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"Listen up everyone," the coach starts to say, standing near the benches, "We've got some important business to talk about first."
No one has their gear or skates on, but the team still huddles around their coach, eyeing each other. Wilbur stands off to his left, trying to put distance between himself and his teammates. Once they're in close range, the coach scans over all of them, slowly.
"We lost our game last night." Straight to the point. "And we can't be having that around here."
Everyone shuffles awkwardly at the reminder of their latest failure. Hypixal is a good team, this is the first game they've lost in a while. It's possible that only Wilbur was there for the last loss. Even if others remember, they've made a reputation for themselves and for their coach.
"So I need you guys to get your heads in the fucking game," the coach spits as he points to everyone in the circle. "Today's practice is something I like to call 'spirit training'!"
Judging by everyone's faces, no one knows what he means, but it can't be good.
"No scrimmages, no planning, no actual hockey. You are going to do warm-ups until you can't," the coach waits a moment. "Understood?"
The team murmurs a chorus of yes's.
"Get started!"
The small crowd breaks apart and reforms a bit behind the rink to stretch out. Wilbur starts by raising his arms above his head, drops to touch his toes, then stands up straight again. The bruises along his back ache dully with the movements. Wilbur is rolling around his ankles when Jared suddenly appears on his right. He doesn't say anything yet, but chatter fills the room from the other players.
Just before Wilbur can say anything, Jared speaks up, "You fucked up our game, pretty boy," he says in a low voice.
Wilbur flinches at the words spoken, remaining quiet as he spares a glance towards his teammate. Jared is standing a lot closer than he expected, staring ahead like he isn't actually talking to Wilbur. Jared is stretching his forearms.
"Coach may be punishing all of us, but we know who's really to blame here," he finishes with an emotionless face, now cracking his knuckles.
And just as fast as he appeared, he leaves, and Wilbur is alone again. He tries to shake the one-sided conversation off, sitting on the ground to stretch his legs. He leans across his outstretched leg and he thinks.
The match was against just some other team, it should have been an easy win. After the second third of the game, the coach pulled Wilbur aside and told him who to go after. It was a tall and muscular man that could easily knock Wilbur down, but he was extensively trained in starting fights with people larger than him. With a target in mind, the rest of the game was background noise. Wilbur had his eyes set on the opponent as the buzzer sounded. So when Wilbur's back was slammed into the boards by the aggravated player, he didn't notice his own teammate miss the goal at the last second.
Of course everyone blames him. He blames himself. He messed up the game for everyone else. If he had tried a little harder, fought a little tougher, they would've won. He's a failure-
"Enough of that!" the coach barks. "Daniels, get the soccer ball and you boys will play until I tell you to stop."
Everyone gathers into an oval shape. There aren't any goals set up, so they'll just have to kick the ball between themselves. In just a couple of minutes, Daniels is back with the soccer ball. He knees it towards another teammate and with that, the game begins.
It starts like any other free-form soccer game. Without assigning strict positions, they end up playing to keep the ball off the ground. They pass it to each other and as time goes on, they take small steps backward to up the difficulty.
Walker dribbles the soccer ball and looks to another teammate with an expression Wilbur doesn't know how to describe. That person looks to another and sends a chain reaction of not-so-subtle looks spreading through them all. Finally, Jared receives the look and sends a new one to Wilbur with a wink.
The next events happen before Wilbur can react.
Walker still had the ball and it suddenly flies across the circle of people and it hits Wilbur just under his sternum, nearly knocking the wind out of him. The soccer ball bounces off his body and onto the floor. He doubles over, trying to regain his balance from the unexpected throw.
"Keep it off the ground, Soot," someone jeers at him before someone else kicks it back to hit his shoulder.
Daniels walks up next to him and goes in for a sweep. He extends his leg behind Wilbur's and shoulder checks him all in the same moment. Wilbur stumbles backward in an attempt to not fall down. Someone that Wilbur doesn't see kicks the ball and it lands on his cheekbone. He can feel the place of impact start to throb in a stable beat. It feels like a heartbeat is just under his skin at the orbital.
Wilbur can hear his teammates laugh at him, but it seems distant. Still recovering from a soccer ball to the face, Wilbur doesn't notice Jared approaching until it's too late. With his signature ring on, Jared punches Wilbur across the opposite side of his face, making a small cut on his cheek. Blood wells up along the wound and falls down to his chin.
Apologize to them. This is his mistake. He'll do better next time, he swears! He's sorry he's sorry he's sorry he's sorry-
Wilbur makes the mistake of looking in the direction of his coach. He looks bored.
Wilbur regains his composure and steps back in line of the circle and finds everyone continuing the game like normal. Like nothing happened. They kept the ball off the ground, never again passing it to Wilbur. So he stands there, waiting for their coach to move on to the next activity.
He doesn't know how long the game goes on, but the other players are starting to take faster breaths. The lights reflect off the slight shine to their skin. Despite not playing anymore, Wilbur feels his skin shift uncomfortably over the places where he was hit. The blood on his cheek dries into a congealed stain, no longer dripping from his jaw. The metallic scent makes its way to his nose. Blood sticks uncomfortably to his face and his neck and his shirt, but he knows he isn't allowed to wipe it off.
"Skates and gloves on," the coach's voice pulls Wilbur out of his own head.
Someone catches the soccer ball and throws it to Wilbur—he tries to ignore the way he flinches, still managing to catch it—as the rest all walk to their bags still laying on the benches. He quickly makes his way to the supply room to put the ball away before making his way back to the team. Sitting down, Wilbur puts on his shoes a few feet away from everyone else. As he bends down to lace them up, the forming bruises ache as the muscles are moved around.
Once his skates are on properly, Wilbur opens his bag to get his gloves. Huh . They aren't in their usual pocket. Wilbur checks everywhere they could be in his bag, opening up velcro and zippers, hoping that they'll be behind the next barrier. He starts getting worried that he left them at home. In all his years of playing hockey, Wilbur has never forgotten anything. He constantly and impulsively checks his belongings before leaving to ensure he has his gear and whatever else he might need. It's not at all like him to just forget to pack something.
"Looking for something, Soot?" Jared's oily voice calls a few feet away from him.
Snapping his head up, Wilbur sees Jared casually standing there. If he didn't know better, he might actually think Jared is concerned for his property. He does know better.
But before he can accuse his teammate of tampering with his gloves, the coach lets his impatience be known. The rest of the team shuffles by, leaving the two of them behind.
"Don't want to leave coach waiting," Jared croons in a facsimile of a genuine voice.
Wilbur stands up and stalks past Jared, making the last-second decision not to bump his shoulder. Jared follows closely behind as they both step onto the ice where the rest of the team waits for them.
"Do laps until I get tired," their coach demands from his place in the stands. He sits like he doesn't want to be here—like he isn't the one making practice last this long. He pulls out a small clicker from his pocket and clutches it in his hand.
And so they begin.
For the first few laps, everyone stays in one group at roughly the same speed. Each time the team passes by their coach, he can hear the harsh click of the counter held by the coach. Wilbur feels the sweat building on his neck by the eleventh lap. A few more rounds and the crowd starts to disperse as they all go at their own pace. It's almost impressive how the team flows and moves together like a synchronized flock of birds. It would be even more impressive if the team cared about each other.
The rink is silent without any voices or music to fill the tall building. The only sounds are blades cutting the ice and the increasingly fast breaths everyone is taking. Wilbur's hands have a slight tremble in the cold.
It's around the twentieth lap that Wilbur starts to feel tired from the repeated and mundane exercise. He can feel the muscles in his legs burn with each movement he makes. He is by no means a fast skater, but he's still faster than most of Hypixal, so he's positioned near the front of the mass.
This warm-up keeps going on. Players are covered by their own sweat despite the cold environment. Their faces have a red tint to them as they greedily try to suck in more air into their lungs.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur sees two of his teammates fall further back behind the group. He doesn't think much of it. It's the thirty-ninth lap of the day so he assumes everyone is getting tired, just as he is. He can feel his muscles tightening, his lungs burning, and his skin heating up. His hands are still cold, cracked, and reddening. But their coach is still there, not yet done watching the team complete meaningless tasks that do nothing for them.
He focuses on the coach for too long, lost in his own head. That was his first mistake. Maybe he should've stayed focused. Maybe he should've stayed aware of his surroundings. Maybe he shouldn't have taken his attention off the people around him.
It's the forty-third lap and Wilbur is so tired. That was his second mistake. Someone from the pair behind the group suddenly speeds up and maneuvers past everyone, heading straight for Wilbur. The person hits him with so much force, taking his feet out from under him. Wilbur doesn't see who knocked into him, he's too busy falling. His hip hits the ice first, followed swiftly by his shoulder on the same side. He slides across the slick floor, stopping just barely before the boards.
Groaning, Wilbur tries to roll onto his stomach to push himself up. He knows he has to get back up. If he stays down for too long, he'll get pulled out of the game. This isn't a game . Some part of his brain supplies that reminder. Even then, he knows his coach and his team expect him to stand up.
Wilbur pushes his knees into the ice. His arms slide up until his palms dig into the floor as well. His bare hands twitch around the cold ground. He takes a moment to gather himself and the breath he lost during the fall. That was his third and final mistake.
He's aware of everyone still skating around him. No one stopped to make sure he was okay, it makes sense. Their coach didn't tell them to stop and they’re already in the middle of a punishment, they don't need to give him another reason to do this again. At least, Wilbur hopes that's why no one checked on him.
With his head down looking at the ice, he doesn't notice Jared—the other person who split off from the group—gain more speed. He keeps skating, whizzing past everyone else as he goes slightly off course, headed straight for Wilbur.
With his head down, Wilbur doesn't notice until it's too late. Jared skates closer and closer, making a sharp turn at the last second. Wilbur's eyes flicker to his hand, where drops of blood are welling up but his brain hasn't received any pain signals yet.
His eyes trace a small trail of blood, streaked across the ice in a line as thin as a skate blade. The trail leads to Jared. He's standing there, a polite smile on his face, and blood— Wilbur's blood —barely visible on the reflective metal of his skates.
"I think I remember why gloves are important now," Jared says, his voice distant. "Thanks for the reminder, Soot."
Quiet laughter fills the rink as if what Jared said was a joke. As Wilbur's brain seems to catch up with the last few seconds, Jared meets his eyes and skates away with a short nod. And all the pain comes crashing down like a violent wave.
Jared skated over his hand. His blade cut the back of his hand. And God, it hurts. It hurts so much. The blood spills off the side of his hand and onto the ice. Wilbur wants to scream and he wants someone to fix this wound. But everyone keeps skating, no longer paying attention to him. So he sucks in a sharp breath, and he gets up
"-lbur?"
Wilbur blinks a soft haze from his eyes, clearing them. His focus seems to be on the thin scar along his hand, but he doesn't remember how long he's been staring at it. The old wound is darker than the rest of the skin on his hand from the absent-minded picking while it was still healing. It doesn't quite reach all the way across his hand, but it comes close.
"Wil!"
He recognizes that voice. Slowly bringing his head up to face the direction the noise came from, Wilbur's eyes land on Tommy. His eyes focus on his brother slowly approaching.
"Are you okay?" Tommy asks in a gentle voice.
Wilbur takes a moment to think if he is alright. He doesn't remember how long he's been sitting here, but he seems fine enough if a little bit far away. He brings his gaze back down to his left hand and notices the tremble in it. Maybe "okay" is a bit of a stretch.
"Not really," he finally says, just before he's sure Tommy is about to ask him again.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Tommy is next to him now, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Tommy brings his hands up to wipe across Wilbur's cheeks. Wilbur feels his fingers slide easily across his damp face. When did he start crying?
"Maybe another time, Toms," Wilbur admits, leaning into the hand at the side of his face.
"You're like a cat," Tommy huffs.
Wilbur grumbles back a response that's supposed to be him denying these false cat-truthing claims, but it comes out as an unintelligible mess.
Tommy laughs at his failed attempt and maybe that's what makes it so easy for Wilbur to ask for the affection he's previously been scared of asking for.
"Can I have a hug?"
"Of course."
Wilbur leans down to rest his head on Tommy's shoulder. It's a bit of an uncomfortable position as they sit side-by-side on a hotel bed, but he doesn't mind, and neither does Tommy. His face—still hot from tears—slowly cools off as Tommy's arm wraps around his back. His free hand grabs Wilbur's shaking one. Tommy's skin is cold to the touch, grounding, and Wilbur can't help but smile.
One hug doesn't solve everything from his past, but he can take a moment to bask in the light that his brother holds within him. So as Tommy runs his finger over the scar on his hand, Wilbur sinks further into the embrace. All the tension he didn't know he was holding leaks from his body.
"Everyone is eating breakfast down in the lobby," Tommy mentions after a few minutes of silence.
"Some food sounds nice."
They clamber up from their mess of too-long limbs and walk out of the room towards the elevators.
When they reach the dining area of the hotel, the team's faces light up at the sight of both of them. Two tables are obnoxiously pushed together to seat everyone. Wilbur sits in the chair next to Schlatt, and Tommy takes the seat in front of him by Quackity.
"Morning, Wilbur," Phil calls from the head of the table, tipping his styrofoam cup of coffee towards him.
Their previous conversation picks back up and Wilbur is content to just listen to them talk so passionately about meaningless topics.
"If it works again, then it's fixed!" Sapnap exclaims, with no less enthusiasm as he's surely been arguing this point for some time.
"It's just a glob of rocks and hot glue," Techno supplies tiredly.
"Rome was built in a day from rocks and hot glue."
"That's not how the saying goes, dumbass," George steps in this time.
"But you're allowed to compare my genius solution to Frankenstein?"
Wilbur's attention is pulled away from the interesting argument but a soft kick to his shins. He looks over to Tommy who has a question written on his face. His furrowed eyebrows soften once Wilbur gives him a small nod.
He couldn't ask for anything more right now. He's surrounded by his friends—his family —and that's something he didn't used to have. Even if he has the occasional bad day, he can handle it because these people will always be there for him. Wilbur can call them his team without it feeling like a lie. They would never do anything to hurt him and he'll do anything he can to make sure everyone knows he loves them.
"Thank you, sunshine," Wilbur smiles at Tommy. And Tommy smiles back, his face radiating everything good in the world.