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When the trade (trades, god) had first been announced, Nolan had actually been kind of jazzed about it. No more media with Sam fucking Carchidi, no more shitty fans calling him a useless bust of a second overall, chilling with Howdy and Crimms on a perennial Cup contender; things had sound pretty good. He’d had a couple of emotional days, sure, but mostly he’d just been excited.
Now, though, sitting in the sterile black-white-and-grey locker room in T-Mobile Stadium, his new jersey dull and grey on his chest, Nolan’s suddenly being hit with the realisation that this is it. Everything has changed and there’s no going back. No more Big Cat to hype them up, no more Hartsy doing his weird goalie shit, no more Beezy asking dumbass questions and getting chirped for it, all wrapped up in a violent blaze of neon orange. Nolan moodily shoves his feet into his skates and looks to his left to get TK to- oh.
Right. No TK.
Nolan hasn’t got anyone, anymore, to tie his skates and tease him about it, without making him feel stupid or incapable. His skates are kind of a vital fucking piece of equipment for playing hockey, and he knows he should be able to tie his laces by now, but he’s never managed to learn how to do it properly, no matter how many times he’s tried, and now he’s kind of fucking quietly panicking and-
“Hey,” someone says, and when Nolan looks up it’s William Karlsson, dropping down into the empty stall on his right and nudging his shoulder against Nolan’s. “Give ‘em here.”
Nolan is, like, pretty fucking confused, and it must show up on his face, even with his ‘stone bitch’ mask in place, because William gives him a wide, handsome grin and says, “Your boy in Philly, he told me I had to help you out with your superstition. Not tying your own laces, right? Put ‘em up and I’ll do them for you.”
And Nolan feels like he could fucking cry, again, as he puts his foot up into William’s lap and lets himself get looked after from all the way across the country.