Chapter Text
Somehow, without any conversation, the four of us become a group. Naturally migrating towards one another as if drawn by some invisible force. The force of Andre’s will, I guess. Because apparently the universe just does whatever he wants.
“What?” he laughs, when I say that to him, both of us on our backs in bed, every inch of my body sore after a second day of tryouts. “I’m pretty sure this was your idea.”
“My idea?” indignant. “How the fuck was this my idea? You’re the one who was all our guys and we’re a team, like some kind of lame hockey Yoda.”
He laughs again, which is infuriating. "Oh come on, you wouldn’t stop talking about them.”
“I was assessing the competition!”
He turns his head towards me. “The competition? Really?” sounding obnoxiously skeptical. “They’re our teammates.”
“Not until that fucking roster is announced they’re not.”
He gives me a look, a Nicky you're being neurotic again look, which might be true but what the fuck ever. “In what world is a goalie your competition anyway?”
I don’t have an answer for that so I just flip him off instead. Like an adult.
We’re quiet for a second, my eyelids starting to get heavy even though it’s only seventy-thirty. I need to change and brush my teeth before I completely pass out, but no matter how hard I think about it I can’t get myself to move.
“Who do you think is gonna give us the most trouble this year?” Andre’s voice drifts through the room.
I yawn. “Dunno, Americans?”
He makes a considering noise. “The Swedes have some good guys.”
“Yeah but. You like—you can see them coming, you know?”
“See them coming?”
My eyes are fully shut now. “They play real clean and pretty, I know what to expect. Makes them easier.”
Andre hums, but I can't tell if that means he agrees or not. I’m so fucking tired, I don't think I’ve ever felt an exhaustion this deep before in my life. Like my whole body has been filled with cement. I may never leave this bed again.
“Nicky?”
I think I’m doing well in camp so far, impressing the coaches and stuff. My dad was right, I should make the team no problem, but that’s worse in a way. The expectations too high. Because now if I don’t—
“Nicky?”
If I don’t then it’s like losing the game before I even get to play. If I don’t I can kiss being drafted first overall goodbye. Because Andre will have it. Andre will—
“Nicky.”
This time the voice is way closer and way louder. My eyes popping open to find Andre hovering above me, hands on either side of my head, hair falling forward and curling around his ears, his temples, the tops of his shoulders. For a second it feels like I can’t breathe. Like getting checked.
“Dude, what the hell? Get off my fucking bed you creep.” It's a short second.
“You’re falling asleep,” he says, accusingly.
“M’not,” though the slurring of my words isn't helping my case. Andre smiles, bringing back the tightness in my chest. Everything about this weird.
“You’d argue with God, I swear.”
I feel my face wrinkle. “Depends, what’d he say about me?”
That makes Andre laugh, throwing his head back, the noise unnerving me the way it always does. The joy of my enemy and all that.
“I didn’t realize you were religious,” I hear myself say without meaning to. I don't know why he's still fucking hovering over me. I don’t know why I haven't pushed him off.
“I come from a very Catholic family so," and then, like I need a visual demonstration, he pulls the cross out of his shirt. I don’t know how I've never noticed it before. I’ve never looked that closely I guess. Lots of guys wear chains—most of them, honestly. It never occurred to me that maybe they had some deeper meaning.
I squint up at him, trying to picture him in a church, but my mind draws a blank. “Do you pray?” I've never been to church. Never worshipped anything that wasn't made of ice.
He takes a moment before nodding, a loose curl falling in his eyes. “Sure.”
“For what?” I try to wrack my brain for some memory of him pressing his palms together and looking towards the sky. There's a lot of praying in locker rooms, to be fair. In arena stands. Maybe I have been to church after all.
He stares at me for a long time, long enough that I'm about to ask him what his fucking problem is when—
“Fuck, that’s my phone," I groan, both of us moving at the same time—Andre jumping off the bed and me rolling onto my side. When I see who’s calling I almost wish I hadn’t said anything.
“Your dad?” he asks, making me look up, phone still buzzing in my hand. He’s standing, at the foot of my bed, looking completely put together, meanwhile I can feel the sweat on my skin and the sleep in my eyes, my hair no doubt sticking up in gravity defying ways. I swallow.
“How’d you know?”
He kind of grimaces, which is not a good sign. “Your face, you…”
but he trails off, looking back down at my hand. “You gonna get that?” Which is when I remember that I have to actually pick-up.
“Oh shit,” accepting the call as I slide off the bed, legs unsteady. “Dad?”
“Nick?” My dad’s voice comes over the line, and I motion towards the door to let Andre know I’m going outside.
“Yeah—er—yeah, what’s up?” I’m halfway out of the room when a warm hand wraps around my wrist. I jolt, looking back to see Andre slipping my keycard into my pocket. I give him a tight smile, mouthing thanks as I close the door.
“You okay?” My father asks. “You sound…off.”
“Hm? No, no I’m fine just, like, you know, tired,” I finish lamely, padding down the hall in my socked feet and sweatpants.
He makes a displeased noise—a specialty of his. “Maybe we need to work on your conditioning if camp is wearing you out this bad.” I hold in a sigh, pushing through the door at the end of the hall and into the empty stairwell on the other side.
“I’m being dramatic,” sitting down on the hard, concrete steps, my whole body screaming in protest, “it’s really not that bad.” It fucking is, but whatever.
“We have the Combine coming up, we need to be ready.”
We.
We have the Combine.
Sometimes I wonder if it gets blurry for my dad. What’s him and what's me. Sometimes I wonder if it gets blurry for me too.
I stifle a yawn, rubbing my free hand over my face. “Yeah dad, I know. I’ll be good.”
“You’ll be good,” a little disbelievingly. I decide to exhale instead of smashing my phone against the wall next to me.
“Is there a reason you called?” Doing my best to keep the frustration out of my voice. If Andre is a weight in my chest my dad is an oil spill—black, sticky, sludge that swallows-up everything in its path.
There's a pause, like he's trying to decide whether or not to call me on my attitude. “I’m coming down for the U Sports games.”
I close my eyes briefly, feeling a headache coming on. Fuck.
The last two days of camp involve games against the best university players in Canada. Well, the best university players who aren’t already here, so they're not exactly competition. But it gives us some real game experience outside of just the scrimmages we run in practice, and it’s also a chance for the public to see us. Get excited. Buy tickets.
“Uh, okay,” I can feel my heart beating a little too fast, a scratching, gnawing anxiety on the inside of my ribs.
“Wow bud, you don't sound very excited.”
Breathe, you need to breathe. I try not to think too much about the fact that that voice sounds like Andre.
“I am, of course, just—tired, like I said,” and then, before he can throw in a comment about my stamina. “Is Mom coming?”
“No, she has work.”
“Right,” It’s not that I want her there exactly but, she does do the whole obligatory “good job sweetie you were amazing” thing, which is, you know. Nice sometimes.
“We'll go out for dinner after the first game.” Not asking, telling. I can already picture what that dinner will be like—the pair of us in some overpriced restaurant, my father picking apart my game. A post-mortem dissection. Cold and bloodless.
“Uh—okay. I mean, the team might be doing something but—”
“You really going to skip out on dinner with your old man?” If you didn’t know him, you might think that was like, teasing. I’ve seen the sitcoms, seen the dad’s on screen rib their son's in that wholesome Brady Bunch kinda way. This isn’t that.
“No,” feeling somehow more exhausted than I had when the conversation started. “No, of course not.”
“Good to hear.”
“Yeah—uh—look dad, my roommate needs to sleep so, I gotta go.”
“Alright, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
He hangs up after that.
The NHL Scouting Combine goes on for about a week in June, all the draft eligible players coming up to Buffalo to be poked and prodded like livestock. It mostly involves a bunch of fitness and medical tests and interviews with the teams. They've been watching us all season, of course. Been watching me and Andre since we were twelve. But the Combine is the finale. When decisions are formalized and fates are sealed, etcetera, etcetera.
“It's really not that bad,” Cole says, on the bus to the U Sports game, the pair of us sitting together. I give him a look that hopefully conveys how much bullshit I’m calling. Cole laughs. It’s deeper than Andre’s, doesn’t make my stomach squirm as much. “Okay sure, it’s weird and stressful, but,” he shrugs, “it's nothing you haven’t done before.”
I let my head fall back against the seat, sighing. “There’s no way I’m not going to fuck up the interviews.”
“It’s not a test dude.”
“It’s literally a test, actually,” which makes Cole roll his eyes at me. “No, it’s worse than a test. I’m good at tests. It’s a date. They’re looking for chemistry, someone who’s going to fit well in the room, someone likeable and charming.” Like Andre. Fucking Andre.
Cole arches his brow. “And?”
“And I’m literally the least likeable person I know."
That makes him laugh again, smile bright against his tanned skin.“Aw Drousy,” placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, “you’re not that bad.”
“Wow, jeez, now I feel way better.”
“Jeez?” he repeats, completely ignoring everything else I've said. “I don't think I’ve ever heard anyone under fifty say jeez.”
I want to scream. The only reason I don’t is I’m pretty sure they’d stop the bus. I settle for groaning and covering my face with my hands. “Fuck, I’m doomed. Why isn't watching me play enough? Why do they have to talk to me?”
“I don’t know what you’re stressing about dude,” nudging me with his elbow until I eventually lower my hands to glare at him. He is sadly unaffected by this. “You're kinda a big deal.”
I roll my eyes, even though it’s true. I know it’s true. I'm not like, humble or anything. But talent is such a hard thing to bank on. It's there until it isn’t. I wake up every morning worried this will be the day I step out onto the ice and I’m just…average. It’ll kill me I think. They talk about growing pains, when guys finally make it to the show. Everyone in the NHL was the best player on their team at some point. But once you get to the big leagues there's only room for so many stars.
I want to be one of them.
I have to be one of them.
“Hey,” Cole snaps his fingers in front of my face. "I can literally feel the anxiety wafting off of you.”
“Can not,” because I'd rather die than be agreeable.
“I’m telling you,” he goes on, ignoring me again, “for some guys the Combine might be a tough time, but for you it’s going to be like the Bachelor.”
I blink at him. “What?” And then, a little hysterical; “Cole, do watch the Bachelor?”
“I have three older sisters,” he shrugs, not remotely phased. “Anyway, my point is every NHL team is going to be trying to give you their rose. You're the hot girl.”
“This is a ridiculous fucking metaphor.”
“You’re the one who started talking about dating, man,” holding his hands up. “Besides, I’m not wrong. You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”
I shake my head, unable to stop myself from looking across the aisle at Andre, currently asleep, noise cancelling headphones on, Sam beside him. I let my gaze linger too long, and when I finally drag it back to Cole I know he's noticed. “There's more than one team Drousy,” the understanding in his tone making my skin itch.
“I know, but—” I cut myself off, the words already tasting too bitter.
“But you want to be first,” he finishes for me. Not a question, but a statement of fact. I feel myself tense, Cole must notice because he continues: “Hey man, there’s no shame in that.”
Which is nice of him to say, but we both know it’s not true. People want you to be a good-sport, to care about, I don't know, something stupid like teamwork or self-growth or the journey not the destination blah, blah, blah. No one wants to hear that all you care about is winning. Even if everyone loves a winner.
When I don’t respond he nudges me with the toe of his sneaker. “Hey, if you could be drafted by any team, who would you pick?”
I let out a deep breath, grateful for the topic change. “Leafs,” it's not hard, I’ve been thinking about this question since I was about three years old. “Home town team and all.”
“And you wanna be the one to break the curse.”
I roll my eyes. "They're not cursed,” it’s Cole’s turn to give me a look, which is maybe fair seeing as the Leafs haven’t won a cup in like, seventy years. “Okay, I mean, yeah obviously it would be amazing to be the one to bring the cup back to Toronto.”
“Uh-huh,” patronizingly. “You got a number two?”
I frown, biting my lower lip. “I mean, they’re our rivals but, playing in Montreal would be pretty sick. Not sure I could handle the French though,” then a sickening thought occurs to me, “Oh God, are the Habs’ interviews like, in French? Should I have been taking lessons or something?”
Cole laughs. “What? No, no. They talk in English just like everyone else. Though to be fair, if you could speak French that probably would win you bonus points with them.”
“Right, okay,” shooting him a look. “Guessing the bilingual thing wasn’t a problem for you?"
“What?” Brows drawing together, “why?”
“Battisse? That’s French, isn’t it?”
He snorts. “I’m not French, I basically know ‘bonjour’ and ‘toilette’ and that’s it.”
“So the important stuff then?”
I swear his teeth are literally blinding when he smiles. “You know it,” I wonder how long he's gonna be able to keep them in his mouth. “Battisse is my mom’s name,” he goes on, “her whole family’s from Manitoulin Island, lived there my whole life before I got drafted by Kingston.”
I blink at him. “Wait—seriously? You live on an island?”
“Wiikwemkoong Unceded Territory what up."
It takes me several seconds to untangle the first half of that sentence. “Oh—like—so—you’re like—” I wait for him to help me out, but the look on his face is telling me he has absolutely no intension of doing so. Actually, I think's he's enjoying this. “That’s,” words starting before I know where they’re going, “like, super cool.”
Cole smirks. “Wow, that was really something dude. You just had like a full on aneurism.”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck you.”
“What?” Gripping his chest, scandalized. No doubt a move he learned from the fucking Bachelor. “But I thought my Native ass was super cool.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you just going to mock everything I say?”
He shrugs. “Dunno, keep talking. You've given me some pretty good material so far.”
“You’re the worst, you know that?”
“But you still like me, don’t you Drousy?” Smug bastard.
It’s mostly annoying because he’s right. “Yeah well, I have terrible fucking taste so. Don't let that go to your head.” His laugh is more of a cackle this time.
I let my eyes drift over to the window, watching the depressing scenery that is Ontario in the dead of winter—skeletal trees and snow covered farmland as far as the eye can see. God, I can’t wait to be back in a real city.
“Hey,” I say suddenly, something nagging at the back of my mind, “should we be doing like, land acknowledgements and shit?”
Cole snorts. “Yeah, every time I walk into a room actually. Basically mandatory.”
I punch him in the arm, which only makes him laugh harder. "God, you're such a dick. I just meant like, the team, in the locker room and stuff, should we be… you know?”
He's still kind of laughing at me. “Nah, you’re good.”
“Okay,” and then, “Sorry, I didn't mean to spend this whole bus ride stressing at you.”
Cole only smiles. "No worries, I like my white boys twitchy,” throwing his arm around my shoulders and squishing me obnoxiously into his side.
I punch him again. “Asshole," though I'm smiling despite myself.
We lose.
Two to one, the winning goal scored with thirty seconds left, Sam pulled from net. Which was a fucking mistake. I mean, obviously it was a mistake but. Even before that last goal went in we knew that was the wrong call. Not that it matters, it never should have been that close in the first place. Nothing was connecting all night, our chemistry off, our play sloppy. We let them push us around. A bunch of fucking nobodies who will probably be working desk jobs in two years.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get my gloves off.
“They should have put us out there together,” I hiss to Andre in the locker room, our stalls next to each other, of course. Andre’s already down to his pants, shoulder and elbow pads discarded, head bowed as he works on the laces of his skates.
“Yeah,” he answers calmly, “they know. They were playing around this game. Trying things.” He looks up briefly, sweaty hair plastered to his face. “They’ve learned their lesson.”
Shockingly, that doesn’t make me feel better. “I should fucking hope so.”
I’m not sure that my father is going to accept it’s not my fault the coaches were fucking around as an excuse. Actually, I know he won’t.
I take my time undressing. Showering. Slowing everything down. I don’t know why—putting off the inevitable I guess. I mean, he's still going to be there, waiting for me. No amount of dragging my feet is going to change that. It's not like he’ll just give up and drive home.
I take so long that by the time I come out of the showers the locker room is basically empty. Well. Except for Andre.
“What’re you still doing here?” I ask, walking over to my stall, Andre fully dressed, brown hair wet and shoved under a tuque.
“Waiting for you.”
“O—kay,” I draw the word out, shrugging back into my dress shirt. I really fucking hate wearing suits to games. I have sweats in my bag but there's no way my dad’s not going to tear me apart for wearing sweatpants to dinner.
Andre has his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I pause halfway through buttoning up my shirt to look at him.
“What?”
He's staring back at me, all big brown eyes. “Do you want me to come with you? To dinner with your dad?”
It’s hard to explain, the feelings that sprout up then, like weeds twisting their way around my lungs, between my ribs. Unease. That's the best word for it, even though it isn't right. Isn’t enough. But then, that's always how it is with Andre. Nothing with him ever gets to feel just one way. It always has to be fucking layered. Fucking complicated.
“I don’t need your pity,” too sharp, finishing my shirt and pulling my boxers up under my towel. Which makes me feel weirdly weak. Nudity is an everyday occurrence in the locker room. Avoiding it is what makes you stand out. Makes you a freak.
“Nicky—"
“Just leave it, alright?” Hands shaking as they pull on my jeans, nearly falling over in the process, everything suddenly ten times harder than it should be. I can feel him watching me. Staring. I hate him sometimes. I hate that he is this—this person in my life that I can never let in fully no matter how desperately I want to. Who I can never trust. Or maybe it’s not him I hate. Maybe it's hockey. Because otherwise—otherwise we might—
He waits until I’m fully dressed before he speaks again, which I’m grateful for.
“This wasn't your fault, this game.”
“I know,” a wild animal, bleeding and cornered. I stuff everything into my bag as quickly as I can, intentionally avoiding eye contact.
“Don’t let him tell you different.”
I shake my head, not quite able to speak, fighting with the zipper.
“Nicky.”
He's the only one who calls me that. And I hate how much I like it. How warm I get every time. “What?”
I cringe at the sound of my own voice, too loud, too tight. But I’m looking at him now, and he's looking back. The pair of us momentarily frozen. He is swallowing me whole. Eyes like blackholes. Eventually, Andre leans forward, doing something to his voice that twists me up inside.
“You’re my favourite player, you know that?”
I hate him.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
“Fuck you,” throwing my bag over my shoulder and forcing myself out of the room.