Chapter Text
Wilbur can barely remember the first time he stepped onto the ice in little hand-me-down skates, the frigid rink air burning his lungs as he gasped in excitement. Of course, one thing he remembers is that it had been with Technoblade at his side, the two having met in kindergarten and their inseparability literally bringing their parents together.
To Techno, Miss Kristin was a nice teacher, but an even better mom.
But the only other thing Wilbur remembers when Phil carefully led him onto the ice, his old busted-up skates perfectly gliding along, is that he wanted to be just like Techno’s dad. He wanted to have some gold medals hanging up above his mantle, with a picture of him and his old hockey team waving their sticks high in the air around trophies, and a thick letterman jacket that was frayed at the edges of its ‘BRITAIN HOCKEY’ patch. Wilbur had originally wanted to be a figure skater like his mom and had tried, but after a few particularly hostile coaches and an easily avoidable injury, he switched to hockey with Techno. Surprisingly, to Kristin’s delight.
When they’d started training, Techno naturally fell to defense. He was always a good person to have behind you, ready to slam and rough house his way to a goal when they were kids. But as they got more serious, Techno became a goalie and Wilbur stayed as a center— the first position he’d picked as a teen.
Which was both a blessing and a curse some days.
Despite his typically calm nature when it came to things like school, Wilbur was a fierce leader on the ice. He and Phil were able to communicate through head jabs and looks that Wilbur could easily communicate to his team by just moving. With his parents as his coaches, Wilbur was a hell of a force to be reckoned with on the ice.
Techno was the same when it came to the head nods and such, but he was always more of a brute than his brother. As a goalie, his job was to protect one location from literally everyone else. So that naturally led to him being a bit more possessive of friends and family than most people. He also moved nimbly, despite typically being the biggest person on the ice, his moves were sometimes compared to that of a ballerina when he had to fill in for Wilbur when they put Schlatt in as goalie or when Wilbur was benched for a penalty.
Wilbur was constantly on penalty for fights, verbal or physical. Though he respected his referees and would let his mom take care of those calls, players were a different thing. They were his equals, and he was never afraid to bodycheck someone into place especially when it came to helping his younger players, like Quackity, who was constantly targeted for being shortest every single game.
If Wilbur was being honest, he’d rather take Techno than Quackity. There was always something about short players being the scariest.
Today’s game was against Team USA. A scrimmage in the conference before the Olympics. The game was going well for a USA vs England match, only a few altercations had flared, which was rare. Usually a fist or two would be thrown before half-time.
But that also was probably because Schlatt was benched for a penalty against the Spain team and Slimecicle was benched due to an injury. Those two as forwards were always taunting everyone they could (they were worse with Ted, too) and Phil seemed satisfied with his team being controlled (and winning, though he’d never admit that.)
Though, that only ever lasted for so long.
“Wilbur!” someone cried over the roar of the audience as they watched the clock count down the last few minutes of the game. They were winning, only by a point, and tensions were high as Team USA took as many shots on goal as possible. Wilbur’s goal was to keep it near their goal, shoot if he could make it, and backed up Quackity. Though this was all suddenly going horribly wrong, Wilbur’s head snapped aside as he backpedaled, watching as a clearly bigger player slammed Quackity into the wall and went to hit him.
“Mother— fuck !” Wilbur snarled, throwing himself across the ice to the pair and plowing the other guy to the side as he dug his skate into the ice, kicking up shavings with the force. A whistle blew, signaling what would probably be a penalty for Wilbur, as Quackity picked up his stick.
“Go Quack—“ Wilbur turns to call for Quackity to go to the bench, but the other player grabs Wilbur’s jersey and pulls him back by the shoulder pads. After a shocked gasp, Wilbur growls under his breath and turns before he slams the guy back into the wall of the rink and curses in his face. As soon as the player lands a hit on Wilbur’s helmet, his other teammates come up quickly to support him, as Wilbur’s players take them on in a rough brawl. Players shove, grab, and hit, not really knowing why the fight has started, but being happy to join in. The referees are able to split them up effortlessly, as there’s no genuine malice, but it’s harder for Wilbur and the guy he’s fighting. The two of them slide around on the ice a bit before the two finally make eye contact as the other guy spit at Wilbur. The guy — who Wilbur now recognizes as Dream, an old goalie for their team who used to terrorize Technoblade constantly, laughs mockingly at Wilbur’s shocked face at the fact he was literally just spat at.
“Had to come to your boyfriend’s help, Willy ?” Dream chided with his signature wheeze at the end of his sentence and Wilbur grit his teeth, bashing him down onto the ice and climbing on top of him with furious curses and spitting words. He doesn’t hesitate to get a few hits in, especially when Dream snags his helmet off and pulls Wilbur down by his hair into the ice.
It’s common knowledge by now that Dream and Wilbur hate each other, on and off the ice. Even though the press has no real idea as to why the two always end up fighting when they play together, it makes for good publicity and good bets. Plus, the media eats it up like they’re starving for more. Wilbur can't deny the power trip it gives him most days, considering he’s always seen as the winner. Dream flips on top of Wilbur for a split second, going to slam his head down into the ice, which— first of all, rude? When a goalie grabs Dream and basically clotheslines him off of Wilbur and flat on his back on the ice. Wilbur sits up, going to attack Dream again when the world spins and he has to pause to take in a gulping breath that burns his lungs
“ Wilbur !” someone shouts and two hands are at Wilbur’s shoulders shaking him. The sound of his full name (and not the crowd chanting ‘Soot’ over and over) breaks his tunnel vision and he glanced up to see Kristin giving him a tense but irate glare.
She’s wearing stilettos on the ice.
Wilbur has no clue how she’s not laying flat out right now.
He smiles through bloody lips, “Hey Ma.”
“First, are you okay?” she kneels down, gently cupping his face and rocking it side to side as she checks it for injury. He’s bleeding. He can feel it, but he doesn’t mind.
“My head hurts but I'm fine. I’ll check myself over after the game, alright?” he says softly.
“Alright.” she stands, instantly looking furious, though Wilbur knows most of the anger is a facade, “now get your ass off the ice and go to the penalty box. You say anything to anyone else and I’ll ask your father about removing you from this team for the conference, understand ?”
“Yep.” he pops the p and stands, flipping Dream off because well, technically he’s not talking. But Kristin still whacks his shoulder pad to tell him to knock it off as she talks to the referees. Despite the sick satisfaction that the crowd chanting his name gives him, he knows even if his mom and Phil aren’t acting pissed, they presumably are upset. So he smiles big when he blows a kiss to a camera aimed at him and accidentally flicks more blood across the ice, just because he might as well be a dick now when they're already mad at him.
As he starts skating back to the box, he passes by Techno who’d moved to the center of the rink to watch the fight. Techno gives him a glare, a ‘ fuck off I can take care of myself ’ look gleaming across his eyes. Wilbur just shrugs. He doesn’t care. He’s over people fucking with his brother.
When he sits down in the penalty box, Phil sighs laboriously and writes something down on his clipboard with an agitated look in his eyes as he glances between the ice, Wilbur, and whatever he scrawled down on the paper clipped in.
Though, as the medics come to take him back to the trainers, he hears Phil say to them, “bring him to my office when he’s done.”
Which is how he knows he’s actually screwed.
After the game, Phil sits Wilbur down, trying his hardest not to let his anger show. Despite a pretty good attempt, Wilbur can see his anger in the way he grips his clipboard with a white-knuckled grasp.
“You must stop going overboard in your fights with Dream.” Phil starts and when Wilbur opens his mouth to defend himself, Phil immediately shouts over him, “No! Shut! Enough , Will. We talked about this. I told you months ago that if you kept being so violent we’d have to shelf you for the conference– or worse, the Olympics.”
“Dad–”
“No, Wil, this is enough. Kristin already said you’re done for the next game–”
“--That’s against the hardest team in the league! You have to let me play!”
“No!” Phil bashes his hand down, but he positions it away from Wilbur so as to not look like he’s going to strike him. With a kick, Phil pushes his chair out and stands, pressing his hands to his pants as he sighs heavily, “Wilbur. I get that your agent likes the publicity of your fights, and you haven’t started one in years, but if we don’t reprimand you again the organization is gonna come down on us and give you a worse punishment than a single game suspension. Believe me, they recommended a three game suspension for you— the same as Dream. I was able to talk them down to one because you never made a move to grab his helmet or anything like that.”
“Thanks.” Wilbur says softly.
“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t tell anyone that. Kristin doesn’t even know that." He laughs under his breath before he sits down again, “Wilbur. I understand you absolutely loathe Dream, but you most likely won’t see him for the rest of the season.”
“Why not? He’s going with Team USA.”
“There’s a new starting player. Technically he was supposed to be with us but our roster was full. He’s an amazing offensive player and only seventeen.” Phil sighs as he stands again, his watch beeping with some alarm he quickly turns off, “They’re supposedly switching him and Dream every game after his penalty. If I can play my cards right, you won’t go against Dream at the Olympics at all.”
“Who’s the kid?” Wilbur leans forward, something Phil’s picked up on him doing when he’s curious.
“All I know is that his last name is Innit.” Phil shrugs, but Wilbur can tell he’s lying by the way his eyes flick left as he’s picking up his clipboard from the table. He crosses something out and is going to leave the room before turning around, “Oh, Wil?”
“Yeah..?” Wilbur turns back to look at Phil, who grins.
“Kristin is running your conditioning punishment. Be here tomorrow, six in the morning, sharp . Or she’ll make it worse.”
Wilbur’s fucked .
Tommy’s kinda used to it by now. Whenever Dream gets angry, he makes Tommy do drills until he can’t stand, much less skate. He’s gone to the point of passing out twice, and maybe five times to the point of Tommy throwing up. It's not ethical, but it works, because now Tommy’s one of the best players in the entire hockey league. He owes pretty much all to Dream— that’s what he says every time Tommy’s praised online or by other players.
So Tommy must owe it all to Dream. Even if he thinks Phil was a better coach.
He was Tommy’s coach before his mom couldn’t afford his lessons anymore after she lost her job, and didn’t have the heart to tell Phil that. She found out that Dream was cheaper, just enough for her to afford, or for them to afford since his dad also paid for it and Tommy chipped in half his paycheck just to make sure he had enough. They would save every penny for Tommy's lessons, for every team, and for every traveling competition. It paid off. Now he didn’t need to pay for anything, he was paid to play. And his parents had plenty of money since he sent them most of his paychecks as a thank you.
But since he didn’t pay, he got stuck with Dream. It would be fine if Dream was just a little bit friendlier. But he’s not.
Tommy misses Phil’s lessons.
“Again.” Dream snaps after Tommy’s distracted thinking makes him slip up a small bit, “your form is off.”
“My form?” Tommy asks, genuinely curious, but Dream slaps the back of his head harshly.
“ Yes! Fix it.” Dream shouts, sporting a nastly-looking black eye and busted-up nose. Tommy resists the urge to mock him for it, like has been for the past three hours since he stepped onto the ice. Tommy shoots again and Dream roughly seizes the boy by his shirt and alters the way he’s standing.
“Like this, you blubbering idiot.” he snaps, “god. Why did we even contract you if you can’t play the game right?”
Tommy resists the urge to cry, blinking harshly to hide the tears. He might be used to the taunts now, but they still hurt him. He shoots again in the position Dream wants and gets a hum of acknowledgement.
With a heavy sigh, Dream continues, “Now, try moving. You cannot miss a shot on goal, ever. So we’ll do different speeds, and I’ll play as goalie.”
Tommy bites his tongue to keep his hiccup in. He got no sleep last night, his legs burn from overuse, he’s starving, and he feels nauseous. But Dream has him constantly training or exercising. He doesn’t have time to do other things. He can’t do anything other than what Dream wants because his coach, Miss Puffy, thinks Dream is helping him.
And Tommy can’t tell her he’s not, because then Dream will make it worse. Again.
But before Tommy can skate back to the other side of the rink to practice moving through the cones Dream has set up, and then making it past Dream to shoot in a goal, there’s a scraping noise. Dream holds a hand up in pause as a door to the rink opens. With elegance, out steps one of Tommy’s idols growing up, Kristin Rosales Watson. A four time Olympic Gold Medalist and world champion ice skating legend before tearing her ACL and being forced to quit after a lifetime of building up her expertise. Everyone who knew her, grew up watching her on ice (like Tommy), had been heartbroken the day she announced her retirement from Team USA’s skating team. But rejoiced when she announced she was dating Phil Watson– hockey extraordinaire, after her son Wilbur met Phil’s son Technoblade in her preschool.
“Excuse me, Dream!” She calls, skating over as elegantly as she would when she was an ice-skater. Even if he tried, Tommy couldn’t hold back the pure excitement in his expression as she gently made her way over.
“Coach Rosales.” Dream says snappily, and her expression instantly sours.
“Who’s this?” She asks, genuine inquisitiveness in her voice, and Dream grins– a chance to brag. Of course he’s gonna take it, he’s an attention whore. Though Tommy could never say that aloud.
Tommy tries to hold back his flinch when Dream lays his arm across his shoulders. He’s supposed to look strong. He probably looks close to death and terrified.
He is.
“This is my protege. Tommy Innit.” He says and Kristin’s face lights up in recognition, not only at Tommy’s flinch, but at his name.
“Oh! You’re the boy Phil used to train!” She cheers, waving at Tommy, “Hi, hon! I’m Kristin– his wife.”
“You’re so cool.” Tommy stammers out, immediately flushing as he starts to ramble, “S-Sorry! I grew up watching you skate and stuff and I was never good at skating pretty so I became a hockey player instead and– and I just think you’re so cool.”
Dream scowls, his grip tightening on Tommy’s shoulder. Which tells him to shut up. So he does.
She laughs softly, eyeing Dream’s hand with an icy gaze, “Awe, you’re too sweet.”
“Thank you.” Tommy whispers, immediately shying away.
“Well, Wilbur and I have the rink here booked for the next hour, he’s still in the locker room, so I just wanted to let you know so you can clean up.” She smiles, a threat teeming under the surface of her smile like a shark in deep waters. Dream lets go of Tommy.
“I’ll start on that now, thanks, Coach Rosales.” Dream says, skating away with a murmur under his breath that Kristin rolls her eyes at. Before Tommy can follow Dream, like he’s supposed to, Kristin slips in front of his view.
“Are you okay, hon? You look… well, ah, sick .” She stumbles over her words at the end.
“Uhm.” Tommy remembers the way Phil used to train him, all gentle words and harsh but reassuring remarks when Tommy was being lazy or was nervous. Phil was tough, but in a completely different way than Dream was.
“I’m fine.” He settles on, “just an early morning. I haven't eaten yet.”
Kristin’s not satisfied, but she nods regardless, “Make sure you have some protein today, then. And if you need me anytime, Tommy, just ask one of my boys– the Britain team, they’ll bring you right to me. No questions asked, okay?”
“I don’t think that's necessary.” He murmurs, like Dream taught him to do. He’s desperately trying to avoid her gaze to hold back his tears and to stop his shaking hands, “but… I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Thanks, hon.” She smiles, reaching up slowly to gently ruffle Tommy’s hair, and then she skates to the side where her son stands with his hockey stick in hand. He can see by the way Wilbur’s knuckles are white that he’s simply pissed by Dream being there. He meets Tommy’s eyes, cracks a welcoming smile and nods, which Tommy returns, before Dream screams his name.
“Get your ass over here, I don’t train you to stand there and do nothing !” Dream calls, and Tommy scrambles to grab the cones by him and rush to Dream’s side. He risks a glance back at Wilbur, who whispers something to his mother who nods solemnly, and the two stare down Dream as he leaves the rink– Tommy in tow.