Work Text:
April 18, 2018
Faber Memorial Rink, Samwell University, Massachusetts
8 months until Opening Ceremony
_/\_ _/\_ _/\_
The final buzzer sounds and it’s only because Eric is suddenly surrounded by twenty-one screaming teammates that he doesn’t sit down right there on Minnesota’s blue line. He can hardly able to believe that it’s over, that they won. The buzz around Samwell after they made it and lost in the semis at last year’s Frozen Four said that the team’s standings would dip with Eric as captain, after Holster and Ransom’s record breaking season as co-captains. But, it’s Eric’s goal that put Samwell ahead late in the second, Eric’s assist on Whiskey’s buffer goal that keeps them ahead in the third, and Eric who elbows his way out of the group hug to skate the first victory lap with the trophy, his ears ringing from winning the championship on home ice, cheeks sore from smiling so wide.
A camera is shoved in Eric’s face at one point, and he doesn’t remember much of what he said to it except accidentally dropping the f-word—still in the on-ice mentality—as he describes Chowder’s 37 save game. He thinks the moment is saved by Nursey jumping on his shoulders, almost taking both Eric and the interviewer out, and screaming into the camera as he drags Eric back to where their teammates are all trying to touch the cup at the same time while the photographer tries to direct them into a group photo. Eric closes his eyes and can still camera flashes from behind his eyelids, so he takes a deep breath and blinks past the swell of emotion that’s stuck in his throat.
He knows that Dex is somewhere to his left, with tear tracks on his face from sniffing loudly into Nursey’s shoulder, but he has six inches on Eric and no one spits slurs at him on the ice just for daring to play as an openly gay man. Eric isn’t willing to give anyone any more ammunition, even if he never plays high level hockey again, so he sniffs and spits onto the ice. He listens to the guys, his team, around him and the crowd who came to watch them win and he raises his index finger and smiles for the picture he knows his mama is going to show everyone she meets for the next six months.
Showering the dried sweat and hockey smell off after on-ice photos have been taken, tournament MVP's have been awarded, and they've been kicked off the ice takes twice twice as long as it usually does; half because Holster comes into the locker room with a champagne bottle that he smuggled in, shaken up and sprayed from the doorway, and half because Eric looks up into the shower head and finally lets the happy tears mix in with the water.
They did it. He did it.
Eric is the last out of the shower, and he’s even slower getting dressed, running a towel through his hair until it’s practically dry before slowly pulling on the pieces of his game day suit, admiring bruises that are colourful but not yet sore. He’ll change into something more appropriate for the kegster Ransom promises will be the best one that the school’s ever seen once he’s back at the Haus.
“Bitty!!!” Chowder is glowing and looks drunk already, cheeks flushed either from sixty minutes of hard play or the champagne that’s still being passed around to half dressed teammates. His smile is all teeth, proudly showing off exactly what four years of braces can do. “Bitty, we did it!” He collapses onto the bench beside Eric and tips his head back against the concrete wall, sighing heavily.
“Can you believe it!?” Chowder asks softly, opening his eyes a crack to look at Eric. He’s got his dress pants on, but has apparently decided to forgo his tie and dress shirt, throwing on a volleyball hoodie on under his suit jacket.
Eric looks at him, fingers playing with the last button on his shirt and shakes his head. Chowder’s face grows serious as he stands up. He wraps his arms around Eric, pulling him into a full body hug.
“Bitty, you did so good!” Chowder says into Eric’s hair. He rocks them back and forth. “I’m so proud of you!”
Eric is used to how affectionate his team is, how much they hug and cuddle on and off the ice, but it still catches him off-guard sometimes, how much they’re there for each other, and he’s hit with a sudden wave of emotion at Chowder’s words. It takes him a second but he hugs Chowder back.
“We did real good,” Eric says thickly. Chowder squeezes him tightly.
“So good,” Chowder says.
Eric pulls away first. “You gonna do a keg stand?” He finishes buttoning his dress shirt.
“Bitty,” Chowder says seriously. “I’m gonna do at least three.”
Eric laughs and relies this to Nursey, who laughs even louder and then tells everyone still in the locker room and suddenly Eric has promised to do at least one of those keg stands with Chowder and can’t be mad about the obvious manipulation because they just won the Frozen Four, and they’re going to celebrate it.
Eric leaves the locker room a couple steps behind Nursey and Dex, listening to them rehash the last thirty seconds. Nursey is insisting that he blocked the final shot with his butt; and is about ready to take his pants off to show Dex the bruise from it. Eric slows down and checks his phone then, unwilling to get in the middle of one of their arguments—or flirting, he can never tell which it is—and waits until they’ve turned down the hallway before following, debating if he has time to bake something or if Ladro already taken over the kitchen to make her secret tub juice recipe.
“Eric Bittle?”
Eric looks up and sees a man in a very expensive suit leaning against the wall. He pushes himself upright and comes closer to Bitty.
“Yes sir.” Eric nods and hopes he’s subtle when he wipes his hand on his pants before he takes the hand the man offers.
“Oscar Matthews.” His handshake is firm, but not overly so, like he feels the need to compensate for something. He keeps eye contact with Eric the whole time. “I’m here unofficially for Team USA.”
“Um.” Eric feels his eyebrows draw together. “Unofficially?” He grasps onto the least confusing part of the sentence.
“Unofficially.” Mr. Matthews nods.“That was some game you just played. Congratulations.”
“Thank you sir, we worked hard.”
“I’ve been watching your season as well. 40 points in the regular season, not counting the very impressive numbers you’ve put up during the post-season. You’re an excellent player Mr. Bittle.”
“Thank you sir,” Eric says again, unsure as to what else he should say. He feels like he’s missing an important part of the conversation, namely as to why Mr. Matthews is here for him.
Mr. Matthews looks at Eric for a beat. “Do you know what you’re doing next year Mr. Bittle?” he asks. “You’re in your senior year, yes?”
Eric clears his throat, a little thrown by the direction this has taken now. “No sir. I mean, yes sir. I’m a senior, but I have no idea what I’ll be doing next year.” He flushes, aware of how unprepared that makes him sound, but he’s been doing his best to ignore how quickly finals and graduation is coming up.
“Have you spoken to any teams?”
“Teams?”
“NHL teams.”
“Uh, no sir.” Eric wonders if he looks as confused as he is. “Do you want to talk Connor Whisk maybe? I think he’s being considered by a couple. And the Flyer’s have William Poindexter’s playing rights for next season.” He gestures down the hallway where Dex and Nursey went. They would’ve passed right by Mr. Matthews.
“No, that’s okay,” Mr. Matthews says. He pauses, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “You must’ve heard by now what Bettman’s said about the Olympics?”
Eric nods; it’s no secret why Chowder has been putting off officially signing anywhere, caught between wanting to play in the show and wanting to win a gold medal with the national team. Dex was livid when Bettman broke the news just days after he signed with the Flyers, and frankly Eric is surprised that the Schooners haven’t taken away Holster’s social media privileges with the way he goes on about how Bettman has fucked over half the NHL on twitter. The RT’s from Kent Parson are probably helping his cause.
“So since the NHL is not going to PyeongChang next year, we need to look elsewhere for players. We being Team USA,” Mr. Matthews continues. “That’s why we want to know if you have any NHL offers in front of you after graduation. Unofficially of course: try-outs and camp aren’t until September.” He grins at Eric like they’re sharing a joke, but Eric can’t do anything but stare at him. He wonders, not for the first time, if Mr. Matthews has gotten him mixed up with someone else, stats be dammed.
Unaware of Eric’s confusion, or simply ignoring it, Mr. Matthews digs into the inside pocket of his suit and comes out with a crisp, white business card. He hands it to Eric.
“September, sir?” Eric asks, looking up from the shiny embossed Hockey USA crest at the top.
“Yeah, I don’t have many details just yet, but we’ll officially be in touch about training camp if you’re interested?” He raises both eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
“Um, yes sir, I’m interested,” Eric says. It’s an understatement. “Thank you sir.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Matthews breaks out into a grin. “My husband will be very happy to hear that. Say hi to Mr. Chow for me, will you?”
He holds out his hand for another handshake and then claps Eric on the shoulder as he passes him to go in the direction of the coaches’ office.
Eric watches him go, and tries to figure out how many keg stand he’ll have to do if he tells the boys he’s been unofficially invited to play for Team USA. He runs a finger along the crest, and catches himself imaging it stretched across his chess. He grins.
Whatever the number is, he can do it.