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A Glossary of Canadian and Hockey terms for the Uninitiated, the Uninformed and the UnCanadian

Hello! So it has come to my attention that not everyone is Canadian, or watches hockey (lol), so I decided to add a glossary of terms for this fic. I would suggest leaving this glossary opened in a separate tab, so that you can refer to it as often as you can. THANKS! Enjoy the fic! :)

Periods: So in a hockey game, there are three periods, each one lasting roughly 45 minutes. If the final score is tied by the end of the third period, typically, it’ll go into Overtime, where the first team who scores (the Golden Goal) wins the game.

Deking: So to deke a player means to do a kinda “fake-out move” where you would head in one direction and then quickly change direction in order to fool the opposing player.

Assist: Someone who ‘assisted’ in setting up a goal. Like if someone passes to the player who ends up scoring, they would be awarded with an ‘assist’ and it’ll show up in their official stats.

Checking: Anything that prevents a player from going forward. A body check is when you slam your body into someone else. Body checking into the boards is when you slam someone into the hockey boards. 

Maurice “Rocket” Richard, Bobby Orr, and Wayne Gretzky: Hockey legends. Considered to be the best players to ever play the game. 

Timbits: Donut holes, you find at Tim Hortons. Pretty much the ONLY good thing they still sell at Tim Hortons…

Goon: Hired team muscle. A ‘goon’ is a term for a player who doesn’t have much actual skill and is primarily used to bully members of the other team, to protect members of their own team, or to start fights. 

Face-wash: The act of shoving your gloved hand in someone’s face and rubbing it.

Duster: Someone who sits out entire games “collecting dust”. 

Maritimer: Someone from the Maritime provinces (Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Newfoundland & Labrador, and Prince Edward Island). 

Timmie’s / Tim’s: Tim Hortons. Canadian staple coffee shop. Used to be THE place to get inexpensive good coffee and fresh donuts… But they recently got bought out by Burger King… and well… it isn’t nearly as good (Don’t get me started on Tim Hortons).

Enforcer: A polite way of calling someone a ‘goon’.

Keggers: I actually hate this term, but a house party where a keg of beer is present. 

LaBatt: Really shitty beer… Actually it’s a popular pilsner from Ontario. It’s inexpensive and mass-produced, and beer snobs, like me, hate the taste.

Manette: Video game controller. I don’t know if people outside of Quebec call it a manette, but it’s the term I grew up with.

Price: Carey Price, goaltender for the Montreal Canadiens.

GOJHL: Greater Ontario Junior Hockey League. 

Fin du Monde: A strong-ale from Quebec.

AHL: American Hockey League - One step below the NHL.

NHL: National Hockey League - The top tier of North American hockey. 

Molson Ex: Like LaBatt, but from Montreal. It’s the oldest brewing company in Canada. Again, I’m a beer snob, so I’m not a fan, but it’s inexpensive (unless you buy some at a hockey game).

TSN: The Sports Network. A Canadian English-language Sports channel. Its French counterpart is RDS.

Poutine: Quebec food STAPLE! It’s a monstrosity of french fries, cheese curds, and gravy sauce (or brown sauce). Fun story, I always thought I hated poutine, but then I had good poutine, and I realized that I don’t actually hate it. 

Pouding Chômeur: A Quebecois dessert where a hot sugary syrup (usually maple syrup) is poured over cake batter and baked. 

Maple Taffy: Maple Taffy (or tire d’erable in French) is a sweet treat made by pouring boiling-hot maple syrup over some fresh snow, and collecting it with a popsicle stick. It’s a popular tradition done during Maple season (typically late January to March).

Double-Double: Coffee drink sold from Tim Hortons, prepared with two packets of sugar and two packets of milk. 

Francophone: Someone who predominantly speaks French. Anglophone refers to an English speaker, and Allophone refers to someone whose main language is neither French nor English.

The Habs: The Habs is another name for the Montreal Canadiens (with an E, not an A —different from Canadian, someone who was born in Canada), Montreal’s main hockey team. The nickname comes from Les Habitants, an alternative name for the franchise, and a nod to the name of the French settlers. 

Don Cherry: Former coach of the Boston Bruins, became a hockey commentator known for wearing garish ugly suits and just spewing the most hateful, arrogant speech after every game. He recently (and rightfully) got fired from his show. Super racist, super everything-phobic… Just not a very nice guy.

Leafs: The Toronto Maple Leafs.

Hoser: Canadian for “foolish person”. Comes from an old hockey term for someone who used to hose down the ice rink after every game, before Zambonies were a thing.

Toque: Canadian term for “winter hat”. 

Patin, câlisse!!: French for “Skate, goddamn it!” Câlisse actually is a word for the chalice in church, but Quebecois curse words are derived from religion. 

Lâche pas, les gars!: French for “Don’t give up, guys!”

Olé! Olé, olé, olé!: I don’t know if this is a thing everywhere, but in Montreal, usually during a sporting event, the crowd starts to chat this tune. It’s also chanted during concerts (while waiting for an encore), or other events. It’s to indicate excitement, anticipation, enthusiasm, or just as encouragement. 

Laraque: Former Montreal enforcer, now a hockey commentator. 

Et le but!: French for “And he scores”. So I had to add this phrase because the French hockey commentators in Montreal are SO extra, especially during Montreal games. Like everytime Montreal scores, they LOSE THEIR MINDS and scream out “et le buuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!”. 

Stanley Cup: The Championships of the NHL, and also a literal massive cup. The current champions are the Saint Louis Blues (who won last year). The team who won the most Stanley Cup was the Montreal Canadiens with 23 wins.

Playoff rounds: Ok so during the Stanley Cup playoffs, winners of each round are determined by a series of 7 games per round. Whoever wins the most games out of 7, wins the round. 

First Star: Essentially the MVP of a hockey game.

Chapter Text

Hello out there, we're on the air, it's 'Hockey Night' tonight.

Tension grows, the whistle blows, and the puck goes down the ice.

BAZ

Simon Snow Salisbury is beautiful when he skates.

Off the ice, he’s boorish, clumsy, and stomps around like a wild moose. He’s unsure and quiet, and tries to make himself as small as possible. 

But on the ice… On the ice, he owns the scene. The ice is his place, his home, his domain . On the ice, no one dares to tell Simon Snow Salisbury to get lost. Not when he glides effortlessly across the rink, deking players as he goes. You cannot tell Simon Snow Salisbury that he doesn’t belong, when the ice cooperates with him, almost moving with him, guiding him to his next target. Simon will masterfully set up an assist— without so much as a second thought— while brutally body checking another player into the boards. You can’t tell Simon Snow Salisbury that hockey isn’t for boys like him, when he was made to play the game. 

Simon Snow Salisbury is what happens when you have a hunger to play the game. When hockey is all you think about, to the point where you dream about it. When your idols are Maurice Richard, Bobby Orr, and Wayne Gretzky. 

We couldn’t be more different if we tried to be. I’m a planner, methodically mapping out different possibilities and strategies in my head. Salisbury’s not a thinker. He dives into the game and goes with his gut. He lets his instincts take over. I’m thin and quick, where Simon is broad and bulky, filling out his jersey perfectly as it falls over his shoulder pads and stretches over his muscles.

Simon can brighten up the ice with just a smile and a twinkle of his eyes. I rarely ever smile when I play. 

Simon was made to play this game. I merely fell into it. I love hockey, every young Canadian does, but not the way that Simon loves hockey.   

I think that’s why I hated him at first, when I first met him.

I was 13 when I first saw him, all scrappy and angry, wearing a ratty old jersey, with hand-me-down skates and helmet that was probably way too tight. We didn’t know much about him, only that he was from Nova Scotia and was recently adopted by his grandmother (Old Lady Ruth, who’s family owned a few corner stores in town). I would find out later on that he was bounced around from foster home to foster home. If he wasn’t being fostered, he was living in care homes. 

At the time, I didn’t really care and neither did the team. We didn’t want some new kid coming in and messing up our dynamic. 

Who did this kid think he was anyway, coming in here, just because his grandma owned a couple of stores? He had no business being one of us, and we were more than happy to let him know that. 

I tried to ignore the pathetic way he would follow Dev and I around, asking to join in whatever shenanigans we were up to. 

There was something about the way he spoke, the way he squared his shoulders, ready for a fight, that annoyed me for some reason. I wasn’t sure what it was, but the mere thought of having to play with Simon Salisbury bothered me to no end. 

Always so happy and smiling all of the time (I hated that… No one is that cheerful).

I found it disgusting that he could polish off a box of twenty Timbits in a matter of minutes. Watching him eat would make me lose my own appetite. 

I hated the way he would stare at me, as if he were trying to look into my thoughts. It made me uncomfortable, edgy… Made me want to kick him in the knees. 

Most of all, I hated how he was constantly proving us all wrong. How not only did he belong on our team, we were damn lucky to have him with us. 

I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it. Maybe I was in denial, considering the sport I play and the morals behind it. Maybe, I was ashamed because of all people, it was him . Maybe, my brain just needed to catch up to my heart. In any case, as I watched him speed, glide, and fly effortlessly on the ice, one thing became clear to me. 

I was hopelessly in love with him.

Hopeless, because this is hockey, and to harbour feelings like the ones I have for Salisbury… Well, I needed to stash those feelings as deep down as humanly possible. 

Still… I would look at him and I couldn’t deny the truth. 

I loved him as he shook his bronze curls out of his helmet after a long training session.

I loved him as his blue eyes lit up, watching as his shot sank into the goal.

I loved him as his eyebrows scrunched together, focusing on the task at hand. 

I take it back… I never hated him. I tried to. Fuck, did I try to hate Salisbury. Anything I could do to get him to hate me— to think antagonistic thoughts towards me— I did. 

Snow would smile at me, and I would respond with a sneer. Snow would shout at me to pass to him, and I would ignore him. 

I would take every opportunity to insult him, calling him a goon, and telling him he had no business being on the ice (all of it, lies).

He punched me once (I deserved it). He had gotten checked and fell onto the ice. When I made a move to help him up, I pulled my hand away and face-washed him instead. I didn’t expect him to pull me down and clobber me. My nose was left crooked after that encounter, and Coach Mac had us sit out for the rest of the week. We lost a game because of it. 

The turning point came when we were both 16. We were playing a big match against Brampton— probably one of the more important ones of the season— but I couldn’t help myself. I would see him, all dazzling, like the fucking sun, and I would just insult him. It was one of the worst times I insulted him. I was relentless, calling him every insult in the book from duster to goon. It came to a head when I yelled that he was a “worthless Maritimer” as I skated past him. Simon took that chance to chase me. He ended up checking me so hard against the boards, I thought for sure he was going to kill me then and there. As I stared at him, I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss him or to head-butt him (or improvise). 

His eyes were staring deeply into mine, and for a moment, I wondered— hoped — that he was thinking the same thing. His chin was jutted out and his Adam’s Apple was bobbing up and down. God, he has the most intense Adam’s apple, I swear, it practically dances when he swallows, it’s a whole scene. He slammed me against the boards once more for good measure, as he yelled in my face. 

“Why are you always such a fucking shit-head?!” His Nova Scotian accent, slurring half his words. I wanted to apologize for insulting him, and to tell him that his accent was endearing. But, I am a coward and I laughed at him instead, giving him one of my patented sneers. 

“Because someone has to put you in your place. You are nothing but a useless meat-head, an enforcer! One good concussion, and you’ll spend the rest of your life working at Timmie’s. And that’s if you’re lucky!”

It was a whole mess after that. Snow shoved me off the boards and threw down his gloves. I followed suit, and we were at it like wild grizzly bears. I don’t remember much of that fight, but I think I managed to nail him a couple of times, knocking his helmet clean off. Snow gave me a black eye, along with a cut lip. We were pulling and tugging at each other’s jerseys, I don’t know how we managed to keep them in one piece. 

No one tried to stop us. I think the opposing team was in shock that two teammates were fighting each other, while our team knew that this fist fight was a long time coming. Neither of us really heard the ref or Coach Mac yelling at us to stop the fight, we were only focused on each other. 

At one point, Snow got the upper hand and pinned me down against the ice. He just stared at me, his blue eyes glaring with such intensity that I couldn’t help the blush that started to creep over my face. I pictured him pinning me in other scenarios, and I had to look away. Thank God Coach pulled him off of me at that point, otherwise I would have spat on him (and maybe licked it off) (I’m disturbed, ask anyone). 

We were both sent to the box, each of us given a suspension for the remainder of the game. Coach later informed us (after the game had ended— we lost), that until we could get along, we would no longer be welcome to play. We were to still show up, but we would remain benched. 

For two 16-year-olds, hoping to get signed or scouted, this was a big blow to both of us. 

Evidently, it was a bigger deal for Snow, because he cornered me about a week later, demanding that we settle our differences once and for all. We had already missed several games, and I was itching to get back on the ice (not that I would tell him that). 

It was just me and him, one on one in the rink. We skated around each other a few times, not knowing what to say to each other. Snow dove for the puck first and swiped it away from me. I gave chase and tried to steal it back, but he kept deking me, letting his skates guide him along the board. He was magnificent… He’s always been magnificent. 

We both dodged and deked, first to keep possession of the puck, and then, to avoid talking about subjects that were too painful for us. Like our families and how we’d both lost our mothers at a very young age. Through skating with him and talking to him, I didn’t think I could hate him anymore, not really. I knew I could never have him, those were simply the cards I’d been dealt (to pine for a straight man). But, I could be alright with being his friend. At least, he could stay in my life, and I was willing to take all I could get from Simon Snow Salisbury. 

After that day, we became fast friends. We helped each other both on and off of the ice. Simon became my protector of sorts. He didn’t have to be, he was good enough to be more than the team bully. But although I was fast, I’ve always been pretty lean— which in hockey is synonymous with easy target . I’ve had my fair share of checks from bigger, opposing players. Simon would make sure that I didn’t get too roughed up during a game (which I appreciated). 

Off the ice, I made sure he had a safe place to go. Whenever he was feeling lonely at home, or stressed out because school was too difficult, he would find a place at my house. I would distract him from his home life, and at the same time, tutor him in the subjects he was having difficulty with. Simon wasn’t a dumb kid… he just learned differently than the rest of us. Once he found the way that worked for him, it wasn’t as hopeless for him. 

As we got older we grew closer and closer. I think by the time we were 18, Simon was practically my best friend. And as his best friend, it was my job to make sure he had fun in his life, and wasn’t always so damn perfectly golden. 

Which is why drunk Simon is my favourite Simon. 

Simon, with a few brews in him, becomes an impossible flirt. We have had many keggers in our day, where Simon would rapidly start hanging off of us telling us how much he loved us (yes, Simon is the “I love you” guy, when he’s drunk). It happens more often than not, because that boy can down a bottle of LaBatt like it’s fucking water (why LaBatt, I’ll never know) (that stuff is nasty ). He’ll sing, he’ll holler, and he’ll hang off me like a goddamn monkey until I yell at him to get off of me. 

I never want him to stop hanging off of me. 

What’s the most fascinating about drunk Simon is how his words suddenly flow effortlessly after he’s had a few. Who knew, that’s all it took to get Simon Salisbury to inspire the masses. 

I remember one time, when we had lost a very important game, and were hanging out at Dev’s for some beers and NHL15, trying to get our minds off of the loss. 

I had encouraged Simon— who had taken the loss especially bad— to drink with us, instead of moping around. After drinking a few rounds, and winning a game against Gareth, he was good and in a much more cheerful mood. He had shoved the manette back to Dev and started shouting at us all, his Nova Scotian accent, spewing words. 

“Boys! It fucking sucks that we lost today! And to fucking Hamilton of all teams!”

We booed and jeered, and Simon took another swig of his LaBatt. 

“We’ll bounce back! We always do! We’ll show the other teams who we are, right!?”

We shouted our team name out loud, “London Nationals! London Nationals!” as we kept egging him on. Simon didn’t stop. 

“I’ve never loved a pack of fuckers like I love all you dumbasses!”

He pointed to Dev, “Devereaux, or whatever the fuck your name is, you killed it tonight, man! I couldn’t ask for a better defenceman to play alongside me!” Dev gave Simon a fist bump and Simon pulled him into a one-armed hug. I couldn’t help but smile fondly at him. 

“Gareth!” He shouted. “Don’t take our loss to heart, dude! You’re still the best damn goalie in the league, who could go toe to toe with Price if you wanted to!” We started patting Gareth on the back, as he smiled from ear to ear. 

He turned to me, his face softening, and giving me such a long tender look, that I had to look away to hide the blush creeping on my face. 

“Baz,” he started. I looked at him, to see his blue eyes, shiny from the alcohol. Simon took a long sip of his beer and smiled at me. “You’re my best friend, on and off the ice. You have my back like no one else does, and I…” 

He cleared his throat. 

I held my breath.

“I appreciate you.”

I looked down and smiled (a little disappointed). 

We then took that opportunity to pile-drive him onto Dev’s couch, messing up his hair and tugging on his ratty sweater. 

I could have this … If nothing else. 

I’m expecting more drinking to happen tonight at Gareth’s. We’ve just won a game against Wellington, and have made it to the GOJHL playoffs. 

Simon’s been quiet the entire time we’ve been here. I find him on the porch, taking small sips of his beer (LaBatt again) (we’re a country with some of the best beer, yet he insists on only drinking LaBatt). I sit down next to him and take a swig of my Fin du Monde .

“Honestly, Salisbury, what is it with you and LaBatt?” I laugh at him. 

Simon looks at me and shrugs. Half of his replies are shrugs.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the stars in the sky, the sounds of our team hooting and hollering coming from inside Gareth’s house. 

“We made the playoffs,” he finally says. 

“I’m just as shocked as you are,” I giggle. This is my third beer, and it’s starting to hit me.

“Think we can win? The whole thing?”

I lightly punch him on the shoulder. “With you , anything is possible.” I quickly turn away and take another sip of my beer, hoping he didn’t catch the sincerity in my voice. 

He shrugs again. Sometimes I want to grab his shoulders and give them a nice shake when he does that. 

“I’m nothing special,” he says. More to the ground, than to me. 

My arm stops halfway to my mouth. I turn to look at him and I frown. He’s got to be joking, right? I always knew Simon was annoyingly humble, but does he really not know how important he is? To the team; To the kids he coaches as a volunteer; To me ? 

Oh, Simon, if only you knew just how special you are. If only you knew what your presence does to me. How being near to you sets me alight. 

He really doesn’t know.

I should say something. Pull him out of his own head, and convince him that he’s wrong. I open my mouth to speak, but the lump in my throat prevents any sound from coming out. I take a quick sip of my beer and try to clear it. 

“You’re a moron, Salisbury.” Maybe not the best way to tell him how special he is… But let’s go with that. I turn to him, and his mouth is gaping open at me (mouth breather). “You’re the heart and soul of this team.”

Simon scoffs and I punch him in the arm. 

“Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious. We wouldn’t be nearly as united… as complete , if you weren’t around.”

Simon takes a gulp of his beer. I try not to stare at his long, showy throat as he swallows. 

“Thought I was just a goon. Didn’t you say I’d end up working at a Tim’s?”

“Oh, I still think you’ll end up working at Tim’s. But only because you’re hopeless when it comes to Timbits.” I laugh and mess up his hair. It feels thick and curly, and nice between my fingers. 

Simon laughs and bats my hand away. “Fuckin’ hoser!” He then gets up from the step and pulls me up by my arms. I yelp as I try to find my footing. What the hell does he think he’s doing? Already being this close to him is driving me up the walls, I don’t need to be actually swooning over him as well. 

“Are you crazy?!”

He gives me a mischievous smile. “Come on! Let’s get out of here!”

Simon grabs a couple more beers from the cooler behind him and stuffs them into his knapsack. He then starts walking down the road and looks back at me, waiting to see if I’ll follow. 

I do… Of course I do. He doesn’t even need to ask a second time. 

We make our way to the small hockey arena a few blocks from Gareth’s. We don’t talk as we walk, but I glance at Simon every so often. He looks nervous about something. He keeps tugging at his hoodie and picking at his cuticles. I want to reach over and grab his hand, tell him that there isn’t anything to be nervous about. I want to smooth out the worried crease in his brow, and kiss the anxious look off of his face. I can settle for walking quietly beside him, and giving him the company he needs.  

I smile as I remember how special this place is. It’s where I started playing; where I went to skate away the pain of losing my mother; and where I met Simon. He unlocks the back door— he’s got a key to get in from being an assistant coach for the little ones. 

We get to the benches and sit down. We drink our beers silently for a few minutes. I can picture us skating on the ice, fighting over the stupidest things. I wonder why Simon’s dragged me out here.

“I’ve been scouted.”

I nearly spit out my beer. So that’s why he’s been a nervous mess this whole night. Why he didn’t want to talk to anyone. 

“Are you serious?” I sputter.. 

“The Junior National Team. They want me to try out… after the playoffs.”

My hand is digging into the wood of the bench. I try to grab a hold of the million and one thoughts going through my mind right now. I decide to settle on the loudest. How happy I am for him. Simon deserves this chance, more than any one of us. He needs this chance more than any of us. He’s worked so hard for it, sweating and breaking his back to earn his spot. My heart is just so full for him right now, I don’t think I can contain my joy. 

“That’s amazing, Simon… I’m so happy for you.”

He looks at me, and a small, shy smile appears on his lips. He licks a little bit of beer off of them and shakes his head. I can tell he’s still so unsure of everything, especially himself. I playfully wrap my arm around his shoulder. 

“You better not lose to the Americans! I may have to find a new best friend if you do!”

He hits my chest. “Oh fuck off, Baz! Who else has as much patience with you as I have?!”

I nudge his side and we start laughing and playfully hitting each other. As we laugh and joke around, my mind focuses on other thoughts. I’m so proud of him, and I know he’ll do great things out there, but my heart is also breaking. 

I can’t show him; I won’t show him. I’ll have to make the most of the time we have left together. Simon is going to go off and become a big and powerful hockey star, marry a gorgeous, hockey wife, and have many hockey-loving children. 

He’ll live his perfect heterosexual dream. 

And me? Who knows? Maybe I’ll travel to Europe to forget about bronze-haired Canadian boys. I heard the UK is nice. 

He suddenly jumps to his feet and opens the gate to the rink. He puts one foot on the ice and holds his hand out to me. I cock an eyebrow at him. 

“Do you really think getting a concussion from slipping on ice is the best way to celebrate this news?”

“Pretty sure my head’s too hard for proper concussing.” 

He gives me a lop-sided grin and pushes himself off the gate. I roll my eyes and get up. My body leans on the board and I watch him. 

Only Simon Salisbury can maintain balance on the ice, while clobbering around off of it. He really does belong out there. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re really going to make me come out there, aren’t you?” 

I gingerly step onto the ice and try not to slip and break my head. Damn him for making this look all too easy. I feel like a baby deer taking its first steps. 

I try to find Simon, when a hulking mass plows right into me. 

I gasp out laughing as we tumble onto the ice and slide. My side hurts from laughing so hard, and Simon is growling up a storm. I whack his arm and try to push him off of me, but he’s holding me tight. 

“I told you, you would fall! You’re a moron, Salisbury!”

“Good thing you were here to catch me then.”

I feel my face warming up as Simon looks down on me. His pretty pink tongue runs over the bottom of his lip and my insides start to combust. I wish I could say it was a slow, steady fire, but I’d be lying. With Simon, everything is quick and intense. 

He reaches and pushes some of my hair from my face. He’s so gentle with me, that it makes my heart hurt just a little bit. It hurts because I know we can’t ever have this… Not really. Not when he’s about to join a national team. He’s making rounds. The world will know who he is after this. And how could they not? He’s amazing. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets picked up by an AHL team, or even the NHL itself. 

There’s no room for me in that picture, no matter how much I may want it to be. 

He leans closer to me. I can feel my heart thundering in my chest. My ass is frozen from laying on the ice, but he’s so warm against me. He’s got his big, strong arms wrapped around my back, as if he was trying to transfer some of his own heat onto me. 

“I’m scared I’ll fuck up, Baz…”

Christ, he’s so vulnerable right now. I absentmindedly play with the string on his hoodie, trying (and failing) to focus my eyes on any place, but his own. 

And maybe it’s the beer in my head talking, or Simon’s blue eyes sparkling as they stare at me, but I don’t want to hold back from him… Not now…

“I wish you could see yourself…” I stop and look away. I suddenly feel the urge to push him off of me; To run away; To forget this ever happened. 

But Simon presses his weight on me. He’s got my hips planted against the ice, and has started running his fingers through my hair. It sends shivers down my spine. 

“Go on…”

I still can’t look at him. I stare at an interesting hole on one of the walls. I draw in a long shaky breath, ignoring the prickly feeling in my eyes. 

“Like I see you,” I whisper. 

His hand moves to my chin and he slowly turns me to him. He’s smiling at me, his eyes hooded with… desire? 

No… it’s not possible. 

“How do you see me, Baz?”

I reach up to him and lightly graze my fingers over the light stubble on his chin (playoff beard, he’s been trying to start one for weeks now). 

“You’re all that I see.”

His lips crash into mine and we’re sliding on the ice again. It’s probably a stupid idea because we remain cold and wet, but the kiss makes it all worth it. It’s so good… So fucking good. 

I can tell from the force of the kiss, that he’s wanted this for a while... The asshole. I wonder if every time he’s checked me, pinned me, stared at me in anger, he’s thought about doing this to me. 

Has he wanted this… all that time?

Simon is doing this amazing thing with his chin, pressing into me, fighting for control. I let him have it. I’ll give him anything. 

You can have it, Simon.

Simon kisses like he skates. No thought, all action. Our hands are moving around, feeling, exploring, wanting to touch every inch of each other. 

We stop only because we’re freezing out here. I take him back to my apartment, where we continue to warm each other up in my bed, surrounded by unpacked boxes and scattered clothes (I had moved in only days ago). 

We wake up the next morning in a tangle of sheets, arms draped over each other. We didn’t do much, only kiss and snuggle and hold each other close. 

Simon wakes me up by softly kissing the side of my neck. It sends a shiver down my spine, and I think he’s proud of that, because he keeps on doing it until I push him off of me. He laughs and sits near the edge of my bed, eyeing me curiously. I raise an eyebrow at him. 

“I didn’t think you wanted someone like me,” he says. 

I roll my eyes and grab his face, pulling him into a deep kiss. I run my thumbs over his brow, and kiss the many moles dotting him. There’s one, near his left cheek that I especially love, and I give that one a kiss too.

“You are such a dumbass, Simon Salisbury. I’ve wanted this since we were 13.”

He laughs and gives me a small smile. “I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

I flick his nose. “Well, you are leaving me to play with the cool kids.”

He playfully growls and pushes me back onto the mattress. I can taste the remnants of shitty beer on his tongue. When he stops, I run my fingers through his hair. 

“You better call me everyday… Or else, I’m going to track you down and yell at you.”

“Like I’d make that mistake..”

“And you better not lose to the Americans!”

“Fuck, I’d dump me if that happened!”

I want to respond with something witty, but my phone is buzzing. I reach for it on the floor, to see several missed calls from Dev, and a string of texts, asking where Simon and I are. We start laughing as we tumble off of my bed. 

As I watch him struggling to put on a pair of jeans and one of my shirts, I can’t help but have a wide, open grin on my face. 

Simon Snow Salisbury is beautiful… And he’s mine.

Chapter Text

They storm the crease, like bumble bees, they travel like a burning flame.

We see them slide, the puck inside, it's a 1-1 hockey game.

BAZ

Simon Snow Salisbury is beautiful.

He’s beautiful when he comes home, pouty and upset after losing a game. He’ll sit on the couch, beer in hand (always LaBatt Blue... disgusting ), watching highlights on TSN, obsessing over the comments made about his form, his match decisions, and every way he went wrong. 

I’ll sit next to him, and slowly pry the beer from his hands. The remote is a little more tricky. I sometimes have to employ other methods to get him to relinquish it. That means sitting on his lap, wrapping my legs around his waist, and giving him soft kisses over his tense, angry face. It’ll take a few kisses, but eventually, the scowls will start to soften up and he’ll start kissing me back, the TV commentary reduced to background static. I’ll be able to grab the remote from his hand and turn the TV off. 

I’ll order us some pizza and poutine from the local diner. It usually helps to pull him out of his funk. He’ll hold my hand and lean his on my shoulder, asking me if he’s good enough. I’ll take him in my arms, and I’ll remind him over and over. 

He’s exceptional.

He’s perfect.

The scoreboard is not an indication of his skill. Simon Snow Salisbury is more than his statistics. 

He’ll be able to push himself again, to practice and drill himself until he’s sure of himself again. He’ll push and push, until he pulls out a win. When that happens he’ll come home where we will sing and dance to The Barenaked Ladies, while snacking on Timbits. Simon will then take me to bed, where we’ll tumble around— like happy boyfriends— kissing and celebrating his glory. 

I can calm him down whenever he’s upset and I’m the only one he wants to celebrate his victories with. Despite all this, we can’t show just how much we mean to each other— not to the world outside our little private bubble. I can’t be there with him to celebrate. I just wish we could say “fuck it! Who cares what these ignorant folks have to say!” I’d be ready to do it, too. To look into a camera, after one of Simon’s games, and flip it the bird before pulling him into a kiss.

(I want to do it. I want to show him that he shouldn’t be afraid.) 

And Simon… Simon wishes that everyone could see him for who he really is. He’s got a persona on the ice, where he’s tough, angry, and ready to slam someone with his hockey stick, if they get too close to a teammate. They call him Simon “Snowstorm” Salisbury. At home, Simon is soft, gentle, baking Pouding Chômeur (a recipe he learned from Madame Beaubois, a few floors down), and making maple taffy when the snow is just right. 

But for him to have a future in hockey, to be taken seriously as a hockey player, he has to keep his hockey persona intact. Outside, he’s a Snowstorm. Inside, he’s my warm blanket. I won’t risk the repercussions of people finding out about us. 

Hockey is Simon’s life; it’s in his blood. But it doesn’t blend well with the side that loves me. Simon has enough of a struggle to defend his right to be on the ice. I don’t think he’s ready to defend his right to love me as well. 

And that’s alright. I’ll love him enough through that. I don’t need to share our love with the entire world, at least not until he’s ready to cross that line. I just need him to come home to me, to curl up in bed with me, and to be there in the morning. Showing the hockey world that he is an unstoppable force doesn’t hurt either. I love that my boyfriend is like fire both on and off the ice. Be that as it may, I also love reminding him of what he’s missing every time he leaves for practice— either with a kiss on his lips, or an impromptu butt-grab. 

It works for us. Simon has his hockey career, and I have my own work to keep me occupied.

I’ve had to love him from a distance before, when he went off to play in the Junior World Championships. We had hoped that we would get the playoffs together, but the Canadian team called him to try out early, and he didn’t get to play in the playoffs with us. 

Although we had made it into the finals, and still played beautifully, it just wasn’t the same without him. We didn’t want to say it, but we all felt his absence. He was the bright spot that kept us optimistic. He held the team together, like glue. Without him… well, it was lonely. We were… disconnected. 

The arena felt colder, we took the hits harder, even the beer tasted shittier (I would drink LaBatt— even though I hated it— to keep him close) without him. I would lie in my bed, in my brand new apartment, and think about how everything felt empty . 

We didn’t win the playoffs. In fact, we were eliminated pretty early on. That was alright though, because it meant that we could watch Simon playing instead. We would make it a point to gather at one of our houses and just watch every game of the Junior World Championships. We’d all bought matching “Salisbury” jerseys, just for the occasion. He didn’t play often, but when he did, we would cheer for him, hoping that by some miracle, he’d know that his boys were right behind him. 

Canada ended up winning. His star was rising, and I couldn’t be more proud of him if I tried. 

He came back, after having won. We were holding a practice in our old arena when we saw him. He looked amazing… breathtaking… his playoff beard didn’t quite fill out properly, and it was a little patchy, but he was still handsome. Simon’s always so handsome. He’d bulked out a little bit, finally filling out the broad shoulders. I assumed they worked him hard on the National Team. 

The boys didn’t know what to say to him. He’d just won a gold medal.

I did.

I always know what to say to Simon Snow Salisbury. 

I skated up to the penalty box— where he was seated— and gave him a long, cool look. I smirked as I saw that while he was in jeans and a flannel shirt, he was also sporting some skates. 

I crossed my arms and leaned against the entrance. 

“Think you’re hot shit now that you’ve won a gold medal and all?”

Simon scoffed at me and stood up, squaring his shoulders at me. He returned my look with an appreciative one of his own, and if there weren’t a team of players behind me, I would have pulled him onto me right then and there.  

“I’m hotter shit than you, that’s for fucking sure.”

I raised an eyebrow at him and approached him slowly and deliberately. Leaning over him, I asked, “Bring us any Timmie’s?” before quickly skating away. 

“Oh, fuck you, Baz!” He laughed as he gave chase. He playfully checked me against the wall and gave me a great big hug. 

I laughed at him and punched his broad shoulders. “Goon!”

“Hoser!”

I roughly shoved him off of me and yelled at the boys to quit standing around like loons and get their asses over to us. They started applauding Simon, messing up his hair, and lightly punching him. 

Simon loved it. From the big, glowing smile on his face, I knew that he felt like he was back home. No matter how big he would get, he would always be one of us. 

We ended the practice after that. Simon treated the team to a round of Double-Doubles, while we grilled him on the glamour and glitz of playing on the National Team. 

I brought him home after that, where I spent the rest of the day getting reacquainted with him. I wasn’t sure if he still wanted me after all that… But from his kisses and his eagerness, I could tell I was wrong. 

After that day, we refused to be apart from each other. Simon wouldn’t leave me, and I would never leave him. Not during the off-season, not when I decided to leave hockey to go to University, and not when Simon was signed to the AHL team, the Laval Rockets, forcing us to leave our family and friends and move to Quebec (of all places). 

A few of the boys come down to watch his games. Dev has been coming around more often than the others. At first, I thought it was because he had familial obligations to see me, but recently, he’s been bringing an auburn-haired Francophone boy named Niall to Simon’s games. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him at first, but Niall’s a fun person to be around. He’s determined to turn me into a “bon quebecois”. 

I told my parents about him, right before we moved. Both of them pretty much expected this. They knew how much Simon meant to me. Father was a little hesitant. He wasn’t sure if Simon could keep me happy with his busy schedule. He warmed up to Simon pretty quickly— as people normally do, it’s impossible not to love him instantly— and has been looking out for his best interests. My father has connections with some of the best lawyers and agents in hockey and he quickly got Simon set up with a whole team behind him. 

The first thing Simon wanted was to set up a charity, or a foundation, to help kids who were in his position. Kids, who were stuck being shuffled from foster home to foster home, find hope and happiness through playing hockey. We discussed the idea, one night in bed. We were thinking of using the charity to pay for a group of kids to attend hockey camps and be given a chance to grow, like he was. He asked me and my father to help with the logistics of setting up the foundation and to promote. I gladly took it on, I was as excited about it as he was. 

We had several people scouting for kids in disadvantaged areas and foster homes who had a fire and passion to play hockey. We would then select a few lucky candidates to sponsor while they got trained in camps and honed their skills. 

My job, within the foundation, is to run the management side of things. Communicating with benefactors, and setting up press junkets for promotion opportunities. I also make sure that the finances are all in order, and that our accounting is up to date.

It’s been our little vision, our shared goal, our dream. 

Every so often, I’ll go check out one of the camps and watch them play. I do miss being on the ice sometimes, and this keeps me as close to it as possible. 

My father has suggested that I start to write books about hockey and its history. I can’t say that it isn’t tempting to me. I have been doing a bit of research here and there. Maybe in the future, when things become more settled, I’ll look into writing more, and researching.

But for now, I can’t complain about my life here, with Simon, even though I have to share him with the rest of Canada. It’s harder when he’s gone on “away games”, when the melancholy and the loneliness would hit me. 

He’s been quieter lately. Staring off into the distance and forcing a smile on his face when I rub his shoulders. Diverting conversations, when I try to get him to talk to me. I should be worried, but I have faith in us, I’ve always had. 

I just wish I knew what to do to get him to open up . I want to rub the anxious look off of his face and hand feed him some Timbits.

Like tonight… Past midnight, and he isn’t in bed yet. 

Come to think of it, I don’t think he’s in the condo either.

I’m in my fancy pyjamas, so I change into a Habs t-shirt (we got a whole bunch of merch and gear when Simon signed with them), and some Roots sweatpants before exiting our bedroom. 

Our condo isn’t massive, but it’s good enough for the two of us. Two bedrooms (we use one for ourselves and the other as my office). The kitchen is big enough for Simon to indulge in his baking hobby. There is a Nespresso machine and a Vitamix blender sitting side by side, another reminder of our shared lives. 

The living room has enough space for a sectional couch, along with some bookcases, and a television set. Our walls are a mish-mash of hockey players and famous singers, with the odd sprinkling of paintings and prints from local artists. 

I already know where to find Simon as I make my way to the elevator. We’re on the sixteenth floor of this complex, but Simon will most likely be spending time on the fourth (that’s where the workout room is located).

I can hear him before I see him— his grunts and growls are so predictable— and I imagine he’s taking whatever is bothering him out on some unfortunate piece of equipment. 

Typically, the room closes at 10PM for everyone in the building, but Simon has an in with the security (he thinks it’s because he played for the Rockets; I think security has a fondness for Simon’s baked goods), so we both have an extra key to the room. Sure enough, there Simon is, abusing an innocent punching bag. He doesn’t notice that I’ve even arrived, so I take a seat on one of the weight machines and just watch him. 

Simon isn’t a punching kind of guy, but God does he ever look amazing when he works out. He’s so focused, directed, aiming his punches perfectly and dodging the bag as it comes back. His muscles are straining against his shirt as he pulls back and connects his fist to the bag. His curls are bouncing wildly and partially obstructing his vision (idiot forgot to push his hair back again). I want to go over and push them off of his face, but I know that when Simon is focused like this, it’s best to leave him alone. 

“You know, Michel isn’t going to be happy if you break that thing.” 

Simon finally notices me staring at him, he sighs heavily and goes back to beating up the punching bag.

“I don’t need Francine and her damn condo association people banging on our door because you broke gym equipment.” 

Simon doesn’t respond to me, he just continues to punch away.

“Though, I’m pretty sure she and Voula pocket some of the money. There is no way that new elliptical machine costs as much as they claim.”

He doesn’t look up. Simon is impossible when he’s like this. Mind you, he’s stopped punching the bag with such ferocity, so I take that opportunity to slowly approach him. I grab one of his roughened hands and clasp it to mine.

“Love, it’s nearly midnight,” I whisper softly to him while rubbing his fist with my thumb. “You need your rest so that you don’t get beat up tomorrow. The last thing I need is Dev being a dick about my boyfriend taking a slamming that he can easily avoid.”

Simon scoffs and shakes his head. “Dev’s a moron. Do we really care what he thinks?”

Ok… he’s talking. This is good. 

“Yes, but he’s our moron, so we tolerate his crap.”

“Is that French kid coming tonight? The one he’s been hanging around with?”

“Who? Niall? Probably. Dev won’t shut up about him.”

“What kind of French name is Niall anyway?”

“According to Dev, his mom’s Irish and his dad’s French.”

I know this conversation isn’t really about Dev’s new friend, but Simon’s stalling. He needs to come to his words on his own. Through random comments and observations. I let him lead me through this. It was frustrating at first, and I would often demand that he just tell me what was bothering him. But pushing Simon only makes him close up even more. So I let him be. He starts lightly punching the bag again, and I step back. 

“I spoke to Gareth the other day,” he starts.

“Yeah? And how’s he doing? Is he still playing?”

“He wanted to call and congratulate me. He’s teaching phys. ed. at the high school, back home.”

“Since when have you and Gareth been clo-”

“He’s seeing someone,” Simon interrupts me. 

I scoff. “Someone can finally tolerate his arrogance. They must be a saint.”

“It’s Rhys.”

His punching has picked up again, and I’m left a little shocked by this revelation. We didn’t know Rhys all that well. He’s Coach Mac’s nephew, and would come every so often to watch the games. Gareth always made sure to include him whenever we were hanging out at his place. I never really understood why, until now. 

“That certainly explains a lot…” I say to myself. 

“Apparently, they’ve been seeing each other for years! ” He gives the bag a solid punch, and I need to back up. 

“But he never wanted to say anything.”

Punch, punch, punch.

“Because he was afraid of the repercussions!”

Punch, punch, punch.

I try to reach for him, but he isn’t stopping. 

“Simon…”

“But he left! He gave it all up to be with Rhys! He said that being with Rhys meant more to him than hockey.”

He gives the bag one final powerful punch and dodges out of the way. He goes to sit down against a wall, holding his knees to his chest. I follow him there, sitting beside him and rubbing his back. This is good… This is progress. 

“Now, we’ve got Dev hanging out with this guy! Are we supposed to believe that nothing is going on between them?!”

“Simon…”

“And he left the game too! Is this my life now? Having to choose between playing hockey and having you?!”

He’s tugging at his curls. I hate when he does that, they get all frizzy and puffy. The weight of what he’s just told me has settled in my heart and is constricting it. Of course that’s what this is all about. We’ve had this conversation before, many times in fact. When we moved in together, into this condo, we knew that he would have to pretend like we’re just best friends (well, we are— that hasn’t changed— we’re just more than that now). 

The hockey culture hasn’t changed. Sure, the NHL says they’re an inclusive, welcoming space, but I hear the shouts and insults from the stands. The despicable comments are very much still a part of hockey life. Not to mention players caught using homophobic slurs aren’t given much save for a slap on the wrist and a light suspension. 

And I won’t even start on online hockey commentaries and thought pieces. 

It wasn’t a question. We would have to remain in the closet. At least, for now. 

He complained about the situation far more than I did. I knew what I was getting into and it was worth it for me. To be with him, to hold him and have him. To be the one he spoke his innermost thoughts to. 

I can deal with everything else. 

Simon is leaning on my shoulder now. His body is shaking with a few choked sobs. I trail my fingers across his back and hold him close. 

“I’d do it… In a heartbeat,” he whispers.

“Do what?”

“Give up hockey.”

My back goes ramrod straight. 

“You will do no such thing, Simon! Hockey is your life!”

Simon sits up and grabs my hands. 

“ You are my life, Baz! You’ve always been my life!”

I shake my head. I can’t believe he’s actually considering this! The absolute stooge! “Hockey was all you had before you met me! I won’t allow you to give that up!”

Simon growls and clenches his fist. He’s getting frustrated; Good. I can handle a frustrated Simon Snow Salisbury. 

He holds his head in his hands. “I fucking hate this! I see the team with their wives and girlfriends, and all I want to do is… I just…”

I continue to rub his back. “It’s ok… Take a deep breath.”

“I want the world to know how much I love you!”

I shift myself to face him. My hands find their way to the sides of his face and gently lift it up. His eyes are red and his face is covered in splotches. There are tears forming and he looks so… tired and defeated. 

I wipe the tears from his eyes, and give a small kiss on the tip of his nose. 

“The world needs to know jack-shit about us! I love you, and you love me. Those who matter to us know, and that’s what’s important.”

He tries to shake away, but I hold him steady. 

“You know that if I’m ever outed, that’ll be it right? They’ll probably bench me for the rest of the season, and Don Cherry will have a fucking field day!”

I roll my eyes. “Don Cherry is a fucking racist and a bigot! He’s a bitter, old neanderthal, who derives a sick pleasure out of bringing everyone around him down!” I run my fingers through his thick curls, twirling them in my fingers. I notice that Simon’s breathing has evened out. “Besides, if they try to kick you out, you’ll just join a Finnish team! Or maybe play with the Swedes!”

Simon snorts. “You hate the cold.”

“I hate bigotry more.”

He gently grabs my hand and stares at it. His rough finger is tracing lines across my palms. 

“You deserve more than this, Baz. You deserve to have someone kiss you under the stars and hold your hand. You don’t deserve this .”

I lean towards him and kiss him on the lips. He’s such a stubborn mule. I’ll have to kiss him again and again until he understands that I don’t want nor need anything more than what we have right now. 

“I deserve you, Simon Snow Salisbury. I chose you when we were eighteen, and I still choose you now, at twenty-two. I’m not going to change my mind.”

He sighs out, “What if I play for many years?”

“You could play for a lifetime, and I’ll still be around to yell at you when you’re being obtuse.” I give him a playful grin and cock an eyebrow at him. “Well, unless you lose to Arizona…”

He starts to laugh. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Arizona sucks.”

I lift his hand and give it a small kiss. “We’ll figure everything out together. You aren’t going to push me away and I’m not going to get fed up and leave you. We’re still a team.”

He smiles and nods. I think I’m finally starting to get through to him. He can be so thick-headed sometimes, but there is a way to get through to him. You just need to be as equally stubborn. 

Thankfully, I’m the perfect match for him. 

I tug at his hands. “Come on… We should get going to bed. We have to make sure you’re good and well-rested. The Habs will be thanking their lucky stars to have nabbed you.”

Simon laughs as I pull him up. He wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me into a deep kiss. I close my eyes and hold him close. It isn’t a hungry, fervent kiss. It isn’t even a soft romantic kiss. It’s more like a deep, soulful kiss. It’s the kind of kiss you would have with someone you’re completely devoted to. The type of kiss you would share with someone who knows every facet and every piece of you. It’s the type of kiss that sets your insides on fire and lifts you off of your feet. 

“You know I love you, eh?” 

“Dense Maritimer… Of course I know.” I kiss him again. “I love you too.”

We exit the workout room, holding each other’s hands. Simon’s leaning to me, and it warms my heart to know that he’ll still talk to me, that we’re not in the process of losing sight of each other. 

I nearly miss him when he leaves the next morning. 

He tries not to wake me up (I’m a light sleeper), but I always feel his movements when he gets out of bed. 

“Not so fast,” I mumble into the bedsheets. 

“Go back to sleep,” Simon whispers.

“You have to kiss me. You always kiss me before you leave.”

“You’re such a baby, Pitch. I swear to God.” He laughs as he says it. Simon leans down, smiling as he kisses me. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down towards me, smothering him with my own kisses. 

“You’re also such a pain in my ass,” he mumbles against my lips. 

“Oh shut up, you love me.”

He pulls away and smiles. “I really do,” he says as he kisses my nose. 

“Beat up some Leafs tonight, eh?”

“Baz, that’s your father’s team.”

“I’m in love with a Canadien . I’ve switched my allegiance!”

Simon rolls his eyes and playfully pokes my forehead. 

“Hoser.”

“Goon.”

We kiss each other one more time, and then he’s headed out the door. 

It makes me happy to see some of the old members of our team showing up to Simon’s first game. It was not easy to get tickets for all of them, but a few were able to make the drive in order to lend some support. 

Dev’s waving me down from across the parking lot, (he’s actually been in the process of moving here, himself) decked out in a Habs scarf and toque. Niall is beside him, jumping up and down in excitement. He’s wearing an old Price jersey and has painted the logo of the Montreal Canadiens on his cheek.

I think it’s very sweet of him, albeit a little over excessive.

It doesn’t escape my glance that Niall has his arms wrapped around Dev’s waist, along with the soft looks Dev gives him… Yeah, my cousin is not the subtle type.

I meet the remainder of “les boys” (as Niall calls them) and we get settled into our seats —front row, centre ice, where all the action is.

I can see Simon sitting on the bench. He looks absolutely stunning (he’s always stunning), but dressed in the red and blue jersey, he’s truly something else. I can tell that he’s nervous by the way he keeps chewing on his mouthguard (disgusting), and tapping his stick in anticipation.

He doesn’t start in the first period, nor does he play in the second or third. We’re almost done with the period and I start to get really antsy… The scoreboard is tied at 1-1, and it’s a pretty big chance that they’ll go into overtime. 

Niall’s been screaming the entire time (“Patin, câlisse!!” and “Lâche pas, les gars!”), while Dev’s been nervously drinking overpriced shitty beer (Molson Ex— not as terrible as LaBatt, but still pretty disgusting). My eyes have stayed locked on Simon the entire time. The coach leans over to him and whispers something in his ear. Simon sits straight up and taps his hockey stick even faster. 

I nudge Dev. “He’s going in for overtime!”

Sure enough, overtime starts and Simon gets substituted in. We start shouting and hollering, banging our palms against the glass. Niall starts loudly singing “Olé! Olé, olé, olé!” and getting the crowd around us riled up and singing as well. 

Simon is a powerhouse on the ice. He’s all focused energy, bursting out in a beautiful explosion of ice and sweat. He sees what he wants, and attacks, no second thoughts or judgements. He doesn’t second guess himself and he doesn’t think. It’s exactly like when he kisses me. All power and control. Simon skates across the rink, his anxious energy directed towards one goal; Defend the players and steal the puck when you can. 

He charges and crashes and body checks several players bigger than he is (it’s a lot hotter than I care to admit). I hear a comment from behind me. Some idiot shouts out that the Habs have just found their new Laraque. 

I roll my eyes (just you wait and see… Simon is more than just team muscle). 

He manages to steal the puck and is gliding beautifully across the ice, deking players as he goes, and passing the puck to his teammates when he can. I find myself bouncing with anticipation as he gets closer and closer to the goal. I follow his gaze towards an open player. 

He passes.

The player receives. 

He shoots…

“ET LE BUUUUUUUUUUUUT!!!!!” Niall shouts. 

I scream and slam my body into Dev. He grabs me in a massive hug while messing up my hair. He then turns to Niall and they grab each other in a passionate kiss (I fucking knew it). 

Simon celebrates with his team –his boys – and they’re hugging and tugging at each other’s jerseys. I’m already planning our quiet night in my mind. Simon skates towards centre ice and lightly taps our section, smiling at me. 

He did it… They’ll truly see him for all that he is now.

The ice is his place, his domain, his home . 

Hockey was made for guys like Simon Snow Salisbury. 

And he belongs here. 

Chapter Text

Now the final flick, of a hockey stick, and the one gigantic scream.

"The puck is in! The home team wins!", the good ol' hockey game.

BAZ

Simon Snow Salisbury is beautiful.

He’s beautiful, even when he’s laying on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. 

He’s beautiful, even when he refuses to eat anything, except for ketchup chips and goddamn LaBatt (I swear to Christ, if I have to smell LaBatt on his breath again, I’m going to be sick).

He’s beautiful, even when he avoids me over and over again. He avoids talking to me, because he doesn’t want to risk talking about the one truth that’s been hanging over us like a dark cloud for the past several months.

Simon’s hockey career may be over.

We didn’t think that hit he took would end being as bad as it was. Simon has taken so many hits in his short career, and even though they still stress me out, I’ve gotten used to them. I thought this wouldn’t be any different.

That is… until he didn’t get up. 

I was there when it happened –I’m always there when Simon plays at home–, and at first the game was pretty uneventful. The Habs were beating the Boston Bruins 4 - 0, so I was looking forward to a post-game celebration, featuring a warm bath, some champagne, and a full body massage for Simon (he loves it when I rub his back, especially after a rough game, and I love being able to touch him, and to share that moment of intimacy between us). 

I had missed the hit as well, I was told afterwards what had happened. The accident happened towards the end of the second period. I had turned away for just a second to speak to one of the wives when I heard gasps from the room, and screaming from the crowd. 

I didn’t think it was Simon, lying motionless on the ice. But as soon as I saw his teammates gathering around him and heard the chants of “Snow! Snow! Snow!”, I knew.

Simon was lying on the ice. 

He wasn’t moving.

His arms were splayed in front him.

Medics were rushing towards him.

The crowd was screaming.

Simon wasn’t moving.

Philippa (one of the wives), grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away from the window of our viewing room. She was trying to drag me to the exit. 

To rush me to the locker room. 

Where the medics would take him before transporting him to the hospital.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t move. 

How could I move when Simon wasn’t moving?

His face was pressed against the ice. 

At one point I could no longer hear the roars of the crowd, screaming at Simon to get up, and booing the player who had done this to him. I could not even register that the other wives and girlfriends of team players were shaking me, trying to get me to snap out of it or even to move. The team knows that Simon and I are more than just roommates. They’ve accepted it as best as they can, so I’ll often watch Simon’s games with the significant others (unless Dev and Niall join me). 

According to Philippa, all I kept saying was “Babe… please get up… you have to get up… please…”

He never got up. 

But he did open his eyes. 

Another person in the room –Erin, I believe– pointed it out as they watched the commentary. 

The next thing I remember was being dragged out of the room by Philippa and one of the managers for the team. They herded me into the locker room while I waited to see him. 

It took everything in me not to throw myself onto the gurney. He looked battered, his eyes looking so lost and scared and his hand looking for mine to hold it. 

I did… I held his hand until the ambulance arrived, and he passed out again.

He looked so small… so broken. 

But I hadn’t lost him. He was still my Simon. 

I wasn’t allowed to be there when he woke up. I’m not considered family, since we aren’t married, or even considered common-law spouses. To the doctors and nurses treating him, I was just his roommate and the genius business partner who ran his foundation. 

It didn’t matter that I’d told him I loved him every night for the past six years. It didn’t matter that I’ve known him practically his whole life, and that I currently know him better than anyone in his life. 

I couldn’t make any medical decisions for him while he was asleep. That was up to the doctors themselves (along with persuasion from the team management, though I’m pretty sure I heard more than one doctor yelling at them to go away). Technically, his grandmother is his medical guardian, but she has been far too sick to travel the 8 hours to get here from London (Ontario). 

I went to visit him almost everyday, going between the hospital, and dodging the media circus gathered around the hospital entrance. My father called me several times, to both check in on Simon and to lecture me on going to sleep every once in a while. 

I would leave when visiting hours were over, but I couldn’t sleep. All I wanted to do was stay with him to hold his hand, and push the hair from his face. I wanted to kiss him and tell him that he would be alright. That I would always be there for him, no matter what. 

But I couldn’t, because the staff is rabid here, and in Montreal, where hockey is a religion, any bit of gossip is dissected, over-analyzed, and used as the big story for the next up and coming sports journalist. 

Simon deserved better than that. 

So I was careful, hiding my sorrow and worry under a mask of concern for my best friend, and a cool assurance that he would be alright. 

It drove me crazy. Not knowing what was going on. Being treated like Simon’s dirty little secret. Though it had never been quite as high before, this was the price I had to pay for being with him. I had to refrain from holding him as the doctors told him the severity of his injuries (a severe concussion, along with a fractured 4th cervical vertebrae) and warned him that he may never walk again, let alone play hockey. 

I sent a message to my father, explaining the extent of Simon’s injuries. He had called me not too long afterwards, worried for Simon’s future, as well as my own well being. I tried to convince him that Simon would be alright and that I was handling things perfectly well, but he knew me well enough to know that I was lying.  

“Baz, You cannot be serious right now! It’s a damn miracle he pulled through at all!”

I was in my apartment, pacing nervously, trying to keep my cool while on the phone. 

“Don’t you think I know that?!”

There was a long silence. I could hear my father sighing heavily on the other end of the line. He was thinking about something, possibly what to say to convince me to see reason. 

“I am going to follow your lead on this, Basil. You know Simon better than anyone.”

I had sunk to the couch at this point, head resting on my hands, trying really hard not to cry on the phone. 

“Dad, he needs hockey. It’s his whole life.”

“He needs you. You’re going to have to make him see reason.”

“He’s not in the mood to listen to anyone,” I sighed. 

“He’ll listen to you. He always has.”

I didn’t have much to say after that. I knew deep down that my father was right. Simon’s career was never going to be the same, but I didn’t want to be the person who had to break that reality to him. I wanted to still believe that despite all of this, he would still be the same. 

He would still be mine. 

He looked so lost after coming home from the hospital, refusing to look at the cameras and reporters who surrounded him. At home, he refused to talk to me. I first thought this was him getting used to his situation, but it never got better. As time went on, he receded more and more into himself. I did my best to get him to talk, tried to get him to open up to me… But he refused. It was like living with a ghost.

I wanted to believe that he could come back to me; He was there, somewhere deep down. I knew he was.

He was lost, yes, but he was still the boy who could make me laugh and get me to loosen up by dancing with me in our kitchen. He was still the boy who would surprise me with a breakfast made up of pumpkin pancakes and caramel-chocolate drizzle. 

His heart has always been pure and good and beautiful, loving everyone fully and unapologetically. 

Still he growled and swore at the physiotherapists as they tried to help him. He struggled so much during the sessions, that he’d come home moody and angry and not wanting to talk or do much else, except sleep. 

But he was still my Simon. 

Yet he refused to take any calls from the team, or from the upper management. My father made good on his promise to step in and handle the team and the press, while Simon recovered. His team came out with a press release that Simon needed rest and privacy in order to recover to his fullest potential. He would be out for the remainder of the season, but there was hope for him to fully recover. 

Months later, and I want to believe he is still mine. Even though he is still having dizzy spells, and stumbling around the condo. The light and noise bother him more than usual, and he’s often left laying on the couch with a wet towel over his eyes. I would try to get him to come to bed with me, offering  to massage his back or prepare him tea, but he would refuse every time. At first, it was a soft “No, Baz, I’m ok”. That quickly turned into moments of bitter snapping and passive aggressive comments like “Gee Baz, tell me what it’s like to have a perfectly functional brain.”

It hurts, every time. The dirty looks, the cold shoulders, the way he would spew stinging comments at me, every time I tried to reach out. 

I still love him. Even though he’s lost and unsure of himself; even though his actions hurt me. I still love him. 

As the weeks went on, I noticed he would get more and more frustrated with himself. I tried to talk to him then, but he would fight me. Telling me that he was fine and that he just had a rough session. He would snap at me and growl in frustration when I pushed (and I pushed him often). He was fed up with me, I think. It came to a point where I would walk into the room and he would just glare at me, like looking at me was reminding him of everything wrong in his life.  

So I let him be, not forcing him to talk about his injury, and trusting that he would keep up with his appointments. And he did… for the most part. In fact, when he came home from the hospital, it was all he wanted to do. He would get up in the morning, and spend the day with the many specialists the team set him up with. A physiotherapist for his back, a neurologist for his brain, and a psychiatrist for his mood. 

He was still fighting, even though he would come home looking defeated. He would still do his exercises, and still go to his appointments. 

Looking back, I think I was in denial. Hoping that he still had the spark in his eyes, when it was evident that it was dying.I thought, maybe he didn’t need my help because he was getting the help on his own. Maybe I didn’t want to start a fight or a big thing with him, because in the end, at least he was still getting help. (Maybe I didn't want to push him even further, for fear that he would shut me out entirely). 

Should I have seen this coming? Should I have planned for this? 

I started paying more attention when the bad days started to outweigh the good, and he would spend more and more time on the couch, watching TV, eating those damn chips, and drinking that atrocious beer. 

I would leave for the day, having to do work with the foundation, and I would come home to find Simon, still on the couch, never having left. I might have tried to start arguments with him, just to get him off of the couch. I would ask him if he had bothered to clean the dishes, or to do the laundry. I even asked if he had gotten up to water his plants. He never answered me, just gave me an angry scowl before turning away. 

Something had to be done. The final nail in the coffin came when his neurologist left a message with me, informing me that Simon had been missing his check ins. The last time he had checked in was almost three weeks ago. I was so angry when I found out. I thought he was working at getting better, when for three whole weeks he was lying to me. iI felt betrayed, yes, but I also felt ashamed. I felt ashamed that I didn’t do good by Simon. I should have kept better tabs on him. I should have followed him to his appointments. 

I let him down… 

It felt like he was giving up… on everything, like he was forgetting who he was without the promising hockey career. It’s as if he didn’t know how to be Simon without hockey. His entire life had been defined by this one thing he had. How can he find new meaning in his life, when something that was important to him was snatched away so suddenly?

Once more... I'm ready to make a stand for him. I know he'll try to push me away again. But this time, I won't back down.

I arrive home to find him once again on the fucking couch. Once again he’s eating ketchup chips and drinking LaBatt. I sit down on the arm rest of the couch. Simon’s watching a game from last year being streamed online. The game is from last year’s Stanley Cup. This was the third game in the final round where the Canadiens were facing off against the St. Louis Blues. Simon keeps rewinding and playing a specific moment in the game, where he manages to steal the puck from number 27, and sinks it into the goal. I remember that goal. It was beautiful, and it earned him the spot of First Star for that game. 

I remember him calling me and telling me all the things he couldn’t wait to do with me, once he brought The Cup home. 

Looking back on it, it seems like another lifetime ago. 

I clear my throat, but Simon fails to acknowledge me there. He just keeps rewinding and playing the stream. 

“Doctor Waters called me today. He says you haven’t checked in with him in weeks.”

He’s completely silent. He rewinds and plays.

Rewinds and plays. 

“I have a feeling that you haven’t been going to physiotherapy either. You’ve stopped doing your exercises. When was the last time you took a walk outside?”

Rewinds and plays.

Rewinds and plays. 

I stare at him. He looks like a shell of the person he used to be and it’s killing me to see him like this. The light from his eyes is gone. He’s sagging into the couch cushions, his hair a long limp mess of curls spilling over his face. I turn to the screen and see him from last year, a completely different man. The man on the screen is full of energy, light, and happiness. The polar opposite of the man laying on the couch. 

Be strong, Baz. You need to find a way to get through to him. You need to fight.

“When was the last time you went to see Doctor Lebeau? You can’t keep missing your appointments, Simon! They’re supposed to help you!”

That gets his attention. He looks at me. And the look he gives was one I’d never thought I’d see again. It was the same look he would give me back when we were still fighting with each other. A look of resentment, of disgust. He slams the can of beer on the coffee table, and pauses the stream. 

“Help me with what exactly, Baz?!”

“To help you cope with everything that’s happened to you!”

He scoffs and turns away from me again. 

“Wouldn’t you love that? A nice, perfect, put together boyfriend, who doesn’t get migraines everyday and who doesn’t yell at you. Wouldn’t that be just fucking perfect…”

He’s glaring at me now. I’m getting furious with him. He’s been doing this a lot more lately. Trying to pick fights with me, to get me to say something hurtful and bitter to him. I’ve come close, so many times. I never do. I know that whatever I’m feeling right now, is nothing compared to the pain he’s going through. 

But still… I’m tired. I’m so tired and fed up with all this.

“Don’t you dare turn this on me, Simon Salisbury. You know damn well that all I want is to see you happy.”

He scoffs again and, I kid you not, rolls his eyes at me.

“You want to see me happy, do you? You can start by getting off my fucking back and leaving me alone.”

He starts the stream again and gets immediately lost in it. He plays and rewinds it again. I reach for the beer can and the bag of chips, but he tries to fight me for it. I give him an angry scowl and rip the bag away from him. He growls at me (fucking animal, I swear to God) and turns back to the TV. I put the beer and chips on the TV stand, away from Simon’s reach.

I hate this. I hate this so much. I hate seeing him like this… It’s almost as bad as seeing him motionless on the ice. 

Face down, not getting up. 

I try again, more gently this time. 

“Simon…”

“You know, that was it,” he gestures towards the TV.

“I’m sorry?”

“This moment. This goal. This win . This was my top achievement. It’s the only thing I will ever accomplish.”

Rewinds, and plays. 

Rewinds, and plays. 

I get up from the arm rest and kneel down, on the floor, in front of him. His face looks weary, drained of the light golden hue it always had. His blue eyes, normally so vibrant, look dull and watery. There are dark rings underneath them (he hasn’t been sleeping well, due to the migraines). He tries to look away from me, but I grab his hand and try to pry the remote from it. 

He tightens his grip on it at first, but I push him to talk a little more. I start threading my fingers through the cracks between his, and he glares at me. 

“Baz…”

“Simon…”

“Go away… please!”

I lean back, a little startled by his harsh tone. I take a deep breath. I won’t let him push me away. I’ve loved him for too long to let this be the ruin of us. 

I give his hand a strong squeeze and look into his eyes, even as he tries to look away from me, I keep staring at him.

“No. Not when you’re effectively making yourself worse.”

He looks back at me, and his eyes are pools of blue and gloss and pain. He furrows his brows, fighting to keep his tears from falling. 

“I want you to go away… Just… Go away!” His voice hitches at the end of the last word. My heart is breaking, and I want to look away. 

But I can't. 

I won’t run away from this, or avoid it, or pretend it’s not there. 

This is our reality. This is our life. 

And I’m fighting for us. 

“No! I am not going to leave you, Simon!” I try to keep my voice strong and firm, but the tears give away the fact that I can longer keep my own feelings in check. 

Simon cannot look at me. He tries to hide his face away and start to make himself look small, quiet. His arms wrap around his torso and he shakes his head at me. 

It’s the Simon that existed when I first met him, without confidence and happiness. The Simon that was making himself as small and quiet as possible.

He hasn’t looked this hopeless in years.

Looking at him, knowing that he’s reverting back to the angry, lonely kid from Nova Scotia, tears my heart in half.

And I break. 

“Simon… I love you. I love you more than anything. And I want to help you through this, but you won’t let me .”

I still hold onto his wrists, even though my heart is thundering. I know this feeling… I am familiar with this feeling. I need to keep going, I need to push ahead.

“But I see you on the couch and you’re not talking… or moving… or doing anything, and I’m so scared that I’m losing you. You’re going to a place where I can’t follow, because you won’t let me!”

His head snaps up, and maybe I’m being hopeful, but I think I start to see a small shift in his eyes. He’s softening up, coming to my defense again. Like he always did. 

I attack, and he’s got my back. 

I need to remind him that I’ve also got his. 

“Simon… we’re a team . You, and me. We’ve always been a team. Despite everything! Please… Let me be there for you…”

I give the remote one last tug, and he finally lets go.

I draw in a shaky breath, and turn off the TV. Simon keeps staring at the TV on the wall, not saying anything, not acknowledging what’s just happened. 

But his eyes say everything. 

“I… I can’t…”

It’s barely above a whisper, so I lean in closer to hear him. I keep a firm, but soft hold on his rough hands, and run my thumb over his knuckles, reassuring him that I’m still here. I’ve got him and I’m not letting him go.

“I can’t lose hockey, Baz! I’ll... I just… I…”

I don’t shush him. I don’t tell him to use his words. I just sit there, in front of him, letting my own tears flow. I feel so frustrated with him. I just want him to see that he’s worth the fight. I just want him to let me in. I give his hand a squeeze, reassuring him that I’m thee, and that he can go on. 

“Baz… I’ll lose you…”

I bring his hand to my mouth and give him a small kiss. 

“Simon, I am not going anywhere. I’m right here… I’ve always been here.”

He starts to cry. 

Slowly at first. A few tears brimming beneath his lids, struggling to stay where they are, and finally relenting, streaming slowly down his face. 

I gently reach over to him and brush away the tears with my thumb, but that only makes it worse. The tears come down faster, and he shudders. I start to push the hair from his face and risk giving him a kiss on his cheek. 

That sets him off. 

He’s sobbing now, his shoulders shaking as he cries into the couch pillows. I get on the couch and gather him in my arms and pull him close. I expect him to pull away from me, to push me on the floor and tell me to “fuck off”.  

But he doesn’t. 

He collapses onto me, wrapping his giant arms around my torso and holding me close as he cries on my shoulder. 

He’s shaking and drawing deep, desperate breaths, as he tries to gain control of his sobbing. I keep a tight hold on him, whispering calming sounds in his ear. 

“It’s all I have, Baz… It’s all I have…”

“What is, love?”

“Hockey! It’s all I have… It’s… it’s”

I rub circles on his back and softly shush him. 

“It’s what, Simon?” I whisper to him. 

He shakes his head and pulls away from me. He starts violently tugging at his curls, making them look even more disheveled. 

“It gave me everything I have! It… It’s what gave me you! ” 

I sit there, quiet and unsure of what to say to him. To think that all this time, one of the reasons he loved hockey was because it connected him to me. He’s looking away from me now, choosing instead to stare at the poster of Rocket Richard on our wall. I hold on tight to his hand and trace my fingers over the calluses that mark his palm. I have so much love for this man. All his lines, calluses and facets; every single one of them is something more for me to love and appreciate.  

It hurts to see him like this. 

“You have me , Simon...” I begin, but Simon pulls his hands away from me and pulls at the hem of his shirt. 

“I was supposed to be… I should have been… I’m not done yet! I wanted to do more! ”

I reach for his hand again, but he won’t let me have it. I settle on resting my hand on his knee and give it a little squeeze. 

“Your life isn’t over, Simon…”

Simon gives me a look of disbelief as he gets up slowly from the couch. He groans in pain as he angrily stalks away from me. I start to follow him, but he turns around suddenly and gets into my space. 

“It may as well be! What else do I have, if I don’t have hockey!?”

“You have your life, for one! You won’t be getting beaten up every freaking day! Once you go back to your doctors, you’ll have your health again!”

I’d be lying if I said that Simon’s retirement didn’t sound appealing for that reason alone. He’s had so many injuries on account of his reputation as a tough guy on the ice. He’s been checked, tackled, gotten into his fair amount of hockey fights. I would hate to see him come home with more and more bruises, wanting to set the player who’d hurt him on fire. 

Simon, once again, broken and beaten in front of me, and I have to wonder, how can I defeat the person hurting him the most, when that right now, is himself. 

“Bullshit! My back’s fucked! My brain is wonky! And I’m so angry all the time!”

“Those are all things that you can fix! Things your neurologist, your therapist, and your physio are trying to fix!”

I reach for his arms, but he pulls away from me again. I just wish he would stay with me… 

“They haven’t fixed me yet, have they, Baz?!” He practically spits out my name, like it tastes bitter in his mouth.

He’s being an asshole, but this is Simon trying to push me away. 

Fine. 

I can take his psychological deking.

“If you think it’s going to take a couple of seconds to make you all better, you’re terribly mistaken!  That isn’t how healing works! You suffered a traumatic injury! You almost died!”

I wonder how long I’ve been crying at this point. I’ve stopped trying to fight the tears, or the high pitch to my voice. 

“But you didn’t,” I say. “You’re still alive, Simon! That isn’t nothing!”

Simon looks away from me. I could swear he’s mumbling something, but I can’t catch what he’s saying, so I continue to speak.

“You have the Foundation as well. You’ve already helped so many kids out of bad situations! You’ve given them hope for a better life.”

He grunts at me. 

“What would the Foundation want from a washed-up loser like me?”

Now, it’s my turn to get angry with him. I refuse to let him put himself down like this. Not when he’s already suffered so much! 

“Enough!” I step in front of him and plant my hands on his shoulders to make him stay where he is, to listen and see me. “You suffered a life-changing injury through a dirty fucking play!” Simon scoffs and tries to look away, but I stand my ground. “Don’t scoff at me, Simon, I’m being serious now. You are still Simon Snow Salisbury! Allow yourself a bit of kindness for God’s sake!”

Simon still won’t answer me. He was holding himself tightly as I had my outburst, but his arms have loosened up, now that I’ve stopped. I attempt again to grab his hand. 

He lets me this time. 

“And… you have me.” I say.

He looks up and slightly frowns. 

“What?”

“You have me.”

He looks down again and his lip trembles. His tears, which, until now, were sparse, fill his eyes and overflow down his face— which has turned a vivid red colour. I want to hug him, but he’s shaking so roughly, I worry that I’ll make things worse. He lets go of my hand and nervously paces, grabbing at his hair again. 

“Do I? Do I have you, Baz?”

“Of course you do, Simon! We’ve always been a team, ever since we were kids. We’re still a team now, aren’t we?”

“It’s one thing to stay with me because…”

“Because of what?! Your fame? Your money? I need neither!”

“Because I was somebody! I won gold medals, and awards! I was somebody who could stand next to you… who… fuck! ”

He covers his face with his hands. I clench my fists and give him a moment to collect his thoughts. As much as I still want to shake some sense into him and yell until he understands, it won’t help. Not with this. 

“Go on…” I say, more gently this time.

“Who you could be proud to call your partner… your spouse .”

I unleash a breath I didn’t know was caught in my throat. I take him in my arms again and he fights me. He tries to push me away, growling at me to let him go and to get away from him. But fuck that! There is no way I’m letting him go again. There is no way I’m going to watch as he suffers quietly. 

I’ve spent my whole life fighting Simon Salisbury, and I’ll be damned if I let him push me away from him. 

This is a fight he won’t win. 

So I hold onto him and I cry with him, and eventually he stops pulling away. He relaxes and slowly wraps his arms around my waist and holds me close to him. 

I’m here, Simon… I’m here to bring you home.  

I love him, so much… Unconditionally and completely. I always have, and I always will.

I give him a kiss on his cheek and lift his chin so that his eyes can meet mine. I want him to know that I see him, under all those layers of anger and abandonment and pain, I still see him for all that he is. 

“You’re such an unbelievable idiot. Simon Snow Salisbury, I’ve loved you ever since you were a scruffy kid with torn jeans and a dirty hockey jersey.”

I kiss his forehead and continue. 

“I loved you even when you would scream and swear at me in that damn Nova Scotia accent. Even though I could barely understand you.” That earns me a laugh and an eye roll from him. I kiss the tip of his nose and still hold him close. 

“I loved you before the fame, and before we even knew that hockey would be in our futures like this.” He’s still crying, but the violent shakes have settled down and now, he’s just looking to me for comfort. 

“And Simon, no matter what happens, I will continue to love you, even after you leave the hockey rink.” Simon relaxes his head onto my shoulder, so I rub his back. “I’m sorry, but you’re stuck with me, Salisbury.”

Simon lays his head on my shoulder. I give his curls a soft kiss and continue to rub small circles on his back. I repeat what I’ve said before, hoping he’ll accept it this time.

“Your life isn’t over, my love. This is just the next part. Our part!”

He sniffles and looks back at me. I can tell he wants to believe me, but there is still some fear and uncertainty in his eyes. I move some of the curls from his face. 

“We will figure it out. We always do. You and I.”

He lays his weary head down once more, and I feel his curls tickling my neck as he nods. The struggle isn’t over, not by a long shot. But this time, we’re going to face it together. 

Simon goes back to therapy after this fight. I’ve started to go with him, to take a more active role in his recovery. I want to show him that he isn’t alone in this. He’s got me. He’ll always have me. So I sit outside the therapist’s office, reading until he comes out. We’ll then go to a cafe, where I’ll work on my book, while he writes out his thoughts from the session. 

He picks up his exercises again and starts to slowly improve his back and form. I’ve been helping him with his exercises, helping him keep on track with it and with the movements that are too difficult. Afterwards, I’ll bring him water and fresh fruit, and plenty of hugs and kisses for him. 

The migraines aren’t coming as often as they were, right after the injury, but they hit him when the light is especially bright. We’ve gotten black out curtains for the bedroom and noise-cancelling earphones for when they start. I bring him wet towels to put on his head and try to give him what he needs. Sometimes it’s space, and sometimes he wants me to hold him in my arms. 

We’ve slowly started to meet up with friends again, starting with Dev and Niall —who are busy themselves, planning their wedding— and eventually meeting up with my father in order to discuss what Simon wants to do with regards to his career. 

My father calls the team and sets up meetings with management, as well as THE press conference. 

The press conference happens a month later. Simon looks stunning in a crisp grey suit (one that I helped him buy), his hair has been styled very nicely, and he looks every bit the handsome man I am proud to have by my side.

He looks so nervous, playing with his cuticles and messing with the cuffs of his suit. I want to walk up to him and tell him to calm down and that everything will be alright. But this is Simon’s moment. Today is all about him. 

“Thank you, for meeting with me today.” He says. I’m sitting to the side with my father and Dev, who have steadying hands on both my shoulders. 

You can do this, Simon…

“You all know my story, so I won’t bore you with the gory details.” The crowd laughs at that, and I smile at him. He’s got this. 

I had helped him write his speech a couple of days ago. I told him to speak from the heart as I wrote his words down. 

“Hockey has always been my life. It gave me a hopeful future, it gave me life long friends, and it gave me the life I have now.” He glances towards us and gives me a small smile. My heart is just so full for him. 

“I’ve been officially diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome.” The crowd lets out an audible gasp and the cameras start to snap photos. I worry that they’ll trigger an episode, but one of the managers waves a hand for them to stop, and the crowd settles down. 

“Thanks. I have thought about my future in the League, and whether or not I should come back next season. And, I’ve decided that, at this point in my life, I will not be returning to the Montreal Canadiens next year.” The crowd starts to liven up, with reporters talking over each other and cameras going off all over the place. Simon puts his hand up, indicating that he’s not done. 

“I am also officially announcing my retirement from the NHL.”

The crowd goes nuts. They start shouting and waving their hands for questions. Simon turns to me and he’s wearing the biggest smile on his face. I give him one back and press one finger to my lips (our secret code for kissing). 

It’s done. 

He’s leaving hockey. 

Our lives together are about to start a new chapter. 

And I love him… I love him more than anything else in this world. 

Simon points to a reporter, ready to take questions. 

“Have you thought about what you would do with your life, without hockey?”

Simon laughs and looks at me. 

“I’m going to take a more active role in The Salisbury Foundation. Maybe set up an official hockey school for disadvantaged kids. Hockey will always be a part of my life. It’s who I am. And…” 

Simon looks at me once more and presses a finger to his lips. 

“It’s given me the love of my life. And I’m ready to officially begin this new chapter with him.”

The good ol' Hockey game, is the best game you can name. And the best game you can name, is the good ol’ Hockey game!