for red nails and red lipstick.

— her father is now an assistant hockey coach in the ncaa, but not at whitby. she sees him when that school in in town though she’s always rooting for whitby. her summers are spent back in cole harbour and she is still in touch with some of the wives and girlfriends who she’d been so close to.

— she’s an early bird, as odd as it is. she’s always loved sunrises over the atlantic ocean. you can find her either on the field or out for a run in the early hours, and then when the snow flies, likely doing yoga.

PERSONALITY...

— on the surface nia is very much a pretty girl. always looking flawless, a little ditzy, a little shallow. her smile is her weapon and she uses it to get people on her side. she likes people to like her, though one might hesitate to truly classify her as a nice girl or a mean girl. she ends up falling somewhere in the middle as most people do, never mean without cause but not friends with anyone. her enemies aren’t always obvious, something kept under wraps with petty glares and muttered comments. she doesn’t go looking for trouble, but if it crosses her path she meets it head on. her soccer star status has endeared her with some and made her just as many enemies, especially on their rival teams. she’s generally sweet to everyone she meets, but wrong her and she’ll be the first to be shit talking behind your back.

— men and women alike find her charming, something that suits her tastes. she’s been in a fair number of flings, though nothing that she ever saw as longterm. nia in general doesn’t look at the big picture, which has frustrated some who saw something more with her. but people still love her all the same. it’s a power she pretends to not know she has, but she’s more devious than her lipsticked smiles portray her to be.

— she has a thing for looks, rarely looking less than pristine herself, even in the middle of practice on a hot pre-season day. beauty, she’s been told, starts on the inside, and she does believe that, but helping along the outside never hurts either. she likes to feel good about herself, and comfort doesn’t always take precedence.

— nia always has a schedule, but at the same time, she’s almost always late. time management is a thing she’s still working on, and the only advice is to tell her anything is fifteen minutes earlier than it is.

— she’s a pretty girl, but has never felt like she had to stick to that box. instead, she has a way of just looking flawless no matter what that does. people judge her from her appearance and she knows that, but she also relishes in being able to prove people wrong. she knows her way around a math class and almost every power tool there is, she’s not afraid to get dirty --- just looking bad, so she’ll find a way to make mud look flawless. she’s obsessed with beauty, just not always the most conventional forms of it.

APPEARANCE...

— 5′0″, built lithe and fast.

— style : cute and cottagecore on the daily, but isn’t afraid to toe the line into edgy for nights out. a bit of “hardness” can make its way into her outfit in blacks and faux leathers matched with flowy silks and puff sleeves. she can make the switch from “good girl” to “bad girl” as quickly as she wants, depending on how she’s feeling that day.

— jewelry : an absolute sucker for jewelry. often is on esty too often despite her already extensive collection of bracelets, necklaces, and rings. her style is often dainty jewelry, though she doesn’t discriminate.

— tattoos : a small butterfly on the back of her left shoulder

— scars : several small nicks and almost invisible ones

OOC...

hiiii. it’s ollie again ✌️😎... and bc i normally play hockey bois... here’s my self-indulgent tie to hockey via nia whoops.

#briar.intro #( that pic of halle truly just... wow )

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himbeaux-on-ice · 3 years

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Can I just say that Habs “fans” who act like Carey Price’s contract is somehow patient zero of all this team’s problems drive me absolutely fucking insane? Seriously. Buckle up. This is about to be a rant.

Now. First things first. Is it ideal that the $10 million goalie is currently uh, not doing very good? Fucking NO! I am disappointed as shit with that and I don’t like seeing him struggle. I know he can be better. He has to be better. Obviously.

However. That being said.

Do I think it’s an incredibly stupid look to spend several tweets complaining about all the issues Habs defence have been having, and then also griping that they haven’t started Jake Allen enough for how he’s performing, only to then for some inexplicable reason state that the FIRST THING, the first thing that needs to be dealt with after the new coaching staff have had ONE GAME (and zero practices) to work on things, is somehow “well, the ten million dollar man in net is weighing them down, that contract has gotta go!”?

Yes! That’s stupid!!

I think that’s a very ice cold small-brain take, and not just because Price is my favourite of favourites for as long as I’ve been a hockey fan! I have reasons, dammit!! I put THOUGHT into this!!

Here, dear ppl of Habs twitter who will never read this, are some reasons why this narrative you’re concocting is dumb, and why management/coaching are unlikely to think of trying to ditch Price mid-season to fix the current problems:

1: Time. It has been one (1) game under Ducharme. He has been able to run zero (0) full practices on off days with the team. We just changed up a major piece on the Habs chess board — why don’t you give it a minute to see what fresh eyes and minds can do with this roster before you decide we are fucked? This season is fast-moving, sure, but there is time for us to ride out some little bumps here and still make a playoff spot in this Canadian division. Have patience. Do you remember what patience is? Dom is a new head coach, not a wish-granting fairy godmother. Chill. Do you remember chill?

(rest of this under a cut because I actually LIKE Habs Tumblr, and I want to be nice to you all by not making you scroll past all of it if you don’t want to)

2: Jake Allen exists. There are a couple of things I like for what this means for the Habs. Firstly, for basically the first time in his NHL career, we are not in a situation where if Carey Price is in a slump, we have to go “Ah, shit, so now our options are let his stats tank while he tries to get the groove back in net, OR throw whoever the poor backup is out there to get murdered while we plummet through the standings.... 😬” We don’t have that problem right now, because the backup is... actually good? Oh my god, the backup is actually good! Thank fuck! We’re not doomed. If I’m Ducharme, I put Allen in net for a few consecutive starts to put a solid backstop behind all my fun experiments I’m probably planning with the skating roster (to catch their slip-ups, while also giving Carey lots of time and rest with which to work hard on sorting out whatever his issue is along with the goalie coaches).

2b: Jake Allen exists and is competition. Hell, if I’m Ducharme, maybe I even play a little hardball and say “Look, Carey, I don’t want you to be an expensive benchwarmer, but if things don’t pick up soon I am going to start whoever is doing best and you will have to compete for that net.” Related to my last point, when was the last time Carey Price had to push himself to compete for net time against anything other than his own injuries, and wasn’t simply always the default starter? Has that EVER been a thing? Honestly as much as I love the idea of him being The Goalie for the Habs, I also kinda like this idea a lot because I think it could really push him to a higher standard of performance. Maybe that kind of high-pressure situation (given how much he thrives in the pressure-cooker of the playoffs) could be what he NEEDS in order to Be Carey Price again. Worst comes to worst, he doesn’t respond to that challenge, and I am very sad but the Habs have a good goalie in net anyway, because Hallelujah, Jake Allen exists! God, isn’t it nice to have Jake Allen? Bless him.

3: Money. Guys, this league is so broke right now. Seriously. Seriously. Nobody has any fucking money. The Habs probably have more money than most teams, and that does not help when it comes to offloading large contracts. Trades are a NIGHTMARE both because of the flat cap but also because travel is complicated (especially cross-border) but also nobody wants to trade within their division if possible because all your games are against them. Who in the name of fuck do you think is jumping at the idea of taking the $10 million per through 20-lots-and-lots-of-years-from-now contract of a goalie who is currently struggling, impressive past record aside? What kind of astral plane of fantasy hockey are you on to think there’s a trade out there for that within this season. Shut up. And no, don’t bring up the expansion draft, this post is a rebuttal SPECIFICALLY to the people who think that Price and his contract are the biggest problem that needs to be dealt with RIGHT NOW and first on the list of ways to immediately remedy the team’s struggles.

4: Spite. Specifically to piss you off, bud. You personally.

5: Knowing how to troubleshoot properly. Fellas, if my computer is running slowly and freezing up a lot, do I immediately decide the first step to fixing it is to crack open the chassis, remove the hard drive, and try to sell that hard drive to someone to see if I can enough money back to somehow get a better hard drive for less? No, dipshit. That’s not how troubleshooting a complex system works works. It’s the same with hockey teams. Ah, my star goalie is not performing great. This situation is deeply less than ideal. If you’re actually good at troubleshooting, the first thing you do is not “WELL. I GUESS WE’LL HAVE TO THROW THE WHOLE GOALIE OUT. HE’S TOAST.” The first thing you do, if you’re a smart coach, is you say “Okay, what are my defence doing in front of him? What are they doing to reduce the amount and quality of our opponents’ scoring chances? Oh. Oh, they’re taking a lot of penalties, and... oh, uh, some of this is very not great. Yikes.” And then you start your work by trying to make the defence actually work instead of running the same Pairs That Everyone Is Very Much Over And Tired Of, because your goalie is actually supposed to be your Last Line of Defence. And maybe during that time you give more starts to Goalie Who Is Absolutely Slaying It, so that when you start trying new D-pairs and they inevitably have some mistakes, it doesn’t immediately turn into an Oh God Holy Fuck moment every time, because that last line of defence backstopping them is solid. The reason you need to deal with defense first is because a) You know you have a reliable goalie (Allen) in your pocket right now if you need him. What you don’t have is a whole-ass proven and tested and practiced Backup D-Core you can swap into the roster in front of your goalies to make their lives easier. Fix your defense and it WILL improve your goalies, even marginally. Defrag the hard drive before you ask why it’s not working. and b) If you need to go looking for any new D-men to solve the issues, those are WAY easier and cheaper to find than top-tier goalies, and you always want to start any troubleshooting process with trying the simplest solutions first to hopefully save time and money. The better that D-core is, the less it fucks your team over if the goalie isn’t feeling themselves, because the D is going to stop more of those pucks before they ever even become the goalie’s problem. FIX. DEFENCE. FIRST. Then try to train your goalie back into top form. THEN explore your other options.

6: The vicious cycle. Guys. We literally do this once every year or second year. EVERY time Carey Price has a slump, this fanbase gets into a tizzy like the Bell Centre is burning down and he was the one with the matches. And what ALWAYS happens literally within the year, every single time? He gets his mojo back like he did last summer in the bubble and goes on a heater and everybody goes “JESUS PRICE!!!! 🙌” and is ready to name their firstborn kid after him. Until eventually that performance becomes unsustainable, and he becomes mortal again, and suddenly he’s The Real Problem With This Franchise once again. I know he’s the guy they chose to build the team around instead of a superstar forward, but oh my god folks. You’d think he was the only player on the team. Guys, I feel like fucking Sisyphus pushing a blue blanc et rouge boulder up Mont Royal once a year with this shit. This man’s entire career has been a constant seesaw narrative between “Carey Price is our saviour!” and “Carey Price should be exiled to Nome!!!!” from parts of this fanbase, I swear. Look, slumps suck, but for once we are actually lucky enough to be in a position where this team, for the first time in YEARS, does not solelylive or die by the inscrutable magical cycles of Carey Price’s goalie powers — because when he has to step back and work to get back into his groove, there is FINALLY a SECOND GUY who is GREAT. Honestly, given that the state of this team for so long has been “they will go as far as Carey Price can take them” and he has put in a pretty fucking decent job of it despite all of the team’s other struggles, I feel like it is owed it to the guy to be like “Okay, well, we have somebody else solid to fill the net right now, and a chance to really figure out our defence and special teams with this new coach. Why don’t you take a step back and work your ass off at trying to get back into the form I know you can still perform at, and we’ll go from there?”

Anyway. Some parts of this fanbase have been waiting for a fresh excuse to claim Price is overrated, washed-up, and to blame for all of this team’s flaws and ills ever since he signed that contract, if not since the start of his NHL career. Just unreal how nasty some of this fanbase is willing to be about a player who is ON. YOUR. TEAM.

Am I saying he is beyond critique of his play and can do no wrong and his contract is perfect? No! I want this team to have the best goaltending it can get, and I want them to kick ass and take names. The difference is, I still believe Carey Price is a part of that winning formula, and I also think Twitter is overflowing with idiots who just repeat what everybody else says. He’s still a better goalie than your ass would be if I stuck you out there to stop shots from Mark Schieffle, for crap’s sake.

“The first thing that has to go is Carey Price’s contract 🤪”. Shut the fuck up. You are actively making other people stupider by talking. Go eat sand. Good day.

#It’s Time For My Opinion #I put so much time into this I hope it’s coherent lol #habs #Carey price #montreal canadiens #long post

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miracleonice87 · 4 years

Text

Say You Won’t Let Go

a Sidney Crosby wedding series

Part Two

a/n: here’s part deux! read part one here. this will have at least one more part, probably 2! worth noting that I know next to no French and am relying heavilyyyy on our pal Google Translate in this story.

summary: a little more background throughout, as Juliette and Sidney meet up with their families and hockey star-studded bridal party for a rehearsal at their iconic wedding venue. if you’re not familiar with the location (it’s honestly incredible), click here for a look!

warnings: mention of deceased father. otherwise, so damn fluffy it’s practically cotton candy.

_____

Sidney and I arrived at the church exactly on time, much to Lauren’s satisfaction, with two cars carrying Mario’s crew pulling in at the next moment. I closed the passenger door of Sidney’s steel grey Range Rover and turned to take in the sight of our wedding venue, Heinz Chapel on Pitt’s campus, reaching a hand up to shield my face from the early evening sun as I gazed. Sidney did the same, coming to stand next to me and snaking an arm around my torso.

“Not a bad place to get married, eh?” he teased, kissing the crown of my head. I smiled and shook my head. “I’ve dreamed of this since the moment I first saw this place,” I told him. “It’s perfect.”

He took a step forward, offered his hand to me and grinned, quite pleased that we had been able to reserve the coveted location last summer despite it typically being booked three or more years in advance. I didn’t often request many special favors in the name of my uncle or fiancé, but this was one that seemed a necessity. Taking Sidney’s hand and walking toward the cathedral-style landmark, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I’d gotten even more than what I always dreamed of, in so many ways.

My family and Sidney walked into the chapel to find his parents and our bridal party already mingling near the pews, excitement palpably buzzing beneath the magnificent arches and towering stained-glass windows that decorated the exquisite interior. As we stepped through the doors, they turned our way, and I let out an echoing, very French-Canadian-sounding, “Allooo!” making them all laugh.

I first greeted Troy, Trina, and Taylor with hugs and warm hellos. Sidney’s parents were staying at his former townhome on Mt. Washington, which previously served as his bachelor pad and now housed Taylor in light of her recent move to Pittsburgh. We had spent much quality time with the elder Crosbys since their arrival from Nova Scotia a few days ago, helping us with final preparations and enjoying each other’s company ahead of my official entrance into their family.

Both Trina and Nathalie had accompanied me earlier in the week to my final dress fitting and pickup appointment at the bridal boutique where I had selected my gown. Though my mother did plan to attend the wedding ceremony as a guest, she was uninterested in playing the traditional mother of the bride role and joining me for such commitments, which hadn’t surprised me but still stung sharply, especially when I was fastened into the gown and presented by the salon attendant to a waiting Trina and Nathalie.

Bitter tears pricked my eyes as I allowed myself to feel robbed of sharing that moment with my own mom. My sadness was quickly overcome, however, when the women, sensing my sadness, warmly embraced me and fawned over me, admiring the perfect fit of the gown, both becoming emotional when Nathalie tucked my headpiece and veil tenderly into my hair.

The three of us stared at my reflection in the mirror for a few moments as we let tears of many complicated emotions fall, with joy prevailing above them all. I couldn’t keep the enormous smile from my cheeks when Trina squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “Oh, sweetheart, just wait until Sidney sees you.”

Now, we were less than 24 hours away from that moment, with our bridal party and family bustling around us in the chapel.

As our officiant, Father Antonio, announced that we would be lining up for the rehearsal momentarily, Lauren approached me with a grin, extending a bouquet she had made of the countless ribbons and bows from my bridal shower gifts acquired a couple of months ago. I giggled at how cheesy yet adorable the arrangement looked, thanking her as we huddled at the back of the aisle with my bridesmaids and Sidney’s groomsmen.

“This place is a little beat up,” Nate MacKinnon, our best man, ribbed Sidney from between the two of us. “I don’t know why you guys picked this dump,” he added, pulling me to his side. Sidney shoved lightly at his chest before the two of them laughed and embraced.

“Yeah, the old barn in Cole Harbour was booked this weekend, so we kinda had to settle for the next best thing,” Sidney played into Nate’s teasing, as his longtime best friend Mike, also a Cole Harbour native, approached us.

“Kind of a shithole,” Nate whispered, earning a warning glance from me as Austin tried to hold in hysterical laughter. “You can’t say shit in church!” Austin forced out from under his breath. “Oh, we’re going straight to hell,” Mike commented softly. Sidney gave me an apologetic look and I smiled up at him.

“It’s fine. These are our people!” I said to him, flicking Nate’s elbow as I passed him. “Besides, we’ve already been living in sin,” I added, winking at Sidney. He gave me a look of mock disbelief and insisted, “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a nice Catholic boy.” I giggled and pushed onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek, which smelled of his fresh aftershave.

In addition to Nate, Mike, and Austin, we greeted Sidney’s other groomsmen as we prepared for the rehearsal — his current teammates Kris Letang and Evgeni Malkin and former Penguin Marc-Andre Fleury. They had all graciously accepted the invitation by Sidney to play this special role in our day, with Geno flying in from Russia and Kris and Marc-Andre from Quebec.

Marc-Andre had brought a few other important components to our day along with him — not the least of which was his wife and my best friend, Veronique. She and I had first met when Sidney and I were only casually seeing each other, and she had predicted this wedding long, long ago. She had been one of our biggest cheerleaders since the day we met, and despite her and Marc’s eventual move to Las Vegas, the four of us remained the closest of friends, visiting each other when the men’s respective teams played and whenever else possible.

With Lauren as my maid of honor and Stephanie, Alexa, and Taylor as three of my other bridesmaids, my friend Jacqueline, a Pittsburgh transplant with Canadian roots whom I met while studying at Duquesne, rounded out my crew of six ladies who would stand by my side on this long-awaited day.

To up the cuteness factor, Sidney and I had selected Marc-Andre and Veronique’s daughters, Estelle and Scarlet, as our flower girls, with Geno’s son Nikita and Kris’s son Alex as our ringbearers. Nikita was still a bit young to understand his role, but grinned broadly when Sidney told him when they arrived just how important he was to our day. On the other hand, Kris told us that Alex had cried after his parents had asked him to be in our wedding, because, as much as he adored and was attached to Sid, Alex had been under the impression that I was his girlfriend, not Uncle Sidney’s.

Eventually, after Sidney and I made the rounds to greet them all, the entire bridal party was grouped together to begin the walk-through. The venue’s wedding planner wrangled the children as the priest noted that Sidney needed to leave my side to approach the front of the church alone, in preparation for his emergence from one of the side doors at the front of the sanctuary tomorrow.

Playful “oooh”’s erupted from our groomsmen, who teased Sid about having to pry himself away from my hip. Sidney rolled his eyes, nodding and smirking, before turning his full attention to me. He tucked some hair behind both of my ears before caressing my cheeks with his thumbs.

“You gonna be okay, Jules?” Sidney asked, eyes wider than normal as he searched mine carefully.

I knew he wasn’t asking if I would be alright once he left my side to stand twenty yards away for the next five minutes, but rather if I would be able to contain my emotions as Mario walked me down the aisle, even during a practice run, in place of my father.

We had talked about this specific part of our day a number of times, with Sidney even pondering aloud whether he should walk me down the aisle himself because walking with anyone except my dad felt impossible to me. His sweet dad had even offered to do so, should I desire. After each conversation, Sidney and I both kept arriving at the same conclusion — that the best and most appropriate plan of action was for Mario to give me away and also to join me for the traditional father-daughter dance at the reception.

I nodded, holding onto Sidney’s wrists. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I’ll be okay,” I promised. He nodded solemnly in return and kissed my forehead before pulling back with a wink.

“You can do this,” he encouraged. “I’ll see you up there.” I gave him my best smile as he turned and walked to the front of the chapel.

As our wedding party lined up in front of me to take their positions, Nate stopped me for one of his signature bear hugs, resting his chin on top of my head just for a moment before releasing me. The rest of our group squeezed my hands and rubbed my arms lovingly as I walked to the back door of the sanctuary where Mario waited, hands folded in front of his hips and a tentative smile on his features. He, too, gave me a sweet kiss on the forehead before holding my shoulders at arm’s length.

“Listen, princesse, it was one of the greatest honors of my life when you asked me to walk you down the aisle,” Mario said, soft enough that only I could hear. “But if you’ve changed your mind and would rather do this some other way, please, just say the word.” I shook my head and wrapped my arms around his waist just as the piano music began.

“No, you are exactly the person my dad would want doing this if he couldn’t,” I told him confidently. Mario let out a small exhale, and I could tell he was trying to remain composed. As we parted, he said, “Then let’s go make him proud.” He offered his arm to me and I wrapped my hands around it firmly, leaning my head into his shoulder briefly.

We watched pairs of our party head down the aisle toward Sidney and the priest at a relaxed pace: Jacqueline and Geno led off, followed by Veronique and Marc-Andre, Taylor and Kris, Alexa and Austin, Stephanie and Mike, and finally, Lauren and Nate. Alex walked down the aisle in a near-skip, holding a fake pillow very carefully just as his mother, our beautiful friend Catherine, had instructed him, with Nikita by his side mimicking his every move. Their fathers gave them thumbs up and everyone clapped lightly when they reached the end of the aisle.

Next, after a bit of prompting from both their parents at the front, Estelle and Scarlett followed the boys’ path, scattering fake rose petals in place of the real ones they would have tomorrow, earning their own quiet round of applause. As the children were seated at the ends of the front pews on either side, the music shifted, and our wedding planner turned and gave Mario and me the nod.

“Ready, Juliette?” he asked softly. My eyes traveled down the long red carpet in front of us to the steps where the love of my life stood centered in between our closest friends and family, waiting for me. He gave me a warm, adoring smile and at that moment, I felt my unease melt away, just as it always did when Sidney was near.

“I’m so ready,” I whispered.

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draikaesehoch · 3 years

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Hi xD so since I have no clue about ice hockey feel free to tell me all about your favourite team or hockey player? ♥️

Thank you for sending this again (and fu to tumblr for swallowing my earlier reply).

Since I don’t really have a favorite player, I will just share my opinion and thoughts on the Oilers 😅 keep in mind I am still relatively new to hockey, so this is just me babbling. I didn’t fact check any of the stuff, so some of it could be bs… and honestly this whole thing is just me venting about this incredible team that most people don’t really take notice of.

I present you the Oilers:

They are one of the seven Canadian teams in the NHL. Based in Edmonton, Alberta. Usually part of the pacific division, due to Covid, they will form an all Canadian division for the 2021 season (I am still in denial about that though, it's going to be a mess and someone will cry, probably me).

The Oilers are struggling to make it to the playoffs, despite their talented roster.

Their superstar is Connor McDavid (first overall pick in the 2015 draft), he’s arguably the best hockey player alive. His speed is unmatched (yeah Barzal won the fastest skater competition but we all know Connor is the fastest player, especially with a puck). They put a lot of faith in him to get the team to a regular spot in the playoffs. He’s obviously the captain.

(this gif doesn't even do him justice!!)

And then they have this German dude, Leon Draisaitl, he was drafted in 2014 (3rd overall) by the Oilers. He didn’t have the best start and was sent to the WHL, but soon proved his potential. He got called back for the 2015-16 season. Had an incredible season in 2016-17 (with the Oilers making it to the playoffs and ending an 11 year playoff drought). He’s been getting better ever since and was named this year’s MVP (2019-20). As well as receiving the Ted Lindsay Award and the Art Ross Trophy. +Deutschland’s Sportler des Jahres Award! Which in a football (/soccer) dominated country, is HUGE!!

He has a super cute dog named Bowie. Leon is from Köln and like most Germans, he’s a football fan. Thank god he’s a decent human being and supports his local football club (and not some club like Bayern).

May I present Bowie 🥺💕 (the K, dude we get it, you love your hometown 🙄)

Other notable guys are Ryan Nugent-Hopkins (also first overall draft pick), Darnell Nurse, Oscar Klefbom and Adam Larsson.... and Zack Kassian, he’s kind of crazy, not really a fan of him tbh (but that’s because he likes to beat up a guy from the Flames I am unfortunately quite fond of).

Okay tbh all of them are notable and amazing, this team is so great once you get to know them.

They have had like seven coaches in the last ten years, so it's safe to say they are still on their path of finding themselves. I'm not sure about Dave Tippett yet, but compared to his predecessors he’s going okay. We will ignore that they lost to the Hawks in the playoff’s qualifying round, because what the heck was that?! But that’s another thing, their leadership is still fairly young and especially Connor has to deal with a lot of pressure and expectation, they just lack experience but if they can keep the current team together, it wouldn’t surprise me if they win a cup in the future.

….

Sooo... Connor and Leon, they play the most beautiful hockey together, like it so beautiful to watch, I am not even kidding, their passing is incredible, THEY ALWAYS FIND EACH OTHER (they are probably hockey soumates or some shit). I could go on about this forever, every time I see them play together, I remember why I fell in love with hockey.

but yeah having two so skilled centers on the same line isn’t necessarily the most efficient combination, there’s only so much time they can be on the ice together and only so much goals they can score, so they try to split them up. Makes sense I guess, because why have your two best players on the same line, when you can have them on separate lines and still have them produce just as well.

We still get to see them play together on the power play (or in overtime) tho and thank god because with their skill and blind understanding, makes the Oilers' power play the best in the league.

What else is there 🤔

Ahh, they got Jesse Puljujärvi back, which hell yes, I am so happy about that! I mean look at that precious ray of sunshine!!

I am most excited about Tyson Barrie though, I think he can really bring something to them team, first and foremost experience and stability but hopefully some personality as well. The Oilers are, for the lack of better words, kind of closed off and boring? I don’t necessarily feel that way but people call them depressed and stuff. I would say, they are maybe a bit more private and potentially less glamorous. But then again, they are a Canadian team and the Canadian media can be quite harsh when it comes to hockey, so it would make sense for most of them to try to stay under the radar.

Have a gif of Tyson and Ralph (because who wouldn't want that 🥺)

THE BATTLE OF ALBERTA:

Was kind of dead for years, is coming back to live, it’s basically like the derby thing in football. The Calgary Flames and the Oilers are both from Alberta, so it’s a regional and divisional based rivalry but boy is it entertaining! To keep it short, they hate each other and there’s lots of fighting and bad blood.

I mean there are goalie fights and all 😳🙌🏻

TO SUMMARIZE MY MESSY THOUGHTS, I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR AND SO SHOULD YOU!!

Und danke dafür, dass Du mein Hockey stuff erträgst... Deine Asks und Kommentare sind immer so unglaublich lieb und ich bin so dankbar!!! 🥰💕

#sorry it got so long idk why 🙈#thank you for your patience #💕💕💕#this was kind of Connor and Leon centric sorry I guess #don't come for me for not choosing the Stars 😳😇#Also thank you for your ask 💕#I ignored all known grammar rules but that's nothing new 🤷‍♀️

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csykora · 4 years

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Sergei, 1958

“When he was in a bad mood, he would lock himself in a shell. He had his own understanding of life and of hockey, which he held to firmly, and revealed rarely….”

[Sergei Makarov in his Red Army sweater, coming over the boards for a shift with a determined expression.]

Sergei Makarov was born in Chelyabinsk, Russia’s Detroit. His parents didn’t bother to send him to daycare, because they always knew where he would be, toddling around the apartment block, pushing a puck.

His favorite game was playing the “Makarov Championship” with his older brothers. Kneeling on the floor of their apartment to bat a puck around, they each pretended to be one of the three famous teams in Moscow. Nikolai, already a teenager, picked Dynamo, Yuri would be Spartak, and baby Sergei imagined himself as CSKA.

Outside the Makarov home, those teams had secret identities of their own. CSKA was naturally favored by the military brass. Dynamo’s biggest fans were intelligence officers—the KGB. (I don’t know if anyone liked Spartak.)

Nikolai would soon be chosen by CSKA’s farm team. Tween Sergei visited whenever he could—not so much to see his brother, but his brother’s new teammate, a winger like Sergei wanted to be, named Valeri Kharlamov.

When Nikolai could come home, Sergei would beg him to teach him all of Kharlamov’s new moves. When he couldn’t copy them all to Sergei’s satisfaction, Nikolai pled ‘being a defenseman’, and invited Kharlamov home for dinner to meet his biggest fan. Nikolai was traded back to Chelyabinsk’s senior team, where he would have his own successful career, but the impression Kharlamov left on Sergei lingered.

[Two black and white pictures of Sergei and Nikolai Makarov on the ice. In the first, it’s extremely hard to tell which one is ten years older than the other. In the second, Nikolai is hanging off his brother while Sergei looks amused.]

With movie-star cool looks, he grew up confident and fiercely independent. By the time he was 17, Sergei’s two passions were ‘Kharlamov’ and ‘quitting hockey.’ When the team scraped together a win, Sergei was most of the reason. So when the team lost, his coaches would point to him for failing. Sergei would snap back about why they even needed him if he sucked so much, and so on.

It was only when it got up to the head coach of the senior team, who called him up to stop him walking, that Chelyabinsk started winning. When he made the junior national team, they won gold.

Coach Tikhonov invited him to practice with the big boys. Then he added the rookie to the men’s national team roster for the ’78 Worlds. Then they won gold. It was the start of a long, strange pattern: for every major international tournament, Coach Tikhonov liked to bring a new rookie.

CSKA decided they were interested in another Makarov brother after all. Sergei and another prospect from the junior national team, a left winger named Vladimir Krutov, joined a roster already stacked with famous players like Boris Mikhailov, young star Slava Fetisov, and, of course, Kharlamov.

Vova, 1960

[A headshot of Vladimir Krutov in the famous green sweater that the National team's top line wore in practice. He has a round face, very blue round eyes, and a gentle expression.]

“Volodya was such a dependable and steadfast man that I would have gone anywhere with him — to war, to espionage, into peril.”

Playing in Moscow’s backstreets, the boys had a nickname for Vladimir Krutov—Пупсик (“Pupsik”) means “sweetie” or “babydoll”. As a young man he picked up another name that doesn’t need translation: “Tank.”

With a cherubic, pink-cheeked face and easy smile, he inspired affection in very nearly everyone who met him, and kept it with a death-defying loyalty. He couldn’t stand, or understand, unfairness: if someone went after his friends, on or off the ice, he’d dive in to sort it out.

But when authority figures treated him badly, his fairness and faithfulness butted heads. His best friend described a moment when, as a teenager, he took a puck to the face and fell down, then skated unsteadily to the team doctor. The coach screamed at him for coming off before a change. “Vladimir was crushed. Never before—or since—had anyone questioned his guts.” But he simply stood there and took it without talking back, as if he couldn’t imagine a coach could do wrong.

He wasn’t the enforcer you’d expect, though. In three World Juniors he always came out the top scorer, his speed and strength catching the attention of Canadian juniors who’d one day be his teammates.

In ’79 Vova was called up from CSKA’s junior team to join the men for a few games, and scored 4 goals in a game against arch-nemesis Dynamo. The next year Vova and Sergei both scrambled into the CSKA lineup full-time, and Coach Tikhonov decided Vova would be his rookie of the year. He was headed to the 1980 Olympics, without having even played a World Championship at the men’s level.

“For American people, selective memory, it’s a national thing,” Slava says about 1980. “I admit, I own one of the most famous silver medals in sports history. Correct? Done?”

[An action shot of Vova sprawled in the crease beside the American goaltender]

The Miracle on Ice story looks up at the Soviet team from under the chin. But Kharlamov and goaltender Vladislav Tretiak were Coach Tarasov’s giants, not Coach Tikhonov’s. Slava and Sergei were only 21 years old. Lyosha, 20. Vova was 19. The player who would make him and Sergei world-famous was another teenager, not even on the team. I’m not saying the US’s win wasn’t wonderful, but it wasn’t a simple or satisfying end—just the beginning of an unraveling.

[Vova throwing his arms in the air as the American goaltender turns to see the puck bouncing out of the net behind him]

[Sergei carrying the puck through open ice. His stick is tangled with two American defenders’, but he’s still got the puck between his feet]

Vova scored the first goal in the game, and Sergei tied it back up before the end of the first. (In an underdog story, what does it say when we don’t name the 19 year old who’d never been here before, and stood up to the pressure at only 5 foot 9? Some college boys played a game against another boy called Baby. Any way we spin that is a choice.)

But Tretiak had let in two as well, so Tikhonov pulled the best goalie in the world after twenty minutes. He put in Vladimir Myshkin, who will be remembered to history as “Not Tretiak” (or just as Tretiak: many people think Tretiak played the Miracle game). He seemed to lean on other defensemen than Slava and Lyosha, despite how they’d helped set up those goals: the other d-men were older, and they were from the contingent of the national team that didn’t play for CSKA most of the year, but for Dynamo.

Remember, the KGB’s favorites. And Tikhonov had been trained there, years before. Maybe Tikhonov wanted to please somebody, wanted a different position, coaching Dynamo during the season instead of CSKA, which was still packed with players who Tarasov, not Tikhonov, had chosen. If he had played Tretiak and Tretiak won, in their hearts people would still have given the win to Tarasov, not Tikhonov. That was only rumor, but hey, that’s Russia. What mattered was respect.

“Tikhonov was quiet like a fucking rabbit after this game,” Slava says. “But he had no choice but to stick with us, and we took over the world, just like that.”

Tikhonov’s loss in February 1980 was followed by another he might eventually have regretted more.

Vova had scored as many goals as Boris Mikhailov, a legend on the team. Sergei, just behind him, tied for points and squeaked passed Kharlamov in goals. But all the pieces around the two young stars had been Coach Tarasov’s—30, 32, 32, 35. Old, old, old. Coach Tikhonov scrambled the plans, put the rookies together, and went hunting for a center for them.

Igor, 1960

[A candid headshot of Igor Larionov in practice. He has blue eyes and an expression I can either describe as ‘wistful’ or ‘pouty.’]

If you like horror movies, spoiler: Igor Larionov will be Coach Tikhonov’s ‘final girl’.

Just down the river from Moscow, Igor was born in Voskresensk, a one-stoplight town that eventually grew to two. Voskresensk’s team, Khimik, is a bit of a spoiler too: they might not be very good, but they’re good at kicking the shit out of Moscow.

His grandfather had been kicked out of Moscow for mocking the regime. His parents had been raised as laborers, who moved from peasant farming to the town as factories grew. Igor loved his parents and his hometown, but already from a little distance. Unlike the Makarovs, he never felt quite the same as his brother, who played hockey too but who Igor thought wasted every opportunity with some knucklehead move. No one else ever seemed to see the opportunities Igor did, waiting spaces for a perfect plan to slither through. He was always small, and he had a lot of thoughts about everything, and even more feelings. Most of those feelings ended with “f— you.” He liked people a lot, but he would never feel sure enough if they liked him.

Apparently he loved ‘80s glam rock music.

No one noticed when he started to play for Khimik. His second season, he put up 45 points in 43 games, and that was enough to draw attention. In the fall of 1980 CSKA played Khimik, and before the game Coach Tikhonov sent a note inviting the 19 year-old to meet outside the rink. He made him the usual offer: sign with CSKA instead, and maybe you’ll make the national team.

Igor said something like, “Uh, I have a game to play? (F— you),” and picked up five more points against CSKA that night.

Igor knew signing with Coach Tikhonov’s CSKA was bad news. He knew other players from Voskresensk who had passed through CSKA’s grinding system, and who intimated that the coaching was nothing like Khimik’s. He knew that once you travelled to Moscow’s training facility, there wouldn’t be any going home on weekends. Worst, once you signed as an officer of the Army, he knew that breaking those contracts counted as treason. He was the teenage geek being invited to a party in the woods by the lake where teenagers always get murdered by the lake monster.

But he was also a teenage geek getting invited to a party.

He had gotten to go to World Juniors U-20 twice, both times with Vova. Like most people, Igor liked Vova rather helplessly, and he had loved traveling. He was proud of his English, proud of his reading and writing, and proud of his ability to understand people. Hotels full of visiting teams had been like feasts: he loved meeting other players and snatched up every opportunity to talk with them. He liked to sit in the stands to watch every game he didn’t have to play in, and cheered for his opponents. He refused to call them ‘rivals’, or 'enemies.' He thought that was how you talked about soldiers and war, not players of a game.

That year in U-20 Vova had been the top junior scorer as usual, but Igor had been voted the MVP. He’d been sure it meant something, that the two of them would be going places, together. Then almost as soon as they’d returned from World Juniors, Tikhonov had appeared in a whirlwind and whisked Vova away on an American adventure, off to the Olympics--alone. Igor watched the Miracle game on TV with his Khimik teammates, and realized he was running out of time.

With 20 looming, the only way he’d ever travel again would be if he could make the men’s national team too. Igor was proud of his play, and he knew that he was good enough to make the national team while playing on any team he wanted—as long as it was Moscow’s. No one who cared would keep watching Khimik.

And at 20, like everyone else in Russia, he was already in debt—those two years of mandatory military service. Spartak was courting him that year too: their coach acted friendly, and bought Igor food, and offered to help his family. But Igor knew Spartak’s coach was out of favor with the Army officials, and Tikhonov was in. So even if he signed with Spartak and tried to fulfill his service through work assignments and trainings on their side of Moscow, he could be mysteriously called up to “active duty” on CSKA’s side at any moment.

At least, he thought, Tikhonov was honest. He knew something was wrong, or he maybe he just thinks he should have, looking back. But he was lonely.

While Igor was overthinking everything, Coach Tikhonov played Sergei and Vova with a center named Viktor Zhluktov for the rest of the ’80-81 season. Viktor Zhluktov probably has a rich interior life like anyone else: for our purposes he is a transparent cut-out with “Mean Girl” stamped on his forehead. He even has an evil mustache.

[An old Soviet graphic with a headshot of Viktor Zhluktov. He has a really bad mustache.]

Vova probably thought he was nice.

Igor, who was still with Khimik and totally didn’t care, thought Viktor “did not shine as a player, but thanks to his faultless obedience to Tikhonov, he got onto the national team with no problem.”

By August 1981, Coach Tikhonov was ready to make the team a little more obediently his. He told Kharlamov not to bother joining the national team for that fall’s Canada Cup: he was getting too old.

Kharlamov had been privately planning to retire before the winter, but he’d wanted to travel with the team and play one last time, a goodbye tour. While driving back to Moscow with his wife Irina, he was killed in a car crash on August 27.

Overnight, it was official: Vova became the best left winger outside the NHL by default. He inherited CSKA’s top line spot, the top line on the national team too. Sergei, who had just lost his childhood friend, rose silently on the right.

That summer Igor signed as a private in the Army. He was not going to be a good soldier, and he knew it. But he reported to Moscow’s training camp.

Main

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#green unit #long post #sergei makarov #igor larionov #vladimir krutov #slava fetisov #alexei kasatanov

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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 4 years

Text

It’s a Wonderful Life (Sidney Crosby Imagine)

Enjoy this very belated Christmas fluff for those like me who don’t have anywhere to go for the holidays :)

Rating: T

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Reader

Words: 2969

Warnings: alcohol/drinking

Requested: yes/no

Summary: Sid invites you home with him for Christmas break. You’re a little worried what his family is going to think, until you’re not

You’re not entirely sure that you’re comfortable with this, but you’d made the decision and now you’re stuck with it. Not really stuck, because Sid would fly you back to Pittsburgh the second you asked, but just. You can’t exactly back out now, after flying to Nova Scotia and driving almost the entire way to Sid’s parents’ house. Not that you would! It’s just that you’re staying at Sid’s place for a few days and spending Christmas with his family and while you’ve met them before, you don’t know them all that well and Trina is pretty perceptive and you’re hoping she doesn’t bring up the whole “being in love with Sid” thing again and and and you’re maybe freaking out a little bit.

Your own family situation is… complicated, which is why Sid had invited you home with him for the holiday. Allegedly because his family wanted to see you, but more likely because the thought of you sitting at home alone on Christmas was kind of pathetic. You’re grateful, because you’d much rather spend the day with Sid than drinking a bottle of wine by yourself on your couch watching Christmas movies. You’d much rather spend any day with Sid than, well, pretty much anything else.

There’s a pressure on your knee and it makes you startle, forced out of your own head. It’s Sid’s hand, of course, because what else is gonna suddenly going to settle on your previously bouncing leg in a closed car on the highway. You hadn’t even realized you were jiggling your leg, too caught up in anxiety to notice much else, so you’re grateful Sid noticed and stopped you. He shoots you a quick smile when you look over, before returning his eyes to the road, ever the responsible driver.

“You doing alright?” he asks, and you’re not quite sure how to answer. Obviously you’re not going to spill your guts about all your worries, but lying and saying you’re fine would feel disingenuous. It’s just. This is kind of a big deal, right? Like if it were a team party, that would be one thing, but he’s taking you home to spend a major holiday with his entire family. It’s just a friend thing, obviously, but still…

“I’ll be okay,” you settle on, “Just a little nervous.” He nods sympathetically, before giving a wry smile.

“My family can be a bit much, eh?” he says, except that’s not really quite it, because it’s the whole situation that’s a bit much, not just his family-- who are actually quite lovely-- and what really makes you nervous is the aforementioned being-in-love-with-him thing, but you can’t tell him that--

“Do you want to stay at mine instead?” he asks, “I’ll have to go to the party for a couple hours, but I could come home early and we could spend time together there instead.” Because he’s a fucking saint like that.

“No!” you reply entirely too loudly, before clearing your throat and continuing “No, you don’t have to do that.” The fact that he would even offer to do that for you makes your chest tight. “Cared for” is still not a feeling you’re used to. Sid seems intent on giving you plenty of practice with it, though. His hand tightens against your leg momentarily, as though he can tell you want to start bouncing it again. Damn perceptive bastard. He seems to be waiting for you to say something, but you’re not sure how to explain any of this without outing yourself. Even with the noise of the road and the steady hum of the car, the silence is deafening. He lets it stretch too long to be remotely comfortable, used to awkward silences with the media in a way you’re not.

“What if people ask if we’re dating?” you finally blurt out, if only to kill the unbearable quiet. He doesn’t startle or look surprised at all, like you’d expected. Just squeezes your knee again.

“We’ll tell them the truth,” he says with a shrug, like it’s that simple. What is the truth? you think. Because you’re just friends, as far as you know, but “just friends” don’t invite each other to family Christmas. Or regularly sleep in the same bed (or on the same couch) when they don’t feel like going home at night. Or slow dance to love songs like the two of you had this wedding season. Or do most of the things the two of you do. Bachelor hockey players don’t FaceTime their friends before bed every night on roadies, or head home early when they’re out with the boys so that they can hang out with you, or try on the regular to convince you how amazing you are with long, heartfelt rants about your better aspects. But he does.

You’re rounding the bend toward the driveway of his parents’ house when he finally moves his hand in preparation of parking. Taylor’s car is already in the drive, and he blocks her in because despite everything, he’s still an older brother. You’re about to roll your eyes and rib him for it, when he turns as far toward you as he can in his seat. His hand is on yours now, warm and rough and comforting.

“You can still back out,” he says. Looking into his eyes, you know it’s true. You know you can always back out, can always leave if you want to. But as anxious as you are, as scared as you are, you don’t want to.

“Let’s get in there before they come out, huh?” you say with a smile.

-----

Trina and Troy’s house is just this side of opulent, tastefully decorated both for the holiday and in general. They greet you at the door, ushering you in with excitement in their voices and fondness in their eyes. Your anxiety is still there, but it feels farther away now. Between the distraction of Trina immediately trying to feed you and the warm feeling of home, tonight’s festivities feel a bit more manageable.

They’re throwing a Christmas Eve party tonight, which you and Sid will attend. Tomorrow, you’re going to spend the morning with Sid, before having an early dinner with Trina and Troy and Taylor (too many T’s). The next night, you’ll fly home so Sid can rest before his game against the Preds, but you’ll likely spend at least part of that day with his family as well. With the way your family is (and has been for a long time), it’s going to be a bit much. But what is family if not a bit much?

“Y/N, you’ve got to try my scones,” Trina insists, pulling you toward the kitchen as Troy begins trying to ply Sid with alcohol. You’re glad he hasn’t targeted you this time, because being drunk for the party would be embarrassing and probably only make everything worse. Tipsy you can deal with, but starting to drink at 11am for a 7pm party will get anyone a little unsteady.

“So,” Trina starts as you bite into what seems to be a berry scone, “How’s it going with Sid?” Damn. She lured you in with the promise of baked goods and you fell for it hook, line, and sinker. At least the scone is good- buttery and sweet. And chewing gives you an excuse to delay your answers.

“It’s good; we’ve been spending more time together this season,” you say, “These are really good, Trina. You’ve outdone yourself.” You’re hoping that she’ll be distracted enough by the flattery to switch topics, but you know it’s futile. Once she latches on to this topic, she keeps it.

“Thank you, dear,” she responds politely, “Has he asked you out yet?” You don’t spit your mouthful across the room, but it’s a close thing. Whatever happened to Canadians being unbearably circuitous? Trina just keeps a mildly devious smile on while you choke down the suddenly too-dry pastry.

“No,” you cough, “No, he hasn’t.” Hopefully she drops it at that. No luck.

“That boy,” she shakes her head, “I swear he’s a wreck with anything off the ice.” And what the hell does that mean? Does she expect him to ask you ask because of her own biases, or does she know something? Holy shit, does she know something? Because she’s his mom and he’s a momma’s boy above all else, and if anyone were to know something about him, it would be her. But if she knew anything, she’d be open with it, because Sid’s her son, yes, but you’re basically her daughter. But you’re only basically her daughter because Sid is her son and you’re his best friend so--

“Have you asked him out?” she asks, which kind of makes your brain short-circuit because, what.

“What?” you ask, without meaning to. You’re supposed to just, what? Ask Sid out? Ask out the greatest current hockey player in the fucking world? As what? You? Who the fuck does she think you are?

“The man doesn’t always have to make the first move, dear,” Trina elaborates, sliding another baking sheet into the oven, “You can ask him out just as well.” How the fuck are you supposed to ask him out? Hey Sid, I know we’ve been friends for years, and this jeopardizes everything we’ve built, but do you want to date? Bullshit. You love Trina, truly, you do, but goddamn. This is getting ridiculous.

“I heard Troy has a new bourbon he wants Sid and I to try,” you say, putting the other half of your scone on the island, “I’m gonna go try it, if that’s alright?” You know she won’t say no, and she knows she won’t say no, so hopefully she doesn’t take it too personally. She simply shoots you a look with that same wry smile Sid got from her and shoos you from the kitchen. You retreat to where Troy is making Sid try his new peanut butter whiskey, more than ready to try that bourbon he’d mentioned last month.

-----

The party is more classy than you’re used to with your upbringing. It’s nice, though, to know that it’s going to be a pleasant evening without anyone getting wasted and ruining everything, even if it means you have to wear pantyhose. Your dress is black and short, but not too short, with long sleeves and lace around the skirt. It bares a fair bit of cleavage, but not so much as to be inappropriate, and over all, you’re a big fan of this one. It almost makes you look like you fit in among the upper class crowd, despite being from the local thrift shop.

Sid looks dashing, as per usual, in black pants and a red button-up that’s open just enough to show the barest bit of his chest. The color complements the bit of a flush that’s overtaken his cheeks with the encouragement of alcohol, and it’s a little distracting when you’re trying to make polite small talk and remember his relatives’ names. You’re not quite sure what you’re drinking, because Troy made it for you and refused to tell, but it’s not helping either. There are just so many people, and you’re trying not to let it make you nervous, but the part of your brain that hasn’t adjusted to well-adjusted people is still waiting for something to go wrong, and anxiety is clawing at the gates of your psyche. You wish you were back at Sid’s, curled up on the couch with him watching shitty Christmas movies instead.

“How you holding up?” Sid asks when his aunt moves on to the next conversation. It’s the third time he’s checked on you in so many hours, always the gentleman. You’re tempted to ask him to let you go home, except the only way to overcome anxiety is to face it, so you just nod before greeting another aunt who’s approached.

Unlike you’d expected, not many people ask if you’re Sid’s girlfriend. It makes sense, because you’re not his type, like, at all, but it kind of stings. You could totally date Sid if you wanted. Who are they to think otherwise? You’re smart, and funny, and kind, and pretty great, overall. Sid would be lucky to have you.

“Sid, would you date me?” you ask an indeterminate amount of time later, once you’ve made your way through family and friends itching to talk to Sid, and a few more drinks made by Troy. Trina made one of them for you, which is probably why you want to sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling for a while. But you kind of need to know, because only like five people have asked if you’re dating and it’s like. What the fuck.

“What?” he asks, looking slightly panicked for reasons you can’t currently discern.

“Would you date me?” you repeat, continuing, “Cause like, no one is asking if we’re dating, and I could totally date you.” His eyebrows shoot up and he starts to smile, so you add “I’m a catch, dude”. That makes him outright laugh, but not in, like, a mean way.

“I think it’s time to get you home,” he says, which is not an answer to your question. You kind of want to cuddle up with him and watch a movie or take a nap or both, though, so you don’t argue. You can ask him again in the car.

Which you do. It takes a while to say good night to all of his family, and you’re feeling a little less flushed by time the two of you load into the car and take off. Definitely still not sober enough to not follow up on your question, however. He looks less panicked and more… wistful, or something, this time, which you take to be a good sign.

“Of course I would,” he finally agrees, resting a hand on your knee in a way reminiscent of the drive from the airport. Victory. Of course he’d date you, you’re wonderful. Not like, “dating one of the most famous hockey players ever” wonderful, but still. You refuse to feel down on yourself on Christmas Eve.

The drive home is mostly a blur, less from the alcohol and more from your racing thoughts. Sid has to squeeze your knee to get your attention when you get to his place, and you startle enough that both of you giggle. You don’t bother slinging your purse over your shoulder for the ten-step walk to the mud room, hanging it in its place as you kick your heels off into their designated area. You can’t help but give a pleased sigh and wiggle your sore toes. Probably should have broken them in more before wearing them to a party for four hours.

Each of you goes to your designated rooms, agreeing to meet back at the couch. You’ve sobered up considerably in the last couple hours, able to put on your pajama shorts while standing, despite being unable to get your stockings off the same way. But then again, can anyone get stockings off while standing? You’d like to see proof. Sid’s house is just warm enough that the soft flannel shorts don’t leave you cold, but you do pair it with an oversized t-shirt rather than a tank top. After massaging your feet for a minute or two, you head downstairs, bare feet barely making a sound against the hardwood and carpet.

Sid is still getting changed, presumably, so you gather his best big fuzzy blanket and the pillow he likes to prop himself up with. After arranging the pillow how he tends to like it, you curl up on the middle cushion and wrap yourself in the blanket to wait. You don’t bother searching for a movie, already knowing that you’re going to stump for It’s A Wonderful Life, and that Sid’s probably going to give in easily. It takes you a moment to realize he’s in the room, because he’s just standing off to the side staring at you, like a weirdo.

“You comin’ or what?” you ask rhetorically, seemingly snapping him out of some daze. He settles into the spot you’d set for him, pulling you down into his chest and smiling the entire time you wiggle around to get comfortable. He must be feeling that Christmas spirit. You tug the blanket up until it covers his lap and up to your shoulders, finally deeming the position comfy enough. He only puts up a token resistance when you suggest your movie, already searching it as he lists off random Christmas movies you could watch instead. None of them are as good as It’s A Wonderful Life, though, because It’s A Wonderful Life is the best Christmas movie by far.

It’s a long movie, and your eyelids begin to droop around the time George has to choose between the new factory and the Building and Loan. Between Sid and the blanket, you’re warm and safe and cared for, and you let yourself drift to sleep with a smile. Just before you get there, however, Sid rouses you. You look up to him with hooded eyes, returning his smile. Slowly, slowly, he leans down, tilting your head toward him with a pair of fingers until he can press your lips together. The kiss is soft and lingering, both your lips slightly chapped from the cold, the angle awkward, and it’s entirely perfect.

“Merry Christmas,” Sid says, and you stare at each other for a short eternity before both breaking out in laughter. What a cheesy move! But what else would you expect from him, honestly?

“Merry Christmas, Sid,” you reply once you’ve managed to calm. You’re still sleepy, but the smile refuses to leave your face, even as Sid leans down to kiss you again. You get the feeling you won’t have to worry about people asking if you’re Sid’s girlfriend anymore, but not for the reason you’d expected.

#sidney crosby imagine #NHL imagines #andis coping mechanism #RI #scrosby

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artsy-hobbitses · 5 years

Photo

Because my nostalgic ass had been wanting to do this for a SUPER long time, have some Humanized!Mighty Ducks! It’s funny to see how far I’ve kinda come, because I had a strong love for this and most other anthro shows back in the 90s bc they looks excellent but also because I couldn’t draw humans worth a god damn and ended up anthro-ing all the humans, but now I can human the anthros :’B Also because I have no self-control, actual human names and backgrounds below. I might actually have to write this AU at some point.

WILLIAM ‘WILL’ FLETCHER ie. ‘WILDWING’

30yrs

Canadian (Eh)

Half-brother to Nate Fletcher (Same father, different mothers). Despite this, they have a generally good relationship with each other.

It doesn’t mean they don’t have their issues however; Will believes his father chose Nate as the man stayed with Nate and Nate’s mother, while Nate believes Will is the favorite because they never hear their dad stop comparing their accomplishments as a troubled teen to straightlaced Will.

A decorated ice hockey player in his youth, won several state championships.

Formerly a member of the Canadian Armed Forces, did a security stint in Afghanistan from 2009-2014.

Returned to Canada, opened a youth hockey camp to leave behind his old life before the Saurian threat at which point he was called up by his absentee military father to help spearhead a team of saboteurs.

Initially reluctant, however the death of his best friend and former army comrade, Connor Tiberius, during a rescue of captured citizens spurns him to accept on his terms in which he picks the team members.

Responsible, dependable, good-natured, more bookish than his size and stature might suggest, some self-esteem issues and very much a wary but bleeding heart. In his baby brother’s affectionate words, a “Major Dweeb”.

Trilingual; Canadian-French, English (fluent), Pashto (intermediate).

His codename ‘Wildwing’ came from Connor, who affectionately gave it to him as he was the best ‘wingman’ a soldier could ask for on the field and his habit of going from bookish to ballistic when faced with any injustice. His civilian outfit includes a bomber jacket with wings decorated over the back to commemorate his best friend.

Literally the only member of the team to actually be associated with ice hockey. The others picked it up gradually as a way to bond with each other and discuss battle tactics.

NATHAN ‘NATE’ FLETCHER ie. ‘NOSEDIVE’

20yrs

American

Half-brother to Will Fletcher, unofficially the ‘team baby’ which is something he tries hard to break out of.

Seen as a delinquent in his youth and battling with ADHD, his father strongarmed him to enlist with the Air Force when he was 17 to try and ‘shape him up’ and while he absolutely bucked under the chains of command, he proved to be a natural at flying which both amazed and frustrated his officers when he would ace their flying exams but often break out to fly the planes when he wasn’t suppose to.

Due to perceived attitude problems, he was dismissed much to the anger of his father, but was quickly roped into the same role by Will who saw his potential in combating Dragaunus’ forces.

Hotheaded, impulsive and immature but also loyal, gregarious and friendly to a fault.

Will not stand for anyone badmouthing Will. That’s his brother and only he’s allowed to joke about them.

Codename ‘Nosedive’ was chosen because of the stunts he used to pull in the plane and also as a take-that moment to his father who would often complain about how everything good they tried to do for ‘this kid’ would ‘nosedive into shit’.

Oscillates between loving Will as the only family member to have really given a damn about him and see any potential in him at all and resenting Will for in his eyes, being everything he felt he couldn’t be.

Often in charge of flying the team jet.

Bilingual; English (fluent), Canadian-French (beginner. For Will, he’s trying).

MALLORY MACKENZIE

27yrs

Irish-American

A former cop who idolized her Sergeant mother who was killed helping to defend NYC from Dragaunus’ marauding forces.

She knows Will as a good friend through Connor Tiberius who was an old boyfriend prior to his death.

Has been tracking Duke’s movements for some time prior to the invasion, dead-set on bringing the jewel thief to justice. Not particularly enthused about his way of life, but does care for him in her own way as it was during their little chases that she would have conversations she couldn’t have had otherwise with someone she believed would have no role to play in her life outside of prison time.

When he consoled her after the death of her mother and she had to tend to him after he was gravely injured during a rescue, a strained friendship grew as they defended NYC together for a while with her banding together the remaining cops of the Central Park precinct and him putting together a coalition of small-time criminals who turned their tricks to beat off the alien invasion until Will called her up as a member of his new saboteur team.

In a spur of the moment, she asked Duke to come with her, vouching for his set of skills to Will and despite their back-and-forth snarking (mostly snarking from her, mostly teasing from him), they work with each other the best out of the team.

Her hatred for Draganus is strongest out of all the team and of all of them, she’s the most adept at hand-to-hand combat.

Has no use for code names—-the people she loves are dead or on the same team as her so she sees no point to it.

Pugnacious, Black-And-white view of the world and judgmental but also confident, decisive and fiercely determined. If she has her mind set something, she’s Terminator levels of terrifying to see it through.

Speaks only English but understands Arabic and French to an intermediate degree even if she can’t trust her tongue to speak it, if only to understand what Duke is saying at times (as he unwittingly tends to jump between his three ‘fluent’ languages in conversation).

DULQUER LATEEF ie. ‘DUKE L’ORANGE’

35yrs

French-Algerian

A renown jewel thief (simply known as the ‘Duke’) with a knack for stealing blood diamonds from diamond barons to channel their proceeds back to the communities they were pilfered from. Actually thinks the diamond industry is a huge joke, but it’s a joke some morons pay insanely dangerous amounts of money for. Prefers other jewels on a personal basis (fond of rubies and amethysts)

Ran his own gang back in France called the Brotherhood of the Blade, got caught up in the invasion when he decided to work his heists in New York.

His codename came from the inability of people to properly pronounce his name in his youth and so ‘Dulq’ became ‘Duke’ in due time. ‘L’Orange’ was what happened when having to come up with a surname on the spot during a heist in the States, he blurted out the first vaguely-French word he could remember which was ‘L’Orange’ ie. ‘duck a l’orange’ which was what a former target of his ordered and when his gang brethren found out, it amused them so much they talked him into keeping it as a full part of his nom de plume. He keeps it, because it helps his remaining family stay safe that no one knows his real name and he prefers it that way.

He and Mallory had something he likes to describe as a ‘dance’, with her continuously tracking him down and him escaping her clutches at the last moment. He’s absolutely tickled that they’re now on the same team.

Cares for the team the deepest due to having run his own back home and missing the brotherhood and his own family, always aware of everyone’s emotional and physical condition to the point he disregards his own at times.

Seriously, hurt his new family and you die.

The most streetwise of the team and adept with any form of blade-play and stealth/subterfuge.

Lost his eye and gained the scar on his face fending off ‘Wraith’ for as long as he could from a geologist with knowledge of Beryllium crystals.

The cybernetic eye he hides behind his eyepatch was given to him by Mallory who came across it while evacuating scientists (Including Tanya) from a lab under siege. She obtained it as willing ‘payment’ from them and had them help install it on Duke, claiming that he was only as much use to the rebellion as the clarity of his depth of field. (In truth, was well aware of how shaken he was from the loss of his eye). Cybernetic eye has x-ray and heat-seeking capabilities.

Fond of Mallory (who he may or may not be harboring feelings for but is also aware that he’s greying, a criminal and damaged, like who’s he kidding), Tanya (something of a younger sister to him especially since she’s the scientist who helped install his new eye) and Will (who he treats like a little brother he gotta teach the workings of the streets to).

Egoistical, questionable morals and unconcerned with ‘the big picture’ of global invasion but also surprisingly compassionate, open-minded and does his best to see the good in everyone (He’s a thief eh?)

Something of an omniglot due to his background and the different people he ends up having to work with; Fluent in French, English and Arabic, intermediate in Mandarin, Spanish and Italian, beginner in Japanese and Russian.

TANYA VANDERBILT

30yrs

German

A scientist working mostly with cyberkinetics who also made use of Beryllium crystals (the same the Saurians are coveting) in her technology and upon the invasion, her entire lab and research became a target.

She was rescued by Mallory and has since then tagged along with the fiery redhead who sees her as a sister, augmenting her gear and weapons where needed and even providing Duke with his energy sword.

Absolutely not a combatant, has no field experience and is most often found back at the base playing her role as Command central or guarding the ship while the group go on their recon missions.

Sees herself as deadweight sometimes though her comrades will always attest that they’d probably be dead out there if not for her tech and in-depth knowledge.

Meek, easily terrified and a bit of a pushover, but also innovative, multi-talented in diverse sections of science and always eager to help.

Speaks English and German, understands intermediate Japanese due to most of her lab co-workers.

CASSIUS ‘CASH’ HARDING ie. ‘GRIN’

40yrs

African-American

Originally a pro-wrestler working the circuits, he was caught up in the Saurian invasion and captured as a test subject in order for the invaders to figure out the biological weaknesses and breaking point of humans at their prime.

Was the subject of multiple experiments, but strove to keep up the spirits of his fellow prisoners by way of story, meditation and keeping a genial facade.

Was among the prisoners Conrad attempted to free before they died, led the prisoner rebellion and immediately joined up as a member of Will’s team upon finding out that he was Conrad’s best friend—-paying off his dues, as it were.

Unfortunately for the Saurians, their experiments had been in the midst of testing out how much augmented strength a human body could take before breaking, which left him with well, augmented strength to go with an extremely high pain threshold from both his old job and his ordeal. That said, the strength comes with a caveat that prolonged use of it could lead to organ failure due to the strain he has to put on them and thus he’s only able to work with it for short bursts of five to ten minutes depending on the task.

Despite his size, is generally the pacifist of the group more concerned with keeping people safe than facing down Dragaunus’ hordes—he leaves that to the actual soldiers. If you pissed him off in some way, you have fucked up super bad.

Bonds with Will and Nate quickly, rather like a stable older brother or uncle figure who realizes these two worlds-apart siblings have issues and are way over their head with these new responsibilities and tries his best to keep them grounded.

Hesitant, tendency to shy away from confrontation and almost on an emotional lockdown but also amicable, stoic and uncannily perceptive.

Speaks mostly English with a strong smattering/understanding of Jamaican Creole.

The codename ‘Grin’ came from his tendency to ‘grin and bear it’ when it came to punishment or altercations.

#mighty ducks #mdtas #humanized #90s cartoons #art

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starrybethany · 4 years

Text

William Nylander: Part 4

Word count: 2006

Should I be doing this? I really shouldn’t be doing this. If Mills knew I was doing this, he would kill me. Like literally kill me.

And shouldn’t I have told William I was coming before just randomly showing up at his apartment? Will he think it’s creepy? He probably will, especially since I haven’t talked to him in a week and I didn’t show up at his party like I said I was going to. Plus, it’s eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night. Why would anyone visit that late on a workday?

I sigh, forcing myself to reach forward and knock on the door before I turn and run away.

I bite my lip, hard, as I wait for the Swedish man to come to the door. Shit, I didn’t even think about what I would do if he didn’t come to the door. What if it was some girl that he met and started dating after the party and then he has to explain to her, hey, this is a girl I started to spend time with before you, and I break them up?

Or worse, what if Kappy answers the door?

I don’t have to worry too long because the door swings open and an exhausted Willy stands on the other side. I start to feel bad just by looking at his baggy eyes and pouty lips.

“Hey,” I say awkwardly.

Really, that’s it? I wake the man up when he has a game tomorrow and all I have to say is ‘hey?’

“Hey,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s up?”

Okay, cool, it’s casual.

“Not much,” I twist my fingers uncomfortably, “You?”

“Not much,” he repeats with a shrug.

His tired eyes meet mine and we stare at each other in silence, him examining me curiously, probably wondering why I woke him up just to say hi but not wanting to be rude by asking.

“Um, I just wanted to apologize for telling you that I’d come to your party and then never showing up,” I state. “That was a bitch move.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “It wasn’t a bitch move, I just assumed you had something come up and we don’t have each other’s phone numbers so you couldn’t text me that you weren’t able to make it. Speaking of…”

He turns around, walking into his dimly lit apartment. “Oh, you can come in, by the way!”

I head into the apartment unsurely, closing the door behind me and looking around the spacious apartment. I’m surprised at how modest it is with how much money he’s making. It’s definitely an updated apartment but it’s smaller than I imagined, plus it’s probably just a two bedroom.

Will appears back in front of me, holding out his phone with the new contact page pulled up. “Enter your number so we can actually make plans instead of accidentally running into each other.”

“Sure, accidentally,” I wink, taking the phone and entering my number.

He laughs as I pass him back his phone and give him my phone so he can enter his number.

“Nice place you got here,” I compliment, stepping around him to look further into the living room.

“Don’t you have the exact same apartment?” He questions.

“What?”

“All of the layouts in this building are identical.”

“Oh, yeah,” I curse myself in my head for momentarily forgetting my lie, “I meant like your decorations and shit.”

“Oh, thanks, my mom and sisters actually helped pick them out,” he confesses sheepishly.

I giggle before looking into the kitchen, peering at his fridge curiously. I bet he has a shitload of food in there, he is a millionaire after all.

“You don’t want to look inside my fridge, it’s practically empty. I don’t keep a lot of food here since I’m gone a lot for hockey or I’m visiting my family.”

Or not.

“I could order a pizza, though, if you’re hungry,” he offers. “That means you would have to stay a while, though.”

“Is that an invitation to stay a while?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at him suggestively.

He smirks at me, dialing a number into his phone. “What’s your favorite pizza place?”

“This is really good pizza,” I compliment, taking a bite of the slice in my hand.

“See what happens when you don’t limit yourself to places that close at nine?” He teases.

I roll my eyes, throwing my feet onto the ottoman in front of the couch.

“Getting comfy, are we?”

“Is there a problem with that, Nylander?”

“There’s no problem at all,” he dismisses, grabbing his remote and flicking on the TV. “What do you want to watch?”

“Pocahontas,” I respond instantly. He begins to laugh at that. “What? Is there something wrong with Pocahontas?”

“We’re Canadian,” he manages to get out.

“So, it’s a good, important story!” I defend. “It may be all about the Americans but there’s a talking racoon and a bombass song.”

“Fine, I will turn on Pocahontas,” Willy snickers, entering the title into the search bar.

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“How can you laugh at me when you’ve never even seen it?” I whine.

“You’re right, I’m being prematurely judgemental,” he agrees. “I’ll give it a chance.”

“You better,” I turn to give him a teasing glare just to find he’s already looking at me.

The joking atmosphere diminishes as we hold eye contact. Pocahontas plays in the background but it fades away by the throbbing silence between us. His blue eyes twinkle and my eyes flicker between them and his thin lips surrounded by scruff.

I don’t mind the scruff. In fact, I like it. It suits him, the facial hair with the long hair is a good look that makes him look really attractive. Well, he would be attractive without it but with it he looks even better.

I see him inch closer to me slowly, testing the waters to see what my reaction will be.

I let him.

I actually want him to kiss me, I’m excited for it.

But I can’t let him kiss me.

When he’s two inches away from my face I turn my head, showing him my cheek.

I close my eyes, cursing myself out in my head. All I want to do is kiss him but I know if Mills were to ever find out he would literally kill William and I’m not selfish enough to risk it.

Willy sighs, resting his face in the crook of my neck and letting out a loud groan.

“I’m sorry.” I’m not even sure my words reach his ears.

We stay in this position for a little while longer before he pulls back, slouching down, wrapping an arm around my waist, and leaning his head against my hip. I settle for running a hand through his hair as we watch Pocahontas in full silence.

The movie ends and the credits begin to play.

“You know what you should do tomorrow night?” He asks quietly, threading his fingers through mine and playing with my fingers.

“What?”

“Come to my game.”

I don’t respond.

“It’s Leafs versus Rangers.”

“So I’d really get to see Henrik Lundqvist in person?” I tease.

He gives me a look and I laugh.

“I’m never taking you to Sweden with me,” he mumbles, making me laugh harder.

“Of course I’ll go to your game, Willy.”

I nervously walk down the hallway, fiddling with the pass in my hand. Willy gave it to me after I agreed to go to his game and told me that I need it to go to the WAGs box to be with all of the other partners.

Then I asked him if he considered me his partner and he didn’t respond.

That’s an argument for another day.

I show the security guard my pass and he opens the door for me, letting me step unsurely into the room. A bunch of other women are already in the room and they all look at me as I enter, mixed expressions of judgement on their faces.

“Are you Y/N?” A pretty blonde asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice to answer for me.

“William left you something,” she smiles politely, pointing at a box on a nearby table.

I open it curiously, aware of all of the eyes watching me. I can’t help but laugh when the top of the box is removed and a blue, 88, Nylander, jersey is revealed. He told me he was going to get me a jersey after I told him I don’t own any Maple Leafs merchandise, so I told him to get me a Kapanen one. He got annoyed at that.

I tug the jersey over my torso and the girls go back to their conversations that they were having before I arrived.

“I’m Alannah,” the blonde introduces herself.

“Y/N,” I smile, shaking her hand.

I definitely feel out of place in this room. Everyone is stunning, like they’re runway models or something. And then here I am, in the jeans I bought from Goodwill and a T-shirt I stole from one of my old friends.

Alannah introduces me to a couple of the other girls and ushers me into the seat beside hers when warmups start. “Will’s going to look for you, I just know it.”

I give her a doubtful look but soon find number eighty eight on the ice, watching him as he skates around for a little bit before pausing, looking up at the WAGs box.

“Wave,” Alannah urges.

I give her a look, unsure that he can even see me from how high up we are. Despite this, I lean forward, waving at the Swedish man.

I can barely see the grin that spreads across his face but he waves back up at the box.

“Hi Zachy, have a great game,” Alannah shouts from next to me to her husband. It’s cute that she says that even though she knows he has no chance of hearing her.

I ignore the buzzing in my pocket throughout the game, too focused on the puck and the players and their movements. I know who it is, and I know I should answer it and what’ll happen if I don’t but I’m having too much fun to worry about that right now.

It’s a dumb excuse, I know, but it’s true.

“What takes so long?” I ask curiously after waiting in the hallway for a half an hour.

“They have to shower and get dressed. And sometimes they have media,” the tall blonde informs me, smiling widely when her husband leaves the locker room. “Great game, baby!”

She pulls him into a hug and he laughs. It seems like he recognizes me as soon as he lays eyes on me.

“This is Y/N,” Alannah introduces me anyways and I make small chat with Zach as I wait for William.

Soon, the blonde exits the locker room with a wide smile and I can’t help but reciprocate that action.

“Great job, Will,” I murmur, pulling him into a hug in the heat of the moment.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get a goal for you,” he mumbles into my hair, rubbing my back caringly.

“You got an assist, though. That’s something, right?”

“That is something,” he laughs at my lack of hockey knowledge, moving me to the side to hold me by the waist.

I meet a couple more of the guys and see the guys that I met the other day at breakfast. They all raise their eyes at the hand on my waist, but I don’t care to move it.

“Do you want a ride home?” William asks me.

“No, I drove here,” I lie easily.

“Oh, okay.”

For a split second I want him to drive me home, just because of the hurt in his voice, then I remember the lie I’m upholding and realize that I can’t have him seeing my apartment.

“I’ll see you soon, William.”

“See you soon, Y/N.”

#nhl imagines #william nylander imagine #william nylander preference #william nylander oneshot #nhl imagine

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forever--darling · 5 years

Text

not too far away - s.m. (part four)

a/n: where they attend a hockey game, fight, then make up

warnings: 6.5k words of silent car rides, screaming, crying, and long hugs

IV. at sixes and sevens

him

It was only a day after the coffee meeting and Shawn was already on his way back towards Y/N’s door except for this time, he was dressed in a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey and had two hockey tickets stuffed in his pocket. So far the only person who knew about his plan to get Y/N to go to the game with him was Aaliyah considering she had found the tickets on the desk in Shawn’s room while he was taking a shower.

He had found her holding them when he wandered back into the room and had to shush her from how excited she became at the mention of Y/N. Thankfully by the end of it, Aaliyah had promised to not say anything to mom and dad. It’s not like Shawn wanted his parents to not know, he did but he knew if they got involved they would do anything they could to fix this mess and Shawn needed to do this himself.

It was around twelve-thirty when he pulled into the driveway of the large house and he felt like it was the first night all over again. Like he was about to knock and find her stood in the doorway pretty eyes wide in shock. He had climbed the front steps and had to take a second to breathe before he knocked. He felt almost as nervous as the first time, now worried that she would see him and slam the door in his face. He was relieved though when it was the older Y/L/N sibling that opened the door. As soon as James locked eyes onto the tall Canadian, he smiled glad to see that it hadn’t all gone to shit, yet.

Unknown to Shawn, after Y/N had gotten home after her class she stormed straight up to her room and locked herself inside giving James the conclusion that it hadn’t gone well at all. He thought that Shawn might have found out the secret Y/N had been keeping from him but from the way Shawn was smiling at James on the doorstep, it was easy to see that she had not told him after all which didn’t explain why she was so upset.

“Mendes, long time no see,” James chuckled instantly opening the door for Shawn to come in.

Shawn’s smile widened as he entered, “Yeah.”

As Shawn followed James through the house, he was more terrified than he looked because there was a chance that Shawn would have to deal with getting rejected by Y/N in front of her whole family. It was a Sunday, so there was no doubt that they were home, and as he entered through the kitchen he was instantly met with music blasting throughout the room.

Don’t Worry Be Happy by Bob Marley, Shawn noted. The windows were open letting in a small breeze, and the door that led out towards the large wooden porch was opened as well. No one was in the kitchen and instantly Shawn thought that everyone was probably outside. Walking through the door, he paused as he walked out feeling his heart jump in his chest.

His eyes locked on Y/N’s form and he didn’t take in anyone else. Her hair was the same way it had been the day before but now just a little messier as her face was now bare from any makeup and she was dressed in an oversized tee and a pair of white pajama pants. A large fluffy grey blanket was wrapped around her shoulders as she stared forward out towards the backyard of the house and all the land that her parents owned. Her bottom lip was pushed out into a pout and her nose was turning a light shade of red letting Shawn know she had probably been out here for a while.

“Shawn Mendes, well if this isn’t a surprise,” Brad, Mr. Y/L/N, had shouted letting his newspaper fall into his lap.

Y/N’s eyes snapped towards where Shawn was standing and they widened slightly as they landed on him. He sent her a small smile before his attention moved away from her towards her father, “Yeah it is, good afternoon.”

Shawn’s pearly whites were on display as he sent a glance at James who was leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed over his chest, and a smug grin on his lips. Brad looked at his daughter from the corner of his eye and never thought this would be her reaction at seeing Shawn after all this time. In fact, it didn’t seem right, almost like this wasn’t the first time she was seeing him again.

As Shawn sent another glance towards the porch, he then realized the absence of Katherine, Y/N’s mother. He didn’t question it though knowing that she was a busy woman and was probably running errands or whatever most moms did on a daily basis.

“So what can we do for you, kind sir?” Brad asked squinting from the sunlight that was hitting him in the eye.

“Well actually,” Shawn motioned towards Y/N who was staring at him with furrowed brows in confusion, “I’m going to need you to get dressed.”

She only got even more confused as Shawn began to dig into this pocket for the tickets. He pulled them out and showed them to her with a smirk forming on his lips, “That is if you don’t want to be late.”

He watched as her face turned to one of shock as she read over the tickets and after about a minute of staring towards them in disbelief, she peeled herself from the lawn chair she was sitting in and made her way inside. Shawn felt a wave of relief wash over him instantly that she wasn’t rejecting his offer and actually was going to go despite what had happened the morning before at the coffee shop.

With a satisfied grin, Bradley also stood from his chair and as he walked by Shawn to get to the door gave him a soft pat on the shoulder, “It’s good to have you back, Shawn.”

Shawn chuckled and smiled at the feeling of it being just like old times. He walked over towards a grinning James and leaned against the porch railing next to him. James chuckled, “Wow hockey tickets. You’re really bringing out the big guns.”

Nodding, Shawn shrugged, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Yesterday didn’t go well I take it?” James asked watching as a small frown formed on Shawn’s face.

“Could barely get any words out of her. She was fine for the first few minutes and she was back to her teasing self. It felt like old times but then it went all downhill. She left when I tried to ask what had happened to us,” Shawn sighed rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, “I honestly thought she was going to reject my offer to go to the hockey match today.”

“Nah,” James chuckled, “She couldn’t ever reject hockey tickets.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and shoved James in the shoulder for his sarcastic remark before silence fell over the two men and Shawn frowned again. “Do you know why all of this shit happened?”

James sent Shawn a sad smile before he lied, “No, not entirely. It’s her shit to share, not mine. I don’t know what’s going on in her head half the time.”

Shawn huffed as he collapsed into the lawn chair Y/N had been sitting in minutes ago, “These last four years have been miserable without her.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Shawn mumbled while chewing on the bottom of his lip, “I just need her back.”

James nodded as he took a seat next to Shawn and placed a hand on the singer’s shoulder in comfort as Shawn continued, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave her again if things don’t work out. If I can’t fix this I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I know all of this is fucked up but it will all be fine,” James reassured as he leaned back in the chair and placed his hands behind his neck a grin forming on his lips, “Now tell me, how are the girls in LA?”

Shawn couldn’t help but chuckle as James tried to lighten the situation and at that moment felt grateful for the man who had always been there for him ever since they were kids. The next few minutes, Shawn began to talk about the tour and the album he had just released and felt grateful that James sat there and listened. He was about to ask James about the trip to Venice he had heard about from his parents when her voice had called out to him from the doorway.

“Shawn,” her voice sounded just as small as it had at the coffee shop.

He looked up to find her in a Toronto Maples Leaf sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and her hair now pulled up into a small ponytail, just like it had the night he came to the house. He sent her a warming smile and knew that she was trying so hard to not smile back. “You ready?” he asked standing as she gave him a nod in reply.

“Well we’re out,” Shawn said looking down at James who was still sprawled across the chair.

“Alright, have fun. Drive safe.” James replied not bothering to open his eyes as he soaked in the sunlight from the early spring weather.

Shawn shook his head and laughed as he turned on his heels and walked back into the house and through the kitchen, Y/N following behind him. She didn’t say anything and neither did he as they made it outside and climbed into his black jeep. Sat in the driver’s seat, he buckled his seat belt and watched as Y/N gazed around at the car she was sat in, obviously surprised.

“You good?” Shawn asked laughter laced in his words.

She turned towards him to see his teasing look and though she didn’t return the smile she spoke a single word, “Yeah.”

She buckled her seatbelt and leaned back, a heavy sigh leaving her lips as she relaxed into the leather seat. Shawn couldn’t help but chuckle at how adorable she was despite what they were going through right now. He wanted more than anything for them to return to their laughing crazy friendship but he couldn’t deny that he found shy Y/N just as adorable considering he’d never seen this side of her before.

One thing he wasn’t too excited though for was this forty-minute drive. He didn’t know why he considered driving back into the city when he had done it the day before. There and back. He now felt stupid because though he was about to go watch a hockey match he would have to deal with this silence for the whole drive and that was something he wasn’t ready for. So as he began to pull out of the driveway, he turned up the radio filling the car with the start of New Rules by Dua Lipa.

Y/N watched Shawn in silence as he pulled on his black sunglasses from the glove compartment and began to hum to the music. Her eyes were tracing over his hand that was gripping the steering wheel while his other one, the one with the swallow, tapped to the beat of the song on the console. She looked up across his arms and broad shoulders to his thick neck that had one vein on the side pulsing under his skin. She traced the sharpness of his jaw and his tousled curls, noticing that single curl pushed back and out of his face.

That’s when her sparkling pupils landed on his plump rosy lips. She stared at the way he bit into the bottom of his lip or how his tongue would dart out to wet them. He was doing it on purpose but she didn’t know that. Shawn had noticed her eyes were on him right away and couldn’t help but like every second that they were. It made him feel like maybe there was something still there in her that cared so much for him. There had to have been if she agreed to come with.

An annoyed huff escaped her mouth and she turned away from him to look out her window. Forehead leaning against the cool glass, she kept breathing in and out quietly as Shawn’s heavenly voice filled the car. It seemed like Shawn knew every song because whatever came onto the radio he was humming or singing and after a while in the car he had thought it put Y/N to sleep. She wasn’t asleep, she just felt like she couldn’t move as she stared at the landscape that they passed.

They were minutes away from the stadium and Shawn was feeling more excited the closer they got because not only was this a way to get closer to Y/N but also to go watch some hockey which he hadn’t done in a while. The music was even louder in the car considering he had turned it up when a Drake song had come on but it wasn’t loud enough to cut out the sound of his phone ringing from the console.

Y/N shifted at the noise and turned to look at the screen the same time Shawn had. Shawn swallowed the saliva in the back of his throat and let out an annoyed grunt as he chose to ignore it. Y/N kept glancing from him to the phone as Shawn tried to ignore it and focus back on God’s Plan by Drake.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Y/N said, finally speaking as her eyes traced back over at Lauren’s name that illuminated the screen.

Shawn shook his head as his hand tightened around the steering wheel, “Nope. Today it’s just you and me.”

He sent her a glance and watched as her lips lifted slightly in the corners into a smile and Shawn swore he felt his stomach flutter at the sight. They went on like they hadn’t seen the phone call in the first place. Shawn went back to singing the last few remaining lines of the Drake song and this time instead of turning away back to the window, Y/N looked at Shawn and listened as the song came to an end.

“That was God’s Plan by Drake,” the radio host’s voice came through the car speakers, “Next pop sensation Shawn Mendes’s In My Blood.”

Shawn’s body tensed up as the song, his song began to play and if it were anybody else in the passenger seat he might have let it played but because this was Y/N and he was trying to convince her that everything was fine and normal he couldn’t leave his song playing. He reached towards the radio and with a click of a button changed the station to something else.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair sneaking a glance towards Y/N hoping she was okay in the passenger seat next to him. He thought maybe she would turn back towards the window and ignore him for the next four minutes until they got to the stadium but instead she leaned forward towards the radio and switched the station back. Shawn’s voice flowed out of the speakers as the chorus of the song hit.

As Y/N dropped her hand back at her side, it grazed the top of Shawn’s that still sat on top of the console. She tried to ignore it and instead looked forward out of the front window towards the busy streets of Toronto. Shawn smiled again at her shy behavior before looking back at the road humming under his breath to his own song.

Pulling into the parking lot, that remained close to the entrance of the stadium, he unbuckled his seat belt and turned the car off. He got out and jogged over towards the passenger side to see Y/N reaching for the door but he quickly grabbed the handle and opened it for her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she got out of the jeep and followed Shawn towards the front doors that were filling with people who were trying to get in.

He stepped into one of the lines and felt as Y/N’s body leaned into his back trying to remain close throughout the chaos that was forming. Shawn had never been so happy that all of the noise wasn’t about him and that he was just another person in the crowd because he didn’t know what he would’ve done if a bunch of people recognized him and tried to swarm them.

It wouldn’t end well and probably cause Y/N to say less to him than she already was. Walking in, they approached the security guard and for a short second, he stared at Shawn’s face as if he was trying to identify who he was but the guard just shook his head and scanned Shawn’s ticket. Shawn moved into the stadium’s lobby and watched as Y/N scrambled after him, eyes frantic as she looked at all the people around.

Glancing towards the ticket in his hand, Shawn started to make his way towards where the seats were located. She followed close behind almost running into him with every step. Without so much as a thought, Shawn reached back and clasped her hand in his and knew that he hadn’t crossed a line when she didn’t shake his hand out of hers.

They entered into the rink and Shawn began to weave his way through the aisles of people until he found their seats that were placed near the end. He let Y/N go in before him leaving him with the aisle seat and sat down into the seat with a heavy sigh leaving his lips. The ice was empty as the benches were filled with each team listening to their coach talk. Shawn turned his head to look at Y/N to see her on the edge of her seat looking towards the ice and her bottom lip tucked in between her teeth.

“What do you think?” Shawn asked raising his voice to be heard through how loud it was getting within the building.

“It’s amazing,” she replied leaning closer to Shawn for him to hear and her eyes moved from the ice towards him now realizing how close she had gotten to him. He smiled towards her, cheeks starting to turn its normal rosy color.

Though she didn’t return the smile, Shawn could see the way her eyes gleamed as they looked back at him. Maybe their friendship wasn’t completely dead after all.

her

You were leaned forward in your seat watching as one of Maple Leafs players brought the puck down the ice heading straight for the goal. The score was currently 4-3 Maple Leafs and this had been one of the most exciting games you had seen. Plus, nobody seemed to recognize Shawn in the middle of it all or maybe they had and just respected him enough to not approach. Either way the whole time it had only been him and you like he had promised.

Sending a glance towards Shawn, you held in a smile at how he was sat. He was on the edge of his seat, legs spread apart and hands intertwined between them. His eyebrows were furrowed as he watched the game and his tongue was starting to poke out of the corner of his mouth. You shook your head, starting to pick up on the things that never changed about Shawn.

It made you realize how much you missed him. More than you had when he was gone and it made you feel even worse about being sat next to him. You didn’t think you deserved this, deserved Shawn. He was too good to be true and though sending him away had hurt him, you knew that it was always the best decision you had ever made about your friendship.

Too consumed in Shawn and thinking about Shawn, you hadn’t noticed the Maple Leafs scored again. You probably wouldn’t have noticed if Shawn hadn’t let out a scream of joy eyes shining as he stared at the ice. His head then turned and his amber eyes met yours. He was slightly shocked to find you already looking at him but smiled warmly as you reverted your attention back to the ice.

“Hey, I’m going to go get something to drink,” he leaned forward to talk near your ear, “Do you want anything?”

“What?” you asked not hearing me the first time.

“Do you want anything from the concession stand?” he tried again.

Eyes still locked onto the ice, you replied, “Yeah a water, please.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” he said standing up glancing towards the ice before back to you, “You going to be alright?”

You nodded, “Yeah I’m fine.”

He sent one more smile before he began to dart up the steps of the arena taking two steps at a time clearly on a mission to get back as fast as possible. You chuckled silently before bringing your attention back to the match but before you could a man caught your eye. Only because his gaze was transfixed on you.

He looked to be just a little bit older than you with dark skin and curly black hair. He stared at you, up and down, with his bright green eyes and it caused a shiver to move down your back and not in a good way. Turning back towards the ice, you chose to ignore him and tried to shake off his gaze as you waited for Shawn.

It only was a few minutes before you noticed Shawn making his way towards the seat a smile still plastered across his rosy lips. He was only a few rows up when he was stopped by a few girls sat in the seats. You assumed they asked for a picture since they stood up and pulled their phones out from their pockets. Without a second of hesitation, Shawn was taking pictures with the girls and you felt a small smile form on your lips at how sweet he was to never deny a fan.

At the same time though, it felt weird to you because you were in no way used to seeing Shawn be stopped for pictures or autographs. Giving them hugs, he then continued his way down to you. He sat down in the chair and seemed slightly out of breath.

“Your water,” he presented handing you the bottle and you smiled though you tried not to. You found Shawn was starting to break past this wall you had built and you found yourself letting him, though you were terrified at what he might find.

You continued to stare at him as he took a drink from the cup in his hand but upon sensing your gaze he turned, “What?”

“Do you always take pictures with your fans?” you asked curiously falling back into your seat, eyes trained towards him.

He smiled, that dang smile, you had found made you melt, “As often as I can. You know I wouldn’t be where I am without them.”

You nodded understandingly, eyes looking back towards the ice but able to pick out the strange man still sneaking you glances from a few seats down. You sighed and focused back on why you were here in the first place. Hockey.

The hockey match ended with the Toronto Maple Leafs pulling out a win 6-4 and as soon as it had come to an end, Shawn was dragging you up behind him to get out through the crowd. It was worse than when you had gotten there and it seemed like every step you took you were bumping into a person. You found yourself gripping onto Shawn’s forearm as you stood in the lobby.

People surrounded you and each second you prayed that no one would notice him because if they all started to move into your direction there wasn’t a way for you to get out but so far it seemed that you blended in with everyone else who was just trying to leave the arena.

As people slowly started to file out, you didn’t feel it at first. You thought it was someone who had just accidentally bumped you, but then you felt it again and it was harder. Pressing yourself closer towards Shawn, you then felt the two hands grip towards your hips. You glanced over your shoulder and instantly came face to face with the guy that had been staring at you during the match his terrifying green eyes up close and personal. You shuddered as his grip tightened on you.

You untucked yourself from within Shawn’s side to try and push off the guy who had his grip on you but it didn’t do much as he only pressed his fingers deeper into your sides. The pain started to form as his fingernails dug into the small pink tissue that had been scarred for a few years now. Soon Shawn noticed that you weren’t as close as him and when he turned he instantly saw the man who was way too close to you for both of your comfort. He stepped closer and shoved the man harshly by the shoulders.

“Hey, get off of her!” Shawn raised his voice, as his face twisted into one of anger.

The man’s hands were no longer on you anymore, but you could still feel where they were. You began to rub at your scar that his harsh grip had been on as his face twisted into a grin at Shawn’s outburst. “What are you going to do? Fucking punch me? ”

Shawn took a step forward as the man mocked him and you tried to reach out to him but it was no use. There were so many people around and there wasn’t a lot of room to move but Shawn looked sure that he was going to pummel this guy and if one thing was for sure it was that Shawn was not a violent guy. “Is the Shawn Mendes going to actually punch me? I can’t believe that for one second. Someone better get a fucking video of that,” the guy continued.

Shawn’s steps came to a halt and you could see the way his back was tensing up at how loud the guy was speaking. He had announced Shawn’s name and like a switch, it seemed like everyone’s eyes had landed in your direction. You could see recognition form in people’s eyes as they looked towards Shawn and with each second that passed, it seemed like they were getting closer like they were going to all swallow you whole into the crowd.

It was like the noise level heightened too as everyone moved to get closer to Shawn and as soon as the security guards noticed the outbreak that was forming they tried to get it under control, but there were so many people and so few of them. Shawn’s eyes turned to slits towards the guy who smirked glancing from you to him. It looked like even though you were surrounded by people who all were trying to get to Shawn, he still looked like he was about to punch this guy straight in the face.

Quickly, it became too much for you. All of the people, all of the screaming. You felt your breathing begin to become uneven and gently pushing your way towards Shawn, you grabbed his arm gently. “Shawn.”

He turned and his eyes fell on you noticing the frantic state you were in. He could see how scared and overwhelming this had become and you were relieved when he moved away from the guy to you. He gripped your hand tightly in his and began to make his way through the crowd towards the front door as everyone made an effort to get as close to him as possible.

“I need you all to back up!” he yelled but nobody listened, “Please let us through.”

He shoved his way through the crowd and with each second longer spent in that building you could feel yourself going crazy. You were gripping onto Shawn for dear life and with every brush or shove from someone you felt your body tense. It was even worse when someone had all out screamed and stepped right on your foot. You stumbled behind Shawn and could feel the tug of his arm as you struggled to get through. He turned and pulled you into his back, one hand gently wrapping around your hip. You closed your eyes and breathed in Shawn’s scent able to smell him and his cologne as you walked refusing to let him go.

You had never been so relieved when you felt the breeze hit your flushed and sweaty skin as the sun fell onto your face. Shawn pulled you along towards the parking lot as some people continued to follow screaming after Shawn. As you made it to his jeep, he harshly pulled the passenger door open and shoved you inside ignoring the calls of his name.

He jumped into the driver’s seat and started the car, pulling out of the parking lot as fast as he could. Sweat had formed above his eyebrow and he wiped it away as he began to drive down the city streets in the direction to get home. He had slowed down and kept sneaking you glances as you sat in the seat arms wrapped around yourself unable to speak.

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed reaching over towards your right hand that was gripping your left arm tightly, “Y/N-”

He spoke your name and even though it sounded like music to your ears, you couldn’t help but ripe your arm away from him and push yourself farther into the passenger door, “Don’t! Just don’t, Shawn!”

He huffed before turning back to the road knowing the rest of the car ride would be like this, silent and unbearable.

him

Forty minutes later, Shawn had pulled into her driveway. He turned the car off and silence once again sat between them. He turned to look at her to find her staring forward arms crossed over her chest. Shawn couldn’t help it. What happened at the match had ended their good afternoon fast and he felt like whatever he did wouldn’t be good enough to get his best friend back.

He was frustrated and angry. Every time she opened herself a little bit more to him, she would slam the door in his face. For the past four years, he’s been confused and lost because they were spent without her and she had no valid reason why this happened. He was mad and he wasn’t able to keep it in any longer.

“Fuck!” he screamed slamming his fist against the steering wheel.

Y/N jumped slightly in her seat, eyes locking on him as his head fell back against his seat face pulled in frustration.

“Why?” Shawn yelled towards her eyes wide, “Why is it like this? I don’t understand. I fucking leave to do what I’ve always wanted and you support me yet as soon as I’m gone you decide that you don’t want to be friends anymore. You were the one person that I thought supported me the most and then you just fucking disappear! Why would you do that to me?”

His face was starting to turn red and he was so mad he felt like he could cry as he was finally letting out everything he had been holding in for years. Y/N looked just as frustrated and mad as he was.

“I did support you. I do support you!” she yelled back.

“No, you clearly fucking don’t! You left me and I needed you!” Shawn huffed tugging on his curls.

Y/N turned her whole body towards Shawn in the seat and looked towards him with pain in her eyes, “I needed you! I needed you, Shawn! But you weren’t here and I knew it was better for you not to be!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Shawn growled eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled into a scowl.

“It means that I did what was best for you despite what I wanted!” she screamed.

Shawn let out a dry laugh, one that sounded cold and in no way was something Y/N was used to, “Best for me. You thought that was best for me. What was best for me was having my best friend! It was getting to call her almost every day and tell her about everything that was happening. Good and bad. What was best for me was you!”

Y/N felt her words get lodged in her throat at his words. The way he said them sounded harsh and rude but it was only because of how upset he was. What she did truly hurt him and he could only hope it was getting his point across. He watched as Y/N sunk back into her seat clearly defeated and a big sigh passed through her lips.

“I needed you. I need you, Y/N,” Shawn begged his voice cracking.

She looked towards him, sadness filling her eyes. He hoped more than anything that she would give in and just hug him. That she could make everything better but he knew that as soon as the guilt showed on her face that things may never get better. She sent him one more glance before she opened the door of the Jeep and bolted out heading straight into the house. His head fell onto the steering wheel and felt all hope disappear.

Shawn took a deep breath before he started the car again and pulled out of the driveway taking a second to stare at the house he used to call a second home before he began to drive around the block towards his own house, heart at the bottom of his stomach.

her

You couldn’t face anyone after your argument with Shawn. He didn’t understand because you couldn’t tell him. The words were on the tip of your tongue as he screamed at you but you didn’t say them. You left him still confused and with no explanation. You knew what you were doing was hurting him but it was hurting you more and he didn’t see that because he didn’t know. You went through way worse than he did without him for the last four years and he would never see that and it killed you that you couldn’t find the courage to tell him.

As soon as you got inside your house, you had run to your room and locked yourself in. You took a long shower and then climbed into bed not bothering to answer your mother’s calls about dinner or if you were alright. You weren’t alright and you felt like you were never going to be because of the fear that filled your body.

For hours you stared at the wall, not able to move or speak. You felt broken and you had never been in this much pain except for two years ago when you were tangled in sheets in that fucking hospital bed, wires sticking out of your arms. You sighed, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You kept contemplating about what you should do, the only answer you got was that you needed Shawn. You needed him so bad.

Finally, you got off your bed, instantly feeling how stiff your body was from not moving for so long. You looked towards the table on the side of your bed at the clock that read eleven-thirty. Moving towards your bedroom door, you unlocked it and walked down the stairs. It was quiet in the house and all the lights were off meaning everyone was in bed.

Without a second glance around the house, you walked outside with only your slippers, a pair of light blue pajama pants, and a grey tank top. You didn’t think about grabbing a coat or putting on proper shoes because you only had one thought in mind and that was to get around the block as fast as possible.

As soon as the house was in view, you broke out into a jog to get to the door. You didn’t care if it wasn’t him that opened the door or if you looked absolutely insane you just needed to see him. As you got onto the front step, you peaked in through the window near the door to see a light illuminating a figure on the couch in the living room.

It was a TV, you noticed, and you knew it was Shawn who was sat on the couch just by the way he kept tugging on his curls. You instantly began to knock. Your heart was beating out of your chest and you couldn’t control the need of being in his arms. You were practically shaking from the cold mixed with how nervous you were when he opened the door.

Shawn’s eyes landed on you and you could tell he was confused. He took in your lack of warm clothes and stepped forward to speak. Before he could say anything though, you leaped out onto him. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your face found comfort in his neck. You were standing on your tiptoes as you pulled him down to be as close to you as possible.

His arms wrapped around your lower back and instantly you were engulfed in his warmth and his scent and everything Shawn. You held him as tight as you could, scared he would disappear and you knew he was holding you just as tight as his lips were pressed into your bare shoulder.

“Oh, thank god,” he mumbled against your skin as his hand rubbed up and down your back.

Your breath fanned across his neck and your eyes were closed trying to hold onto this moment for as long as you could. Your hand had moved and began to stroke the hair on the back of his head and your fingers were tangling with his curls. “I’m sorry, Shawn. You don’t deserve this.”

“Shh,” he hushed placing a kiss at the base of your neck causing you to tremble in his arms.

For the first time in four years, you were finally at peace. It was the comfort of your best friend’s arms that you had been craving and missing ever since he left. Though you could have had this so much sooner if you had told him those words so long ago you didn’t regret not telling him. And, you definitely didn’t regret leaving him though it caused pain to you both because if you hadn’t he might not be the Shawn Mendes that everyone knows and loves now.

He might have just been Shawn, your Shawn. No, you didn’t regret it because it made this moment where he held you so much better because it made you realize how right you were to let him go and you only hoped that he would understand that as soon as you decided to tell him the truth. As soon as you decided to admit and whisper those three little words. I was sick.

next part

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fanfic #my writing #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes angst #shawn #mendes #shawn x reader #shawn x y/n #shawn x you

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andrebura-kovsky · 5 years

Text

a new hockey fans guide to nhl teams: atlantic division

Tampa Bay Lightening:

The best team in the nhl. Bro there so fucking good I kinda just expect them to win whenever I see them play. Idk much about them except for the fact that they’re just really fucking good. Overall will probably win the Stanley Cup.

Boston Bruins

Brad Marchand is a rat boi people love to hate ( especially Torey Krug ) & brad loves to lick people who hate him ? Zdeno Chara is the dad, Bergeron is Jesus reincarnated who’s to pretty for his own good and is generally well liked despite being Marchy’s husband, Rask looks like a murderer and I love him.

Toronto Maple Leafs:

Children playing hockey under the supervision of Patrick Marleau. Auston Matthews hit people with the four and all of Toronto had an orgasm, Mitch Marner is a fucking angel that I would die for, Nylander is a Swede™️, John Tavares has seen some shit, and Mo Rielly likes junk food as much as me.

Montreal Canadians:

Carey Price is the wall. I think there used to be a thing surrounding the Gally’s before one of them was traded? I have such a fucking crush on Jesperi Kotkaniemi omfg his sMiLe!!

Florida Panthers:

The team that got me into hockey, did they used to be good when they had Jagr on their team? Idk honestly, why does florida have two hockey teams when it’s literally never as cold outside as it is in the rink?

Buffalo Sabres:

The Hockey Gods like to fuck with Jack Eichel. Jeff Skinner is an absolute delight and I want to poke his dimple. Will Alex Nylander ever not be compared to his brother, the world may never know.

Detroit Red Wings:

I get them confused with the Devils sometimes sooo don’t quote me on any of this. Dylan Larkin is a good boy out here trying to play hockey. They’ve only had Bowey for a few weeks but I miss him.

Ottowa Senators:

Big oof energy. Traded their good players? Anders Nilsson is an absolutely wonderful man who won hetero of the year. The Tkachuk family could fill up half the seats at a game. Have a lot of good high future draft picks but not a very good current team.

#nhl #hockey guide #tampa bay lightning #boston bruins #brad marchand #toronto maple leafs #auston matthews #montreal canadians #carey price #florida panthers #jaromir jagr #buffalo sabres #jeff skinner #detroit red wings #dylan larkin #ottowa senators

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a-writing-bear · 4 years

Text

[PruCan] Chapter 12: Soft-Spoken Calling, They Want Their Shyness Back

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159997/chapters/51804982

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

You can read this Fic on Tumblr under ‘Keep Reading’ But it is not formatted as well as the AO3 version.

Previous Chapter

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Main Pairing: Gilbert Beilschmidt & Matthew Williams (Prussia & Canada)

AU: College AU - Art Student Matthew and Media/Film Student Gilbert

Age Rating/Mature: Teen And Up Audiences (12+ due to mentions of mature themes as well as swearing)

Trigger Warnings: High gone bad. Unwanted touching (just mentions but slightly uncomfortable) Crowds & Depiction of a Panic Attack

In the past, the William-Jones family was a well-to-do, well adjusted and highly successful suburban family. Or at least economically and socially successful- if anyone asked Alfred he would quote their strength of prosperity came exceedingly cursed in terms of emotional wealth. In the most accurate and blunt possible turn of phrase: they were incompatible. Their french woman was an ‘aloof’ type more keen on decorating her doll and darling little boys, rather than acknowledging her arranged marriage to a work-obsessed brit. He could recall the loving pats he would get and Matthew and him sitting on a Saturday morning in a sunroom conservatory of their house in Surrey, England with their mother combing his ruthless cowlicks away; their father would be incessantly jabbering on the phone- something along the lines of investments and long term fail safes. They were 6 when they last saw that old house and it’s growing vines and English charm- his mother had decided to drag them to Canada, and despite the failed boutique business venture in Montreal, she had a trust fund large enough to keep them located there without work- obviously not enough to keep their father interested, Harry always was hard to please. He remembered the arguments that plagued the stairwell, the shouting they thought wasn’t audible through the twin’s bedroom walls.

Harry was quick to file divorce the moment he got a venture in the USA. Turns out it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been arranged married to a woman once her family no longer pulls strings. Alfred went with dad. At least he was still dad back then- Alfred feels remorse when he does hear the word ‘Father’ tumble out Matthew’s mouth as if he was being scolded again. He remembers Matthew staying with mama, her pretty nails and thin arms wrapping around his brother as they said goodbye.

Bad signal phone calls and some Summer camps were the only thing that kept the two siblings in contact, that and the occasional visit when dad couldn’t be arsed to deal with Al’s pestering. Prodigy of the academics, and exceeding in sports was the only way to get dad to put his phone down. He remembered Matthew on the phone complaining mama trying to bar him from hockey, or lamenting that mother didn’t see art as more than a hobby. So different huh? Matthew called a lot. Still close despite the distance. At least not till high school, if only Alfred had shut his mouth, if only he-

“Al? Ah? Has the..signal cut out or..?”Kiku’s voice wandered back into his head.

“I was asking if you’ve talked to your dad about-”

“No, I haven’t asked him about it. I haven’t even talked to Matthew about it. It’s getting late keeks- I should log-off, I’ve got an early lecture.."

----

Matthew's head felt subdued, despite the cackling cacophony of laughter that filled the room. His earlier attempts to get some water ended with him giggling with some random people- he could only really recognise the accent-tinged voice of Lukas, asking if he was alright. Of course, he was alright. He was here right? Everything was fine. Okay. good. Has this room always been this fuzzy? The kitchen counter seemed to stretch out forever in front of him and his mind wandered. God, he should not have smoked that much. He probably stank...everyone could probably smell him...oh fuck he’s a dumb idiot. Lukas must hate me.

“I don’t hate you Matthew- what are you going on about?” Shit could he read minds or was he talking, the Canadian’s inner voice seemed to be shouting but the pang only subsided with the tiniest sips of the overly clean tap water.

“Jeez. I thought I told Mathias to not go overboard tonight...look Matthew I need you to tell me how you feel right now.”

Floaty. He felt floaty- but also like he’s sinking, melting into the tile floor and he can’t get up, the shallow attempts at sobering up felt like they were weighted with 10 years of baggage. There are so many voices in this house- has it always been this cramped? Had Lukas’tiles always been that baby blue? Oh god, he’s a horrible friend, he’s gonna be left here so fucking floaty, and he’s just gonna float away and everyone-

“Matthew- Matthew your phone man, Hej! Matthew! For god's sake” suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and someone reaching into his pockets- despite the sudden discomfort and manhandling, Matthew was too tired to do much but whine at whoever was fishing out his phone. he hated people touching him. Not now.

“Hej? Thank god please tell me you’re calling to pick- …. Yes, Matthew is here isn’t that why you’re calling?. What? .. I- hm, I don’t think he can chat much...okay…” Lukas had moved the phone near to Matthew's ear, holding it with the other hand on his hip in annoyance but also a concern for his very paranoid and high friend.

“Mattie?” Oh, that silken voice that screamed of adventure and rock music, so nice- Gilbert was so nice.

“Gil? Hi hello, what's up eh?”

“Mattie? Where are you?-”

“Above! I’m above!”

“What? Mattie are you- are you drunk or something?” Matthew chose not to answer but instead snort and push his glasses up before humming to his friend on the phone and pushing the little glass rectangle towards Lukas.

“I can’t pick him up, wherever you are… is Tim with him?” This time Lukas answered stating that Tim was incapacitated on a couch somewhere.

“Right. Hm. I’ll go call Alfred and he’ll pick them-”

Suddenly Matthew’s heart rate jumped even higher, if he wasn’t already slightly over aware, now he was on overdrive. The phone had been on speaker and he heard mention of his brother. Alfred couldn’t know. If he knew it would be over. He can’t know. Never know. No. Nope definitely not.

“Uh I don’t think he wants Alfred man, He’s oh shit Matthew breath, please. Matthew- Matt, hold on…Someone call Tim now please!”

Matthew was mumbling. Mumbling and mumbling and god shit it was loud in here and people kept touching him and he just wanted people to stop touching him and fuck fuck fuck. He needed to be sober right now- this was not gonna end well. Breathing sucked. Everything sucked insanely right now. He saw Tim’s clunky shoes in front of him- since when was I crouching? He heard someone saw something and he could feel others watching and watching oh god people are watching, Tim? Hello Tim?

“Matthew. Give me a colour” brown. “Why brown?” Brown because that was the colour of Tim’s shoes right then..he could trace the floor around the brown shoes...browner than the oak trees near his old house.

“How about another colour?” Blue. but like light blue. The kind you swaddle a baby in. blues that seem to almost be too simple and light.

“That's nice, where did you see blue?”

“In the- uh- …” he felt like choking a little bit but the words were coming out. “The kitchen has..blue tiles.” Everything was coming back down to earth and Matthew was starting to feel a bit better- even if his chest hurt a little.

“How do you feel about red?” That was a dumb question. He answered. “I like red.” He loves red. Red is his hoodie. His hoodie which was being pushed into his arms right now as he stood up, and Tim’s face came into view, a slight worry masked with relief at his friend's recovery from the panic attack.

“I...I want to go home.” Matthew spoke as if a fog had cleared up, but he still felt slightly floaty as he was brought into a car with Tim by his side, and chaperoned home. He’ll think more about all of this later. He wanted to sleep.

-----

Gilbert didn’t like sleeping early on Saturday but then again not many people worked on Sundays. To be fair, Gilbert’s Sunday job was a temporary stand-in at the grocery shop for some lady who got pregnant. He just needed a bit more cash and was willing to spend a few weeks of bagging if it meant he could save up to see his uncle. He should probably sleep now so tomorrow he could get work done without feeling terrible, the diner dinner was already awkward enough.

He wondered what Matthew was doing. Matthew with his sweet smile, who seemed so different in front of his brother and especially with that guy Tim. Matthew who got headaches from too much sugar..who shared vanilla milkshakes. God Matthew was adorable. After scrolling through his social media (and perhaps doing some minor stalking of a certain boy’s Instagram) Gilbert was still not tired enough to call it a night. When did his Saturday nights become ‘wait til work’ days? He was getting a bit too bland he supposed. Ludwig was probably asleep. He should text Mattie- ask how he’s doing- perhaps that invite-only event ended already. Texting didn’t seem to do much. It wouldn’t be too rude to call right? Just to check on him.

“Hey, Birdie! I know you’re probably busy but-”

“Hej? Thank god please tell me you’re calling to pick-” someone else’s voice reverberated down the line, causing great confusion.

“Is uh, Is Matthew Williams there?” Gilbert could hear laughter and hollering in the background but all seemed unimportant except the fact that someone distinctly NOT Matthew picked up the phone.

“Yes, Matthew is here isn’t that why you’re calling?” The voice also sounded just as confused as himself, assuming that Gil knew where Matthew was.

“I don’t really know why I’m calling but now I’m worried, you are not him”

“What?”

“Just put him on the phone and let me talk to him.” Gilbert sighed as he heard the phone being passed, the fumbling noises making a ruckus on the phone.

“.. I- hm, I don’t think he can chat much...okay…” At least whoever this was trying.

With bated breath and a slight pause, the phone seemed to sound as if the jostling was over. “Mattie?” he called out hesitantly

“Gil? Hi hello, what's up eh?” The voice sounded more happy than surprised but much too calm.

“Mattie? Where are you?-”

“Above! I’m above!” what the fuck is he talking about? He sounds completely out of it. Gilbert’s protective instincts kicked in, worried that something had happened to the Canadian. Hopefully, Matthew was as tolerant as his brother and wouldn’t be having a killer hangover tomorrow- he needed Matthew slightly sober tomorrow to at least talk about his project.

“What? Mattie are you- are you drunk or something?” No response. Only a slight humming. Christ. The stranger must have been given the phone since they apologised for Matthew’s inability to cooperate- they asked if he could come to pick the boy up.

“I can’t pick him up, wherever you are… is Tim with him?” shit. Tim was drunk too? What kind of stupid idiots both get drunk if they knew they had to go home. Jeez if that dutch dude got drunk he can only imagine what god awful party Matthew had stuck himself into. He would attempt to get Matthew, but his motorbike and drunk people do not exactly mix well.

Thinking hard he stared at his dorm room door- Alfred! He could call his friend’s brother. “Right. Hm. I’ll go call Alfred and he’ll pick them-”

Suddenly he heard a wail and some noises of shouting- Matthew in the background, only briefly- “Uh I don’t think he wants Alfred man, He’s oh shit Matthew breath, please. Matthew- Matt, hold on…Someone call Tim now please!”

Gilbert could only hear a rustling and some more movement. With that, the phone seemed to hang up and he stared in complete panic at the phone.

A text.

M @ 12:47am : Hi. This is Matthew’s, Friend Lukas. Sorry for the hang-up, Matthew had a panic attack again. He is okay. They are being taken back to campus by Berwald, Tim will be dropped off back at his house too, nothing to worry about. You might want to help get Matthew to his room later though. Sorry for the trouble. Night.

Fucking hell. Gilbert slipped on some sweatpants, a jumper and some flip flops, already on his way out to meet up with this Berwald guy at the dorm entrance.

#prucan #HWS Canada #HWS Prussia #SoftSpokenCalling #prussia x canada #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #hetalia world stars #Hetalia Fanfiction #hetalia fandom #hetalia fanfic #fanficition #fanfic #APH Canada #APH Prussia #Multichapter

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fanforthefics · 6 years

Note

Sid/Geno #22 💋

a kiss … in a rush of adrenaline

Geno thinks about it for the first time after their first Cup win.

It’s the wrong place to think about it, maybe–they’re all high on everything, haven’t been sober in days, and Geno’s happier than maybe he’s ever been. This is what he came here to do, why he hid in that Finland bathroom, why he ran to a country without knowing the language or anything more than hockey–this. To hold the Cup.

And then he looks at Sid, incandescent with his happiness as Flower tilts beer from the Cup into his mouth, boyish and handsome and Sid licks some beer from his mouth, tongue pink, and–something shifts in Geno, something irrevocable. A knowledge that can’t be changed or moved, as he looks at Sid.

Oh, Geno thinks then, for the first but not the last time. What will it be like, to have Sid next to him, but only in some of the ways Geno wants?

It doesn’t matter then. It’s just a thing Geno thinks about, usually when Sid’s either being particularly annoying or particularly cute. When either he chafes, passed over again and again for Sid’s brighter flame, or when Sid does something that makes him ache for wanting, drawn in always to that flame.

It’s easier, in some guilty parts of Geno, during the concussion. When it’s–not Geno’s team, because the Penguins are Sid’s team to their bones, and Geno will fight tooth and nail to make sure that stays true, but Geno’s the one holding them in trust. Geno’s the one leading them for now, the one the camera’s on. The one people are talking about. It’s–Geno hadn’t thought he wanted that, not really. But it makes him think.

And–and Sid’s not there all the time, on the ice and in the locker room and on the bus, yakking on and smiling so fondly and dragging Geno into watching game tape and listening to every single call up who sets foot in the lockerr room, to every fan, and just being so Sidney that Geno’s fists sometimes clench to keep from just–being reckless. Geno still goes to see SId, of course, but it’s not all the time. Not the constant reminder of what he can’t have.

And then–then Geno gets back from Russia, where he learned what it meant to be Captain, to have a team that was his, and Sid’s there, in the locker room Geno’s first day back, and he yanks Geno into a hug, and Geno can feel his smile on his neck. Geno leans into Sid’s embrace, holding him tight so he can have this much, and he thinks it again, for real.

So that summer, when his agent comes to him, asking about the contract extension–Geno thinks about what it felt like, to have his own team. Thinks about standing on his own. Thinks about eight years in a locker room with a man he’s in love with and can’t have. Thinks about what might happen, if that love turns to resentment.

And he says no.

Sid doesn’t talk to him for two months, once the Pens trade him.

Geno’s not surprised, exactly. Geno hadn’t told him for exactly this reason–because he’d wanted as long as he could have with Sid unsullied, Sid’s offseason texts about everything from the fish he’d caught to pictures of his dog to thoughts about the penalty kill. Sid’s ridiculously awkward selfies, and the way he sucked at emoji responses to Geno’s pictures. But Geno does not have any illusions about Sidney Crosby. He knew what to expect.

Still, Geno had expected a few weeks, maybe. Everyone knows Sid sulks. Geno’s been sulked at, more than once. Oh, Sid says all the right things to the media– “For sure, I’m sad to see Geno go, but he’s going to make a huge splash in Dallas. I can’t wait to see what he does–as long as it’s not beat us,” and shit like that. But the chatty texts cut off on a dime a few days before Geno heard about the trade, and Geno knows what that meant.

He gives Sid a few weeks, but then he starts to get annoyed. What, did Sid expect him to stay in his shadow for the rest of his career? To always be in second place? Sid wasn’t usually selfish, but that was.

But he texts Sid a few times, angrily, and gets nothing back; and then he goes to Dallas.

It’s–he’s been to Dallas before, he’s played there, but it’s still different. There’s so much more space here, and it’s warm, and there’s none of the steel that seems to run through Pittsburgh’s bones. Instead there’s oil and cows and it all feels newer, somehow.

The guys are good, though–training camp is what it is, as usual, and if none of them are the Pens–none of them are Sid–it’s still good. They’re a good group, and clearly ready to make something of themselves. And Gonch is there, which, as always, makes it easier. Still, it’s…weird. Different locker room, different traditions. The way some of the guys look at him, like he knows the answers–he’s used to being a vet on the team now, to wearing a letter, but it’s different, here. Where’s he’s expected to change things.

“You’ll get us there,” Benn–Jamie, not Jordie tells him, a little drunk and big-eyed. Geno had been worried about him; rumor was he was going to be captain before Geno came, but he’s been nothing but solid. A good kid, Geno thinks, though he isn’t that much older, solid and dependable and the sort to care more about his team than scoring–the kind of person, Geno thinks despite himself, who Sid would like.

He stops thinking that. He’s been trying not to think about Sid as much. It hasn’t worked–he still looks to him on the power play, still looks at his phone and wonders how the Pens camp is doing, who’s wearing the A in his stead, if Sid is spending long evenings with whoever that is–but he’s trying. He came to Dallas for a fresh start. He’s going to get it.

“Right, Geno?” Jamie asks, and Geno blinks.

“Hm?”

“The playoffs,” Jamie tells him, eyes big and bright and yearning. “Right? This year’s our year.”

“Yes, our year,” Geno agrees, though he’s maybe not sure, and toasts Jamie.

They play the Pens early in the season. Geno doesn’t have time to nod to some of the guys before they get on the ice, but then–then he’s across a faceoff dot from Sid, and in some ways it’s like practice almost every day for years, the two of them. And in some ways–Sid would always be smiling then. Now he’s set, his game face on, the one that means nothing’s going to throw him out.

“Guess we finally see who better,” Geno throws at him, right before the puck drops–just to break him. To see him feel something, god.

It’s a miscalculation. Geno knows it the moment he sees Sid set his jaw at that, the way it lights a fire in his eyes. Sid wins the faceoff, and then he’s down the ice.

Dallas loses. No one’s surprised, really–the Stars are still rebuilding, and the bones are there, but they aren’t quite there yet. Sid’s on fire the way he always is after someone challenged him, but Geno gets a goal and an assist too, sneaking it around Flower in a way that gets him sworn at in French. In the end it’s not that weird–Geno’s played long enough that he’s played against people he considers friends. A whole team of them is a little different, but. It is what it is.

They get off the ice clearly bummed but not distraught, and head to the locker room, where Geno has infinite media about what it feels like to play against his old team, against Sid. “Is always fun to play Sid,” Geno tells them. “He win this time, but maybe not next.” He doesn’t think it’s fitting, here and now, to say what he’s always said–that Sid’s the best player in the world, and there’s nothing Geno’s loved more than keeping up.

“Yeah, sure,” Demers puts in, when the media’s done. “You say it’s fun. Tell me that when you can check him.”

“What that mean?” Geno asks, raising an eyebrow.

Demers looks at Jamie, who shrugs. “Um, you just. Don’t check him very hard,” he says. Geno’s been getting shit about this for years, he knows how the handle it–it’s not like, maybe, in his heart of hearts, it might not be true.

Anyway, “Think I have enough checking,” he says, because he was definitely not imagining how hard Tanger was gunning for him. He’s more than a little pissed about that, actually; they’re supposed to be friends.

He gets changed quickly, then goes to the visitor’s locker room, to say hi to the people who are still his friends.

What he’s not expecting, when he opens the door, is to be met with a glaring Sidney surrounded by a cadre of French Canadians–one smiling (Flower), one glaring (Tanger) and one looking vaguely exasperated (Duper). “Yes, hi Geno, good game,” Flower says in a rush. “Now, take him. Fix him.” He shoves Sid out of the door.

Sid must not have been expecting it, because he stumbles, and Flower’s slammed the door shut before he can catch it.

“Asshole!” Sid mutters. Geno raises his eyebrows.

“Is so bad, talk to me?” he asks.

Sid lifts his head, and–god, it’s still…He’s still so Sid, even with his media face on, all eyes and lips and cheekbones and a ridiculous sort of beard. “You want to talk?” he asks, coolly.

They aren’t going to do this here. “Come,” Geno says, and ushers them to a nearby office. Sid goes like a cat might–making it clear he’s only going because it’s his idea. Then Geno closes the door and leans against it.

Sid stands in the middle of the room, his media face still on. Geno thinks he’s going to have to talk first–Geno tends to be more impatient than Sid, and he has plenty to say–but then Sid tilts his chin up just a little.

“If you weren’t happy with the way the team was going, you could have talked to me,” he starts, stiff, formal. “Or to Kuni. I know we haven’t won in a few years, but–”

“Not about winning,” Geno snaps at him. Does Sid think so little of him? And if he really cared this much about winning, would he really have gone to Dallas?

Sid swallows. “Well. If you were having problems with anyone on the team–”

“Sid, you know I’m not.”

“Then if you were dissatisfied with my leadership, we could have discussed–”

“Of course not!” Geno interrupts. God, he wants to just–shake Sid. For being so Sid.

“Or with your minutes, we could have–”

“Not about how long I play–”

“Then what the fuck?” Sid snaps back, his cheeks flushed, and Geno can breathe again. This is Sid, his Sid–not the media version, the Sid who was easygoing until he wasn’t and who would fight with Geno for hours about stupid shit and who, Geno was beginning to realize, he would never not love. “If it wasn’t any of that, why did you want to leave?”

“You really think I’m want to play behind you forever?” Geno demands, incredulous. Does Sid not get it? “Always be–Sidney Crosby, and also Evgeni Malkin. All fame on you.”

“That’s all–media bullshit!” Sid retorts. “You’re the best player out there and you know it, why does it matter what they say?”

“Easy for you to say!” Geno yells, and pushes away the part of him that always thrills to have Sid praise him like that, like it’s obvious. “Maybe I’m want someone, sometime, to say, oh yes, Geno Malkin, he great too!”

“You never cared before!” Sid’s hands are clenched into fists. “You–you always said you didn’t care about that, you just wanted to play, for us to play together.” He takes a breath, and Geno can see it, beneath the anger–the hurt. The confusion. Fuck, he hates that. Wants, instinctively, to do whatever he has to to fix it. “Was that a lie?” Sid asks, half accusing, half–something else. “Were you always going to leave m–us?”

“Not a lie! I’m think I stay, but my contract up, and–” What’s Geno supposed to say? But I realized I couldn’t stay forever and be in love with you and watch you never know? “And I’m think things over, and decide,” he finishes.

“You could have talked to me about it,” Sid informs him snippily, but he’s winding down. Sid can keep a grudge forever, but he doesn’t seem to want to keep this one. “I–Mario told me, and I told him he was lying, because you’d have told me if you were thinking about going somewhere else.”

Geno winces. “I’m…I can’t say, not to you.”

“Why not?” Sid asks, honestly confused, and Geno–it’s another thing Geno can’t say, that Sid would have talked him into staying, because Sid could probably talk him into anything short of throwing a game if he smiled at him, if he asked. “I thought–I mean, weren’t we–aren’t we–friends?”

“Yes, of course,” Geno says, too fast. They’re friends before anything. “Yes, but. Have to make choice on my own.”

“But why?” Sid demands again, because he’s like a dog with a bone, and then there’s a knock on the door and it pulls open to reveal Tanger and Kuni there, looking, if Geno knows them right, like Tanger was going to burst in and Kuni was holding him back a little.

“Bus is leaving, Sid,” Kuni says. Tanger’s mostly growling at Geno. “You ready?”

“Yeah, for sure. I’ll just–” Sid waves a hand, like that means anything. “It was–good seeing you, Geno.” He pauses, then something like a smile cracks over his face, bright and like a knife into Geno’s heart. “Better beating you.”

“Not next time!” Geno throws back, as Sid leaves. Kuni nods to Geno and heads out, but Geno grabs Tanger’s arm before he can go.

“What wrong with you?” He demands. “You mad I’m trade too?”

Tanger throws off Geno’s arm with the sort of look in his eyes he gets before a fight on the ice. “I get not wanting to be in Sid’s shadow,” he shoots back, his accent thick enough that it takes all of Geno’s concentration to understand the English. “But you didn’t have to be cruel about it. Not to Sid.”

“What? I’m not–”

Tanger shoves him out of his way–hard enough that Geno might have pushed back, if he’d been expecting it. “He’d just gotten back, and now he’s been fucking miserable and it’s your fault,” he snaps, and then he’s stalking out of the room before Geno can follow him, if Geno even had an idea of what to say.

They don’t talk again for two weeks, and even then, it’s because Geno’s been complaining to Gonch about the lingering weirdness in the room–he knows what it feels like when a team is 100% behind their captain, and it’s not Dallas, not right now. He just can’t get it there–there’s no real problem in the room, it’s not that, it’s just not what he knows it can be. What it should be.

“I’ve worn a letter for years,” he tells Gonch on a groan. “I should know how to do this.”

Gonch just raises his eyebrows at him. “You wore an A,” he says. “It’s different.”

“Are you saying I don’t know how to lead?” Geno demands. He knows how to fucking lead, that’s not the problem.

“I’m saying,” Gonch says, in the tone that means his patience is wearing thin, “That you’ve always had Sid’s authority as a crutch, and you’ve never had to do it on your own. And that I’m not the person I should be asking about this.”

Geno glares, but–he has a point. And, guiltily, maybe Geno’s been waiting for this–for a good reason to talk to Sid. To hear his voice again.

So he calls, that night, when he knows Sid will be eating dinner. “Hello?” Sid answers, sounding wary.

“Hi, Sid.” he says. “Good time?”

“Yeah.” He hears movement, like Sid’s getting up. “How are things?”

Geno is not equipped to do small talk in English over the phone. “Sid,” He whines, and Sid snorts. Geno grins to himself, smug.

“You called me,” Sid points out. More noise–is he sitting down? Geno can picture him, sitting in his living room, probably in his old sweats and one of his t-shirts that are far too small on him now in ways that made it hard for Geno to look at him, sometimes. “What’s up?”

Sid’s being aggressively normal, so Geno is too. “I’m…want advice,” he admits. He can almost hear Sid’s smugness down the line. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you think, very loud.”

“What do you need advice on?” Sid asks, instead of replying to that. “If it’s your defense, I can’t–”

Geno doesn’t like asking for help, but it’s Sid. If there’s anyone other than his mom he can ask…He takes a breath. “I’m–how you make sure you win room?” he asks. “I’m…it’s not there. Don’t know how to get it, to where we–where Pens are. With you.”

“You’ll get there. it’s only been a few months.”

Geno rolls his eyes at the floor. “Is not the same. You know–everyone on Pens ready to kill for you, if you say.”

“That’s not–”

“We all ready,” Geno interrupts him. He doesn’t want to deal with Sid’s humility, not right now. “How you get there?”

Sid sucks in a breath, then pauses for long enough that Geno prompts him, “Sid?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m thinking.” There’s a weird note to his voice. “Some of it really is time. It wasn’t like this, in the beginning.”

“Sid.”

Sid chuckles, probably at Geno’s tone. “Yeah, fine. So I think what works best is to make sure you make it personal with everyone–they need to know you, trust you even if they don’t like you–”

Once he gets started, of course, Geno’s stuck there forever, because Sid on a role can’t be stopped. but it’s–maybe this was a bad idea, because Geno had known Sid was a good leader but he hadn’t really conceived of how much thought Sid put into it, and it’s just a lot, and it’s not helping Geno’s plan of moving on.

It also–and this part is a little annoying, in a general ‘Sid shouldn’t be good at everything’ sort of way–works. Geno can sense it, can see the room coming together. Can see the thing they could build.

And it breaks the seal, too. Sid starts texting him again, little things that Geno encourages by sending pictures back. It’s not helping him move on, but it’s not like he could ever not want to have Sid in his life, not really. And he thinks he could survive like this, with his team and Sid on his phone, far enough away that the yearning isn’t omnipresent.

Then–there’s Sochi.

The less said about Sochi, the better.

Jamie comes back covered in glory, grinning and showing his medal around. Geno comes back glowering, and unable to put a fucking puck in the net.

Geno’s storming around his house one day after practice, unable to sit still and unable to work out either. What’s the point? He’s just–he couldn’t win for Russia, couldn’t do his job, how is he supposed to here?

The doorbell rings. He strongly considers just letting it ring–who could be here? Who could want to see him? –but then it rings again, and he goes to the door, to yell at whoever’s there if nothing else.

He’s not expecting Sid. But Sid is what he gets, standing on his doorstep in a baseball cap, looking like he’d just wandered over for a beer like he’d do in Pittsburgh. “Sid?” Geno asks, his throat dry.

“Hey, can I come in?”

Geno steps aside. Sid comes in, looking around the house curiously as Geno leads the way to the living room.

“You still have those? I thought you’d ditch them,” he says, nodding to his statues.

“Why I get rid?” Geno asks, sitting down on the couch. “Are best statues.”

“They’re awful.”

“You awful,” Geno retorts, then. “Sid, what are you doing here?”

Sid just looks at him, long and hard. He’s taken a seat on the couch next to Geno, and he’s so–solid and handsome and Geno remembers seeing him with the gold medal in his hand, alight like he was the sun. “We’re playing tomorrow,” he says, slowly. Like Geno should have remembered. Which maybe he should have, but what would it matter. He wasn’t going to be of use anyway. “Jamie asked me to come by.” Geno snorts. “He’s worried,” Sid adds.

“Why? He finally get team, like he want first.”

“Geno,” Sid tells him, scolding. Geno scowls. maybe it’s unfair, but he thinks he gets to be. “He’s worried. So is Gonch. So am I.”

“Why? I play like shit, you win.”

“I don’t want to win if you’re like this,” Sid retorts. “I want to beat you at your best.” Geno almost smiles, despite himself.

But then– “I fuck up, Sid,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. “In Sochi. It—”

“Yeah, you didn’t win,” Sid agrees, matter of fact. “You didn’t win a lot of times. What’s different about this time?”

“I don’t know!” Geno’s getting louder, he can’t help it. Does Sid think he’s doing this on purpose? “I just–it not working. We losing again, and I’m not help, and–”

“You wanted a team,” Sid interrupts. He’s leaning over, elbows braced on his knees; he’s looking at Geno like what he’s saying is obvious, like Geno should know it. Should be able to do it. Can do it. “This is what it means to be captain. It doesn’t matter how you’re feeling. You’re a leader.” His chin lifts up, and Geno thinks of–of Sid at the worst of the concussion, when he’d drag himself to the rink to watch. When he clearly wanted to play more than anything, and still fist bumped everyone on their way out. Every time they lost and Sid stood in front of the media, the team, Geno, and told them what they had to hear, before he went home and dealt with it himself. “So lead.”

They win. A part of Geno feels a little bad about it, because Sid helped more than a little, but more of him is just–he got a goal, and more than that, he played well. It was good.

He’s still riding on that when he goes to the guest locker room. Tanger glares at him less this time, when he comes in; or only the grumpy post-loss glare. Geno takes it as a good sign.

Sid’s still getting changed, buttoning up his shirt as he talks to Duper, and he’s got his face on like he’s talking over the game and Geno thinks of how he’d lookeed over the faceoff dot today when Geno had won the faceoff, and how he looks now, and how he looked last night telling Geno exactly what he needed to hear, and he won, finally, again, and–

“I’m steal,” he announces to Duper, and tugs Sid away.

“Fuck off, what?” Sid demands, clearly pissy from the loss. “G, I–”

Geno opens the nearest door he can find, herds Sid in, closes the door, and kisses him.

It clearly takes Sid entirely by surprise. It takes Geno a little by surprise, the recklessness joy of it. Sid goes still beneath Geno, and Geno probably should be worried but he can’t be, right now. Instead, he pulls back, beaming. He won, and now he knows what Sid’s lips felt like, and Sid hasn’t punched him. He’s doing well.

“What?” Sid asks. His hand come up to touch his lips.

“I’m win,” Geno tells him, feeling smug.

“Yeah, I know.” Sid’s cute when he’s sulky, Geno’s always thought. “But, G–what was that?”

Geno is happy, and he’s been holding this in so long, and–Sid’s looking at him with his big eyes and touching his lips and looks confused, not mad. “I’m not tell you about contract because you talk me out of it,” he says. “I’m know that if you ask me to stay, I stay, and I can’t stay, not with how much I want you.”

“G–”

“Because I’m want you, so much, for so long, and I know if I stay, I say something, or I start to–or it turns bad, because I’m jealous, or because I’m think I only stay for you, and so I’m go, and–”

“G–”

“And I’m happy here,” Geno keeps going. He should have known he wasn’t going to stop once he started. “But, if I’m think I move to get over you, it not working, and you–”

“Geno,” Sid interrupts, just enough of the captain in his voice that, instinctively, Geno shuts up. Sid blinks at him again, still tracing his lips with his fingers. Lips Geno has kissed. Geno has to resist the urge to touch his own lips, to remember. “I didn’t–I didn’t know. I didn’t think.”

“I know.” Geno does. “I–”

“Shut up,” Sid cuts him off again. “I didn’t think, but–I never thought I was going to play without you. And then you weren’t there, and I had to learn…” He shakes his head, but there’s a light in his eyes Geno knows. That’s Sid making a play, that’s Sid before he does something insane and wonderful and scores. “Maybe I couldn’t have let myself think about that,” Sid goes on, thoughtful, “Not when–I was your captain, it wouldn’t have been okay.”

Like Sid would have ever tried to pull rank on him. But Geno has spent years knowing Sid’s play, and going with it, and now is not the time to scoff at that. “You not my captain now,” he points out.

“No,” Sid agrees, and he still doesn’t look happy to say it, but he doesn’t just look sulky either, as he takes a step forward. Closer to Geno. “I’m not.”

Geno looks at him, smiling up at Geno, and it’s–it’s like that first time, that Cup win sparkling through their veins. That first time he fell in love with Sid.

It’s probably stupid. They live halfway across a country from each other; their schedules will never match up; they’re going to have to play against each other. But–maybe Geno doesn’t need Sid. But he wants him. And they might not be on the same team anymore, but together they’ll always be unstoppable.

“Going to kiss you again,” Geno warns, and Sid rolls his eyes, and kisses him first.

#pens fic #my fic #like a month later!#and not entirely to the prompt #sorry life ate me #but i was thinking about the white shirt interview #and needed to go the alternate route #also i am coming off of a very busy week so i have no idea if this makes sense #but enjoy!#Anonymous #pens tumblr fic

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insideabunker · 6 years

Text

The Games: Chapter 4

Despite Clarke's two prior trips to the winter games, the opening ceremony had lost none of its magic for her. The significance of it all still gave her first day of school butterflies, making her feel six years old again, awestruck and overwhelmed as she drifted through a sea of unfamiliar faces. Red, white and blue-clad bodies shuffled past her, as the sprawling cluster of American athletes followed the Mongolian delegation through the tunnel leading onto the parade grounds of PyeongChang Olympic Stadium. A colorful delegation of Bermudians trailed close behind them as they made their way into the open air of the parade grounds.

From its epicenter, the spectacle radiated with an intoxicating spirit that consumed the senses, filling Clarke with a nervous energy that eclipsed even the nastiness of the chilling wind that had picked up an hour earlier. Exiting the darkened tunnel, she made her way into the multicolored splendor of the stadium; her thoughts immediately drowned out by the deafening roar of 35,000 cheering spectators.

It took a moment for her to process fully. It seemed unbelievable that thousands of people had been willing to brave the sub-zero temperatures just to catch a glimpse of their Olympic champions, but as the enormity of that fact sank in, Clarke felt overwhelmed with a responsibility to them. She forced herself to stare up into the stands, her face straining against the icy sting of the air as she smiled and waved towards the masses of fans.

"It feels like my eyeballs are going to explode," Raven growled through her forced smile. "It's fricking cold!"

"Just keep smiling." Clarke grinned at her assistant captain, her voice just as strained, as she flashed two rows of perfectly straight, snow white teeth. "Millions of people are watching, Rae. Don't spoil it for them."

"You can't be serious?"

"This has got to be a joke."

A chorus of complaints had erupted the second the Canadian athletes had learned their number in the ceremony's progression.

"We're sixty-ninth?"

"Oh g-d, as if these uniforms didn't make us look ridiculous enough." Echo looked dour as she fiddled with her long red parka and knitted cap.

"I don't know," Lexa shrugged, forcing small talk to make nice with her captain. "I mean the jackets aren't great, but some of the other stuff they gave us is ok." She waited for Echo to respond but was met with steely silence. "I mean, I like the flannels."

"Of course you do."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Lexa tensed, wondering if she should be offended, and readying herself for an argument.

Echo only rolled her eyes, looking bothered. "I didn't mean it that way," she spat. "I was referring to the fact that someone from the NWO would love that our uniform issue includes a Kenora Dinner Jacket." She turned to Lexa, exasperated with the tall girl behind her. "Obviously. I play women's ice hockey, Woods. You think I'm not used to teammates who enjoy the company of curvy, Swedish blondes with long legs?"

Echo shot her a knowing glance, noting the nervous, slightly guilty look on Lexa's face.

"How do you know about that?"

"You're not exactly discrete. I saw you coming out of that Swede snowboarder's room this morning, half dressed."

Lexa swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing a subtle rosy color. "Coach Freeman... You aren't going to?"

"Rat you out to her and get you kicked off the team?" Echo dipped her head, cocking one eyebrow. "No, not for that. I may not like you, but you're hardly the first player on this team to dip their toes into international waters. Besides, I have my own foreign diplomacy to conduct." Echo shot a glance towards the crowd behind them, piquing Lexa's curiosity.

"What sport's she in, eh?"

Echo rolled her eyes. "Woods, I'm not even a little bi-curious." She stared far back in the procession. "I've got my eyes on that scruffy, freestyle skier from France."

Lexa screwed up her face. "Ugh... Typical Queeb, going for some priggish French ponce."

Echo shoved the girl behind her with an elbow. "Toton."

"Beaver-beater."

"Lumberjack."

"Maudit sans-dessein." Lexa fumbled through the only French Canadian swear she remembered from grammar school.

"It's pronounced dé-sa," Echo growled, drawing out the final A. G-d, your French is shit, Woods."

"I'm from northern Ontario!"

"T'es pas une lumiere! Believe me, it's apparent."

In spite of their bickering, Lexa realized that the argument was probably the longest conversation they'd managed since she'd joined the team. "Well, that's something," she thought to herself, thankful that they hadn't come to blows again.

Consumed as she was by their banter, Lexa lost her situational awareness, snapping out of it only when the world around her erupted into flashing lights and noise. They'd finally reached the inside of the stadium. The freezing night air hit her in the face, and her breath caught. Lexa's eyes strained against the bright lights and icy wind as she stared up at row after row of waving fans, and did her best to wave back.

The wind picked up again, making Lexa's eyes sting and tear. The goalie shielded her brow from the cold, wiping them with the back of a gloved hand and doing her best not to smear the makeup, applied for the sake of the cameras. She checked the back of her mitten for smudges of mascara and, happy to find none, peered into the crowd in front of her. For a split second, the column of bodies parted just enough for a small figure became visible up ahead. Lexa caught a brief glimpse of golden hair and azure eyes before the crowd swelled again, and the American captain disappeared amidst a sea of taller, more substantial bodies.

"I think I saw the Team USA captain up ahead." She turned to Echo, hoping to coax a little more conversation out of her.

"What, Clarke Griffin? I would doubt it unless she's being carried on somebody's shoulders."

Lexa smirked. "Yeah, she was pretty tiny in person."

"You've met?"

"Just the other night, in passing. She seemed..."

"Like an irritating homunculus?" Echo continued to scan the crowd for her Frenchman. "That girl had been a pain in my ass for years." She stared at Lexa for a moment, her expression concerned. "You didn't notice if she was limping, did you?

"I don't think so." The question seemed odd, but Lexa thought it over, none the less. "I mean not that I could tell at least. Why?"

Echo turned back towards the procession, her expression unreadable. "We were playing an exposition game about a year and a half ago. Griffin had been a menace all night, picking up the puck before I could get to it at the point and forcing it back into our zone. She's small, but she lighting fast." She paused. "Well, she was. Anyway..."

Something about the story made Lexa feel immediately uneasy.

"Third period, I finally caught her heading up the boards on a breakout. I was going to try and pick her off, but she veered towards center ice at the last second. My leg was out, and I ended up catching her at the knee."

"You went knee to knee?"

"I told you, she veered at the last second. I was trying to play the body the best I could." Echo bit her lip. "I might have let my leg drift out a bit far to try and knock her stick off the puck..."

She glanced at Lexa for a moment, her expression barely hiding the guilty conscience of someone who knew their actions had been less than defensible.

"But, I didn't intentionally cheap shot her." She grimaced. "Anyway, I felt her leg bend back in the wrong direction, and she flipped, ass over teakettle across my thigh. The second she hit the ice I could tell it was bad. I've never heard someone scream that hard."

Lexa's stomach sank just thinking about it. In hockey, a knee to knee collision often resulted in injuries of the most devastating kind. That exact scenario had ended many a career before its time, and it made the goalie cringe thinking about the tiny blonde girl writhing in pain on the ice.

"MCL sprain?"

Echo shook her head. "ACL. Grade three at that, a complete tear."

"Holy hell."

"Yeah, honestly I'm surprised to see her back on skates at all."

"So, that's why she looked so sluggish in the game footage we watched."

Echo nodded. "To be sure. I genuinely thought she'd retire after that. I mean, she'd been playing for the national team since she was seventeen, so she was already getting up there."

They rounded the corner and slowed to an abrupt halt, nearly crashing into the Kenyan athletes ahead of them.

"That footage was from just after she was cleared to start training again. I hear she's gotten some of her speed back since then, but if you ask me, she shouldn't even be playing."

Lexa's jaw tensed at the utterance, a conviction that her Québécoise teammate seemed to hold frequently. "You seem to think that of a lot of people."

Echo sighed. "I mean because of the risk of re-injury. Not everything is about you, Woods."

With that, Echo pushed forward, disappearing amongst the shuffling mass of red and black jackets.

The ceremony had ended in a spectacle of blaring music and bursting fireworks, that latter of which still rang in Clarke's ears as her feet pounded against the whirring belt of the treadmill. Hours after the lights had dimmed in Olympic stadium she was still wide awake, to filled with excitement, and too unaccustomed to the fifteen-hour time difference to sleep. In her restlessness, Clarke turned to the one standby that faithfully calmed her down when pressure and anticipation turned her into a live wire of nervous energy.

She leaned forward into a sprint, increasing the incline on the Cybex another three degrees and watching as her numbers climbed. Time: 48:36:23, Speed: 9, Incline: 10, Heart Rate: 184. Perspiration poured from her brow, matting stray bits of flyaway hair to her forehead. Clarke's burned, her legs ached, and her heart pounded in her chest as she continued to increase the incline. Up, up, up until her hands flew to the bars to keep herself from flying backward off the machine. Just as she felt her body about give out, she punched the large red button in the center of the display, cutting the power and hopping off in a flash, careful to land with her weight on her good knee.

Fighting the urge to double over and gasp for air, she threw her hands behind her head, lacing the fingers together and forcing herself to continue taking deep, measured breaths as she paced around the room. Clarke closed her eyes and waited for her heart rate to slow, relishing the way her muscles ached and trembled with exhaustion. She wiped the sweat from her temples with the back of her hands realizing how utterly drenched she was.

After a week of buildup to the opening ceremony, fifty minutes of alone time had provided her with some much need respite from the hum of the crowds, the strings of interviews, and the exhaustion of the reassuring pep talks her more novice teammates had needed on a near constant basis. Save for an unseen weightlifter banging heavy metal plates around in another corner of the complex; the nearly empty gym had provided the forward with a silent sanctuary from the turmoil of her otherwise overwhelming week. For Clarke, there was nothing like a long, grueling run to clear her mind and ease her tension, and after an hour of beating herself down, she was finally feeling relaxed and ready to sleep.

Not before a shower though, Clarke thought as the smell of her sweat drenching clothing suddenly filled her nostrils. She peeled off her soaked Under Armour shirt and shivered as the chill of drafty gym air hit her flushed skin, giving her goosebumps. Back inside the women's locker room, she made quick work of discarding her soggy PT gear in her sports duffle, sliding her feet into flip-flops as she wrapped herself in a towel and headed for the open shower bay.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into the empty shower bay, covered from top to bottom in polished white tiles. Despite a career of dressing and undressing in front of teammates, Clarke had never been entirely comfortable with public nudity, though it wasn't the sight of others naked that unsettled her so much as it was her insecurities about her own body. A lifetime of struggling with her weight, first baby fat and then added curves, had made her shy to the point of timidity. Unlike Raven, who was a walking human hanger and had posed naked for ESPN The Magazine's body issue, Clarke grappled with body confidence. She struggled to dress for the formal events the team attended, balking at the idea of being stuffed into a dress that accentuated her cleavage and hips. Unfailingly, the captain elected for more conservative numbers, downplaying her appearance as much as possible in the hopes that she could fly under the radar and not tempt the press into present her in an overly sexualized light. The tactic had worked for the most part, though comments about her looks did surface, every now and again, internet trolls be damned.

Clarke turned on one of the shower heads lining the wall and let it run until the water turned warm. She discarded her towel on a nearby hook, stepped into the stream and closing her eyes as the warm liquid poured over her aching muscles. The blonde let it pound against her skin, relaxing her even further until finally, her exhaustion caught up with her. She yawned, running a hand through her matted mane as she pulled out the elastic that had pinned it haphazardly to the top of her head. She let it cascade over her face and filled her hand with shampoo, massaging it into her scalp.

The sound of another shower head bursting to life nearby startled Clarke out of her euphoria. She pushed her soapy hair out of her face, freezing the second she saw who occupied the spot two places down. Lexa Woods stood less than ten feet from her, eyes closed, face turned up into the steady stream of water cascading over her body. Clarke's eyes were fixed, unable to look away for the physical specimen beside of her. Even in a parka and jeans Lexa cut an imposing figure, but bare to the world, the goalie was physically alarming.

She was tall to be sure, 5'11 if she was an inch, but what was more startling was the sheer amount of muscle that hung on her frame. Every inch of her was ropey sinewed flesh that, somewhat surprisingly, held a subtle softness to it. Clarke watched as beads of liquid slide down Lexa's olive-skin, slipping over her curves and pooling at every angle on her frame. The water clung to the tawny girl like it was heartbroken at the thought of having to drip off of her.

Clarke ignored the way her pulse quickened, and her breathing slowed, too captivated by the way the impressive musculature moved, stirring underneath a visage adorned with intricate tattoos that shifted as though they were alive. A combination of body writing and black and red abstracts covered half her back, running over her shoulder and snaking down the full length of her left arm. The outside of her right thigh was similarly ornamented. The edges of the artwork wound up her hip and caressed her waist before ending just above her perfectly toned backside, which Clarke realize she was gawking at a moment too late.

"What the fuck?!"

Clarke jumped, so alarmed by the green eyes staring her down that she couldn't reply.

"Were you just staring at my ass?"

"What? No! I mean, yes but..."

"Yes, or no?"

"I was staring at your tattoos."

"The one right over my ass?"

"I wasn't staring at your ass!"

Lexa turned to face the smaller woman, her figure even more flawless from the front. Small but firm breasts sat high on her chest, perfect and round, and the lines on her tight stomach were sculpted into a frustratingly well-defined six-pack.

"You get a good look?"

"I wasn't staring." Clarke felt herself blushing as she turned back into the jet of water pouring over her, and rushed to work the remaining shampoo out of her hair.

Lexa leaned into the tiles, propping herself up on a tattooed forearm. She pushed the brown hair out of her eyes and slicked water from her face.

"You're full of crap, Griffin. Admit it; you were staring at me."

"I wasn't staring!" Clarke venture a quick glance at the goalie, too embarrassed to look for more than a moment. "I wouldn't ogle someone in a public shower. That kind of behavior is abdominal."

Lexa smirked at the Freudian slip, cocking an eyebrow smugly.

"Abominable. Shit!" Clarke screwed her eyes shut, sure that her face was now bright red. "Besides why would I be staring at you."

"For the same reasons lots of girls do," Lexa wiggled her eyebrows, turning back to the water as she lathered herself with soap. "You think you're the first person to stare at me in a shower?"

Clarke growled as she rinsed the last of the soap from her face. "G-d, you're so completely egotistical!" She shut off the water, wrapping herself in her towel as she retreated from the shower bay.

Lexa rinsed off quickly, grabbing her towel as she followed Clarke toward the lockers.

"And you're a hypocrite! You tear into me with some big feminist speech when I try to pay you a compliment, but when I catch you creeping on me, you act all innocent. What garbage!"

"I wasn't staring at you!"

In the middle of the argument, Clarke became aware of how exposed they still were. Her towel clung to her precariously, barely covering her unmentionables, while Lexa's dangled from her hand, unused. She realized she was staring at Lexa's abs again and clenched her teeth, sure that that fact hadn't escaped the brunette's attention.

"Would you put on some clothes, please."

Lexa leaned forward, grinning conceitedly. "You sure that's what you want?"

She cleared her throat, forcing herself to look the girl hovering over her in the eyes. "I'm not interested, Woods."

“In anything other than my ass, you mean?

"I was... I'm not... Your Tat... Ugh!" Clarke grabbed her sports duffle, clinging to the last shred of her dignity as she forwent undergarments and scrambled to pull on her team sweats as quickly as humanly possible. She yanked her socks halfway up, making a slapdash effort to shove her feet into her Adidas.

"I'm not having this argument with you, Woods! I have bed checks to do."

"Sounds good. Mine is in room 704B."

Lexa heard the exasperated groan all the way down the hall as Clarke stomped out of the room, failing to notice that her sneakers were on the wrong feet.

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