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Patrick spends most of Thursday napping. He's still in pain, still angry enough to hide away from everything, and his mom giving him the freedom to do so. She's been hovering on the edges of his consciousness, letting him know she's around, but giving him the space to breathe as he desperately tries not to think about his immediate future.
He keeps waking himself up, his pillows not yet arranged in the right way to keep pressure off of his collarbone, trying desperately to find a position that won't disrupt what little sleep he can get.
"Sweetheart?"
Patrick groans, shuffling until he can see his mom in the doorway. "Yeah?"
She holds out his phone. "It keeps going off."
"I don't want to talk to anyone," Patrick says, grumpily. He knows what they'll be saying, their apologies, and he doesn't want to listen to those.
His mom looks unimpressed, but she places it on the nightstand anyway. He gives it a brief glance as she leaves the room, but doesn't reach for it. Eventually he's going to have to talk to some of his teammates at least, but everything is still too raw to think about.
He settles back into the bed, grateful when his mom walks back in, glass of water and pills in hand.
"Are you going to watch the game?" Her tone is light, but Patrick can read the concern underneath; she's already told him not to hide from it forever, but he doesn't know how to make her understand.
Patrick debates the answer; he doesn't want to, skin prickling with the knowledge that he's going to miss so much time, to have so much of what he was desperately hoping for taken away from him in a beat. "Not tonight."
Once she's gone, he turns on the TV, trying to find something low key. He ends up turning to the game, because even when he's on the verge of losing his mind over how much he hates this, he can't keep away. He's still tired though, feels the exhaustion down to his bones like he's done three straight periods on the ice, and ends up napping again. He sleeps deep enough to dream, though when he finally wakes, he doesn't remember much of it at all.
There are commercials playing and comes awake fully, wondering what the time is. His phone is vibrating on the nightstand, sliding across the wooden top, and Patrick reaches for it blindly, mind too fogged to think about what he's doing. He winces at the pain, biting down on a whimper as he blinks down at the screen. It's late, almost half eleven, and he knows the game has ended. The caller ID tells him it's Saader. He doesn’t want to answer, but slides his thumb across the screen anyway. "Saader."
"Kaner." Saader sounds like he's breathing a sigh of relief, which, okay, surely they can appreciate that he's hiding.
"What's up?" Patrick tries to keep his tone light.
There's a pause. "It's Jonny."
If there's one person Patrick's been trying desperately not to think about, it's Jonny. They haven't spoken since Patrick sent him a text about the hospital, telling him he was in surgery. He's contemplated talking to him a couple of times, but he knows how personally Jonny takes Patrick's injuries sometimes, and his behaviour on the ice directly afterward doesn't lend Patrick too much confidence in him this time around. "Yeah?"
Saader doesn't say anything for a while and Patrick frowns, worried. "He's doing pushups in the middle of the locker room."
It sounds stupid. It's nothing Patrick hasn't done himself a million times, but he knows there are media in that room right now, that Jonny hasn't been off the ice for long. "Give him the phone."
There's a beat and a rustle and Patrick can hear low voices through the handset. Jonny might refuse to speak to him, but Patrick's counting on the fact that he's only sent one text and Jonny's worried enough to want to talk. It's a slim hope, but what they are now is something more than just fuckbuddies, and he likes to think he knows what Jonny will do.
"What?" Jonny sounds gruff and pissed off. Patrick doesn't take it personally. Much.
"Hey," he says, closing his eyes at the sound of Jonny. He's a little embarrassed about how much he's missed him, even in the short time they've been apart. "I'm the only one that gets to be pissed off, here."
Jonny lets out a huff and doesn't say anything. Patrick refuses to be concerned; Jonny's hard work sometimes, but he's never going to be too much for Patrick to deal with.
"Stop frightening everyone on the team, dude, and put some clothes on."
"You can't possibly know what I'm wearing," Jonny says. There's another rustle, and the sounds of the locker room fade away. "How was - were you sleeping?"
Patrick picks at the comforter. "I was napping. Somebody was being super intense in the locker room and prompted an interruption of my nap."
Jonny breathes heavy for a minute and this might be harder than Patrick thought. "I wasn't being intense. I haven't - I didn't play well."
"Really?" Patrick asks. "I can see how all but two faceoffs and a huge ice presence didn't play well."
"You know what I mean," Jonny snaps back, almost immediately.
Patrick grits his teeth against the urge to argue back. He can usually handle Jonny when he’s being intense and wrapped up in his own head, but it takes so much that Patrick doesn’t think he’s in the mood for this. He’s the one who’s hurt and losing his season, but he can’t -
Jonny’s only like this because of Patrick, because he can’t do anything to help, and he thinks that he has to attack the game like it’s personally offended him.
“Look,” Patrick says, not faking how tired he sounds. “I get it, but I’m the only one that gets to be pissed off. I’m the one who’s not playing, who has to sit here and watch everything I thought I was finally going to get fall to shit.”
There’s another silence, and Patrick doesn’t expect an answer anytime soon.
Tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear, Patrick rubs a hand over his eyes. “You gotta be the one who gets everyone to the playoffs, man, ‘cause I can’t do it.”
Letting out a slow breath, Jonny says, “Yeah,” still too quiet.
There’s so much Patrick could say to that, so much he wants to scream about; this was his season, he was going to go the distance and fuck everyone else. He was going to drag the Hawks to the playoffs kicking and screaming if he had to, and then they’d fucking knock it out of the park. Now he has to watch from the sidelines instead and it’s a bitch, and he doesn’t need Jonny freaking out. “You’re better than that, dude. You got this, you have to have this. They need you to ride them all the way to the playoffs, not freak out in the middle of the lockeroom.”
Patrick doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying anymore, but it must be getting through.
“Fuck you,” Jonny says, but he’s not snapping anymore. “We’ll get there.”
“You better.” Patrick smiles. He’s struck by how much he wants Jonny there. “You coming over when you’re done?”
“You want me to?” Jonny sounds surprised, which fuck him, Patrick never told him to stay away.
“You don’t have to.”
There’s a muffled shout and Jonny’s letting out a frustrated sigh. “I have to go back, but you know I - I’ll be round, okay?”
Patrick closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillows, wincing again at the burst of pain through his shoulder. Fuck everything, he’s so done with today. “You better. My mom’ll let you in.”
“Your mom’s there?” Jonny sounds horrified and Patrick would laugh at him if it wasn’t going to hurt, so he settles for smirking.“I can see that, asshole.”
“No you can’t,” Patrick says immediately. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah.” A beat. “You know I-”
He doesn’t finish, and Patrick rolls his eyes. “Just get here, man.”
---
Patrick blinks awake when the bid dips on the other side. The curtains have been pulled and his pillows have completely fallen over. He doesn’t want to have to put them back up again, fuck it all, but now that he has company, someone else can help him out.
Jonny’s sitting on the other side of the bed, looking apprehensive and a little worried, which isn’t what Patrick wants at all. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Patrick says, voice rough with sleep. He tries to sit up and grunts. Fucking shoulder, he’s so done with this shit. Instead of having to shuffle around like an idiot trying to get comfortable, Jonny slides over, helping Patrick into a position more conducive to painless sleep and Patrick is so pathetically grateful.
“Is it-” Jonny frowns, like he can’t figure out what the hell he wants to say. It’s so normal and familiar that Patrick wants to stay here and pretend the rest of the world isn’t happening.
Patrick leans into Jonny’s shoulder, even if he’ll deny it to the end of his days. “It’s fucking painful, man,” he says.
Jonny curls an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, thankfully avoiding his collarbone, and brushes his nose against Patrick’s temple. “Thanks for calling.”
“Technically I answered,” Patrick says, even as something warm spreads through his chest. “You were scaring Saader.”
Looking appalled by the very thought, Jonny’s fingers twitch against Patrick’s arm. “I don’t handle it well.”
Closing his eyes, Patrick lets himself fall against Jonny, for the first time thinking that not everything was fucked up. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Jonny snorts. He kisses Patrick’s temple this time, free hand sliding under Patrick’s t-shirt, fingers warm against his belly. It’s the closest to comfortable that Patrick’s been since he came out of surgery, and he’s fucking missed Jonny so much. Not that he’s ever going to say that. “The Hawks are going to win the Stanley Cup.”
“Fuck you,” Patrick says, lips curving into a smile. “I knew that already.”
“You wanna know something else?” Jonny noses along Patrick’s jaw, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’m gonna win it for you.”
Patrick swallows, seeing the sincerity in Jonny’s eyes and fuck it, they don’t do this, but it’s everything Patrick’s needs. “You better.”
Jonny kisses him properly then, fingers light against his jaw. “I promise.”