Chapter Text
He’s pretty sure the world used to be in color. Vibrant even, the leaves glowing in fiery hues as they clung to the trees that marched up the mountains that ringed his city. His city. The one that had embraced him, loved him, supported him. Taken him third in the draft, welcomed him into their hearts.
He remembers blue. Not the dark blue and white of the Leafs jerseys—cerulean like Nate’s eyes. Azure like—he jerks his thoughts away before he can go there. There’s dangerous territory. He’s left there and he’s never going back. He can’t. They don’t want him.
Red. He remembers red. The maroon of the jerseys. The orange of JT’s hair. The strawberry blond of—goddammit .
Ralph snuffles his face, worried. Tyson used to get on the floor to play with him all the time, but he doesn’t usually lie down on his back and just… stay there.
Tyson wants to lift a hand to pet him, tell him it’ll be okay. He’s not sure when he stopped believing it would be.
After awhile, Ralph flops beside him. Tyson closes his eyes again.
Green and yellow and pink and brown.
Toronto… Toronto is a beautiful city. Tyson knows this, intellectually. It’s not a patch on BC, obviously, but it’s got a charm all its own. He’s big enough to admit that much.
He hates it.
He tries to hide it, of course. He’s a good Canadian boy—he would never be so rude as to spit in the faces of the fans who’ve welcomed him so enthusiastically. He’s even—distantly, dimly—grateful to them. They’ve been kind to him.
But God, how he hates this city. He hates the grey sky. The tumbled charcoal buildings, leaning against each other and blotting out the weak sun. The narrow, twisting streets. Even the cold feels different here, heavier somehow, like a frigid blanket of fog wrapped around his mind and snaking through his limbs. It weighs him down, makes him tired all the time.
It lifts, a little, when he gets on the ice. It lifts a little more when he’s with Kerf, who understands, watches him with sad eyes and says nothing as Tyson tries to smile at fans when they’re out together. They don’t talk about it, what they left behind. They don’t talk about much of anything, really. Kerf comes over most days, plays with Ralph, watches ESPN with Tyson, cooks dinner for them both in Tyson’s kitchen.
He’s finding a place on the team, and Tyson’s happy about that, he is. He loves seeing Kerf happy, especially after he was taken from JT and Josty the way he was. The Rookie House is no more, and Tyson knows Kerf is hurting, deep down.
But he’s also smiling and it’s real. He’s scoring goals, making plays. The boys on the Leafs, for the most part a riotous, unpredictable mob of children with a few seasoned players sprinkled in, are beginning to listen to Kerf when he speaks, put his suggestions into action and get results.
That’s good. Kerf deserves to be listened to.
Tyson rolls over, cheek to the carpet. It smells a little dusty, a little soapy from the last shampooing, right before he moved in. He’ll have a weird pattern on his face if he stays like this for too long.
He falls asleep.
When he wakes up, someone’s banging on the door. Tyson lifts his head and then puts it back down. He doesn’t really care, he’s decided. They’ll go away eventually, or it’ll be time for practice soon and he’ll go out and pretend everything’s fine all over again.
But the banging doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder, and finally Tyson sighs and drags himself to his feet. Ralph dances around him as he trudges for the door, and Tyson stifles the pang of guilt.
“I’ll take you out as soon as I deal with this, okay?” he promises, and swings the door open to see Kerf, a pinched frown of worry on his forehead.
“You’re not answering your phone,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, what’s got you so worked up?”
Kerf pushes past him into the apartment. “You missed practice. And I called and called and you didn’t answer. Why do you think I’m so worked up?”
Tyson closes the door with a sigh. “I fell asleep, man. It happens. I’m sorry about practice but it’s not like I missed a game or something.”
“No!” Kerf says, and Tyson blinks. Kerf takes a deep breath and gentles his tone. “Something’s wrong with you, Tys. I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. You’re—you barely go out with the team, and you leave the second you think you can. You don’t joke. You don’t smile anymore.” He shoves his hands through his hair, leaving the curls wild and on end. “I miss your smile,” he says quietly, and Tyson’s eyes sting.
He takes a breath through his nose. “I’ll be fine.”
“Will you?” Kerf shoots back. He bends to pet Ralph, who’s abandoned Tyson in hopes of attention from their guest, and Ralph wriggles with joy.
“What do you want from me?” Tyson snaps, suddenly fed up. “You know the deal. You know I didn’t want this. I d-don’t want to be here, I—” He sucks in air. “I just need time, okay? Just… I need to adjust. It’s taking longer than I expected. I’m sorry, man. Please just—”
Kerf steps in close. “Nate’s been trying to call you. Gabe, too—”
Tyson flinches hard. “Don’t.”
Kerf holds up his hands and backs away. “You need some fresh air. Ralph looks like he could use a walk. Let’s go, okay?”
Numb, Tyson nods. “I just—bathroom.” He escapes down the hall while Kerf grabs Ralph’s leash. Safely inside, he stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are dull, hair sticking up on one side. Sure enough, he has a crosshatch pattern on his face from the carpet fibers. If things were normal, if he were home, he’d snap a picture and text it to the team so they could make fun of him.
He looks away.
—
Life goes on.
Tyson plays hockey. Poses with fans. Pours his heart out on the ice and pretends everything is fine. He even texts Nate back sometimes, because he misses him like a phantom limb. He shuts him down hard when Nate mentions Gabe, though. He doesn’t answer the texts Gabe sends him daily, but he reads every single one.
There’s a selfie of Gabe and Zoey, Gabe smiling brilliantly at the camera and Zoey’s tongue lolling out in a doggy grin. Tyson saves it to his phone.
Sometimes the texts are short—blueberry bagel for breakfast—and sometimes they’re longer—Nate’s really stepping into the A. Guys look to him for leadership and he’s growing up fast. Lost most of that temper, but he's still got that fire. Sometimes Gabe sends him pictures of the team, or the view out his window. Every morning, without fail, he sends Tyson a text.
Tyson doesn't answer any of them.
He makes an effort and goes out with the team more. He never lasts long, but he’s able to pretend for an hour or two, especially after a winning game. He likes most of the team, even if it’s distant and vague. Mitch is an excitable puppy who reminds him of Ralph but with better hockey sense. JT—not his JT, of course—is solid, quiet, with a dry sense of humor most people don’t seem to get. He deserves to be captain and Tyson is happy for him. Morgan’s been a good friend for awhile, and his solid, quiet presence is encouraging. Auston—Tyson could do without him. And Freddie—it’s not his fault. He’s a good guy, quiet and watchful. But every once in awhile, Tyson catches a glimpse of his hair out of the corner of his eye. It’s not his fault, nothing he can do, but Tyson can’t stop the traitorous twist of his heart, especially when Freddie’s in the sunlight and the red-orange of his hair is washed out to a more strawberry blond. He avoids Freddie, which makes him feel guilty, but he doesn’t know how to explain. But the rest of the team is made up of good guys, guys who deserve the success they’re achieving.
Still, he makes his excuses after an hour or two every time and ducks out amid their protests to go home and crawl into bed with Ralph. He knows he should feel guilty about that, but he’s too tired to try.
His agent calls him a few months later. Craig’s the type to always be hearty even when news is bad, so Tyson isn’t terribly encouraged by his blustery voice down the line. After the initial greetings are out of the way, Craig gets down to business.
“You’re about to become a UFA in a month or so. Have you thought about what you want to do?”
Tyson… hasn’t, honestly. He’s been so consumed with homesickness that he hasn’t given much thought to the future.
“Do you want to stay with the Leafs?” Craig asks.
“No,” Tyson says immediately. Craig says nothing, and Tyson winces. “They’ve been good to me,” he says. “They really have. But I don’t… I don’t want to stay in Toronto.”
“Well, the good news is, you haven’t lost your edge,” Craig says. “Plenty of teams want you.”
“The Avs?” Tyson blurts, and then squeezes his eyes shut, mortified.
Craig’s silence tells him what he needs to know.
“Forget it, sorry,” Tyson says. “Stupid question.”
“I’d have told you first thing,” Craig says, and his voice is gentle. “But their defensive core is really developing well. Meshing. They don’t need another d-man right now.”
“Yeah.” Tyson stares at the wall, the pattern swimming before his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
“But there are a lot of other places interested, and some of them have put together offer sheets for you. If you don’t want to stay in Toronto, where do you want to go?”
“I don’t care.”
“Tyson,” Craig says.
“I don’t,” Tyson snaps. “Look, I just—you know me. You know how I play, what I like in my teammates. Send me the top three offers, the ones you think would be a good fit for me. I’ll let you know.”
When he gets the details, he prints the pages out so he has physical copies of each offer. Ralph dances around his bare feet as Tyson stands in the middle of his living room, holding the pages.
“Ready?” he asks Ralph, who barks.
Tyson throws the papers in the air. They swoop and swirl around him, fluttering to the floor in a silent eddy. Ralph bounces around sniffing the pages, tail wagging wildly.
“Pick one,” Tyson tells him.
Ralph licks his chops. Sits down and yawns. Then flops sideways, tongue lolling out.
Tyson kneels and pulls the page out from under his body. It’s a little crumpled, and Tyson smooths it flat. Then he finally looks at it.
“Oh,” he says. Ralph blinks at him. “I guess we’re going to North Carolina, buddy.”
—
He doesn’t tell anyone but Kerf, who hugs him and tries to hide his suspiciously bright eyes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach them. Guilt crawls through the fog in Tyson’s mind. Kerf was yanked away from his home too, lost the teammates he loved too. And now Tyson’s leaving him.
—
Gabe calls him when the news breaks. Tyson watches the phone ring until it finally falls silent. It starts up again a minute later, and Tyson counts the rings as it vibrates on the table. He wonders if Gabe’s at home, maybe barefoot in his sunny kitchen with Zoey snoozing at his feet. Or maybe he’s in the car—he always lectured Tyson about the importance of driver safety and hands-free equipment while on the road.
Six rings. The phone goes dark again and Tyson gets up and goes into his cramped little kitchenette. Behind him, the phone begins to ring again.
The worst part, he thinks sometimes, is that he doesn’t know what they were to each other. Were they anything? Was it just the way Gabe is with everyone? No, Tyson thinks, making tea on his tiny stove. No, Gabe wasn’t like that with anyone else on the team. Not… like that. Gabe didn’t sit too close to anyone else, graze their thigh with his knuckles, touch their hand for a little too long.
Unless Tyson had been imagining it.
Had he been imagining the way Gabe watched his mouth sometimes, too? The way his gaze would flick down as Tyson talked, or ate, or licked his fingers, and how his eyes would go dark?
Probably. The result of Tyson wanting it so much.
He makes tea on autopilot, thinking about Gabe, takes one sip and spits it back out, sputtering. He doesn’t like tea, what the fuck? He picks up the box on the counter. It’s Gabe’s favorite brand. Tyson racks his brain but he can’t for the life of him remember ever buying it. When did it get in with his things? Maybe he bought it for Gabe, years ago when they thought they had time.
Tyson dumps sugar in the tea and tastes it. Not much of an improvement, but still—he carries the steaming mug to the living room as his phone rings again. He curls up on the couch, bare feet tucked underneath him, and wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. He closes his eyes and remembers.
“Why do you drink this? It tastes like piss.”
Gabe raised a judgmental golden eyebrow. “How do you know what piss tastes like, Tys? Is this some hidden kink of yours?” He was lounging at Tyson’s kitchen table, arm draped over the back of his chair and his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cobalt blue mug looked small in his big hand as he took a swallow and sighed happily. “You just need to expand your palate.”
“So I can appreciate the taste of piss? No thanks.” Tyson stretched his legs out too, knocking against Gabe’s foot. “I’ll stick with coffee.”
“I try and I try to educate you.” Gabe looked mournful. The early morning sun struck his hair, haloing him in red-gold. “You ready?”
“I’m never ready for running,” Tyson grumbled, but he stood and stretched, grabbing his elbow and bending sideways, left then right. When he looked up, Gabe was watching him, and heat pooled low in Tyson’s belly. He arched his back and preened, just a little, then bent to touch his toes. Silence from the other side of the table.
Tyson focused on stretching his quads, hamstrings, calves, one rep after the other, breathing slow and steady through his nose.
Gabe’s chair creaked against the floor as he stood and rounded the table. His shoes appeared in the edge of Tyson’s vision. White Nikes, a piping of dark blue. Tyson didn’t look up, delicious anticipation making the hair on his arms stand up. Gabe didn’t move for a minute. Then he took a step forward and bumped Tyson sideways with his hip.
“Move over.”
Tyson huffed a laugh, staggering a step over, and Gabe’s eyes gleamed bright blue in the morning sun as he grinned at him and dropped into his own stretching routine.
Zoey divided her time licking whoever she could reach until they were sufficiently warmed up, muscles loose and ready.
“Let’s do this,” Gabe said, and snapped Zoey’s leash on as Tyson held the door.
Tyson opens his eyes. There’s no point in crying. Crying won’t solve anything and he’ll just end up with a stuffy nose and swollen eyes. He takes a sip of his cooling tea and grimaces only a little.
