Archive of Our Own

         “I need help,” Nate says.

         From the other end of the phone, Sid gives an almighty yawn and then says “You guys need to draw more penalties. Go to work on the power play and you’ll definitely wear Dallas’ PK down.”

         “What? Not about the game ,” says Nate. “Christ, I’ve got half of the hockey world in this goddamn bubble with me, I think I can figure that out.”

        “Why the hell else would you call me at 2:30 in the morning?

        Oh shit, time zones. Right. “It’s captain stuff. I need help with Cale.”

        “You just have to put it in a smoothie with other stuff, I’ll forward you some recipes,” Sid replies. 

         Nate honestly doesn’t know whether or not Sid is fucking with him, so he decides to err on the side of caution. “Not the vegetable, Sid, the person. Makar.”

        Sid yawns again. “Oh yeah, rookie stuff. Sure, gimme a sec.” There’s a whole lot of rustling at the other end of the line as Nate curls up tighter in his hotel bed, trying not to vibrate out of his skin.

        Sid’s voice comes back, sounding marginally more alert. “Sorry, sorry. So. Rookie problems, first big playoff loss. What have you said to him so far?”

         Nate sighs. “The usual stuff, you know. It’s not your fault, we’ll get ‘em next game, offered to go over tape with him.”

         Sid’s silence is very judgmental. “...Sounds like everything you should be doing. What else do you want me to say?”

        “I just -”

        “And also, don’t you have other people you could go to? Your own captain, your coach, someone who’s in the same time zone as you?”

        “I -”

        “Cause really, Nate, I don’t know the first thing about the kid. How am I supposed to know what to do here?

         “Look -”

        “Also, I really don’t need to be reminded of the playoffs right now, you dick, it hasn’t even been three weeks since -”

        “He’s different ,” Nate bursts out, cutting off what was sure to turn into a long rant if he let it. “I can’t just use the same script on him as other rookies!”

        “Different how ?” Sid asks. He sounds like he’s working up into full on bitch mode, which would normally make Nate tread a little more carefully. But, well, this is important, and also, Nate is locked in official NHL branded quarantine an entire continent away from Sid, and doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. He’s sure Sid’ll get over it by the time they’re both back in Cole Harbour.

        “That’s the thing. I didn’t really know at first, but I’m pretty sure I’ve figured it out,” Nate says. “I’ve had rookies before, but none of them were like, prodigies, you know? So I have to be more careful than usual. He’s the whole future of this damn franchise, what if I don’t say the right thing, and like, dent his confidence for life?” Nate can hear his own voice speeding up, but doesn’t even bother to try and stop it. “Then he’ll hate me and when the media asks him why the Avs haven’t won anything, he’ll have to say it was because MacKinnon did such a shitty job of helping him out in his first playoffs!”

        “Ok, wow,” Sid says, sounding slightly confused but much less bitchy. “Look, you know his development isn’t on you, right? I mean, sure, you have an A, you can be a role model for him. But he’s got dozens, hell, probably hundreds of other people that want to see him succeed. What you say or don’t say isn’t life or death, here.”

        “Yeah, but like I said, he’s different,” Nate says, fully aware both that he’s whining and that there was a time when he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to Sidney Crosby in this pathetic-ass voice. “Look, you’ve got that d-man, Marino, right? So that’s kind of the same situation I’m in with Cale. What did you say to him, after the series?”

        “Again, thank you for bringing that up,” Sid says wryly. “I mean, I mostly just told him the same stuff you’ve already told Makar. Future’s bright, we love having him on the team, all that. He’s a d-man, you know? So I mostly leave the mentoring thing to Tanger and Jack. I know how to delegate.”

        “You mean you’re a sore fucking loser so you let the other guys deal with it.”

        “That too,” Sid yawns again. “Look, Nate, I wish I could help you more, but that’s all I’ve got. You talked to Landeskog about this?”

        “He told me I was overreacting, and to worry about the next game,” Nate admits.

        “Sounds like good advice to me,”

        “But Sid -”

        “Oh my God,” Sid interrupts. “You’re playing the Stars, they’ve got their own baby d-man wiz. Ask Benny or Seggy how they deal with Heiskanen, alright?”

        “That’s...actually a pretty good idea.”

        “I’ve been known to have those sometimes. Can I go to bed now, please?”

        Nate exhales, still pretty wound up but less tense than he’d been before the call. “Yeah, yeah, get your beauty sleep, old man -”

        Sid hangs up the phone, which is honestly a fair reaction.

        Morning dawns in the Edmonton bubble, and with it comes dozens of bleary hockey players clamoring for food. Everyone has mostly been sticking with their own teams when it comes to training or hanging out, but mealtimes are a good time to see the others if you need to. Normally, the last thing Nate would want the morning after a playoff loss is to chat with players from the team that beat him, but this is special circumstances. Despite what Sid and Gabe seem to think, Nate knows he isn’t overreacting. Cale is special, and there has to be some way to wipe the frown from last night off his face.

        Nate grabs his appropriately hockey player sized breakfast, ignores where Josty and Naz are waving at him from a table full of Avs, and scans the dining room for the Stars. It’s easier to do than it had been just a couple days ago, with just the four teams left. 

        He spots them at a table in the corner. Benn doesn’t seem to be there, which Nate is glad of - he’s still a little salty about Benn’s plays on EJ from the night before, and isn’t sure he’d be able to have a real conversation with him without it turning into a screaming match. That shit has no place off the ice, and Nate’ll just have to give Benn a rougher ride next game to make up for it.

        Anyway, Seguin’s over there, along with Radulov, Pavelski, and a gaggle of the younger Stars players. Nate doesn’t know Seguin well, but he seems almost offensively outgoing and friendly, and Sid has always claimed he’s good people, so Nate only feels a little nervous as he walks over to the group of Stars and clears his throat to get Seguin’s attention.

        “Mack!” Seguin says joyfully, abandoning his half-eaten breakfast to jump up and give Nate a bro-hug. “What brings you over here?”

        Still seated, Pavelski gives Nate a little smile and nod of acknowledgement, while Radulov doesn’t even look up from the mountain of eggs he’s shoveling into his mouth. 

        “I wanted to talk to you about something,” Nate says. “Not game-related.”

        “Sounds serious,” Seguin replies sunnily. “If you want me to tell you how to break quarantine to hook up man, I gotta tell you, I’m a reformed man. I respect the bubble, and so should you.”

        “What?” Nate asks, feeling for the second time in about twelve hours that he’s having two totally different conversations at the same time. “No, I don’t want to break the bubble, I’m not fucking stupid. Just…” He glances around again. Pavelski has his eyes politely averted, chatting with one of the Stars whose name Nate can’t be assed to remember. Radulov appears to have moved on to his bacon, giving it the kind of single-minded attention that Nate normally sees on the ice. Some of the other assorted players, though, are watching Nate and Seguin like it’s the most entertainment they’ve had in weeks, which it very well might be. “Can we talk alone?”

        “Intriguing,” Seguin says with a wink, but he picks up his food and follows Nate to an empty table easily enough. He sits, takes a gulp of his coffee, then turns to Nate expectantly. “What can I do for you, Mack?”

       This is significantly more awkward than talking to Sid about this. Nate decides to just dive in. After all, it didn’t appear that Seguin knew how to use his brain-mouth filter, so why should Nate?

        “You know Cale, right?”

        Seguin takes a bite of some kind of pastry. “Sure, your rookie, right? Was a total pain in the ass last night, by the way.” A few crumbs spray out of his mouth as he talks, landing a few inches shy of Nate’s plate.

        “Oh my God, swallow,” Nate replies, at least glad that Seguin hadn’t made the same joke Sid had about Cale’s name. He only thinks about how that sounds when Seguin’s grin widens and he opens his mouth to respond with something Nate is sure would be mortifying.

         “Yeah, Cale. He took last night kind of hard, and I was just wondering if you had any, like, advice? About how to help him out?” Nate winces slightly at the question in his voice, half-expecting Seguin to pounce on the sign of weakness.

        Seguin makes a hilarious face. “Dude, why are you asking me ? You’ve got Landeskog, and also aren’t you like bffs with Sid? Hell, even Pavs or Jamie would probably be better at rookie-cheering-up speeches than me.”

        Nate isn’t so sure that’s true, but he lets it go. “Yeah, but Cale’s not, like, a regular rookie, you know? He’s gonna be a big deal for the Avs, and I mean, you guys have had Heiskanen for a whole year…”

         “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, dude, but I’m not sure I can help you,” Seguin says, going back to his pastry. He blessedly chews and swallows this time before adding. “Don’t get me wrong, I get the whole crazy d-man prodigy thing, but Miro doesn’t really need that kind of stuff? Like, nothing gets to him, it’s insane. He’s a freak of nature.”

        “I’m pretty sure all rookies need that sort of guidance,” Nate says.

        “No, he’s right,” comes a voice from Nate’s left, making him jump. “Miro is ice cold. No fear, no nerves. Like Terminator.”

        Nate whirls around in his seat to come face to face with what looks like the entire Finnish contingent of the Stars. Lindell, who had spoken, gives him a wide, slightly alarming grin.

        “No, more like Spock,” Hintz interjects. Nate finds himself scowling, fifth goal call from last night running through his head like a bad song. “Just like, smarter, on different level than everyone else.”

         “Playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers, that’s our Miro,” Seguin crows, getting up to ruffle Heiskanen’s hair. To his credit, Heiskanen does seem remarkably unfazed by the bullshit going on around him.

        “You still worried about Cale? Landy says you’re freaking out.”

        Nate does a double take at the familiar voice. “Mikko? What are you doing with these guys?”

        Mikko shrugs and says something in Finnish. Nate decides that he doesn’t have much room to talk and moves on. “And Landy has a big fucking mouth to go along with his big fucking head.”

        “Is one game, Mack. Cale will be fine,” Mikko says. “Besides, we just have warm-up last night, right?” 

        Mikko smirks as the rest of the Finns break out into outraged chirping in a mix of Finnish and English. Lindell even smacks him lightly over the head.

        Nate, abruptly exhausted, pushes his chair back from the table. “Sure, Mikko. Thanks anyway, Seguin.”

        He grabs his half-eaten food, appetite lost, and walks away from the others, who barely seem to notice him leaving as their chatter gets louder. When he’s a few steps away, though, someone catches his arm with a quiet “MacKinnon.”

        It’s Heiskanen, still looking completely calm. Nate is sure that he himself is visibly frazzled, but he makes himself stop to listen to what Heiskanen has to say.

       “Just tell Makar the truth, right? All he need to know.”

        And with that stunningly unhelpful advice, Heiskanen gives Nate a quick, careful smile, and disappears back into the group of Finns.

        Days in the bubble tend to swing wildly between way too much to do and nothing at all to do. Today’s not a game day, which would normally put it in the latter category, but last night’s loss means that the team has some work to do to prepare for game two.

        They all meet in one of the hotel’s conference rooms just after Nate forces himself to choke down the rest of his breakfast. He lets himself get caught up a little with the familiarity of his teammates, nudging Josty in the shoulder and making sure to give Frankie a little smile. Thankfully, EJ’s in the room too, and Nate makes his way over there to ask “What’s the news?”

        EJ rolls his eyes and blows some air between his missing teeth, making an irritating whistling sound. “What d’you think? Rest, rehab, and game-time decision. Fucking Benn.”

         “Fucking Benn,” Nate agrees, and stands there in companionable silence. Injuries are expected in hockey, and that goes double in the playoffs, but each time one of his team gets hurt, Nate still feels just as antsy and fucked up as he had the first time. Last night had not been good to the Avs, but EJ at a team meeting and standing up is a good sign.

        No Grubi, though, Nate notices as the rest of the team slowly trickles in. Cale is one of the last ones there, which is unlike him; Nate’s stomach sinks as he sees that Cale’s face is pale and he still looks off, and he’s about to go over there, no idea what he wants to say, but needing to do something , but he’s waylaid by Gabe before he can take more than a few steps.

        “Haven’t you gotten this out of your system yet?” Gabe asks as he throws an arm around Nate’s shoulder and forcefully steers him into one of the chairs at the front of the room. “It was a bad loss, but he’s going to be hearing all about it in this meeting, no need to talk it to death before Coach even gets here.”

        Nate is forced to admit that Landy’s probably right, although he doesn’t really appreciate Gabe using the captain voice on him. “Whatever,” he says, trying not to visibly sulk. From the look Gabe gives him and the way he hasn’t taken his arm off of Nate’s shoulders, he’s not fooling anyone.

        Coach walks into the room just then and gives a single, sharp clap to bring the group to attention. He waits patiently for the rest of the hockey players milling around to find a seat, and then begins.

        “First things first: Grubi,” he says, looking around the room. “Unfortunately, the injury was serious enough that he needed to leave the bubble last night to get it looked at. I can’t say anything more than that at the moment, but in the meantime, we’re going to proceed as though he won’t be available for at least the rest of the series. Which means, until further notice, it’s Frankie in net.”

        Coach pauses for a moment as they all clap and yell encouragement to Frankie, the guys closest to him clapping him on the shoulder. Frankie smiles and accepts it with grace, but seems apprehensive, as is Nate. He trusts Frankie completely in net, of course, but losing Grubi is still a huge blow to the team, and that’s without taking into account his worry for Grubi as a person.

        Still, though, Nate has a job to do. It’s the playoffs, and he needs to shift into that next man up mentality. All that matters is winning the next game, not getting into a 0-2 hole.

        “That being said,” Coach continues after the cheering has died down. “Last night. Guys, what the fuck was that?”

        It’s not an auspicious beginning to a tape session, to say the least.

        After about two and a half hours of tape, a good half of which was dedicated to a tongue-lashing, the team is set free with strict orders to eat, rest, hydrate, and be ready to come back twice as hard tomorrow. The Avs are a slightly subdued group as they leave the session, and Nate is sure to avoid Gabe’s gaze the whole time, not wanting to be captained at again. Unfortunately, it seems that Cale has had the same idea about Nate himself, as he puts his head down and motors away from the room. Nate finds himself staring after him as he goes, mind still working furiously on how to cheer him up. Sid had been useless, Seguin had been less than useless, and Heiskanen had been cryptic at best. Nate is no closer to understanding how to help Cale than he was last night, and he’s significantly more confused.

        As he begins to make his way towards the hotel’s gym, which has been beefed up for the purpose of hosting professional athletes, but is still far inferior to what he has access to at home, Nate feels an arm fall across his shoulders for the second time that morning. Expecting that Gabe’s caught up with him, he turns to say something probably horribly rude, and is surprised to come face to face with Marc-Andre Fleury.

        Nate has heard enough stories from Sid that his first instinct is that this is some kind of prank, but as he takes a closer look, he notices that Fleury seems a bit strained, more so than what pre-game nerves should do to him at this point in his career.

        “What’s up, Flower?” Nate asks.

        Fleury laughs slightly and shakes his head, falling easily into step beside Nate and releasing his shoulders. “I need a distraction right now,” he says vaguely. “Twitter, you know?”

         Nate doesn’t, having learned a long time ago to never read the comments, but he’s mostly just glad that he hasn’t been caught by Landy, so he merely makes a noise of agreement, and waits for Fleury to continue.

        He should have known better than to be relieved. Fleury gives him a smirk out of the side of his mouth, and says. “So Sid called me this morning, yeah?”

        Nate immediately groans. Of course he did. Why can’t any of Nate’s friends know when to keep their mouths shut? 

        “I heard you were having some rookie problems,” Fleury continues, smirk getting a bit bigger. “Frankly, I’m offended you didn’t come to me first! Tell Uncle Flower what’s wrong.”

        Again, Nate doesn’t know Fleury terribly well, but he’s close enough with Sid to know that he’s not getting out of this conversation unscathed. Thankfully, they’ve made it to the gym, so Nate has an excuse to avert his eyes from Fleury as he gets the bike ready to go. Undeterred, Fleury hops up on the one next to him, though he doesn’t seem to have any intention of actually using it.

        Nate begins to pedal. “I’ve had rookies on the team before, obviously,” he begins, still avoiding Fleury’s sharp eyes. “And it’s always been hard, their first playoff loss -”

        “What, the one to the 'Yotes didn’t count?”

        “That wasn’t a game one,” Nate replies. “It’s different, you know that. We haven’t been in the hole yet.”

        Fleury takes a sip of a water bottle that he’d produced from seemingly nowhere, and raises his eyebrows so high they almost disappear beneath his backwards cap. “And now you are. So?” he prompts.

        “It’s just...different, this year, with Cale,” Nate continues. The bike beeps, warning him that it’s about to raise the intensity level. Nate ignores it. “I’ve always known what to say to rookies to get them back in it. I’m not saying it’s been easy , but there’s like, a formula, you know?”

        Fleury nods and recites “We’ll get ‘em next time, onward and upward, you did great, et cetera, et cetera?”

        “Yeah,” Nate says. His legs, still sore from last night, are beginning to burn, but it’s a good burn. Healthy. “And that’s all I ever needed to say, and sure, it didn’t, like, make them all better but -”

        “But you didn’t care as much,” Fleury interrupts. He’s leaning back on the bike, still making no attempt to use it, and studying Nate with intense eyes. Nate ignores it and pedals harder. “And you don’t know why?”

        “I know why ,” Nate says. “You know what everyone’s saying about him, Flower. He’s the real deal, and front office is gonna move hell to keep him, as long as he keeps it up. I want him to be an Av for the long run, and -”, Nate breaks off, huffing in frustration as words desert him. “I guess I just want to make sure he’s alright, eh?”

        Fleury is silent for a second, and when his voice returns, it sounds a little odd. “And...that’s the only reason,” he says. “You care so much because he’s...better at hockey than any other rookies you’ve had.”

        And ok, that sounds bad. “It’s not like I didn’t care about the others,” Nate objects. The bike beeps again and Nate swears under his breath, speeding up his legs to match the new intensity. The burn is worse and better now, deep in his muscles. “I did, of course I did. But Cale is…”

        “Special,” Fleury finishes softly. “To you.”

        “To the team.”

        “To you,” Fleury says again. He’s silent for a moment, then he gets up off the bike and stretches, cracking his back. “Oh, MacKinnon.”

        The bike beeps. Nate frowns at it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

        “Nothing, nothing,” Fleury says airily. “Look, I don’t have any advice for you-”

        “Then why are you here, exactly?”

        “-But I know who might,” Fleury continues as though Nate never spoke. “I know Sid told you to talk to the Stars, because they have Heiskanen, right? But I think that’s the wrong approach,” he stops for a moment, considering his words. “Who is Makar always compared to, his biggest competition, his...how you say...most similar player?”

        “Hughes,” Nate grunts. His breathing is really starting to get labored now, and he has long since decided not to look at Fleury anymore. Nothing about this makes sense. 

        “And who’s the other team still in this bubble? You, the Stars, us…?”

        “Vancouver,” Nate gasps out. The bike signals the end of his session and he stops pedaling. “You think I should talk to them? They’re all babies, what do they know?”

         Fleury hops off his unused bike as Nate drains a water bottle, feeling much more tired than he usually would after a simple bike workout. “I’ve talked to Tanev before,” Fleury says. “He seems like he’s no-nonsense, takes no shit, you know? And his brother’s on the Pens, of course, so he knows Sid. I think he might have the answer you’re looking for.”

        Nate leans against the backrest of the bike, frustrated. “All anyone I’ve asked for advice has done is tell me to talk to someone else,” he complains to the ceiling. What good are you all then?”

        “I just like watching you squirm, mon chou ,” Fleury says. “And hey, you’ve been a good distraction. So thank you.”

        Nate looks up sharply to see that Fleury is looking strange again. “Flower, I’m sure you’ll get your crease back,” He says. “You’re one of the best in the world, you’ve got three Cups. Your coach will see that.”

        Fleury sighs, “ Tabarnak, I hope you’re right. Talk to Tanev, I think it will be very good for you, yes?”

        “Sure,” Nate says, and watches as Fleury gives him a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and then is gone, as quickly as he had shown up.

        Nate stares after him for a moment, only startled out of his own head when his bike beeps again, asking him what workout he wants. As he gets up to wipe the bike down, he pulls out his phone and shoots off a text to Sid:

        “U tld !?”

        Nate is used to waiting for ages for Sid to respond to him, so he nearly jumps in surprise when Sid texts back immediately.

        “Is he alright?”

        Nate frowns at his phone.

        “Wuz wierd, mayb bc of   thing? But not 2 bad”

        Again, Sid’s reply is almost instantaneous.

        “That’s not why. Don’t check Twitter, ok?”

        Sid telling Nate not to check Twitter is, like, the height of irony. Still, Nate had learned his lesson long ago, and he’s being entirely truthful when he sends back

        “I wont”

        He thinks about it for a second as he exits the gym and begins to make his way down the familiar path to his room, suddenly excited for a shower and a nap before lunch. He sends:

        “ thinks I shuld tlk 2 Tanev”

         “Abt Cale”

        He puts his phone away, and this time it takes Sid until he’s back to his room to reply.

        “Idk if that’s a good idea”

        Nate frowns again. Seeing Sid use text speak is always disturbing, but why would Sid not want him to talk to Tanev? From what he’s heard about the guy, he seems fine, so what’s the worst that can happen?”

        “Y not???”

        “I’m just not sure you’re ready to hear what he has to say.”

        This time, Nate, almost ready for a shower, has such a visceral reaction that he almost drops his phone in the toilet. What the hell does Sid think Chris Tanev knows about him that he won’t want to hear?

        Nate sends back a quick text:

        “???”

        But by the time he’s fallen into a fitful sleep, Sid still hasn’t responded.

        Nate goes down to lunch determined to get to the bottom of this Cale thing. Screw Sid, screw Flower, screw Seguin, and especially screw Gabe, who nearly gets Nate alone again before he uses some very slick elevator work to get away.

        No, Nate is going to talk to Chis Tanev, d-man for the Vancouver Canucks that he knows nothing about, and if Tanev has nothing to say? Then Nate’s going to drop it, focus on the series and bringing the Cup back to Colorado. This is a distraction he doesn’t need, and it’s that conviction that allows Nate to stroll right up to a table full of Canucks, duck Boeser and Pettersson’s glares, and say “Tanev? Can I talk to you real quick?”

        Tanev looks just about as confused as Nate has been feeling ever since he skated off the ice after a 5-3 loss and saw the desolate look on Cale Makar’s face. “What the fuck for?” Tanev asks.

        Nate would quite like to know the answer to that himself. “Look, would you just come with me?” he asks. “The quicker you do, the quicker I’ll fuck off.”

        Tanev appears to respect Nate’s daring, but refuses to go more than a few steps before he’s stopping and asking “Well? What do you want, MacKinnon?”

        If only Nate knew. “Look, Flower - Fleury - told me to talk to you. Cale Makar, you know, our rookie d-man, has been taking last night’s loss real hard, and he figures that since you guys have Hughes, you’d know what I can do to make him feel better?”

        Tanev gives a disbelieving little laugh. “Really? You, Hart trophy nominee good guy, best friends with Crosby, are asking little old me how to deal with your rookie?”

        Nate should have known this wouldn’t work. Hell, Flower was probably just playing one of his famous pranks, to try to distract from whatever the fuck is bothering him. “Look, if you don’t have any advice, just tell me and I’ll leave you alone,” Nate says irritably.

        Tanev looks at him for a second, and then a grin spreads over his face. It reminds Nate uncomfortably of Fleury’s. 

        “Does the kid know you want to fuck him, MacKinnon?” Tanev says, and Nate’s whole world.

        Just.

        Stops.

        Nate couldn’t tell you what he had for lunch. He knows that he sat with the Avs, that he talked with EJ and Gabe and Naz, but he couldn’t tell you what he said.

        All he remembers is the way he spent the whole time looking at Cale out of the corner of his eye.

        Because of course, Tanev was right.

        And of course, Nate had to be hit over the head with it before he realized it.

        When he thinks of it properly, when his brain stops shying away from this enormous thing that Tanev has opened in it with those five words ‘ you want to fuck him ’, it’s obvious.

        Nate has never been this invested in a rookie’s feelings because Nate has never had these sort of feelings for another rookie.

        None of the others had felt so important to the team because none of them had felt so important to Nate.

        It isn’t about Cale’s skill. It isn’t about how good a d-man he is, or how he compares to Marino, or Heiskanen,  or Hughes.

        It’s about Nate, and his feelings. If anything, Tanev hadn’t gone far enough, because as soon as those words came out of his mouth, “ you want to fuck him ’, Nate had known it wasn’t the whole truth.

        Sure, Nate wanted to fuck him. Who wouldn’t? But Nate also wanted other things.

        Cuddling with him in bed.

        Comforting each other after a bad game, and celebrating together after a good one.

        Meeting each other’s parents and siblings. Seeing each other’s hometowns, knowing what exactly brought each of them to this time, and this place, fighting for a Stanley Cup with the Colorado Avalanche in the middle of a global pandemic.

        And that is the reason why Nate finds himself outside of Cale’s door, without knowing how he got there.

        Because if it had just been about fucking him, Nate wouldn’t have bothered. Nate would have listened to all the voices in his head, his parents, his coaches, Sid, telling him that he can’t afford a distraction. Not right now, not in the second round. 

        But no, the second the words had come out of Tanev’s mouth, Nate had known they weren’t quite right.

        Nate doesn’t just want to fuck Cale.

        Nate is in love with Cale.

        It’s still one of the hardest things he’s ever done, knocking on Cale’s door. But deep down, he knows he’s just being practical, because now that he has this knowledge, how could he possibly think of something else? How could he focus on the playoffs, hockey, his whole damn life, knowing that he loves Cale?

        So here he is, heart in his hands, ready to tell Cale. Because anything, even rejection, would be better than Cale not knowing how loved he is, how good he is, how much Nate adores him.

        Even if Cale laughs, even if Cale is disgusted, he’ll know, and Nate will be unburdened.

        It seems to take an eternity for Cale to open the door, but eventually he does.

        He’s still pale, still obviously brooding over the loss, but Nate has never seen anything more beautiful, and he doesn’t understand how he didn’t realize it before.

        “Nate?” Cale says blearily. “What’s going on, am I late for something?”

        The earnest look in his eyes almost undoes Nate, because how amazing has Cale been? How dedicated, how driven, how ready to bleed and fight for the Avalanche, ever since the second he was drafted?

        Still, Nate doesn’t want to scare him off. If (when), Cale rejects him, Nate wants it to be easy, wants Cale to be able to say no without hesitation or fear, wants him to never, ever doubt his place on the team, in Nate’s life.

        So Nate is able to stay relatively normal as he answers in the negative, asks Cale for his permission to come in. Cale has obviously just woken up from a nap, and is looking at Nate warily, seeing his alternate captain here to talk with him some more about the disaster that was game one.

        Nothing could be further from Nate’s mind. There’s no Radulov, no Hintz, no Benn or Khudobin in Nate’s mind. Just Cale. 

        Cale, who doesn’t deserve to beat himself up for the loss.

        Cale, who deserves the entire world.

        “It wasn’t your fault,” Nate says. His voice is hoarse, and sounds foreign to his own ears.

        Cale looks down. “I know,” he says, clearly not believing it, clearly still putting the blame entirely on himself. “It’s a team effort, right? Win as a team, lose as a team.”

        He looks at Nate, trying to smile, trying to be alright, and Nate’s heart breaks again, as it has been doing over and over since those words left Tanev’s mouth.

        “It’s not your fault,” Nate insists, stepping closer. “Cale...you were amazing. Are amazing.”

        Cale looks up at Nate through his lashes. 

        Nate doesn’t know which way is up, which way is down. Who he is today, who he was yesterday. Doesn’t know anything other than the slight blush on Cale’s cheeks, the one put there by Nate’s words.

        “Yeah?” Cale asks. He’s still looking at Nate, and he takes a half step closer, just close enough to cause Nate’s heart to begin to hammer in his chest.

        “Yeah,” Nate confirms. He still doesn’t recognize his own voice.

        Cale smiles, the insecurity that has been on his face for the better part of a day melting away like it never existed.

        Nate exhales.

        Cale steps closer still.

        Nate inhales.

        They kiss.