Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wednesday, January 8, 2020

Ezra isn’t sure whose idea it was to shoot a promotional video about the rookies getting to know New York City at Shake Shack, but after his second burger, he thinks he should thank them. Zach grins at him from across the table and Oscar munches on a few crinkle fries; they’re clearly enjoying it too. They’ve got a tiny crew from public relations – Megan behind the camera, Kareem directing, and Patrick doing whatever Megan and Kareem ask him to do. So far, that’s included rearranging the food, telling fans to wait for a break in filming to get autographs, and getting more fries whenever they run out.

In between two takes, Patrick sits down with them, sliding into the booth next to Zach. Ezra’s absorbed in a conversation with Oscar about the Riveters’ chances in the Isobel Cup in a few weeks, so he isn’t listening too closely to what Zach and Patrick are talking about. Until he hears Patrick mention a boyfriend.

“...broke up last week,” Patrick finishes.

“That sucks, man.” Zach pushes the nearly empty fry boat towards Patrick. “Break-up fries?”

Patrick laughs as he takes the remaining fries. “Thanks. It sucks, you know, but it’s better than fighting all the time.”

Ezra’s sitting at a messy table in a Shake Shack with another guy who is ...gay? ...bi? Who definitely likes guys. Who works with Ezra. And who has a really cute laugh.

Ezra noticed that Patrick was handsome when he met him in September, but he pushed the thought out of his mind before it could start to mean anything. He wasn’t out to anyone on the team and he assumed Patrick was straight. Now he’s out to everyone, and Patrick apparently isn’t straight. It wouldn’t be weird if Ezra was interested in him. The idea is exhilarating.

Ezra forces his brain back into the current conversation. Tries to, at least. “Hey, I’m sorry too.”

“Thanks.” Patrick smiles at him, a little lopsided, and very attractive.

“Alright, we’re back on.” Kareem and Megan step back from where they’ve been conferring over the video that’s been recorded so far. “We’ve got enough on your favorite parts of the city,” Kareem says. “Let’s talk about living together. Who has the most annoying habits?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat, immediately nodding at Zach. “He wants to be everywhere early,” Oscar says.

Zach smirks at Oscar. “And he’s always running late.”

“How did you sort that one out?” Kareem asks. “Do you still take one car everywhere?”

“Ezra looked very sad when we argued, so now we leave early,” Oscar replies.

“It was pretty tragic,” Zach agrees.

Ezra buries his face in his hands until Oscar ruffles his hair.

They talk about living together, about Ezra’s standards for a tidy house, and about their decreasingly disastrous efforts at cooking before Megan finally nods, satisfied. “That’s a wrap folks.” She chuckles. “I always love saying that. Anyways, I’ll edit this down and we’ll get your very first feature posted later this week. Nice work.”

Everyone’s gathering their coats when Oscar says, “You did not eat anything. Did you not want something now?”

Now that Ezra thinks about it, Kareem and Megan didn’t even try any of the food while they were filming. He looks away from Patrick, who’s shrugging on a puffy blue coat that somehow doesn’t look bad on him. “You guys should get something. We’re not in a rush.”

“I’m vegan,” Megan says.

“Vegetarian here,” Kareem adds, raising a hand over his head. “And I’m not a fan of cheese. Or mushrooms.”

“Weirdo.” Megan knocks her shoulder against Kareem’s.

“Really?” Zach stops winding his scarf around his neck to squint at Kareem. “Even I like the portobello burger thing and I’m pretty much the opposite of vegetarian.”

“See! Mushrooms are good.” Megan tucks a notepad into her camera bag. “Really though, we’re fine.”

“I saw a froyo place on the way in,” Ezra says, because no one should have to spend a whole afternoon in a restaurant without getting to eat.

“I don’t think frozen yogurt is vegan.” Patrick laughs.

“Oh, right,” Ezra mumbles. He tries to tug his hat low enough to cover his flaming cheeks.

“It’s not, but you get major points for trying.” Megan smiles at him. “If you guys are actually up for ice cream, there’s a place with a great mango sorbet fifteen minutes from here.”

“We are definitely up for ice cream,” Oscar says, throwing an arm around Ezra’s shoulders and leading the way out of Shake Shack.

That’s how Ezra finds himself ordering a mint chocolate chip cone in a tiny Upper East Side ice cream shop on a day when it’s far too cold to be eating ice cream. According to Kareem, they’re participating in a proud Bostonian tradition of eating ice cream year round. Zach argues that they’re not in Boston, but moments later, he counters himself by declaring that ice cream is one of the most delicious foods ever created and ordering a chocolate cone.

Patrick steps up next to Ezra while he’s getting napkins, and reaches around him for a spoon. “Sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Ezra feels embarrassed all over again, flustered and red. “Oh, it’s fine.” He flashes a smile at Patrick and hopes it’s convincing. Or at least cute. He really hopes Patrick thinks it’s cute.

Patrick smiles back, so maybe he does. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually, ever since you came out.”

“You have?” Ezra unceremoniously announced that he was bi to the front office staff before a team meeting a few days after everyone got back from Christmas break. It had been excruciatingly awkward, but if it meant something to Patrick, Ezra would gladly do it a hundred times over. He tries not to read too much into the fact that Patrick apparently broke up with his boyfriend a week after that.

Patrick leans around Ezra again, grabbing a handful of napkins. His hair smells bright and a bit lemony. Ezra wonders when it won’t be too soon to comment on Patrick’s hair.

“I’m a huge hockey fan.” Patrick smiles again. Ezra can’t look away. Patrick has a really nice smile, with movie star dimples and very white teeth. “But it always felt a bit hypocritical to like the NHL when it’s so homophobic. And I never felt welcome, you know. So, um, thanks for making it less homophobic, I guess.”

“That’s a big part of why I did it.” Ezra replies, then immediately wishes he could take the words back. He wants to impress Patrick, but not by lying to him. “I mean, I mostly did it because I think I would have gone crazy otherwise, or not crazy, but...” Ezra stares miserably at the container of spoons and resists the urge to dig his fingernails into the counter. He doesn’t want to sound stupid either.

“Hey,” Patrick rests his hand on Ezra’s, and suddenly nothing else matters. “I get it. I’m obviously not under the same pressure you are – being bi and playing professional hockey – but I think I get it. You can talk to me if you want.”

“Yeah? You wouldn't mind?” Ezra looks away from where their hands are still touching. He meets Patrick’s eyes, which are really, really green. There's not a shadow of distance in them, only warmth, so Ezra feels confident enough to suggest, "We could do that over dinner sometime."

“Um, sure.” Patrick pulls his hand away and shoves the spoon he’s still holding into his pocket. Ezra curls his fingers around thin air. Why did Patrick pick up a spoon when he has an ice cream cone? “Maybe after you guys get back next week.”

Ezra wasn’t thinking about the team leaving on a road trip in two days. Now that he is, the idea of not seeing Patrick for another week stings like a puck to the chest. “What about next Friday?” They’ll have practice that afternoon, so getting to dinner might be a bit of a rush, but they won’t be back in town until very late Thursday night and Ezra doesn’t want to wait any longer than he has to.

“Sorry. I’m busy next weekend.” Patrick steps back. Ezra’s stomach drops, then swoops when Patrick suggests, “What about lunch the Sunday after that?”

Ezra doesn’t bother to hide his enthusiasm. “Yes! That would be great. You should pick a place.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Patrick pats Ezra on the arm then turns away.

Ezra clamps his hand over the lingering warmth on his arm and follows Patrick to the tiny table that the rest of their group has already crammed themselves around.

They’re barely inside the apartment before Oscar and Zach turn to Ezra, the three of them crowded into their foyer. “So, you and Patrick,” Zach says.

Ezra shrugs, belatedly worried about seeming too eager. It’s way too soon to know that he likes Patrick. Feeling so much, so fast is cringeworthy, but there’s no way to change how he feels. He’s not going to say anything until Zach actually asks a question, though.

“You had your eyes on each other the entire time we ate ice cream,” Oscar adds.

Ezra feels his cheeks flaming and bends over to fiddle with his shoelaces. He tried to be subtle about watching Patrick lick his ice cream cone.

“You would make a cute couple,” Oscar continues.

Ezra straightens up slowly. “We’ve talked to each other for less than an hour,” he demurs.

“Still...” Zach widens his eyes.

“You look ridiculous. And still nothing,” Ezra tells him. He may like Patrick, but he has only talked to him for an hour. That’s not even enough time to know if it’s a crush. And if it is, it’s definitely not enough time to decide whether or not to act on it. Ezra has been nursing a crush on Ilya since September and he’s never even mentioned it to anyone. He’s not going to fall in love with Patrick right now.

“But are you going to talk more?” Oscar asks. He looks excited.

“We’re getting lunch next Sunday,” Ezra says quietly. He’s afraid of jinxing something that isn’t anything yet. Knowing Oscar and Zach saw the potential between him and Patrick is reassuring. Their investment in it is comforting.

“Is it a date?” Oscar asks. So much for not jinxing things. Maybe his roommates are a little overinvested.

“It’s um…” Ezra’s not sure what it is. He thinks it could be a date, but he doesn’t know if Patrick’s there yet. Then again, if Patrick was looking at him as much as he was looking at Patrick, maybe he is. “It’s not, not a date.”

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

The Hawks play a tribute video for them. A fucking tribute video. Gabriel can’t even be angry about it. Well, obviously he can – the fury he’s feeling proves that pretty well – but he shouldn’t be.

He never hated the public relations staff with their unshakably bland cheer. He still doesn’t hate them. They have a job to do, and part of that job is letting the fans know the team still cares about their beloved star defenseman, even if management cruelly banished him to New York. Hell, Ilya deserves the tribute video. And if Gabriel’s in a few clips, that’s just pragmatic happenstance, the same way Gabriel’s inclusion in the trade was pragmatic happenstance.

Still, he hates it. He’d close his eyes against the montage of video clips if he didn’t know the cameras would pan in close on his face. He forces himself to watch. Ilya scoring, Ilya scoring again, Ilya and Gabriel assisting on Chris’s goal, Chris hugging Ilya, all the guys piling onto the celly, Chris wrapping an arm around Gabriel. Fuck.

The crowd is cheering, eating the sap up with a spoon. His teammates, current and former, look appropriately somber. He wonders how they’d all react to the montage that’s been running through Gabriel’s head ever since he got off the plane and set foot back in this godforsaken city.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

The team was at their favorite bar. It was on the rooftop of a hotel, not the one where visiting teams stayed, but another five-star hotel along the Chicago River. The night was chilly at ground level, probably downright frigid fifty stories up, but who could tell with the thermal curtains and space heaters creating the illusion of a balmy July night. Or creating a cheap imitation of a glassed-in bar. Take your pick.

The Hawks won that evening, an unexpected blowout against the Bolts. Chris had a hattrick. Anthony had two points. Everyone had something to celebrate.

Gabriel was buzzed, closer to drunk than not. Chris had been on the dance floor for the better part of an hour, but he was making his way back to the table, holding a fresh whiskey sour. He slid into the chair next to Anthony, looking more ethereal than he usually managed off the ice. Anthony was distracted by the waifish woman in a gauzy minidress straddling his lap.

Chris slapped Anthony on the back, then glanced around the table. His eyes landed on Gabriel and he smiled, simultaneously sweet and predatory, the same way he handled the puck. And the women he picked up.

Gabriel’s stomach swooped as he smiled back, doing his best to not actually think about being handled by Chris. “Hey, good game tonight.”

“We were fucking magnificent tonight!” Chris replied.

Gabriel eyed the empty chair next to Chris and stood up, abandoning whatever conversation he was having with Noah and Thompson.

He stepped around the table mostly steadily until he was standing behind Chris. Then he wrapped both arms around Chris’s shoulders. Touching wasn’t gay if you won a game or you were drunk; it definitely wasn’t gay if both were true. “You had an excellent game.”

Chris clasped a hand around Gabriel’s wrist and leaned back to gaze up at him. “I really did, didn’t I?” His hair looked blue instead of brown in the bar’s weird lighting. Gabriel focused on the way it brushed against his stomach and ignored the way he wanted to run his fingers through it. He had done that once, in the middle of a celly when Chris had somehow lost his helmet and Gabriel was somehow missing a glove. Chris’s hair had been sweaty then, but it looked like it would feel soft now.

“C’mere.” Chris tugged on Gabriel’s arm, and for a wild second, Gabriel thought Chris meant for him to sit on his lap. He wouldn’t fit half as well as the woman on Anthony’s lap, but he could make it work.

Chris gave him a slight push towards the empty chair and Gabriel realized that, of course, Chris didn’t want Gabriel to sit on his lap in public. He probably didn’t want Gabriel to sit on his lap at all. But they were celebrating, so Gabriel didn’t think too hard about that.

Chris kept his hand on Gabriel’s arm after Gabriel sat down, even leaned into him a bit. He smiled over at Gabriel, softer this time. “This is gonna be our year. I can feel it. We just have to keep playing like we did tonight.”

Gabriel could picture it then: lifting the cup with Chris and kissing him under it. It would be fucking beautiful. Magnificent, too.

“We’ve got to get these new guys in line though,” Chris continued. “What the fuck was Filly doing tonight? Terry wasn’t much better.”

Gabriel kept his head down and hoped desperately the music was too loud for Noah to hear Chris from across the table. He was a good kid and he didn’t deserve to hear his alternate captain get drunk and mean about him.

Drunk and mean wasn’t a good look on Chris. Gabriel cast about for something to distract him.

“And Socks needs to cool it with the showboating,” Chris continued before Gabriel could think of anything.

Gabriel worried his lip between his teeth. Even now, he can taste the shame of not defending Ilya. But Chris’s arm was warm against his and that felt more important than anything else in the universe.

“You should come over tomorrow,” Gabriel finally said. He’d mostly stopped outright asking for Chris’s attention by then, but he needed to say something and the line of warmth against his arm felt hopeful. “Lazy video game day?” Even though he wasn’t a huge fan of video games, he had a nice setup. He’d even bought Call of Duty after Chris raved about the latest release for weeks.

“Sorry. Gonna be busy tomorrow.” Chris sat up and elbowed Anthony. The line of warmth disappeared. “Tones, what are we doing tomorrow?”

Anthony leaned away from the woman who was still on his lap, but didn’t disentangle his hands from her hair. “COD tournament!” He pointed finger guns at Chris, then went back to making out.

Just for a second, Gabriel thought Chris would make it an invitation. Then Chris turned back to him. “Yeah, sorry. Some other time?”

He’d heard some combination of those five words so many times before. Like a puck to the face, repeated exposure didn’t make them hurt any less. So yeah, things with the Hawks were never actually good, and it was Gabriel’s own damn fault for believing they were great.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Gabriel had blithely ignored how terrible everything was in favor of focusing on a pretty face and some stunning puck-handling, but that didn’t mean things couldn’t get worse. Things did get worse – it took less than a day, less than an hour, really.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about that day for the past eleven months. It’s like Groundhog Day, except the rest of the world has moved on and it’s just Gabriel who’s stuck reliving the worst day of his life.

Chris jumped onto one of the locker room benches after practice. “Hey everyone! Remember party at my place tonight! Eight o’clock. Who can help with a beer run now?”

Gabriel waited a beat, wary as always of looking too eager to spend time with Chris. “I’ve got time.”

“Awesome.” Chris stepped down. “Carts. Rookies. You’re going shopping with Tones.”

Beer run turned out to mean beer-and-snacks run. Gabriel found himself trailing Anthony through Whole Foods’ aisles of supposedly healthier organic junk food while Noah and Ryan were dispatched to buy a few carts full of beer. And maybe half a cart of wine for anyone who decided to be a prissy diva.

Everything was normal. Anthony was comparing the labels on three different brands of white cheddar popcorn. Gabriel was wondering how much Anthony would laugh at him if he added dill pickle chips to the cart. Jack Johnson was crooning about Banana Pancakes over the store’s speakers.

If someone had asked Gabriel how that particular day could have gone wrong, he could have gone through a million guesses – an off-ice injury, Chris introducing a new girlfriend at the party which was supposed to be team-only, the rookies buying the wrong type of beer and being mocked by the whole team – but he never would have guessed he’d run into Logan for the first time in a decade.

What were the odds of the one guy Gabriel had ever dated, had ever kissed, had ever done anything with showing up more than five hundred miles from Malvern? They had to be vanishingly slim. Yet here Logan was, shopping for snacks, hand in hand with another man.

Gabriel stared at Logan a beat too long, long enough for Logan to notice him, for recognition to flash across Logan’s face.

“Gabriel?” Logan smiled, revealing the same dimples that had caught Gabriel’s eye in trigonometry.

“Logan.” Gabriel wished he had turned and run the second he saw Logan. He could have told Anthony he felt sick or something. Now Anthony was looking between Gabriel and Logan curiously.

“What are the odds?” Logan held out a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Gabriel took Logan’s hand, even as his own arm went tingly with pins and needles.

“Gabriel, this is my boyfriend, Sameer.” Logan inclined his head towards the man standing next to him. “Sameer, Gabriel. We dated for a bit in middle school, if you can call it dating.”

Gabriel froze on the spot as all the air went out of his lungs, along with the last shreds of plausible deniability. He knew Anthony was somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t make himself turn around and look. He couldn’t think of the words that would diffuse the situation, or let him, subtly, kindly, ask Logan to shut the fuck up. Even if he could have thought of them, he wouldn’t have been able to speak them.

“Back in Toronto?” Sameer asked and Logan nodded. Gabriel snapped out of his terror-induced paralysis enough to extend his hand to Sameer.

“Oh,” Sameer grinned, shaking Gabriel’s hand. “I guess I have you to thank for –”

Logan cut that horrifying line of conversation off by covering Sameer’s mouth with his hand.

“Sorry.” Sameer looked anything but, and Gabriel wished he could slash something. “So what brings you to Chicago, Gabriel?”

“We play hockey,” Anthony answered for him, suddenly standing next to Gabriel. “For the Hawks.”

Logan and Sameer stared at them blankly for a moment. “Oh, the NHL team,” Logan finally said. “Seriously? That’s awesome! I told you, you were going to be good.”

Gabriel didn’t remember Logan saying anything of the sort, but he did recall a few particularly enthusiastic handjobs after Logan came to some of his games. He furiously hoped Logan didn’t bring that up now.

He didn’t have time to think too much about it before Sameer waved a hand between Gabriel and Anthony and asked, “So are you guys together?”

“Toget…” Anthony started, then very quickly took several giant steps away from Gabriel. “I’m not gay.” He grabbed the cart. “We should go.”

“I’ll see you around,” Gabriel said weakly, following Anthony out of the aisle and not looking back at Logan and Sameer.

Anthony didn’t say anything until he pulled into the parking garage under Gabriel’s building and killed the engine. He’d already dropped the rookies off on the curb in front of Chris’s apartment building with the food and beer and terse instructions to carry everything up and help Chris get it sorted.

“What the fuck Carts?” Anthony finally asked. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

Gabriel had spent the entire drive trying to think of some way to explain, but he hadn’t come up with any good ideas through the overwhelming torrent of panic.

“That faggot thought I was gay,” Anthony growled. “Why the fuck would he think that?”

Gabriel nearly sighed with relief. He was more than happy to talk about how Anthony wasn’t gay. “He doesn’t know who the Hawks are. I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

Anthony’s hands were clenched around the steering wheel. “I’m not worried. It’s not like anyone would believe him anyways.”

“Exactly.” Gabriel reached for the door handle.

Anthony glared at him. “Where the fuck are you going? We’re talking.”

Gabriel sank back into his seat. Afterwards, he would spend a lot of time wishing he’d opened the door and walked away and come back to the conversation after he’d thought up a believable lie. In hindsight, he has to acknowledge it wouldn’t have changed the fact he was playing on a team of homophobic dicks.

“That other guy was your boyfriend. You had a boyfriend.” Anthony wasn’t asking questions. “And you never thought that might be something you should mention.”

Gabriel folded his hands in his lap, then unfolded them. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Not relevant?” Anthony sounded hysterical. “You’ve been hanging out in the locker room with a whole team of guys. You didn’t think we’d want to know you’re a faggot?”

Gabriel wishes he’d said something biting then, instead of murmuring, “I wasn’t looking.”

“You want me to believe that? You want me to believe anything you say right now?”

Gabriel closed his eyes.

“What about the way you talk about Chris?” Gabriel’s blood ran cold as Anthony pitched his voice high and breathy. “Ooh, Chris. You’re such a good player. You look so good playing hockey. Do you want to come over later?”

This couldn’t be happening. Gabriel had been so careful, had crushed down all his feelings and kept them under wraps. He swallowed hard, trying to process how he’d gotten to this point.

“What the fuck?” Anthony turned sharply in his seat to scowl directly at Gabriel. “Seriously?”

Gabriel felt sick. “No. Of course not.”

“No, really. What the fucking hell? That’s disgusting.” Anthony was practically yelling. Gabriel wondered wildly if anyone else in the garage could hear him.

“Of course I don’t like Chris.” Gabriel’s voice felt faint and it sounded like a lie to his own ears. It was too late and he was trying too desperately. The damage was done.

Anthony crossed his arms. “Get out. Get out of my car.”

Gabriel didn’t wait to be told twice.

Monday, March 4, 2019

Gabriel scored one single goal last spring. It wasn’t a real goal, or at least not a real goal for Gabriel. Everyone was tied up in a mad scramble in front of the Flames’ net, crowded tightly enough that Gabriel lost sight of the puck.

He felt the puck bounce hard off his stick, but he didn’t catch a glimpse of it until it had buried itself in the back of the net. Gabriel did the same double take as half the players on the ice when the goal horn sounded.

Ilya and Noah rushed in to hug him. They must have realized the puck went off Gabriel’s stick. They must have still been able to skate and watch the puck at the same time.

Thompson didn’t move from where he was standing five feet from Gabriel, until Ilya and Noah were between them.

Thompson joined the other side of the celly, not touching Gabriel and not making eye contact. Ilya yelled loud enough to cover the awkwardness. Gabriel could have kissed Ilya for that, if he’d been thinking clearly at all.

And if it wasn't for Ilya giving him a shove when they got to the gate, he wouldn't have remembered to stake down the bench for high fives. If he had remembered on his own, he may not have bothered.

He skated by quickly, staring at the line of gloves as he slapped them, so he didn’t have to look at his teammates’ faces or any of the cameras surrounding all of them. He should have just looked at the cameras. If he had, he wouldn’t have seen one of the gloves being pulled back, wouldn’t have followed the line of the arm it was attached to, wouldn’t have met Chris’s eyes as Chris leveled his blankest stare at Gabriel.

He could have left the Hawks with some semblance of a decent memory, because a sloppy goal was still a goal, but Chris was the kind of asshole who ruined everything and Gabriel was a sucker for him.

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

The video ends to roaring applause, which gives way to the national anthem. Gabriel closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, shutting everything out, compartmentalizing. He has a game to win. He has a team of assholes to put in their places.

He wants to grind it into Chris’s face: I’m better off without you. My new team can outplay you and outclass you by a mile. Our star goalie likes guys and he’s better than you too. Winning is going to feel amazing.

Sunday, January 26, 2020

By the time Ezra steps inside the restaurant, his palms are sweaty and his jeans must be drenched in sweat wiped from his palms. At least he doesn’t feel like he’s about to throw up anymore. He’s also no longer early. He was so worried about being late that he’d gotten here with ten minutes to spare and only then started worrying about seeming too eager.

Ezra has thought about nothing but this lunch for the last two weeks. Well, nothing but this lunch, and Patrick, and everything that might happen between them after this lunch, and whether or not this lunch is a date. Also, hockey. He’s still a professional goaltender.

He knows better than to trust his own hopeful judgement, but Oscar and Zach have been encouraging. On the other hand, Philippe cautioned him to not fall too hard, too fast when Ezra explained why he’d been distracted, carefully not identifying Patrick.

He’s just walked three laps around the block and he’s pretty sure this isn’t quite a date, but it probably is his best chance to prove to Patrick that dating Ezra is a great idea. He’s also sure that if he can face down NHL slapshots, he can manage lunch with a guy he likes, with possibly the first guy who has ever liked him. It still feels like a lot.

Ezra glances around the restaurant and his heart sinks. Patrick said it was casual, but the cheap tables and the TVs mounted on the walls don’t set the mood for anything approaching a date. Then again, it smells delicious and there’s something sweet about Patrick sharing his favorite neighborhood restaurant.

He catches sight of Patrick waving at him from a table near the bar and everything else flies out of his mind. Patrick is smiling and his dimples are showing. He looks good. He also looks as happy to see Ezra as Ezra is to see him.

Ezra makes his way to Patrick’s table. “Hi.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He should have thought this part through more. How is he going to keep a conversation going for hours?

“Hi,” Patrick replies as Ezra takes his coat off and drapes it over the chair. “It’s good to see you again. We missed you guys around the rink.”

“I missed you too.” Ezra bites his tongue.

Patrick just smiles again. His eyes look impossibly bright and warm. “Back-to-back road trips seem kind of stressful.”

“They’re not usually so bad, except...” Ezra cuts himself off before he does something embarrassing, like tell Patrick that he’s the reason this last road trip felt like it dragged on forever. He sits down. The table is small enough that his knees knock against Patrick’s. Neither of them pull away.

“I’d miss being home too,” Patrick says.

That throws Ezra, the thoughtful response to a comment he didn’t make.

“The food here is really good,” Patrick says, after an awkward moment. He pushes a menu towards Ezra, then pauses. “Um, I didn’t think about your diet plan. I have no idea if there’s anything you’re allowed to eat. I’m sorry I didn’t think about that. We could go somewhere else?”

“It’s fine. We’re allowed to eat unhealthy stuff occasionally. But thanks for checking.” Patrick’s uncertainty is calming. Maybe Ezra isn’t the only one who cares enough about how things work out between them to be nervous.

“Oh, good.” Patrick sounds relieved.

Ezra browses the menu for a minute, before asking, “What’s your favorite?”

“Do you like spicy food? Garlic?” Patrick replies.

Ezra nods.

“Garlic chicken, then.”

“Thanks. That sounds good – I’ll have to get it,” Ezra smiles.

When a server approaches, Patrick orders two plates of garlic chicken and a side of tamales, to share. Ezra feels warm all over.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Patrick asks. “They have good beer here.”

Ezra isn’t fond of beer, but – “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

When the beer arrives, Ezra doesn’t like it better than the countless other beers he’s tried, but the thought of Patrick ordering it for him more than makes up for the taste.

The food, though, is amazing, and not only because Patrick ordered it. Ezra says as much after a few bites.

“I’m glad you like it,” Patrick grins. “I probably come here way too often.”

“So you live around here?” Ezra asks. He’s resisted looking Patrick up online, mostly because snooping would feel pathetically eager. Unlucky.

Patrick nods. “I’m finishing my masters in mental health counseling at City College. It’s a few blocks south.”

“Oh, wow,” Ezra says. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” Patrick flushes a very pretty pink. “I mean, it’s not playing in the NHL or anything, but I like it.”

It’s absurd that Patrick seems to feel inferior when he’s doing something so meaningful, but Ezra doesn’t know how to say that without making things awkward. “How’d you end up interning with the Rangers?”

Patrick laughs. “Everyone asks that. My resume is such a weird mishmash of different fields. Honestly, I’ve always loved hockey – watching, not playing – and I came across the posting for the internship last summer when I was hunting for real jobs, and it just kind of worked out.”

“I’m really glad it did.” Ezra beams at Patrick, but quickly feels too raw, too open. He changes the subject. “Did you ever play hockey?”

Patrick chews and swallows before answering. “During grade school. My hand-eye coordination was never good enough to seriously play team sports after that. I ended up running cross country instead.”

“Do you still run?” Patrick looks like he still runs.

“A bit. Mostly 5ks, but I want to start doing longer races.” Patrick gestures whenever he speaks. It’s enthralling.

“We should do a 5k together sometime.” Ezra wonders if they could train together too.

“You’re a professional athlete – I’m not sure us running together would work too well.” Patrick’s grin is wry.

Ezra isn’t sure whether to take that as a brush-off or a subtle compliment on his athleticism. He prefers the latter option, so he goes with that. “Hockey players don’t run that much. I’m sure you’re faster than me.”

“Still,” Patrick says, and the silence feels uncomfortable for a moment. Ezra takes another bite of his chicken.

Patrick takes a few bites of his own, before breaking the silence. “So, can I ask who your first crush was?”

“Eric Shepherd,” Ezra replies.

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Former-captain-of-the-Penguins Eric Shepherd?”

Ezra nods. “I grew up in Vancouver and he was a Canuck first.”

Patrick laughs, shrugging with it. “I’m not judging. He makes salt and pepper look very good.”

“He does.” Their shared taste in men must be a good sign. “Who was your first crush?”

“Emma Watson,” Patrick answers. “First guy was Christian Kane.”

“Christian Kane?” Ezra doesn’t recognize that name. He wants to know if Patrick’s type includes younger hockey players.

“He’s an actor,” Patrick says. “I guess you never watched Leverage?”

“Matilda’s been saying we should all watch that!” Ezra exclaims. “She’s Oscar’s girlfriend,” he adds. “Maybe we’ll marathon it on an off-day. You should come over and watch with us!”

“That would be fun,” Patrick agrees. Ezra wants to jump up and down, or clap, or maybe kiss Patrick.

He realizes he’s just sitting there smiling when Patrick continues. “Not to change the topic too abruptly, but I just wanted to say again that it was really brave of you to come out to the team.”

Ezra feels himself blushing. “I’m only coming out to the team. I don’t want to come out publicly or anything.”

“Hey, no – I didn’t mean to suggest you needed to do that.” Patrick’s voice is gentle. “I still think you’re really brave.”

“You are too, then. I mean, you came out to me and Oscar and Zach, and…” Ezra trails off, not sure how to ask if Patrick is out to anyone else on the team.

Patrick must understand the question anyways. “A few of the guys met Andrew – my ex – so they know, and I wouldn’t care if anyone else found out – pretty much everyone else in my life does – but it just hasn’t come up. You can tell whoever you want if it comes up.”

Ezra wants to ask how his teammates met Patrick’s ex, but that seems nosy. “It must be nice to be out to everyone.”

“It is,” Patrick smiles. “Maybe hockey will get to a point where you can come out to the people you know without having the general public pry into it.”

And maybe everyone in Ezra’s life will decide they’re happy he’s bi. Might as well dream big.

“Sorry, I know that’s still a pipe dream,” Patrick says. “But you’re making things better for other people by coming out and that’s awesome.”

“Thank you.” Patrick thinking he’s awesome makes up for a lot.

When they say goodbye outside the restaurant a bit later, Ezra wonders if he should kiss Patrick. Patrick leans in for a hug before he can decide. Ezra’s not the only one who holds on for a long time.

Monday, February 10, 2020

Gabriel squints against the glow of his phone in his pitch-black bedroom. 3:47 am. Fuck.

He slides his phone back onto the nightstand, then rolls onto his side, closing his eyes. Five hours of sleep is not enough to play hockey on, at least not when that’s all he’s getting every night.

He counts to one hundred and rolls onto his other side. Starts counting again and loses his place somewhere in the sixties. Flexes and relaxes each limb in turn and starts counting backwards. Makes it to zero and feels wide awake. He’s still exhausted.

His phone reads 3:58 am. Fuck.

Gabriel rubs his eyes as he sits up and climbs out of bed. They’re gritty and oversensitive. They’ll be fine.

He pulls on a pair of thick wool socks and pads to the kitchen. Peppermint tea or chamomile? There’s earl grey in the cupboard too, but he only bought that because it’s Amber’s favorite.

His kettle is still half full of water and sitting on the stovetop where he left it yesterday, so he only has to turn on the burner under it.

He snaps a picture of the kettle when it starts steaming and sends it to Amber – Picking up on your predawn tea routine. She won’t see it for hours.

The kettle starts whistling, so he picks it up carefully and pours the water over his teabag, inhaling the crisp scent of peppermint. He doesn’t remember choosing a flavor.

There’s nothing to do but sit down at his kitchen table and wait for the tea to steep. And then to cool, at least a little.

Gabriel has done nothing but wait lately – wait to feel okay. He’s waiting for the day when he doesn’t wake up hours before his alarm goes off, hating himself. He’s waiting for the day he wakes up with the energy to focus enough on how terribly he’s been playing to do something about it.

His brain should be screaming about his substandard play. After all, the game against Chicago is what kicked it into overdrive – the game where Gabriel had a half dozen sloppy mistakes and the team needed a shoot-out to eke out a win. Instead, his brain has zeroed in on his shitty personal decisions and it won’t fucking shut up about them. Apparently his brain doesn’t care what kind of hockey he’s playing, as long as he knows how much he has screwed up the rest of his life.

He wraps his hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into his palms. It’s too hot to touch for more than a few seconds.

He feels like a failure. He is a failure. There’s been a seed of guilt eating at the back of his mind for years, telling him as much. Telling him he was a dick every time he kept his mouth shut while Chris mocked the rookies, or criticized Ilya in front of reporters, or belittled anyone who had a less than perfect game.

Gabriel decided a pretty face and some flashy skating were good enough reasons to keep his mouth shut, to look away, to laugh along. They’re fucking lousy reasons in retrospect. And Gabriel’s a lousy person who used them as excuses for being complicit in his teammates getting bullied.

He’s still a lousy person because that’s not what he feels the worst about. Nope. Gabriel’s brain can muster up some sympathy for the people he was cruel to, but he’s hoarding the lion’s share of that sympathy for himself. He’s feeling humiliated and delusional and sorry for himself.

He’s not sure how he thought Chris liked him – no, not like that – simply liked him as a person, maybe as a friend. Despite the preponderance of evidence to the contrary, he clung to the belief that Chris liked him better than everyone else who was never good enough for him. Gabriel’s capacity for wishful thinking is absurd. The object of his wishful thinking is sickening.

The tea has cooled enough for him to keep his hands on the mug. He takes a tentative sip, inhales deeply, and takes a slightly larger one. The peppermint is bright on his tongue.

He’s so angry now too. He’s been angry at Chris and Anthony and a lot of folks from Chicago. He still is, but that anger feels warm and familiar in comparison to the burning rage he feels at himself.

Gabriel didn’t just fall for Chris’s face and his skating, did he? That would be forgivable, even if the complicity afterwards wasn’t. But Gabriel fucking set himself up to fall for an NHL asshole. He looked at all the scouts in the stands at his Wisconsin games, scouts he’d never expected and never been told to expect, but whose attention he’d nonetheless garnered. He got arrogant.

He decided he wanted everything the NHL had to offer – not only the opportunity to play hockey at the highest level, but damningly, the fame and fortune that feed off of an oppressive empire. He decided he deserved it and he didn’t care who got screwed over so he could have it.

Chris was beautiful, and he played beautiful hockey, but falling for Chris was a classic case of do I want him or do I want to be him? Gabriel certainly wanted to be the NHL star who could do whatever he wanted.

He chose some shitty things to want and never once stopped to think about them until they bit him in the ass. It is hardly fair to whine about spending the hours before dawn sipping tea and hating himself when he never had a problem with the shit the NHL pulled as long as it was only hurting other people.

Here Gabriel is, in the same place he’s been for weeks, sitting in a near dark apartment and feeling so selfish it hurts. It feels like one of those games when he spends three straight shifts trapped in the defensive zone with no workable exit. It’s what he deserves, but he’s not sure how much longer he can bear it.

Gabriel drains the last of his long cold tea and sets the mug in the sink, where it joins three other mugs.

He fiddles with his phone. It’s past 5 am now, which means it’s past 5 am in Toronto too. His mother will be awake. He taps her contact before he can second-guess himself, then nearly hangs up while he listens to the call ring in.

“Good morning, Gabriel.” She sounds wide awake and not at all surprised to hear from him.

“Good morning,” he replies.

“Is everything alright?” she asks. So much for not being surprised to hear from him. They’ve been talking more since Christmas, but they always text first to figure out a good time. And Gabriel has never been a morning person.

He improvises. “Just woke up early and thought I’d say hi. What are you doing today?”

“I’m glad you called,” she says, and he can hear her smile through the phone. “We’re starting a unit on the solar system today and I’m trying to decide if I should wear my planet dress or if that’s too Mrs. Frizzle.”

Gabriel thinks for a moment. “You’ve got first graders this year, mum. Looking like Mrs. Frizzle for one day is probably a good thing.”

“It probably is,” she agrees. “What are you up to?”

“Not much besides practice this afternoon.” He already feels better from hearing his mother’s voice, but she has always given good advice and he could certainly use some now. “Can I ask you a kind of hypothetical question?”

“Of course.” She sounds torn between worry and curiosity.

Gabriel takes a deep breath, steeling himself against the fear of everything that could go wrong when he gives voice to his failures. “So I have to give a friend some advice…”

He’s pretty sure that’s the most obvious lie ever, but his mother just hums in seeming agreement.

“What would you tell someone to do if they messed up in a major way? Not like a crime or anything, but what if they had always thought they were a good person? And they had mostly been good. But then they messed up and got arrogant, and were, just, well, unkind? What would you tell them if they wanted to be a good person again?”

His mother doesn’t say anything right away. The silence is deafening, terrifying.

Gabriel’s chest eases minutely when she finally speaks. “I’d tell them they’re not a bad person,” she begins, and his chest eases further. “Obviously, I don’t know what they did, but they’re your friend and you’re a pretty good judge of character most of the time.” Gabriel wonders how much she has guessed, if the most of the time is there to deliberately cut Chris out of his supposed good judgement.

“Apologizing and making amends are important,” she continues, “but if they’re worried about being unkind, I’d tell them to be kind every time they can. Once you start looking for opportunities to be kind, they’re everywhere.”

Start being kind at every opportunity. It sounds so simple, and maybe it is.

“Thanks, mum,” he says softly. “That really helps.”

“You’re welcome. And Gabriel,” she pauses, “I love you a lot.”

“I love you too, mum.” He swallows hard. “I should let you finish getting ready for school.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” she replies. “I’m glad you called.”

“I am too. Goodbye.” Gabriel disconnects the call. The sun is coming up and he can hear the pigeons outside his window.

Tuesday, February 12, 2020

Ezra isn’t much of a coffee drinker, but he sees Patrick with a mug every time he stops by the front office. He feels a little weird about checking the mug to see if Patrick drinks coffee or tea, but figuring out a guy’s drink preferences is hardly stalker territory. Using the information for good more than cancels out any slight weirdness.

Ezra may not live in Manhattan, but he does live in the interesting part of Tarrytown and the five block radius around his apartment has five coffee shops. Two of them are Starbucks and one is a Dunkin Donuts. Two proper coffee shops sounds less impressive than five total coffee shops, though. Ezra has learned how to defend his neighborhood from his Manhattan-dwelling teammates.

They have video review today and Coach Sullivan likes to start early, so Ezra is awake at an ungodly hour, tromping through a few inches of snow, hoping to find the perfect cup of coffee.

The first shop he checks, the one closer to his apartment, is dark inside. He peeks through a window: chairs are stacked on tables and there are no baristas in sight. The sign on the door says the shop opens at eight. Ezra has to be at the rink by eight.

He decides he would rather walk to the second shop than take his gloves off to check its hours on his phone. Luckily, it’s open. He hopes the lack of a line has to do with the average working schedule or the number of people willing to brave icy slush for coffee, not the quality of the coffee.

He orders two coffees, because it feels less weird that way.

When he gets back to the apartment, his roommates are nearly ready to leave. He’s grateful to Zach’s commitment to arriving everywhere early.

“There you are!” Oscar exclaims. “You should respond to your texts.”

Ezra pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through the texts he missed from Oscar and Zach, wondering where he was. “Sorry. I didn’t feel it buzz through my coat.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zach grins. “Did you bring us coffee?”

“Um, I…” Ezra should have gotten two more coffees.

“Do not be ridiculous.” Oscar laughs, swinging his gear bag up to his shoulder. “The coffee is for Patrick. Are you guys ready to go?”

Ezra nods.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Zach lightly punches Ezra’s arm. “I see how it is. I see who your favorite is.”

Ezra pulls his hood over his head as Oscar and Zach laugh. The hood isn’t big enough to hide his face.

Zach throws an arm around Ezra’s shoulders. “Come on, Patches. Your boy’s going to appreciate the coffee. Let’s get to the rink before it gets cold.”

Ezra spends the short drive to the rink worrying about having to find Patrick and whether or not it will be weird to go looking for him and whether or not he’ll even be there this early. All the worrying turns out to be needless because they run into Patrick almost as soon as they walk into the building.

“Good morning, Ezra,” Patrick smiles far too broadly for this early in the morning, except it’s not too broad because Patrick can never smile enough. “Zach, Oscar.”

“Oh, hi, good morning!” Ezra stammers back. He barely stops himself from squeezing the paper cups in his hands too tightly.

“Ezra brought you coffee,” Zach says, either helpful or embarrassing. Ezra decides to give Zach the benefit of the doubt when Patrick smiles at him again.

“Thank you.” Patrick glances at the two cups. “You guys are here early. Do you have time to sit down and drink it with me?”

Ezra nods. He absolutely has time to sit down and drink coffee with Patrick.

“We have to, um, we have to go and take care of things.” Oscar waves a hand between himself and Zach. “That is why we are here early.”

“Oh, okay.” Patrick looks confused for a moment as Oscar and Zach start walking further down the hallway. He turns back to Ezra. “I’m glad you have time.”

Patrick rests a hand on Ezra’s back, guiding him down a side hallway towards the front office. Ezra can feel Patrick’s hand burning through his coat. He wonders if the touch feels as electric to Patrick.

Patrick takes him to a small break room that Ezra has never seen before. He feels a pang of disappointment when Patrick pulls out a chair at the small table in the middle of the room, avoiding the glossy couch along the back wall.

Ezra slides into the chair across from Patrick. He shucks his gloves, but keeps his coat on. He leaves his hat on too because his hair is a mess underneath. Normally, he wouldn’t care, but Patrick’s hair is perfectly tousled.

“I hope the coffee is good. I got it from a neighborhood place, but I haven’t actually tried their coffee before.”

“Not home enough for coffee shops?” Patrick’s lips quirk upward before he takes a sip. “It’s really good.”

Ezra takes a sip from his own cup. It tastes like coffee. Patrick’s smile fills him with fondness for the bitter taste.

“You have an early day today,” Patrick comments.

“I have no idea why Sullivan likes to start video review before anyone should be awake. Are you always here this early?”

“No, thankfully,” Patrick sighs. “My clinical observation got moved to today, so i’m taking care of a few things now since I can’t be here this afternoon.”

“Clinical observation?” Ezra takes another sip. The taste isn’t growing on him.

“I spend two days a week shadowing a few different juvenile therapists,” Patrick answers. “I’m mostly listening and taking notes and being as unobtrusive as possible, but two of the therapists are letting me lead sessions with new patients.”

“So you’re counselling kids today?” Ezra feels himself smiling. It’s a common feeling around Patrick. “That’s awesome! Do you enjoy it?”

“I’m learning how to counsel kids,” Patrick corrects lightly, taking a long sip of coffee. “I like it a lot. These are long days, but they’re good. The kids are fantastic.”

Ezra can picture Patrick, a few years older and still as handsome, coming home after a day of helping kids sort their lives out. Ezra would have their favorite take-out waiting and Patrick would tell Ezra about his day while they ate. Ezra wouldn’t have to tell him much about hockey because Patrick would still know the team. They’d eat in the kitchen and tangle their legs together under the table. Maybe they’d have a cat who sat on their feet or tried to steal their dinner. Or a dog. Ezra should ask if Patrick prefers cats or dogs.

Patrick nudges Ezra’s foot. Ezra wants to tangle their feet together now. They’re both at work, though, and he doesn’t know how Patrick feels about flirting in front of their coworkers.

“Sorry,” Patrick says. “I didn’t mean to bore you talking about work.”

“You didn’t!” Ezra exclaims, feeling guilty and mortified all at once. “I was just thinking you must be really good with kids.”

“Well, I try. And I like them.” Patrick smiles, seemingly willing to move past Ezra’s space cadet moment.

Ezra smiles back at him.

“I’ve seen you working with kids, right?” Patrick asks. “The tiny goalies?”

“Oh, um.” Ezra drains his coffee in an attempt to hide the flush rising up his cheeks. “Shep, um, Philippe, does a lot of work with some of the local youth teams and he’s asked me to help out once or twice.”

“Those kids are adorable. I don’t know how they move at all with that gear on. Did you look that ridiculous as a baby goalie?” Patrick asks.

Did Patrick just call him adorable? Ezra laughs to cover the way his heart is pounding.

Patrick drains his coffee. “I should probably let you get to practice,” he says standing up. “Thanks for the coffee. It was really good.”

Ezra wants to protest, but a quick glance at his phone confirms that he really doesn’t have time to stay longer. “Of course. Thanks for letting me hang out.”

Patrick smiles again, all shiny white teeth and wide brown eyes. “Anytime.”

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Gabriel awakens to a ringing in his head. He squints his eyes open and gingerly reaches for his temples, trying to remember if he took a bad hit. That’s when he realizes the ringing isn’t in his head: it’s coming from the alarm clock. How long has it been since he woke up to an alarm clock?

He silences the clock and rolls out of bed. It doesn’t take him long to shower and brush his teeth in the blandly opulent hotel bathroom. Thankfully, practice isn’t until the afternoon, so he doesn’t have to put a suit on for breakfast.

The conference room that has been set up with a buffet for the team is nearly empty. Most of his teammates must be taking advantage of the free morning to sleep in and wake up leisurely. Gabriel feels like he did sleep in.

He piles a plate high with quiche and toast and fruit. Eating fresh berries year round is an unexpected perk of playing professional hockey. He sets the plate down near the end of one of the tables stretching the length of the room, and grabs a newspaper out of the stack sitting by the door. He isn’t particularly interested in Pittsburgh news, but he’s spent way too much time screwing around on his phone lately, and he’s sure there’s a crossword puzzle somewhere in the paper.

He has finished half the quiche and filled in four words in the crossword when he hears someone clear their throat. He looks up to see Ilya standing across the table from him, his own tray in hand.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Ilya smiles.

Gabriel swallows. He’s not in the mood to discuss his shaky play this morning, but company would be welcome. He holds up the crossword puzzle. “Do you want to help me with this?”

“You are doing crossword puzzles now?” Ilya asks excitedly, coming around the table to sit next to Gabriel. “I need to practice English crosswords!”

Gabriel forgot that Oliver runs a road trip crossword tournament with far too many rules. Gabriel isn’t clear on what they are, beyond the inclusion of puzzles in all the participants’ native languages. Oliver’s kind of a strange captain, not bad though, and Ilya seems to really like him.

“This is going to be mortifying if you know more words than I do.” Gabriel grins. He doesn’t care that much, but he’s been playing hockey long enough that chirping comes as naturally as talking.

Ilya doesn’t know more words than Gabriel. Ilya knows a lot of words, but now that he’s talking the clues through out loud, so does Gabriel. Besides, it’s a weekday crossword in a local paper.

They’re almost finished when the rookies tumble into the seats a few spaces down from Gabriel, looking sleep-rumpled and bickering companionably. Gabriel nods a quick good morning and turns back to Ilya.

The rookies are loud, but Gabriel manages to tune them out until Patches starts whining about his clothes. More specifically, he starts fussing about what gameday suit he should wear tomorrow to impress some guy who’s coming to their game at home.

It’s stupid and it’s arrogant. Ezra isn’t even out to everyone on the team. At the very least, he’s not out to Gabriel; he’s never said anything about liking guys to Gabriel or asked anyone else to say as much. But here he is, talking about how much he likes this mystery guy and expecting everyone in earshot to be fine with it.

He should be able to talk about guys the same way their teammates talk about girls, but that’s not the way the NHL works. Except the whole world works differently for spoiled stars who know their teammates have to agree with them.

Ilya clears his throat softly and Gabriel looks over at him. Ilya gives him a hard look, lips thinned and brows drawn. He obviously remembers Gabriel storming out of a bar at the mere suggestion that Ezra might openly like guys.

Gabriel stares at his plate, ashamed. Patches may be arrogant, but he’s not hurting anyone save Gabriel, and there’s no good reason for Gabriel to feel hurt. Hell, he’s not even sure why he does.

He has a teammate who’s stuck in the same shitty, homophobic boat he is, and his teammate has found a lifeline. Gabriel should be happy for him. Gabriel should really be supporting him. He breathes in and out and remembers his mum’s suggestion to make kind choices.

Gabriel turns to the rookies, ignoring the way Ilya tenses next to him, and ignoring how much that hurts. They’ve moved on to debating whether a purple or a grey shirt would bring out Patches’s eyes better.

He swallows down his first response: Seriously? Seriously? Then his second: Ezra’s eyes are fine. They don’t need to be brought out. And his third: Would purple or grey actually highlight brown eyes?

Gabriel interrupts as smoothly as he can with his fourth thought. “Ezra, if this guy likes you well enough to come watch you play, you probably don’t need to worry about making him notice your eyes.” He punctuates the statement with a smile, then adds, “He’s mostly going to see you in your gear anyways.”

He’s met with three blank stares, and he thinks for a moment he said something wrong. It would figure that he tries for supportive and lands on offensive. But Oscar’s face breaks into a grin, after a moment, followed quickly by Zach’s.

Zach turns to Ezra. “See. Nothing to worry about. He likes you.”

“I don’t know –” Ezra cuts himself off, then smiles, soft and fragile, at Gabriel. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Gabriel is struck by the thought that as long as Ezra looks at the mystery guy like that, he doesn’t need to worry about eyes or shirts or anything else. He takes that thought and buries it as deep as he can.

“Should I get my mask repainted instead?” Ezra asks, the question seemingly directed at Gabriel. That breaks the spell pretty effectively.

Oscar sputters something about the winning streak they’ve had with his current mask and Gabriel gratefully turns back to Ilya with an incredulous sigh.

Ilya is beaming though, as broad and bright as he beams for overtime game-winners. Gabriel smiles back as Ilya knocks their shoulders together and doesn’t say anything.

He feels good, not overtime game-winner good, but better than he’s felt in a long time.