Chapter Text
December 15, 1990
Mike yawned again. It had been the fifth time he’d yawned in two minutes, or two hours, or maybe 20 years.
(It had been six minutes.)
It wasn’t his fault he was so tired. It wasn’t his fault that finals were kicking his ass, or that he didn’t find hockey games very interesting. He hadn’t even wanted to go in the first place.
The trouble had all started with Grant. Stupid sports writer Grant. Grant, who was known for nothing except consistently turning in his articles at the eleventh hour. To be honest, Mike was almost impressed. Not impressed with the skill of his writing, or the effectiveness of his reviewing, but by the fact that he seemed to face no repercussions for his lack of time management. But this is unimportant. In Mike’s mind, there were only two Important Grant Facts: that Mike hated Grant, and that Grant was almost certainly pretending to be sick.
Grant had been missing entirely from the past two weeks of school. A friend of a friend of Grant’s told everyone that he was deathly ill with mono, but Mike didn’t believe it. In fact, he refused to. The trouble was that Grant was presently unable to write his articles for the newspaper. Mike believed wholeheartedly that this was a personal attack on him by Grant himself. He wasn’t sure why, but it was. Ultimately, this meant that someone had to fill in for Grant, and Mike just so happened to be unoccupied.
Mike had been hired to fill the opinion column for the Indiana Daily Student. However, it seemed like more and more often, his articles were being rejected. He wasn’t exactly sure why, even though multiple readers had told him that his articles were “rude” and “overwhelmingly negative.”
The fact is, on a Friday night, Stupid Grant was not in the office, and Mike was. This is how, half an hour later, he found himself in the first row of the stands at the upcoming hockey game. Mike felt that he was far too close to the rink for comfort. Like, way too close.
——
Mike yawned. Again. It was the second period, he thought, even though it felt like the eighth. He was passing the time by listening to the people behind him argue. It was a mother and a son, he thought, both supporting Indiana. Even though they were both supposedly cheering the team on, the son seemed to be supporting anyone and everyone not wearing red. With every one of his attacks on the players, the referees, the band, and the ice itself, his mom got increasingly more upset with him, and the yelling continued. All in all, it was more entertaining than the game.
Loud cheers on all sides broke Mike’s reverie. Someone, on some side of the rink, had scored. Judging by the volume, it had been one of the Indiana players. It seemed like the other team, the Broncos, weren’t getting much love from the audience. Mike almost felt bad, but decided he wasn’t supposed to. He was there for his school, after all. Besides, his lack of interest in the game overruled any other feelings.
A fight broke out in front of Mike, a few players from each team. The crowd either cheered or booed—Mike couldn’t really tell. The players were really close to him, after all. He could feel when they slammed against the edge of the rink. He really hated his seat.
The referees broke up the fight, and the game continued. Mike guessed he should have been paying more attention, maybe writing down names or jersey numbers to have something to put in his article. Whatever. He’d figure it out later.
He was a terrible sports writer.
——
The end of the third period was in sight. Mike was counting down the minutes. Indiana was squarely in the lead, and Mike was desperately trying to find anything to add to his article. He didn’t care about sports, but he did care about his reputation as a writer.
He was sort of taken by one of the players. Number 37. He wasn’t sure of his name, though. That was probably the kind of thing that should be in his article.
Number 37 had a captivating presence on the ice. He managed to make everything he did purposeful, more of a dance than a game. Beyond that, he had made some pretty skillful moves during the game. At least, Mike was impressed. But that’s not saying much.
Mike couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the people behind him. Well, he could have chosen not to listen, but he was nosy.
“I’m not impressed by that 37 out there,” one of them—presumably the mom—said.
“Who, Byers? Me either,” the son responded.
At least the two had found something to agree on.
Mike almost wanted to say something to defend number 37—Byers—but decided against it. That wasn’t his conversation, and he didn’t know anything about hockey. Besides, what Byers did was none of his business.
——
Five (or maybe 30?) minutes later, Mike was hard at work observing the game. Definitely not just staring at number 37. Definitely not.
He watched the puck slide back and forth, from player to player, as it made its way steadily to the Broncos’ side. Byers got it, passed it to a number 8, who passed it on to another player. The puck continued its wayward journey until it was shot into the goal by—what a sick joke!—number 37. Byers.
He made a victorious little half-turn as the crowd went wild. Time seemed to slow as he locked eyes directly with Mike, of all people. Mike responded by staring directly into his soul, unblinking. He felt about a million degrees hotter, and knew his face was even redder than Byers’ terrible jersey.
He had a good face. Not like Mike noticed, or anything. He seemed strong, at least from what Mike could see of him. Which was very little. But it doesn’t hurt to be strong. Mike felt that that was a good trait, one he definitely lacked. Besides, it doesn’t hurt Byers’ looks.
Byers looked away, obviously. He had a game to win, teammates to congratulate. Mike was just… there.
Mike looked down at his disappointingly empty notebook. He made a note of the latest goal, scored by Byers. As if he could forget.
——
He watched the rest of the game in a sort of haze. Goals were scored on both sides, but Indiana came out victorious. Mike was glad, as much as someone with no attachment to the team could be. He wrote down as many notes as he could remember, some successes and failures for his pathetic article. If worse came to worst, maybe he could critique the overpriced food at the concession stands. His evil editor would have a field day with that.
He gathered his bag and—finally!—made to leave the stadium. The winning players had all congregated on the ice, celebrating with one another. Mike’s eyes were (completely unwillingly!) drawn to Byers. He seemed to shine in the middle of the rink. Number 8 skated up to hug him, and he threw his head back and laughed. Mike’s stomach flip-flopped. Not a lot, but a little bit.
So maybe he did have a little bit of a crush on Byers. Just a little bit. But like, barely anything. He just respected him as a player, really. That was all. Besides, it’s not like he would ever see him again.