Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alexis arrives in Vancouver a week before the opening ceremony. 

The flight wasn’t long; she’d been staying at her parents’ in Toronto for the week before she’d had to come in, but there’s a little bit of an anxiety-induced fatigue that she feels seeping into her bones when the shuttle drops her and her teammates off at the Village. David flew in from New York a few hours ago, and she’d almost expected him, for a second, to come greet her at check-in when she’d landed, but she and Carol have already stood in the unfairly long line and signed their little documents and done their little tests before heading to the room they share, and David hasn’t so much as sent her a text. 

Which is fine; he’s her coach. He’s probably, like, super busy. Meetings and stuff.

She shouldn’t be disappointed at all.  

He hadn’t been the one to tell her he was chosen to coach Team USA. They hadn’t even spoken for longer than a few minutes, not really, before he had started that job coaching for the Metropolitan Riveters and she’d shown up on a press appearance as a way to congratulate him, two seasons ago. They’d posed for a couple of photos together, filming a “candid” video of David greeting her at the entrance of the locker room and thanking her for showing up, and then she’d flown out the very night of, signing a few jerseys and heading back to L. A., back to her off-season life as a marketing and public relations student, back to her home of the last few years, back away from David. 

He’d sent her a bouquet, a few months later, when the USA had won the World Championships, and she’d posted an Instagram story as a thank you. 

The next year, he was in the headlines for having been chosen to coach the Olympic team.

Her own attendance was confirmed a few weeks later, as Captain, along with some of her World Championships teammates, some opponents she’d played against in prior leagues, and girls she’d only heard of in passing but never actually met, so much younger than her. David had texted her, congratulating her for her attendance and letting her know that he absolutely would not be giving her extra time on ice just because she was his sister, and surprisingly not immediately ending the conversation when she’d replied. It wasn’t much, just menial small talk about their careers and then an odd reference here and there to when they both used to live in New York, leading a much different lifestyle – far less disciplined, far more luxurious, far less rewarding – but it had been something, after years spent apart from her brother, who despite being the world’s biggest nag was still the only person in the world who could truly get to the core of her, so it had felt good. It had felt like something she hadn’t realized she’d lost had made its way back inside her. 

She’d found herself texting him about something completely unrelated the next day, just because she was bored. He’d answered again, and she’d replied, and for a few days neither of them stopped, so. She’d begun hoping. But David hasn’t texted since she’s landed, so maybe it wasn’t a big deal to him like she’s only now begun to admit that it was to her. 

“Rosey, come look at this!” Carol calls, standing at their shared window and gesturing to the view, and Alexis spares one last glance at her cell phone before tossing it on top of her bed and joining her. 

She tries not to think too much about David after that. She’ll see him tonight. They’re supposed to eat together, later, the entire roster and staff so that they can enjoy their first couple of days in town as a team before they start practices in two days. “Build up the chemistry,” their general manager, Ronnie, had written in an email.

There’s about 6 hours to go for dinner, though, and right now Carol’s almost vibrating with excitement as she eyes the parts of the Village she can see before turning around and walking back to her bags. 

“I think a few of the others are free for the afternoon,” she says as Alexis trunks around to look at her. “You wanna come explore with us, Rosey?”

Alexis smiles. “Um, of course!” She makes her way back to the bed and glances down at her phone, still lying face-down on the single bed, as if she can will it into ringing. Obviously, it doesn’t work. She turns back to Carol. “I’ve heard there’s a cute little pool room, and like, sign me up.” 

It takes only a few messages to the team chat for a plan to form. They join a few more teammates out in the hall and then make their way down to the atrium, first only her and Carol with Ruth and Shivani, teammates she’s gotten to know pretty well over the years, but then a few more join, some she’s only only heard of on the internet, like Rachel, or the youngest on their team, Morgan, and some she’s hearing of for the first time, like Natalie. They leave the housing facility and walk past the dining hall, the arenas, the slopes, the theatre and the outdoor race tracks. They wait in line for the overcrowded McDonald’s. They walk over to the recreational center and past the arcade room (with the pool tables!) and then by the bank and come back to the atrium of the housing hall, identifying athletes on other teams, some Alexis thinks totally rock and others she knows are total d-bags. 

Alexis is approached by many athletes, both American and not, and is especially flattered to take pictures with them and exchange even the drabbest of small talk, because, like, these are pretty badass people. She’s like, pretty sure she saw Simone Biles across the hall just now, and she got to sign something for cutie little Keegan Messing and take a picture with lil Chloe Kim. And like, who would’ve thought that some of the world’s like, greatest ski champions and skaters and snowboarders would look at her in a crowd and go “yeah, that Alexis Rose is, like, totally cool. I should go talk to her” ? It’s just that for a moment, meeting other athletes as a group and taking a shit ton of pictures and hanging out chanting “Team USA!” for social media admins, but then eventually Alexis loses her teammates, all moved in different directions. She hangs around a little longer, looking to no avail for her friends, and then before she really knows it her feet are moving, carrying her out of the central atrium, and she’s once again staring down at her phone, lamenting the lack of text message from a certain good-for-nothing brother. 

“Alexis Rose?” a voice suddenly calls behind her, vaguely familiar, and she turns immediately, ready at the second to take a picture or sign a stick or whatever. When she makes eye contact with the stranger though, she freezes. 

Because that’s Patrick Brewer. 

That’s Patrick freaking Brewer. 

That’s Canadian Women’s hockey coach, ex-Toronto Maple Leafs all-star forward, two-time Stanley Cup champion, Patrick Brewer.

And as flattered Alexis might have been meeting little Chloe Kim, it’s nothing compared to this. Patrick Brewer’s like, someone Alexis admires. He’s an all-time great, even for how little time he actually played.

Patrick walks towards her, waving, and for a second she almost wants to turn around and make sure it’s her he’s talking to, but that’s ridiculous, he literally said her name, and she straightens up and sends a wink and wave back, smiling as he comes to stand in front of her. 

He’s just a guy. A guy who’s really fucking good at what he does, but he’s really just a cute little doe-eyed guy. Nothing she can’t handle. 

“Alexis Rose,” he says again, inexplicably like he’s the one in awe right now, not her. “I’m Patrick Brewer.”

“Hi,” she says, meeting his hand. “Nice to like, meet you.” 

“You too,” he laughs. “I’m honoured to get to coach against you; you’re impressive.” 

Alexis’s breath hitches a little, because Patrick Brewer thinks she’s impressive, but she manages to reign her excitement in before she can let any of the surprise show on her face. “I sure am, Mr. Canada’s little cutie coach, you.” 

He laughs again. It’s nice. Patrick Brewer is a nice, cute little guy. She’s even played against his team, before. Nothing to worry about. “I’m really glad I got to meet you before the games began,” he says. “I’m a fan. Your mastery of the game is… it’s, um, you’re really good. It’s gonna be a pleasure trying to beat you.” 

“Um, I’ve got an Olympic title’s advantage on you, though,” she teases, because she does, ohmygod she does. And like, sure, maybe he beat her at two World Championships, but the Olympic scale still tips in her favour. “So good luck, but David’s got like, a pretty stacked roster that knows what it’s doing.” 

“I saw,” he nods, and it should be weird, he’s way too nice for a competitor, but Alexis has seen the way this guy is, has seen the brave thing he did and the hard decision he’d made four years ago. Had seen how kind and calm and collected he’d been throughout. Maybe Patrick Brewer just is this way. “Between veterans like you and Clancy, and the young talent on your list, that’s some depth, there. Your coach has got a lot to work with.” 

 “Mhmm,” she nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yeah, he does.”

“He’s very impressive, too,” he says, “David Rose. Your brother?” 

“Yes, my brother.” 

“You must be excited to share this with him.” 

“Well,” she replies before she can stop herself, far more pointedly than she would like, “I don’t even know if he’s here, or like, alive, so.” 

“That makes sense,” Patrick nods, understanding. “I just got out after all morning myself. Meetings on meetings trying to figure out logistics. It’s not easy to try to take the American Women’s Hockey team down.” He smiles, but it’s different – not so much the polite smile from before but more like he’s teasing her, and then glances down at his wristwatch. “Speaking of, I’ve gotta go meet with my team in a bit, so I’m gonna take your leave, but, uh – good luck. Can’t wait to see what you do.” 

“Oh, yeah, you too. Maybe Canada can get its little gold medals, this time, finally.”

“Oh,” Patrick says as he retreats. “That gold’s ours, Rose. But you have fun out there. Make space around your neck for that silver.” He pauses. “And uh, I hope your brother gets back to you.” 

And just like that, with a final wave, he’s gone. 

Alexis watches him go, a little impressed and a little giddy – she might’ve just gotten friendly with one of the most impressive athletes she’s known, that’s major. 

Her phone buzzes in her hand, capturing her attention just as Patrick walks into the elevators on the far side of the wall, and she glances down at it, trying her best to ignore the sudden heightening of her pulse when she sees the name on the display screen. 

“Good to know you’re not dead,” David speaks into her ear as soon as she picks up, like he’s upset at her for some reason, like he’s not the one who hadn’t bothered to come see her in the entire half day she’s been here. 

“Um, rude, David,” she retorts. “I’ve been here for basically an entire day and like, you haven’t even messaged to say hello."

“Mmkay, first of all, it’s only been a few hours, and second – you didn’t message me to say you’d landed!” he squeals on the other end, and something low rumbles in the background, over his voice. “I’ve been talking to Ronnie all day, running around, and I check my phone and Alexis doesn’t even have the sense to go ‘hey, I haven’t died in a plane crash!’ .”

“Okay, well,” she huffs, “I haven’t died in a plane crash, David.” 

She hears David take a deep, dramatic breath. “Okay. That’s nice.” 

She glances towards the door of the building. “How is, um, like is everything good? For the team?” 

“I think so,” David replies, quietly, and the low rumble comes back. “Are you at the Village?”

“Yeah. We were exploring and found this really cute arcade area, with like, little pool tables we should totally check out, David, and the cafeteria down the atrium is incredible, and then I ran into the little cutie who coaches Canada, which, like, have you seen him?” 

“I’ll be there in a minute,” David quickly says, without answering her. “At the Village. Could you – um, do you have anywhere to be right now?" 

“I’ll wait for you by security clearing?” 

She finds herself waiting by the gates a whole 10 minutes before he emerges past them, a carry-on behind him and a bouquet of flowers in the other, reaching up to unzip the top of his sweater as he looks around. Finally, his eyes seem to land on her and he scurries forward, thrusting the bouquet at her as he reaches. 

“Hi,” he says, and nothing else, straightening his posture.

“Um, hi.” 

They stand there together, unsure of what to say, and then David nods towards the atrium. 

“You wanted to show me the cafeteria?”

“So, how were your little meetings today?” she tries once they step inside, desperate to dissipate some of the awkward energy surrounding them. 

“Good,” he replies. “Ronnie and I went over some roster decisions and the practice and game schedules. I finalized some lines, figured out the special units, all that.”  

“And….” 

“And you’ll get to know all about it when everyone else does, because I can’t be picking favourites, Alexis.” 

“But if you were picking favorites…” 

“I wouldn’t pick you, because you’re an egotistical little b who would let it get to her head. Okay?” 

“Ugh, David! You know I wouldn’t!” She glares at him, because she wouldn’t, David’s just used to being a dick to her, but the frustration really doesn’t last longer than a flash. Or at least, not as strongly. “I’m your best player, you know.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“I’m literally Captain!” 

David smirks at her as they step into the crowd in the atrium, and Alexis feels her frustrating fading further. He’s a dick, yes, but it’s good to have him here, it really is. She points to a juice bar on the back end of the hall and leads him toward it. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t message when I landed,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to like, ignore you, David, but I just didn’t know I was supposed to, okay? I thought someone would let you know we’d arrived and there’d be like, a cute little team to come get us –”

“ – there was a team there to receive you.” 

“Okay, but like, Ronnie! And Ted and Marina.”

David sighs. “Look, I’m…” He scowls at someone in a Team Italy jacket as they shuffle past, “God, watch where you’re going – I should have fought harder to have Ronnie meet me later.” He keeps walking forward, following her but never making eye contact. “We haven’t seen each other in forever, and it was – it wasn’t nice of me.” 

She softens up a little. They’re both still not experts at the whole… sibling thing. But they’re trying. Alexis wants to try. 

“It’s okay.” 

David stops walking suddenly and looks right at her, sort of breathing in like he’s about to say something he really doesn’t want to. “I don’t hate that you’re at my first Olympics with me.” 

Alexis smiles and meets his eyes, shimmying with how pleased she is at his words. 

“I like that you’re at my second Olympics with me, too, David.” 

David rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little, Alexis can see. “Can we please fucking grab some smoothies so I can go put this shit away, afterwards?” He gestures to the carry-on still beside him. 

Alexis nods, delighted, and leads the way. It’s good to have him here.

They grab their drinks and retreat to their rooms, where Alexis reunites with Carol. They hang around a bit, after Alexis finds a makeshift vase for her flowers, winding down and enjoying the view as the sun sets over the horizon — their window provides them a perfect view of where it disappears under the city skyline. 

Dinner with everyone else comes up soon enough. Both she and Carol have changed into their sponsored athletics — the social media team has been diligent about telling them to show off the new threads, probably to maximize sales before the games open. They’re the first two to arrive at the dining hall, just a short walk away from the residential hotel, barely reaching a table to save for the team before the coaching staff joins them. David, Ted, Marina, and Alessia sit down next to them, politely exchanging pleasantries, and then some of the other players come in, too. Alexis can place most of them. There’s Ruth and Shivani and Rachel, and then Alisha and Olivia and Maddison and Courtney and Lola. Natalie, Morgan, Tennessee, and Donny are next, and then everyone else follows, either alone or in clusters, until they’ve filled up an entire two long cafeteria tables by themselves. Ronnie, their general manager, comes last, ensuring herself a dramatic entrance, and she’s barely down on her seat before Ted announces a round of introductions. Names, leagues, fun career facts, and what they’re most excited about. 

“I’m Alexis Rose, she excitedly shares at her turn, making sure to smile as she looks around the table. “I play for the Golden Flags in the Southern California College League, and um… the funnest part of my career was deffo the third period game winner I scored in Beijing.” She holds for applause, which she graciously receives, before carrying on: “And this year, I’m super excited to do it all again with all you adorable beautiful little people! Like, go USA! Yay!” 

She gets a second round of applause and an eye roll from David, because he likes to pretend to be difficult, before he joins in as well. Then, it’s Carol’s turn. 

They introduce themselves and talk and eat, and an hour or so later, they’re all still there, some of them entirely done eating and others with their lil burgers still in front of them. A few of the players are trying to figure out who on Team Canada’s curling is most attractive (Brad Gushue, obvi), locked in heated debate when Alexis lifts her eyes and spots Patrick Brewer again. He’s a little bit far away, facing her where he and other people in Team Canada gear are huddled around a small table, talking to someone with short, dark brown hair clipped up like they’ve never styled hair a day in their lives, and his ex and Canadian national women’s alternate captain Rachel Miller at his side. He laughs at something brown-hair says, his little ears sort of like, moving upwards when he does, which is totally adorable, and then he tips sideways and whispers something that makes Miller laugh, too. A second later, he’s mid sentence when his eyes meet Alexis’s and he smiles and waves at her, the little cutie pie. 

Alexis is halfway to waving back when the stranger teammate turns around to see who he was waving at. 

Alexis’s eyes immediately widen, and she’s sure her mouth has dropped open, she can feel it, but she can’t do anything to fix it as Stevie Budd stares back at her, looking just as surprised as Alexis feels. At some point she can feel how awkward it's becoming, because she and Stevie are just staring at each other and people are probably starting to notice, but she just… she can’t look away. 

Stevie Budd. Once again.  

“Rosey, you good?” Carol whispers beside her, and that’s finally what helps, it’s finally what gets Alexis to swallow and tear her gaze away and turn back to her own team. She nods and attempts to follow the conversation, completely off-topic by now, but every once in a while she’ll glance at where Patrick and his team are still standing and talking. 

More often than not, Stevie’s looking right back at her. 

She can’t shake the surprise even as dinner ends, even as they leave each other for their rooms, even as she and Carol settle into their beds for the night. 

“Alexis, are you okay?” Carol asks in the dark, and Alexis hums back, because she is. She’s okay. She’d known she was going to cross Stevie Budd here, she’s just…

“It was a long day,” she answers. Carol seems to take her at her word, whispering goodnight and turning over until she’s facing the other way. Alexis, for all that she tries, can’t seem to summon sleep at all. 

Of course Budd is here – why wouldn’t she be? She’s like, the best player on that team. She was always going to be there, Alexis had read it when they’d announced the rosters. 

She just hadn’t been prepared to face it yet. 

Of course, it’s not the first time she’s seen Stevie since the last time. They play against each other every year, several times. But that’s all like, go shoot leave, if that makes sense? She hasn’t had to face Stevie Budd in four years. She hasn’t had to spend time living on the same floor as her, trapped in the same living complex, just three weeks of having to see her face everywhere over and over. The last time she’d seen her, really seen her, was in Beijing, heartbroken, stomping down the tunnel to her locker room at Wukesong Arena, like Alexis had personally stolen the gold medal from her. Like the weeks of sexy, flirty rivalry was as good as dust because she’d lost the last game. By the time Alexis had thought to go talk to her, just a few days later, she’d apparently already made some excuse to fly back out to Canada. 

And Alexis, um, gets it? She’d be pretty pissed too, she thinks, if some hot girl took the gold medal from right under her. 

It doesn’t mean that Alexis hadn’t been bothered by it. It doesn’t mean she hadn’t gone back home irrationally expecting a call from Toronto. It doesn’t mean she hasn't thought of Stevie Budd an almost pathetic amount of times since. 

She’d gotten pretty good at managing it back home; heartbroken and pathetic isn’t a cute look for anyone, but they’re right back in it now, and the Olympics are stressful, and messing around with Budd had been so much fun last time, and Alexis can’t do anything about it because she’s pissed her off and David would kill her if she spent all of her time going after her eighth international athlete in six years instead of listening to him. 

Alexis shakes out of it. Budd’s here as a rival. They’re going to see each other, play some hockey, and then Alexis will beat her again and they’ll both go home and live their separate lives and it’ll all be fine. 

Stevie Budd is just another athlete on a team Alexis needs to beat. Even if the memory of the absolute devastation on Budd’s face still makes her feel something dark and ugly and empty inside. Even if she’d waited for almost two hours outside her room that day before learning she’d left the country. Even if she’d been the first and last person that Alexis had ever been around that actually thought she was fun and cool and smart and worth something. 

Welcome to the Olympics, Alexis Rose. Play some hockey. Win the medal. Make your team proud. That’s all that matters, right?

Chapter Text

Stevie’s the first player down at the gyms – which isn’t unusual. Rachel’s been making fun of her since college for the way she seems to be endlessly buzzing around, the few hours before a skate. “Worse than Patrick,” she says, which is fucking saying something, but that hasn’t ever stopped Stevie. There’s something meditative about it – about going through her carefully set routine before her teammates start filing in, about feeling the air around her heat up as her muscles loosen, about being alone in a space that almost feels like she owns it, like it was made for her to be in, for the set amount of time before the rest of them start filling up the locker room before practice. Stevie’s a great team player, don’t get her wrong, but she’s a fucking passionate proponent for enjoying space to herself whenever she can, and whenever she can is regretfully rare at an event designed to accommodate thousands of global athletes.

This is one of those rare, beautiful moments, the equipment all to herself. She expects it’ll stay that way, too, at least for a moment; they’d all been in here just last evening. Right now, it’s just her and the comfortable, familiar burn at her abdomen, at the back of her throat, at the curve of her thighs as she watches the numbers run up on the elliptical display.

It’s twenty or so minutes before she finally emerges from the room, her breathing finally slowing down, sweat soaking through her tank top and her hair matted flat to the top of her head and the nape of her neck as she heads to the showers at the locker room. She’d like to get in and out before Twyla, Rachel, and the rest of them come down and start suggesting group warm ups.

She’s only a couple of steps before a voice interrupts her.

“You know, overtraining can lead to muscle strain. Wouldn’t want our Captain out before the tournament even begins.”

She turns towards Patrick seated in his little temporary office, doing her best to scowl at his smiling face in a way she knows is being severely undermined by her still slowly heaving breaths.

“Just cardio today.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he answers, standing up, running his hands down the front of his dark blue button up. “You smell like a gym sock.”

He walks towards her and she does the same until the both of them are at the threshold of his office’s entrance. Stevie peers inside. It’s small and stuffy, depressing in a sort of school-office way, with empty cupboards lined at the back, giant plastic bins stacked up in one back corner, and a single, barren desk at the center. They hadn’t even given the guy a window.

“I don’t think it’s great manners for you to be staring at my office like that.”

“You call that an office?”

He laughs, right in her face this early in the morning, and swiftly dodges the errant smack she tries to land on his shoulder.

“Good morning, Stevie.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ahh, but you’re the one currently right in front of my office.”

He cocks his head, still smiling, the idiot, and she almost tries to smack him again for it, just because she can. She does hold herself back, finally, because she’s a consummate professional, and beating up her coach just because his loud eyes and annoying ass smile were giving her a migraine first thing in the morning might be a little unsportsmanlike, whether the idiot is her best friend or not.

“Why did they give you an office right next to the machine room?”

“Cause I’m not in Toronto, and I don’t get a say in the layout of the arena.”

“And that’s all?”

He brings the corners of his lips down a little, like he’s supposed to be frowning even though he really isn’t – she hates it when he does that. His amusement is still clear as day when he answers.

“That’s all,” he says, and though she really doesn’t need him to keep talking, he still does. “There wasn’t exactly a variety of choices. Plus, I’ll be with you at the bench most of the time anyway.” He pauses and steps forward, and then he reaches his hand out, as if to put on her arm, before pulling it back and grimacing almost cartoonishly before gesturing to her sweaty body.

“I fucking hate you.”

He laughs, the idiot – who laughs this much? “No one’s being mean to me. But thank you for caring.”

“No, I think more people should be mean to you; you’re fucking annoying.”

He steps away from the door, back into his office. “Go shower, Stevie. Morning skate’s in an hour.”

She does. Not because he said so, but because the sweat has started cooling at her back in a smelly, sticky mess, and it’s becoming disgusting even to her. When she gets back to the locker rooms they’re empty, and she takes an opportunity to enjoy the last moment of solitude before grabbing her undergear from her gym bag and making her way to the shower stalls.

It’s relatively quick and easy, a cursory wash just to rid herself of the morning’s workout. Pants and long-sleeved shirt on, she steps back out into the room, ready to face the day, finally, and is greeted by Rachel, half undressed with her hair up. Rachel smiles at her in greeting, pulling the shirt that’s already halfway up her torso all the way off before putting on her own undershirt, humming and teasing about the morning cardio session she knows Stevie’s had. She makes eye contact with Stevie as she wiggles her sweatpants off, smirking and making some dumb joke about her abandoned sheets smelling like restlessness in their shared room.

In another universe out there, Stevie muses, Patrick isn’t so painfully homosexual, and they’re still the most annoying, most alarmingly perfect couple known to civilization.

Not that they’re any less annoying together now.

Twyla’s the next to come down into the room, sunny disposition unwavering as always. She stops to kiss Rachel’s cheek and waves at Stevie, and then she, too, begins changing for the pre-skate warm-up.

They chat for a second, taping their sticks, exchanging sentiments of excitement and in Twyla and Rachel’s case, being disgustingly domestic until Stevie has to tell them to knock it off. Once all three of them are changed and ready, Stevie moves to grab a soccer ball from the little bag of equipment their equipment manager, Ally, had left for them. They begin passing it around, just the three of them off to the side, careful to stay away from where someone had laid the Canadian flag down at the center of the room for them. Not too much later, they’re joined by Caroline and Joyce and Marie-Elise and Willie and T. J., all filing in one by one or in pairs, and their little circle grows and they have to move out to the hall to keep kicking their ball. The rest of them don’t take much longer to arrive, and at some point Claire, one of their returning teammates, puts a tune on the portable speaker she pulls out of her bag and leads them in a dance workout.

Most of them join in immediately, the choreography rusty but familiar; they’d done the same simple routine every game last season up until the final, and it had served them well, taking the edge off when needed, and providing comfort and routine when that was needed, too. The newer kids, like Lydia or Kathy or Evangelia or their new youngest, Aleena, take their time observing before they’re urged to jump in and have to catch up on the fly. They do it once, twice while everyone fumbles, and by the third time it’s nearly perfect, Stevie’s blood is pumping, she’s ready to get this skate and practice done with and kill it at their game in two days.

Patrick comes toward them as the music fades, swaying a little off beat as he makes his way over, followed by the rest of the coaching team and their manager Wendy. Alice, Miguel, and Esthelle greet everyone, friendly as they’d been when they’d introduced themselves to the team for the first time four days ago, but Stevie keeps her focus on Patrick, watches the way he straightens up a little, the way he clears his throat and seems to nod at himself to gain confidence, the way he rubs the pads of his thumbs over the side of his closed fists and then smiles, just a little. When he looks up, his eyes first catch Rachel’s, then hers.

“Alright,” he calls out, gently commanding respect and receiving it in waves, smile ever-present. “This is our second-to-last skate before the first game. You’ve all been doing amazing, but we’ve streamlined some areas that still need work.” He goes on, talking about revised units and line chemistry and the plan for today’s practice: open skate, line-by-line, red vs. white. He announces that Esthelle will work with Heather in net individually and that Alice and Miguel will lead the rest of the lineup in drills until Patrick comes in to explain some new plays. “Just gonna go change,” he says. “You’ve all done amazing things over the past four years, and it’s time to teach each other how you work, and how you work best. We’ve got two days until we try to win this thing on home ice, yeah?”

His gaze finds her again, then, shoulder still held tight as their eyes meet, slumping in relief only when she gestures at him to exhale with a smile. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he cocks his head, moves back, just a step, and then he’s motioning at players to get in gear.

She’d never say it to his face, but she’s practically shaking with pride as she watches him retreat – watching him effortlessly slip from the Patrick she’d met through her teammate in college into the skin of the coach of a national team at the highest level of the sport like he was made to wear it. Maybe he was. Maybe he is.

Practice goes well, it always does, with this unprecedented amount of talent both on the bench and behind it. They run their drills efficiently and run the scrimmage with only minimal fuss, carefully incorporating the coaching staff’s input. Sooner than she knows it, Stevie’s back in the locker rooms, back out of the shower, back sitting in front of her gear with Rachel and Twyla just like earlier in the day, watching the rest of the room empty out as they make lunch plans. The options in the Village are numerous but not unlimited, and they go back and forth on a few before deciding that yes, they’d trust the sushi stall with their insides today.

“It can’t be worse than the sushi we had on our first date,” Twyla says, gesturing to Rachel. “I truly thought I wouldn’t make it past that stomach bug for a minute. Threw up bile and had Rachel basically to nurse me back to health a day into the relationship. But hey! It all worked out. Maybe this time will be better.”

“Will it?” Stevie asks.

“I mean, I was fine,” Rachel says. “Twyla’s the only one who got messed up.”

“It happened like three times that month. I don’t even know why; it was three entirely separate restaurants.”

Stevie grimaces. Twyla’s stories aren’t unusual to her, and she’s heard quite a few of them in Toronto, but they never do become any less baffling to hear. How Rachel deals with it, she won’t ever understand – though she’s suitably impressed. It makes their friendship work.

“D’you want me to ask Patrick to join, or just us?” Rachel asks, then, finally standing up and reaching for her bag. “I don’t think he has any plans.”

“Doesn’t he have other people to have lunch with?” He must have — the entire men’s roster this year is basically people he used to play with. People he’s still really close to, and which means Stevie’s begrudgingly had to get to know them as well.

“Maybe, but he promised me he’d never ditch lunchtime with me for his cooler friends when we were twelve, and I like to think that promise still stands, so.” She throws her bag over her shoulder. “Plus, they have a game today. We’re all having lunch with some of them tomorrow. Thought Patrick would have told you.”

Which he hadn’t, but Stevie can yell about his tendency to sneak her into social plans later.

Twyla agrees to have him, and Stevie does, too – she’ll never say no to having him around, even with how fucking annoying he is. They give each other an hour and head up to their rooms: Stevie and Rachel in one, Twyla across the hall in the one she shares with Heather. Patrick had had to stay back for some reason or the other, but he’s apparently assured Rachel he’d be joining them at the hour mark.

She and Rachel don’t do much as they wait, changed into their sponsored wear and seated on their separate beds in the little college dorm-like room. When they head back down to the atrium, Patrick and Twyla are already there, walking around in matching branded sweats and little bomber jackets like they’d somehow planned it. They’re already in line when they reach them, reducing their wait time by at least ten people, and Patrick reaches an arm out for them as they approach, catching Rachel first with an arm around the shoulder and a kiss on the head like he hadn’t just run drills with her for three hours.

“How’s it been, so far, huh?” he asks excitedly, and it’s almost radical, the change in him now that he’s off the rink and out of his suit. He’s jittery with excitement, seemingly alight in contrast to the nervous energy she knows most athletes are swimming in right before their events, his eyes alight with wonder even at the sight of the obscenely long waiting line to the sushi stall. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, when he’s acting all coachly, sturdy and set with the expectations of the country behind him, that he’s really just a Canadian hockey-loving boy at the Olympics for the first time in his life. When he’s not Coach Brewer, he’s just her best friend, Patrick, living out a lifelong dream – one that she gets to be next to him for.

When she looks at the line-up again, and when she turns around and looks at the cafeteria they’re in, almost filled to the brim with athletes and staff from across the world, each with a determined set to their jaw, preparing to do what they do best on the largest possible global scale… well, maybe she’s starting to see some of the wonder in it, too.

In moments like these, Stevie Budd is viscerally reminded of the beautiful thing it is, to be friends with Patrick Brewer. It’s barely his first week here, and he’s already seeing more than she’d been able to see throughout the entire tournament last time.

Rachel answers his question, because of course he hadn’t asked rhetorically, and she nods her ascent when he turns to look at her before Twyla cuts them off.

“It’s not weird that we’re hanging out with you, right?” Twyla asks as they reach the front of the line. “No one’s going to accuse you of favouritism?”

“That ship sailed when they put my ex on the team, I think,” he answers, and Rachel laughs.

“According to that one insider, you and Stevie are exes too.”

Patrick rolls his eyes while Stevie makes a gagging noise.

“You’d really think coming out as gay would avoid that.”

“I mean, sports fans,” Stevie says, “not exactly known for their rationality and logical skills.”

“Aren’t we all sports fans, here?”

“And look at you, Patrick.”

Patrick responds with a light swat to her shoulder, and the topic changes when Twyla spots some UK athlete she swears she met at a gas station once. The story only makes the littlest amount of sense and definitely sounds kind of illegal – should that guy even be here? – something about a flat tire and burnt beef jerky and throwing up over a bush, Stevie really isn’t paying as much attention as she should be. Rachel orders for all of them, groaning far too loudly about how glad she is they didn’t opt for the provided cafeteria meals, and they find themselves at an empty table soon enough.

At some point, after reminiscing about that time Rachel had had to stop his drunk ass from tipping the Stanley Cup off his back porch and into Lake Huron, halfway into the story about when he got to be interviewed by PK Subban at his second All Star game, Patrick gets distracted, spotting someone behind Stevie’s head and lifting his hand in a gentle wave, smiling softly. Stevie turns around, just as she had yesterday, and is faced with the all too familiar face of Alexis Rose, just as she was yesterday. She’s at the same table she was at last night, free cafeteria meal in front of her, eyes wide just as they had been every time Stevie had caught them looking her way yesterday.

Alexis Rose is many things, but subtle isn’t one of them.

“Since when are you guys friends?” she asks Patrick. “You wave at her every time you see her.”

“He’s nice to people, Budd. You should try it.”

Stevie glares at Rachel, who seems completely unaffected. She shrugs and turns to Twyla. Patrick reaches a hand out across the table.

“We met a few days ago. I introduced myself, and we had like half a conversation. Just being friendly.”

He’s looking at her like he knows exactly what she’s thinking, which is unfair, he’s wrong, she’s not the heartbroken loser she was when she’d come back from Beijing and brooded on his couch for a week straight.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He does keep looking, though, because he’s the worst. He looks at her like he’s either trying to decipher something or like he already knows too much and is trying to piece it together. Then he nods.

“So we’re good.”

“You’re good,” she says. “You can be her friend. I’m… I don’t care.”

“You’re good,” Patrick confirms once more, “and we’ll both be fine, and we’ll kick USA’s ass, and you can have your vindication and then, you know, run into her arms in a blaze of glory and ask her out, after that.”

She slaps his hand away, hard. “Gross, don’t say that.”

“Okay, Stevie,” he replies, annoyingly patient. “Just win me some games.”

She knows there’s so much more he wants to say. She knows he’s worried for her – he’d been the one who’d had to pick up the pieces after she’d come running, rock solid for her to lean against even as he was knee deep in his own pain. He’d been the first one she’d told about her short-lived romance. He’d been the only one she’d admitted to that she’d regretted leaving that building every single day since.

But he lets it go, like he promised, and she vouches to uphold her end of the bargain in return.

Two days later, the sound of the ending buzzer still ringing in her ears and her body still feeling the after-effects of what must’ve been the most violent victory team huddle she’s ever experience, she flashes him a smile, and he volleys one back at her, open and unrestrained from his perch at the team bench. She’s practically swaying on adrenaline the entire way down the tunnel and into the locker room. She won him the first fucking game. It wasn’t exactly a hardship; Switzerland has a mean offense but leaves gaps in its defense core, leaving Stevie plenty too many opportunities to sneak pucks right in between their goalie’s pads. She’d gotten a hat trick, a fucking hatty on their first fucking game, and Rachel had sniped one in and then Kathy had delivered a mean snapshot and they won that shit 12-to-fucking-1. She was practically vibrating with adrenaline during the handshake like with Switzerland and while Alice and Miguel patted them all on the back as they walked by the bench. Once in there, Patrick comes to find her after she’s cheered some more with her teammates, dishing out high fives and fist bumps to everyone he encounters, and stomps over to where she’s standing until her sweaty, overheated face is in his cold hands and he’s telling her well done, they’re amazing, the first preliminary game was a fucking success. They’re not nearly done, and it’s not even close to a surprise that they came out on top, today, but, still. It feels real good. Their line changes are air-tight and Patrick himself had expressed amazement at the depth in their lineup. There had been a couple more penalties than strictly necessary but their penalty kill is solid, Heather is ruthless, Stevie’s at the top of her game, and Canada. is here. to fucking. win this thing.

The game ends at 2 and she’s able to get past debriefs and press by almost 4, which gives her a solid couple of hours for a solid nap before having to do anything for the evening. Rachel heads off somewhere as Stevie’s head hits the pillow, pulling their far too thin curtains shut for her before leaving the room. It takes a while – she’s still buzzing all over, but eventually she feels herself being pulled into slumber by a heaviness in her bones and the gentle sound of footsteps outside her door.

By the time she awakes, the sun has gone down. Rachel still hasn’t returned, curtains still pulled over the dim golden glow of the lights outside, so Stevie reaches for her phone. There’s nothing major – press agreements and forwards from her agent and a couple of texts from teammates back home congratulating them make up the bulk of it. A cursory scroll through the Team Canada chat lets her know they’re at the recreational complex, just across the path from the dorms.

She’d toured the building before, perfunctorily marveling at the theatre and auditorium and the arcade, but it’s her first time walking in and staying there, standing there, taking the dimly lit arcade room in. There are pink lights running along the moldings of the ceiling, with vintage-style arcade machines lined on one end and two air hockey tables and a fooseball table in the middle. Clair and Lydia find her soon enough, insisting on a game of fooseball, teaming up and declaring competition before losing violently, declaring a best of three, and losing again. They move over to Galactica, and Stevie tells them to go on, she’ll hang back, she wants to see around the place.

The hall outside the arcade room is wide and empty, and Stevie makes a mental note to come back and check the center later into the games, when athletes aren’t so single-mindedly worrying about their events. The few days before the closing ceremony, she imagines, will show the rec complex a fair share of action.

She wanders down the hall, peering into the different activity rooms, laughing at one of the dartboards lined along the far side of one of them that has a small Swedish flag taped right to the center of it.

It’s then that she hears her.

“Oh my god, David!” Alexis whines from a room ahead, loud and clear to Stevie’s ears, her voice unmistakably recognizable, even all this time later. “Just one more game won’t kill you!”

“Absolutely not,” David replies. David, Alexis’s brother, she assumes. Alexis’s coach. “You’re a cheater, and I am not playing with you again.”

“Ugh, you can’t even cheat at this game!”

“Then how come I saw you do it?”

She steps forward, closer to the entrance to the room. There are a couple of tables around, five by the looks of it. Most of them are untouched, and then there are four guys at one of them, with David and Alexis at another, right to the back. There’s a sort of weird, buzzy pop song playing that Stevie can’t recognize, and the same pink lights as in the arcade with the addition of a few white bulbs over the tables. She stands there for a minute, observing, watching David and Alexis berate each other over the possibility of another game, and then suddenly she’s moving forward without really understanding why. Maybe it’s the rush from the win today, or maybe she’s just exhausted. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t know for sure if she has Rachel to go back to the room to right now, or maybe it’s Patrick’s dumb ass look from a couple of days ago and his dumb, dumb fucking voice when he’d told her to “run into her arms in a blaze of glory and ask her out” like the words weren’t shifting something inside her. She walks straight towards the two of them, towards Alexis fucking Rose, and slaps a hand down, stepping in front of David. “I’ll play you.”

Alexis Rose stares at her, unmoving, and for a second Stevie starts to regret it, wants to go back to Claire and Lydia and the arcade machines, but then David Rose is speaking, looking directly at her. “Oh thank fuck. Please do it. She won’t get off my back; she’s like a little leech.”

“Gross, David!” Alexis springs back to life. She looks back to Stevie. “You’re like, you’re sure you wanna play? With me?”

“If you’re anything like last time, I’m sure I really want to kick your ass, Rose.”

Alexis smiles, big and bright, and Stevie kind of hates how nice it is, how it still makes her stomach flip to see that smile directed at her. Alexis shimmies a little ridiculous thing and addresses her. “Okay let me just, um, like reset this thing. And we can play.”

She moves to do just that, and Stevie finds herself waiting, staring down the pool table with every passing second.

“So you’re who, again?” David Rose asks, snapping her out of it. Good thing, too, because she was about to start freaking out.

“Stevie,” she says, and she makes a valiant effort not to let it show on her face the disappointment that rises up her esophagus when that doesn’t seem to ring a bell. Not that Alexis had to tell anyone about her. They weren’t…. It was nothing.

David shakes his head. “I don’t – I’m not familiar with her friends,” he says, nodding over to Alexis. “We’re not, um, we don’t talk, like that.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“Yeah, um. I’m David. David Rose. American Women’s Hockey coach.”

“Stevie Budd. Canadian Women’s Hockey player.”

“Oh so you’re like, the enemy.”

“If that’s how you want to put it.”

“And how did you become friends with Alexis, exactly?”

There are a lot of ways she could answer that. We’re not friends. I almost backed her up against a locker room wall once. I ghosted her for four years. What she goes for instead is: “It would seem I’m a glutton for punishment, David Rose.”

David’s eyebrows raise and his eyes widen, but it’s sort of… delighted? Like he likes what she’s said. He nods gravely. “Mm, you must be.”

He’s looking right at her, unconcealed amusement dancing in his eyes, and Stevie hates to say it, but she likes the guy. She likes him. He’s cute and expressive and, if the argument between him and Alexis from earlier is any indication, a little bit of a dick, and she likes him. Damn the Roses and their stupid fucking likeable faces.

Alexis interrupts them, then, announcing that she’s ready to start whenever, and Stevie counts it as a win when David immediately seems to be cheering her on over his sister. For a second, it’s still a little awkward between the two of them, with cheesy trash talk in the form of weak quips thrown at each other that neither really knows how will land, but David is always there, blissfully unaware of their situation, providing ample running commentary with his surprisingly sharp jokes, and before Stevie knows it… it’s fun. She has fun. Alexis is fierce competition, both on the ice and off of it – it had been Stevie’s favourite thing about her, back in the day – and competing against her again like this awakens something in Stevie that had been lying dormant inside her, a fire and skill she’d never noticed sitting within, latent until pulled forth by green-blue eyes and a smile that tilts just a little bit too much to the side. Alexis is fun to make fun of, and fun to be made fun of by. She's even fun to make fun with, she learns when they suddenly both turn on David, though Stevie thinks he wouldn’t appreciate that sentiment quite as much as she does. Both David and Alexis are quick with their thoughts and ruthless in their delivery, cutting but hilarious every time. Stevie had forgotten how hilarious Alexis was. It’s weird but not entirely unpleasant to have to learn it again.

“You won today,” David says to her eventually, almost like he hadn’t realized until just now.

“We sure did.”

“Tell Patrick I said congrats on his first win, oh my god,” Alexis says kindly, and then, catching David’s look of utter confusion, she rolls her eyes. “Ugh, sorry about him. David lives under a rock. Canada’s coach, Patrick, David.”

David furrows his brows. “Why are you friends with Canada’s coach?”

“I’m from Team Canada; should I leave?” Stevie retorts.

“Ohmygod, David, try being nice sometimes? Patrick’s like, a total cutie. Isn’t he, Stevie?”

Stevie shrugs. “I mean, he’s not bad.”

“How does any of that matter?” David asks, shaking his head, and well – fair. It doesn’t matter to him. “Congrats to you, Stevie,” he says, “and then to your coach, too, apparently, if we’re just congratulating anyone. I don’t even fucking know this guy.”

“You don’t know anyone outside of the PHF, David.”

“You shut up.”

Alexis is right; David does live under a rock if he doesn’t know who Patrick is. But that’s something to rectify another time, she thinks. She’s sensing that there might be a next time.

She wins the game of pool eventually. Not by a lot, but with David’s occasional tip and her own impressive skill, she wins. Alexis pouts for just a second, scowling at David for being a traitor, but she’s quickly smiling again in no time, like the loss doesn’t bother her at all. Stevie wishes she had that skill. Now, yes, but especially four years ago.

She sticks around a little bit afterwards, engaging in conversation with the two of them, learning about their weird ass relationship, and when she’s leaving them for the evening, she surprises even herself with the sincerity of the good luck wish that comes out in light of their first game the next day. It’s a gesture that she’s sure Patrick would have a lot to say about.

Rachel’s already in bed by the time she gets back to the room, and Stevie does her best not to disrupt her on her way to her bed in the dark. She slips under covers silently, and just as she’s about to make herself comfortable, she hears Rachel speak.

“What did you wander in here thinking about, Budd?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.

She’d probably take it easy on her if Stevie denied it right now, she thinks. She might be sleepy enough that she won’t follow up on the question at all, but Stevie answers anyway.

She needs to speak the words to someone.

“I don’t think I ever disliked Alexis Rose at all,” she says, chancing vulnerability in the dark. “I was just mad we lost, and she was the easiest person to blame.”

“Mm,” Rachel hums, further shuffling under covers. “I knew that.”

And then she’s asleep. Stevie, in the wake of her own confession, takes another hour.

When Alexis leads her team to a victory the next day, their eyes meet across the halls on the way to the atrium, and Stevie chances a professional “congratulations” and a smile as they pass each other near the elevators.

Alexis’s resulting smile means absolutely nothing to her. Nope. Nuh uh. Nothing at all.

She’s here to wipe that smile off, after all. And to be damn glad about it when she does.

No matter how blinding it is.

Chapter Text

David can’t keep the pleasant buzz from taking over him. He can still see it: the odd man rush with Alexis and Carol speeding into the offensive zone, the confused lone Finnish defense player, not nearly quick enough to take on the both of them alone, the clean pass, the one-timer, the puck above the right leg pad, the final buzzer. 

They’ve won their first preliminary.

He’s won his first ever fucking coached game at the fucking World Olympics. 

They get the day off tomorrow before the opening ceremony, holding only an optional skate David’s organized before returning for practice only once the parade has happened, before their next game. David’s spirits could not be higher. Alexis has assured him many times that he’d be just fine, that he knows what he’s doing, that their lineup almost speaks for itself, but David still hadn’t been able to shake the sliver of doubt in his mind. He’s never coached at the Worlds – he’s probably the only coach here who hasn’t – and though he’s a pretty solid presence within the Premier Hockey Federation, going from coaching in a league of 7 cities is miles and leagues from coaching here. Here, with the best athletes from across the world, against the best coaches from across the world, all of whom have competed against this caliber of player before, it’s… well, even now, with one win under his belt, it almost doesn’t feel right that he should be the be the person who gets to be here to do it. 

His experience isn’t as extensive as it could be: he’d started playing the game at 12 – very much against his will, thankyou – showing support for a tiny, pink-faced Alexis who had suddenly decided that it would be cool to wear blades on her legs and push a bunch of other similarly idiotic kids into plastic boards for a hobby. She’d been surprisingly great at tryouts, because she’s just apparently able to do everything, when she fleetingly decides that it’s something she’s interested in, and he’d definitely failed them, unwilling to come into contact with anyone with his sound and full mouth of adult teeth having grown in and even less interested in shoving and being shoved. Luckily for him, though, his parents had had just enough money and leverage to convince anyone that he was a pro-athlete, if they needed to, and he’d been allowed to join the pee-wee league. 

Over time, the game had become surprisingly simpler. It came easier to him with every passing game, more of a pattern than a brawl – a one-two-pass-shoot that was almost meditative once he really got to study it, manipulate it, configure it into all of the different ways in which it could come to be. Surprisingly, they’d both stuck with it, Alexis moving from 1-to-4 to atom to pee wee and onward herself, and David working his way up Junior B. Eventually, he’d quit – Junior Hockey was just a passion pass-time more than anything, and with the opportunity to complete his BFA in New York, it just hadn’t been something high on his list of priorities once he’d made the move.

He’d spent those few years off the rink, working on his degree and exploiting the living hell out of his parents’ name and willingness to pay his credit card bills without a second glance. For a moment, it had been fun. It had been thrilling, and great, and fulfilling, even – but as it eventually does, the shine wore off the title of socialite almost harshly, almost like he woke up one day and for the first time realized that the silver spoon he was so eagerly eating out of all this time had been nothing but a polished iron decoy that had been rusting right under his nose the entire time. The parties were more of a chore than entertainment, the friends were more cruel than fun, and the money was…. Well – all of a sudden, the black card in his hand seemed to pale in value in comparison to the silver plated trophies sitting in boxes at the back of his storage, the only belongings he could stand to look at anymore without feeling like his entire life was a meaningless hoax.

It wasn’t long after that that he found himself back in skates.

It was casual at first, a few inconsequential games and a low-commitment assistant coaching gig he’d been able to secure during a junior league tournament. Alexis had already left Toronto and run off to the other end of the country, by then. She’d missed his own move, his subsequent shift in career, and the handful of promotions as well. It was only after his first Isobel that she’d finally reached out. Two decades after they started playing the sport together, this is the first time they share a team. 

He looks out of his window, taking in the skyline of the island across the channel in all its evening glory. The sky is a deep, heavy purple in some parts, and a more settled midnight blue in others, overlooking a vast array of skyscrapers, so reminiscent of New York, and the still channel and port right ahead of it, so unlike it, that the beauty of the scene only seems amplified by the unfamiliarity of it. David feels small as he looks out on it all, even from his perch on the 14th residential floor, but not in the way he feels in his penthouse in New York. Here, in this giant building housing probably double, even triple the amount of people in David’s apartment complex back home, David feels importance in his smallness. Like maybe the world he’s looking out on is looking back in on him, too. 

He stays there until it gets dark, then a little longer, and then he heads down to the atrium. The crowd is still thin around the space, and David knows it likely will be until athletes are able to cross events off of their calendars, but the opening ceremony hasn’t even happened yet – most of the people that will fill this place in just a few short days are in their rooms, at the gyms, thinking, training, worrying.  As of right now, there’s a couple handfuls of people only (not that David would ever complain about this specific kind of sparsity), and he silently casts an eye around, hesitant, looking around at the still flashing lights of some of the food stalls and debating whether his body can handle a snack at this time of evening.

“I usually go for one of the refreshers from the juice bar” a voice startles him after a moment, and David jerks around, probably far too aggressively, only to be faced with a vaguely familiar looking guy in a Team Canada hoodie and sweatpant combination. “Surprisingly not too sweet, and it’s also not Tim Horton’s, which is always a plus in my book.” 

David has no clue who this guy is, though he’s definitely seen his face somewhere, he thinks. His sponsored clothing is atrocious, as all of the new sponsored gear is, but he’s… decent looking despite it, sort of stocky with very nice arms and a pair of legs that fill those joggers well. His face is round, and clean shaven, and David gets the distinct impression he’s coming off as much younger than he is, this guy with the smooth, round cheeks and the big brown eyes and the button nose. 

“Mm,” David nods when the guy squints his eyes a little, like it’s David who’s being less than normal here, and not the dude who just walked up to a stranger,  “And um, wha – why am I receiving drink recommendations from the competition here, do you think? Is this some sort of nefarious ploy to get me sick, or something?” 

“Just giving suggestions, Coach,” the guy says, which, okay, so he knows who David is. That’s… okay. Cute Canadian guy knows him.  His lips sort of pull into a smirk as he keeps watching David, examining David, almost, and this all really shouldn’t do it for him, really, but it’s late in the evening and he’s tired and his body is a traitor. “I’d uh, I’d be glad to have one with you, if it puts your mind at ease,” the guy says. It’s the first thing he’s said that he looks less than confident about, and maybe that’s what settles it for David. He’s typically not a proponent of putting drinks in his body that have been suggested to him by members of rival teams, but the short lineup at the juice stall looks promising and Canadian guy is wearing his outfit very well and he’s looking at David right now with like, hope and nerves or something in his eyes and David does like the sound of a fucking refresher right now, so he nods. 

“Mmkay, but if I feel anything funny and it ends up you’re trying to like, drug the competition or whatever, I reserve the right to dump the drink down your stupid little Lululemon ensemble.” 

The guy nods, and he’s laughing, but not like he’s mocking David. No, he’s laughing like he’s… delighted, almost, and it’s a full flash of teeth, bright and clear and genuine, that lights something up inside of David that he dutifully refuses to acknowledge. 

“Patrick,” he says, extending his hand. “Brewer. Coaching the Canadian Women’s Hockey Team.” 

Patrick. Like, his competitor, Patrick. Alexis’s friend, apparently, Patrick. 

Alexis had said that he was cute, but…. Yeah, okay. Okay, Alexis. 

Patrick. 

David nods, hesitantly, and extends his own hand. “Right. Um, I’m Davi–”

“David Rose,” Patrick interrupts, still smiling, grabbing David’s hand in his own and squeezing for a moment too short as he shakes it firmly before letting go. It’s nice. It’s an alarmingly nice feeling. “I know who you are.” 

“You do.” David had meant it to be a question, but it comes out as more of a breath. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, though. He answers anyway. 

“I do. You coached the Riveters to two series wins in your first couple of years. That’s a big deal.”

“Is it?” 

“It’s pretty big,” Patrick reiterates. He nods towards the juice bar again, his lips sort of turning, like, downward (?) in amusement or something when David nods back his agreement, and begins walking. David follows. “You’re impressive,” Patrick adds, and then falters in his step, just momentarily. He clears his throat and picks back up: “Your game is impressive, I mean. Between your skill and your roster, I mean, it’s airtight. Can’t wait to see what you do here.” 

David frowns. “I feel like you know a lot more about me than I know about you. Should I be worried?” 

Patrick turns to look at him as they reach the stand, furrowing his brows for a moment before his face slackens a little, his mouth opened but unmoving like he’s weighing what he’s about to say and his big, round brown eyes boring into David’s own. He seems to hesitate for a moment, and then: “I mean, if you’re willing to sit with me long enough to find out, I’d be glad to tell you some?” 

And David’s no certified genius by any means, but he isn’t an idiot, either – he’s not going to say no. They grab their drinks fairly quickly, Patrick offering the clerk at the counter a kind smile that probably does more for David than it does the underpaid worker, and make their way over to a seat. David’s practically downing the fruity drink the second his ass is on a seat, grunting in satisfaction. It’s cold and light enough that he can go to bed after it and sweet but not too much so. David’s going to be crowding that juice bar a lot over the next couple of weeks. When he looks back up, Patrick is watching him, his own refresher untouched, eyes far too gentle for what a man who had genuinely just forgotten Patrick was even there would deserve. David smiles at him, half-apology, half-what he thinks is just an involuntary reflex to the sight of Patrick’s face. 

They end up sitting there for maybe an hour, maybe two – far more time than David would award any lesser new acquaintance. But Patrick Brewer keeps him there, glued to his seat, completely enraptured by their conversation. They run the gamut; they talk about the best dessert places they know and the Canadian tourist market and Patrick’s lifelong dream to see the northern lights. Patrick tells him about his childhood in rural Ontario and asks David about his, nodding with enthusiasm when David shares the news of his dual nationality and his love of New York. Patrick briefly mentions his professional career, quickly adding that he’d chosen to retire prematurely and that it was his best friend that had gotten him the job coaching at the Worlds. It’s easy and light and fun, talking to Patrick, and for a glorious moment David is able to sit with a guy on the first floor of a residential complex and pretend they aren’t supposed to be bitter rivals, that they aren’t here on the biggest work assignment of their lives, maybe that they aren’t even both hockey players at all. In that brief, frozen moment in front of Patrick, David finds himself feeling like he’s back at home for a minute, at some bar, or maybe a restaurant, and that this funny, quick, attractive man is just someone who happened to come sit by him. 

It’s only when they’re about to part ways for the night, once they’ve gotten off the elevator at their floor, and that Patrick shakes his hand a little tighter and a little longer than before, that David is reminded of the true nature of their circumstances here. 

“I’m really looking forward to playing against you, David Rose,” he says. There’s a heat in his gaze that David refuses to identify, and David’s fingers almost tingle where they’re wrapped around Patrick’s hand. 

“I’m gonna win,” he replies, but even to his own ears it’s not the bold declaration that maybe he had meant it to be. 

Patrick’s eyes shine as his lips press into a smirk. “I’m having trouble seeing how I could possibly lose right now, David.” His smile widens, and he gently drops David’s hand. “I’ll see you around.” 

And then he leaves. The feeling of his hand in David’s stays with him all the way back to his room, and all the way to sleep. 

It’s when he’s at the rink the next day, running morning skate, finalizing new line pairings  that he hears of Canada’s second preliminary win. 6-2 against Finland. For a moment, he’s happy. He’s happy for them as an abstract, and he’s happy for Stevie, and then he’s happy for Patrick. Patrick and his smile and his firm handshake and his twinkling eyes. That joy is immediately chased away, though, by a strong current of worry that floods in along a second thought; Finland had been the team his roster had played, just a day ago, and it’s more than a little concerning that Canada’s been able to get 6 in on Finland’s tight defence when his own team had struggled to get the 4-to-3 that they’d finally emerged with. 

Logically, he knows that it’s all arbitrary. It was Finland’s second game in two days, and Patrick seems like the kind of guy to study other teams extensively before even walking onto the rink to shake their hand. David himself isn’t much like that; he’s more of a “deal with the players that are in front of you in the moment” kind of guy. 

But, still. Canada’s on its A-game, apparently. 

He tries his best not to let any apprehension show too much; he can’t be having any doubts mid-tournament, and his players deserve better than to think that they’re in the hands of an anxious wreck. (They are, but they deserve better than to think it.) For the most part, he’d though he was getting away with it, too – he’d perfected the art of looking detached in his glory days, but then Alexis tilts her head at him as she steps off the ice at the end of skate, tilts her head, and steps a lot closer to him than he’s entirely comfortable with. She’s taken her gloves off, hands held out in front of in that little raccoon-manner of hers, and she extends just one of them to poke him on the chest, right on the little American flag printed onto his practice vest. 

“We are going to kick butt, David,” she says, enunciating each word, accentuating it with a sweaty tap to his clothes before pulling back, self satisfied. “All of the teams here are good, but we’re just, like, a little bit better.” 

She sounds more aloof than she actually feels, he can see it in her eyes still fixed on his, and he allows himself a slight smile and nod, patting her on the shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of affection before motioning her to the locker room. 

“You smell like something died in you.” 

“Mm, okay, eff you, maybe? Because I’m the one sweating in all of this sweat and still trying to like, hype you up or whatever.” The scoff that she leaves with is real and disgruntled but nonetheless comforting to David’s ears. 

It’s a nice reminder of exactly how much talent he has at his disposal, Alexis included, and of everything that is on his side of this thing as he tries to get through this competition. Sure, Patrick and every other coach might have experience, and confidence, and a shit ton of skill, turns out, but David’s here with them now. All that he can do is go through the motions with them – win or lose. 

The fact that he gets to be next to Alexis as he does is a mildly tolerable bonus. More good than bad. Most of the time. 

Two hours after skate, when he opens the door to his room to her rapid, insistent tapping, is one of the few rare other times. 

“What do you want?” he asks when her face comes fully into view as his door swings open. It comes out brattier than he’d intended, maybe, but he’d been in the middle of a very engrossing read on Oprah apparently buying land somewhere. He won’t apologize for it. 

“Um, so the opening ceremony is in like, five hours,” she says, and he nods in response, confused. “And it’s probably going to be like, super draining or whatever, um, so I was wondering if you wanted to come like, chill with some of us before then? Hang out or whatever. Go for a walk, or something.” 

“Um,” he pauses, considering his reply, “I don’t – I don’t want to interrupt you all if you’re hanging out, I don’t think, no.” 

For a second, he thinks she’ll flip her hair and turn around, leaving him to his article. It’s the expected response, really, knowing Alexis’s flippant, nonchalant behaviour toward him in the past, so it’s a bit of a surprise when her next question is: “Okay, so what if it’s like, just me and you?” 

He squints his eyes, studying her closely. It’s not the first time she’s asked to hang out while they’ve been here; she’d initiated their trip to the arcades two days ago, too. And like, he knows they’re on this kick, lately, being better siblings to each other or whatever, because apparently world sports events trigger emotional growth or something, but – this is the third or fourth time she’s initiated spending time with him in a week after a lifetime of purposely ignoring him, and the whiplash isn’t easy to get over. So he has to ask: “Is this a prank, or something?’ 

“Ugh! No, David,” she whines. “I’m just like, trying to spend some time with you? How many times do we get to be at the Olympics together?” 

“How many times do we get to be together at all?” he mumbles in response, but he gives in. moving out of the doorway and motioning her in. “Fine, but I’m not wearing any of that… sponsored atrocity.” He gestures to the hideous blue and red puffer vest she has on, and she dutifully nods before sauntering in and making it straight to his bed and dropping down onto it. 

“Yay, David!” 

He’s quick to change into his Dries Van Noten Jacquard sweater once he leaves her seated on his bed – it’s the navy and blue one he’d bought on a whim with no real intention to actually wear, but he figures if it won’t be the sponsored trash then he should at least be on colour scheme, or whatever. He fixes his hair, just a little, and a short ten minutes later he’s grabbing his winter coat off its hanger and joining her. 

She’s still on his bed, dutifully seated, absorbed in her phone even as he takes a seat next to her – which, rude — even as he clears his throat, even as he asks her, straight up, if she’s ready to go down. Finally, he grabs the phone out of her hand, ignoring her cry and holding it out of her reach. 

“‘Kay, I didn’t ask you to spend time with me, so could you at least pretend you’re interested if you’re gonna show up to my room and ask to hang out?” 

“Oh my god, David, I was just reading this article about Team Canada, okay? Sorry I got invested in something other than you, okay?” 

“You’ve never been invested in me,” he patronizes, but brings his phone-holding hand down, glancing at the screen and grimacing. “What kind of fucking article title is that?” 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

He hands the phone over. “Gayest Olympic team yet?” he spits out. “What does that have to do with anything at all?” 

“With the fact that one of the top contenders at a global sporting event is like, made up of the most out athletes in the history of ever,” she answers, easily. “You should be happy about that, David. Way to dunk on the little itty bitty gay hockey players of tomorrow.” 

She pockets her phone, finally, and moves towards the room door. 

“How many is ‘the most amount of players, yet’?” 

Alexis unlocks the door and steps into the hall, beckoning him to follow. 

“It’s focused on the women’s hockey team, only, so like – nine including staff. But there are more in the other sports.” 

“And why were you so interested in reading this article about the Canadian women’s hockey team?” he asks. Alexis’s pace quickens. 

“Just staying on top of the news.” 

“How many out players on the Finnish team?” 

“Um, there’s no article about them?” 

“Okay, yeah — but if there was, you definitely wouldn’t read it.” They reach the elevators and Alexis presses on the downward arrow. “So why Canada?” 

Alexis remains stubbornly silent until the elevator dings and opens in front of them. They both step inside. 

She’s doing that thing again, where she’s trying to look like she doesn’t care, but she’s a terrible actress – how she ever got that Romanian loan shark to believe she was an Italian heiress during offseason when she was 20, he will never understand – and it’s not exactly a hardship to understand that he’s ridiculously close to striking a nerve. 

“Did you hook up with someone? On the list? Is this like a weird foreplay thing?” 

She grimaces at him, and he shrugs. “I don’t know what fuckin things you’re into.” 

“Ew, David, no.” 

“No to the foreplay or no you didn’t hook up with anyone?” 

She’s trying her level best to keep her stoic face on, David can tell, and he can also tell by the twitch of her fingers where her hands are folded in front of her that her facade isn’t going to hold much longer. He looks at her, really looks at her, trying to decipher what it is that she’s trying to keep from him. 

And then it clicks. 

“Stevie,” he says, letting a grin spread over his face. “You hooked up with Stevie.” 

She doesn’t say a word, but the sudden tightness in her posture and her stubborn insistence not to look in his direction give her away. 

“Was it…” he swallows. “Was it bad?” 

Of all things, this is the first that gets her to look at him. 

“No, nothing Stevie and I did was ever bad.” 

The elevator dings open, and she practically rushes out of it, leaving David speedwalking to catch up. It’s a testament to his growth as a sibling and person that he doesn’t complain as he matches her step. 

“So why won’t you talk about it? Seems like you should be bragging about this. In fact, it’s the one thing I’d let you brag about, I think. Stevie’s not bad.” 

She leads him out of the complex and past the rec centre, down one of the walking trails where the crowd is thinner. 

“Alexis.” 

She groans. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers. “Should I care? Is there something to care about?” 

She finally slows her steps as they approach a clearing close to the water. It’s still, just this side of uncomfortably so, a vast lawn of tall blades of grass peeking through a thin layer of untouched, fresh snow in front of them and deceptively still looking water that stretches out until it meets the island’s shore. 

“There’s nothing going on with me and Stevie, David,” she says, finally, “so you don’t have to worry about that.” 

“Why would I worry?”

“Um, because we’re rivals?” 

Images of Patrick flash through his mind, of his open laugh and his kind gaze and of the way his bottom lip shines with wetness after he takes a sip of his drink, pink and glistening and distracting. 

“Is that so horrible?” 

Alexis rolls her eyes. “Well, the last time I won a medal over her, she refused to talk to me and skipped town, so – yeah, it’s pretty bad, David.” 

“Oh.” 

“Oh.” 

“Did you like,” he tries again, a little hesitant. “Did you like, like her? Or was this another Tessa Virtue situation?”

“Oh my god, for the last time,” she whines, sort of like, shimmying with frustration as she turns to face him fully, “Tessa and I were just friends!” 

“Right, and Adam Lambert and I were ‘just rehearsing’ when I’d sneak into his dressing room on tour.” 

“Gross.” 

She turns away from him and to the sight in front of them. “It’s pretty,” she says, and it’s not insanely cold out, or anything, but the apples of her cheeks are pinking and her breath comes out misty puffs of white. 

He turns towards the field, fully, taking in for the first time what she’s looking out on. She’s right; it is pretty, thin layer of glistening snow fresh enough that it hasn’t yet turned to sludge under the already sort of warming up air, intermittent green flashes of hidden blades of grass underneath it, grey-blue sky and water behind it. He steps closer and waits, observing Alexis’s reaction — and when she doesn’t move away, steps closer again. He’s right next to her now, the both of them staring out on the open field. 

“I won’t make fun of you,” he says suddenly. His brain runs a reel of warm hands and sponsored Lululemons and twinkling eyes and goddamn fruit refreshers as he speaks. “If… about you and Stevie, if you want to talk about it. I won’t make fun of you.”

She stays quiet, and the silence stretches between them, lasting maybe ten seconds, maybe a minute, maybe five, and then: “I really liked her, David.” 

She turns her face and her eyes meet his, clear aqua in the cold, her voice unsure in a way he isn’t sure he’s heard it since she’d learned to live without him, all those years ago. 

“And?” He encourages. 

“And I think she liked me. Like, me. Like I let her know me and she was happy about it, and I thought that maybe, like – maybe someone finally sees something in me that they like seeing.” She takes a deep breath. “ And then I think it, uh, sort of got kind of like, effed when I beat her for the medal.” 

“Okay,” he says, “Okay, yeah.” Then: “Do you still like her?” 

She smiles, just a close-lipped stretch of her mouth, and shrugs her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” 

He nods. There’s a lot he could say, he supposes: of course it matters, he’ll talk to Stevie for her, Stevie’s not the only one who likes Alexis for who she is, David’s right here, but he can’t quite form any of the words he think she wants to hear from him right away. For the moment, he decides to let it be. 

He doesn’t quite know what to make of this yet, but it’s the most she’s spoken to him about something real in literal decades, so he cherishes it. Even if he can’t do anything with it right away. Then he cocks his head at her. 

“You think anyone’ll notice if we skip the opening ceremony and get really, really drunk?” 

She laughs. “Do you wanna find out?” 

A second. Two seconds. 

“Let’s sit on it as an option.”

Chapter Text

Patrick laughs at the way Stevie rolls her eyes as he gives her a thumbs up, and then rubs his gloved hands down from her shoulders to her elbows in a gesture of pride before trying to send her off to the front of the line. 

His best friend. His best fucking friend, the country’s flag bearer, at the first Olympic games they get to attend together. If he thinks too long and hard about it his brain might explode. 

He’s shoved aside midway through his urging to get Stevie to move, Rachel pushing firmly at the side of his waist until he moves out of her way. She moves to grab Stevie with unbridled enthusiasm, pressing forward urgently to hug her in what she’ll probably insist is an entirely affectionate gesture but Patrick actually knows is at least part way a desperate attempt at trying to keep her tiny frame warm. She whispers something in Stevie’s ear and laughs, even if Steve flips her the bird in response, and then steps back to grab Twyla’s hand. Stevie, with a last appraising glance and smile wider than Patrick’s ever seen it, waves them goodbye as she follows the staff trying to lead her to the front of the group. 

Someone taps on Patrick’s shoulder, zealous, and Patrick turns at the touch only to be pulled into a huddle by his old teammates, teammates he should have played with when this happened in Beijing four years ago, teammates that stood by him when he’d told them before the press what he was going to do and made sure that they make up for all the lost experiences this time around. 

“Brewster for the golden ruuuunnnnn!” someone shouts to the side, and maybe it’s Mitchell or maybe it’s Nick or maybe it’s Patrick, the other Patrick, he can’t tell over all this noise. It’s chaos all around them, a mad rush as they scurry to take their relative places as staff flits in and out, walks back and forth shouting instructions here and there to make sure everything goes the way it needs to. 

It’s an objective mess; it’s loud and busy and crowded and cold and Patrick can’t hear anything any of his friends are saying to him and he is having the time of his goddamn life. It’s not long now until the proceedings begin, with their anthem and flag starting off the show, as is courtesy for the host country. It’ll be nothing but national pride that seems to come out in waves at these national events and music and a light show rife with streams of blue, green, and purple flashing over the crowd in the cold that has just begun to bite at Patrick’s cheeks and ears. The Canadian team, itself, will enter last. 

It’s a moment, and then Patrick moreso hears rather than sees the moment Greece begins marching a short moment later, unable to keep from fidgeting with excitement at the overwhelming display around him as more and more nations make their way down the path of the parade. Before long, Stevie has to begin moving, too, leading Patrick and the rest of the team towards the heart of the ceremony. It isn’t unlike the buzz he used to feel before stepping onto the ice at Scotiabank, night after night, for a moment. For a brief flash, with Rachel and Twyla at his side and his arms thrown around these men he’s known for nearly a decade, now, it’s almost an entirely too familiar sensation before they march onto the open field. His stomach is buzzing and his toes are tingling and there’s a sort of low hum playing at the back of his head that he can’t quite identify as either good or bad, even if all he feels is excitement. When they get there, a few short steps later, to the open field with cheers directed at him, at them, the last in the parade, it’s nothing but euphoria. 

He remembers being a little kid, watching the opening ceremony on television and wondering what it would be like to be at the thick of it, and it had broken his heart to have realized that he’d basically passed on his opportunity to live it last time around. But this is better. Here is better. On home ice. Here, not as a player like he’d always assumed he’d come but with Rachel wiggling over to his free side and reaching out to hold one of his hands and Twyla with both of hers on Rachel’s shoulders from behind, with an old friend’s unmoving hand on Patrick’s free arm and Stevie at the very front, it’s more than anything he could’ve ever pictured. There are fireworks and speeches and oaths and doves and the lighting of the cauldron happens right in front of his eyes and it’s everything he’d ever dreamed this could be, and everything he’d never dared to imagine. 

The crowd doesn’t really die down until hours later, thinning intermittently but still full of enthusiastic Olympicgoers, and though Patrick feels the exhaustion from the day seep into his bones, he can’t quite bring himself to get away. It’s becoming hard to believe their win against Finland was only this morning. He’s hanging off of Stevie’s arm, only the two of them and Rachel and Twyla hanging back, now, floating on pure adrenaline as she leads him the way through the crowd, mostly lost in the fabulous display of light and colour and music overtaking his every sense until he feels her shoulder tenses beneath his arm, quickly, and is forced to pay attention to what she’s come across. 

Or, well – who she’s come across.

He smiles brightly when his eyes land on Alexis, who’s sort of thrown up her arms in glee as she spots them. She’s surrounded by a small group of teammates Patrick recognizes: Maddison Bellevue, Lola Marquis, and he thinks that’s Morgan Spooners? But he can’t be too sure. Alexis greets them all joyfully, undoubtedly also riding the same cloud of adrenaline that’s been carrying Patrick around all night, and he feels Stevie sags a little against him, and then immediately stiffen up, just a little too much for it to come off as natural. Then he watches her school her expression into this thing she probably thinks comes off as unbothered but really just looks anything but. 

“What’s up?” she asks in response to Alexis’s greeting, and Patrick has to physically keep himself from face palming. Real smooth. 

“She’s probably enjoying the ceremony, Stevie. Same as you,” he says, smiling and fixing his eyes on Alexis. 

“It’s so fun!” Alexis squeals in response, loud enough to be heard over the crowd. “Isn’t it so fun, you guys? The lights and the birds and the marching! It’s so, like, dramatic!”

“Mm, dramatic,” Stevie replies. “Right up your alley, isn’t it?” Patrick watches the quip leave her lips with wide eyes, and he almost sort of cringes once they’re out there, unsure of how the comment’ll land on Alexis. She seems like the type to take herself very seriously. Surprising Patrick, however, all the comment seems to do is deepen the delighted crinkle in her eye and stretch the top of her smile wider. Like she’s amused. Endeared. 

It takes him aback for a moment, until it starts making perfect sense. It’s an almost David-esque reaction, and more than anything – more than the extensive relaying of their fling that Stevie had done on his couch last winter and the bits and pieces he’s been able to scour from short interaction at World tournaments and interviews and a lot of nagging, on his end – it’s this that makes whatever they shared real to Patrick. He’s been hearing about it forever, to various degrees, but seeing it…. It’s a whole other thing. 

He suddenly feels, in a way he didn’t before, like he truly understands what it did to Stevie to have walked away all that time ago. 

And if the way Stevie suddenly rolls her shoulders back under his arm, standing a little straighter as Alexis delivers a retort he doesn’t quite catch is any indication, this might be the first time in a long time that it's hit her just how real this still is, as well.

Patrick watches them interact, almost singularly focused on them now, despite the many distractions, paying attention to the lilt in Alexis’s voice and the breath in Stevie’s replies. It’s foreign and familiar at once – he’s never seen Stevie quite like this, but the longer the conversation goes (now with Rachel and Twyla joining in) the easier it is to reconcile this tentative, nervous, flirty Stevie with his friend of a decade who sets him up on well-intentioned but failed blind dates and then helps him out of them, too. This Stevie, the girl who had taken up camp in his apartment half a decade ago, heart broken both from the loss of a tournament of someone he’s just now realizing was so, so important to her, Patrick is surprised to realize, is just his witty, snippy, falsely cynical best friend doing her best at trying to open up. 

And, well, Patrick would be damned if he isn’t going to try to help. At the very least. 

“Hey, uh, Alexis,” he starts after a moment too long of having zoned out observing them, interrupting what still looks like what he’s strongly assuming is their version of flirty banter. He has her attention immediately; she stops mid sentence and turns to look at him, wide-eyed and curious. Patrick feels Stevie under his arm, still, and moves it off of her shoulder, taking a self-preservatory step away from her. When he dares meet her eye, just fleetingly, she’s glaring like she knows exactly what he’s about to do. Safely tucked by Twyla’s side, now, he continues: “We were, um – We were probably going to go grab a late snack at the dining hall,” he says, carefully avoiding the feeling of Stevie’s gaze throwing daggers at his skull. “And uh, if you all… if you wanted to join, that could be fun. Hang around before we have to battle it out, or whatever.” 

She cocks her head, like she’s considering it, and then Spooners says something to her that she intently nods at, something Patrick is unable to quite catch over the noise surrounding them. Then she looks up and nods. 

“Um, so, we have a game, tomorrow?” she winces, “And like, everyone wants to get their rest in…” She looks genuinely apologetic, and Patrick nods absentmindedly, mildly disappointed. When he chances a look at Stevie, she’s got her arms crossed in front of her, and anyone who knows her any less than he does wouldn’t be able to catch the way her face has fallen just slightly, too. 

“It’s okay,” he says, turning his attention back to Alexis. He smiles. “Raincheck.” 

“Oh,” Alexis answers, eyes widening and shaking her head. “No, I meant like, they’re gonna go for a rest, Patrick. I can like, I can join. If you want.” 

It’s not him that she’s looking at when she finishes that sentence. 

Before either he or Stevie can quite answer, Twyla grabs his arm and squeezes, mirroring the small burst of excitement that suddenly takes place inside him, and Rachel practically squeals and pretty much throws herself forward, grabbing Alexis by the arm. “Of course it is!” she says. “I have so many questions to ask you. Number one: do they make you bite the medal when you guys take those pictures, or is that just some weird gold winner instinct?” 

Alexis laughs and waves goodbye to her teammates, easily letting Rachel lead her off the field with Twyla hot on their heels. Stevie stays put, transfixed on the spot Alexis was still standing at for a moment, before she turns toward him. 

“Thought you said you’d stop joking about me and Alexis dating.” 

Patrick smiles, big and delighted. “Doesn’t feel like I’m joking. Does it feel like you’re joking?” 

“This isn’t going to end well, Brewer.” 

He shrugs. “Just sort of kept looking like you want to try anyway. I just followed through.” 

She doesn’t so much reply to that – just punches his arm, hard, but he can’t bring himself to be mad at the sharp soreness her touch leaves behind. Especially when she immediately links her arm through his and begins walking. In front of them, Twyla, Rachel, and Alexis laugh at something, and Patrick finds himself basking in the sound of it. Everyone seems to take to her quite easily – Patrick himself had, too. Alexis is easy to smile around, he finds. She fits well, and he can see what Stevie sees in her. Her joy is addictive and her confidence is admirable, and she has this weird way of emoting through her hands as she talks that’s weirdly endearing, sort of like…

“Huh,” he lets out, still walking. 

“What?” Stevie asks. 

“Nothing.” He hadn’t meant for her to hear. 

She stops walking and tugs at his arm until he does, too. The three girls in front of them keep moving, oblivious. 

“Patrick Brewer,” Stevie chides, “you are on thin ice with me right now, with your whole meddling shtick, okay? So whatever just went through your dumb ass little brain, just spit it out.” 

He waits, hoping she’ll let him off easy,  because he really, really would rather not give her any ammunition over him right now. 

“Patrick,” she warns. 

He sighs. “David. David’s not here. That’s what I was thinking. That’s all.” 

She lets go of his arm, and much to his horror, an all-too familiar thing happens to her face, where she sort of squints her eyes all evilly and her lips tug up like she wants to smile. “How do you know David Rose?” 

“I know all of the other coaches, Stevie,” he rolls his eyes. “I did my homework.” 

“Yeah but…” she trails off, refusing to finish her thought. “Just. How do you know David?” 

“Do you ‘know’ David?” 

“Shut up and answer me, Patrick.” 

“I met him once. Last night.” 

“Why are you meeting boys illicitly at night, Mr. Brewer?” 

“Not illicitly — I met him at the atrium last night, and we talked for a while, god. I’m not like, having an affair with the guy.” 

“But do you wish you were?” 

He won’t answer that, because – no. He doesn’t want an affair with David Rose. He wants…well, it doesn’t matter anyway. 

“Alexis is probably waiting for us,” he says instead, intently turning away from Stevie and continuing the walk towards the dining hall. 

“We’re not done talking,” Stevie says to him, but dutifully matches his pace. “When we’re not doing whatever it is you’re trying to orchestrate between me and Alexis right now, we’re gonna talk about this. It’s only fair.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he mutters back.

“No mercy, Brewer.” 

He rolls his eyes again as they keep walking, hoping the smile he can feel threatening to come on is less obvious than he thinks it is. 

The dining hall isn’t too far off the field, and they make it right before the tips of Patrick’s ears start numbing in earnest. He’s sniffling by the time he steps inside, and Rachel, who’s standing right by the door waiting for them, notices, chiding him and pulling the top of his tuque down on the sides like she’d started doing after hockey practices back in middle school. Her own cheeks are red, like she’d played in some blush for about ten strokes too long, and her fingers are practically icicles where they touch his already cold forehead. 

“Don’t get the sniffles on me, Brewer,” she says, leaning up to kiss his cheek and then placing her hands on either side of his face, like she’s trying to hold it in place with her palms. “You’re a terrible patient, and I’m not subjecting my girlfriend to that again.” 

Close behind him, Stevie snorts, and Patrick finds himself laughing, too. He meets eyes with Twyla over Rachel’s head, relaxed and amused, unlike when she’d had to walk in on a whining, practically naked Patrick fresh out of the shower Rachel had forced him to take, refusing to let her help him with his clothes even with his limbs heavy and his face paler than it had ever been, dizzy with fever. 

He smiles at her and she smiles back, friendly as she is, and next to her, Alexis seems to be amused, too, even if she doesn’t get the joke. Like maybe she’s figured it out even though no one’s told her a thing. Like she won’t hesitate to make fun of him for this mysterious thing he may or may not have ever done. 

Patrick likes her. He really, really does. He’s finding it to be a bit of a pattern with these Roses.  

He grabs both Stevie and Rachel’s hands as they make their way to their usual table, pulling his tuque off once he takes a seat, and pulls both Rachel and Stevie down with him. Rachel takes the hint – she always does – settling by his side and grabbing Twyla on her other side. Stevie and Alexis take the last two seats, right next to each other. 

They try to decide on what stall to get food from. Stevie and Alexis put up a strong united front for soup, and Rachel sort of sways between that option and a good big caesar salad. Twyla, on her end, is glad to go with the group. At some point, after a gracious comment on his end about how Stevie and Alexis make a strong team in argument, someone definitely kicks Patrick on the shin, and he does his best not to react to it. He doesn’t claim to be a master at subtlety, but he will not apologize for maybe laying it on a little too thick while trying to wingman his best friend. She can kick him all she wants. 

“Twyla and I will go get something for everyone?” he announces once they finally do land on the soup place, noting down everyone’s orders. He ignores the way Rachel pokes his abdomen, furrowing her brows at him. “We’ll be right back. Uh, the three of you… talk. Have fun.” 

“She’s going to kill you for leaving her alone with them,” Twyla says to him once they’re out of earshot. He throws an arm around her. 

“She’s smart; she’ll find a way out.” And he means it. If it was between trusting Twyla or Rachel to get the hint and make themselves scarce to force Stevie and Alexis into one-on-one time… Bless her soul, he loves Twyla so much, she makes Rachel so happy, she’s one of his best friends, but she’s not exactly a master at excusing herself. 

He feels Twyla slow her steps and lets his own mirror them, watching carefully as she glances back at the table. When she looks back at him, she’s smiling. 

“You’re a good guy, Patrick.”

“Nah,” he says, “just a guy who can’t sit through another four years of moping.” 

They make quick work with making and picking up the order (though not too quick, he’s following through on a plan, here) and Patrick is delighted when the table comes in sight to see that Rachel – his beautiful, smart, hint-taking Rachel – has disappeared off somewhere, leaving Stevie and Alexis to talk alone. And as sure as he is that he’ll be on the receiving of a solid, stern talking on both her and Stevie’s ends for his actions, especially just a few days before the prelims against the USA, something thrills inside him at the sight of Stevie’s eyebrows raised in delight in the face of Alexis’s charming, emotive way of talking, and of the way she seems to light up when Alexis leans forward and grabs her wrist and shakes it whilst recounting something particularly thrilling. To see Stevie like this, he’d sit through all of the lashings. He’d take a couple on the house, too. 

“Got everyone their orders,” he says as he and Twyla reach the table, feigning absolute innocence. “Had to guess for drinks, sorry.” Then, looking up as if he’d just noticed: “Where’s Rach?”

“Rachel went to the bathroom real quick,” Alexis answers immediately, either oblivious or unbothered, Patrick can’t tell. “Ooh, Patrick, is that our stuff? Let me see!” 

She quickly grabs both hers and Stevie’s containers, placing them in front of them, and passes the rest along. Then she reaches for the drinks. 

“No sweet drinks during the tournament, right?” she says, and she’s grabbing the water bottle to hand to Stevie before she can even answer, grabbing an iced tea for herself. 

Stevie blushes – which honestly Patrick didn’t know she was even capable of – and grabs the bottle from her. “Yep. Yeah. They, uh..” 

“Make you all jittery! Yeah, I remember.” 

“How’d you remember that?” Stevie asks, and Patrick so sorely wishes he had popcorn right now, because this sure is a show. 

“Okay, I’m not like, incapable of remembering things, Stevie!” Alexis whines. 

Twyla butts in, sweetly: “I think she just meant that it’s been a long time, Alexis.” 

“Not that long!” 

Okay, time to interfere. “I think that’s very considerate of you, Alexis. I didn’t realize you both had gotten that close last time.” 

That’s a big, blatant lie. A big, ugly, blatant, glaring lie. But all’s fair in trying to wingman. 

She brightens immediately. “Totally, Patrick! We started hanging out like, three games in? We were both there for the first time and it was like, all big and new and exciting, and Stevie and I just, clicked, right?” 

Stevie nods. “Mhmm. Clicked.” 

“Stevie’s never just ‘clicked’ with anybody,” Rachel suddenly says, coming up from behind Patrick and taking her seat next to him. If she’s just a tad more forceful than she needs to be, shoving him over to make space for herself, he lets it go. He does, in fact, quite deserve it. “We played on the same college team for two years before she stopped calling me ‘that Miller girl’.”

“In my defence, your passing was atrocious, and that infuriated me.” 

“It was good enough to get me on the team, Budd.” 

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t terrible.” 

“Alexis!” Twyla interrupts loudly, grabbing Rachel’s hand over the table, “you were saying something?” 

“Mm, right, so Stevie and I got like, close, and then the Olympics ended.” 

Patrick can’t tell if he’s the only one who can feel the tension around the table when she stops talking, but he doesn’t dare break it, looking down and digging into his soup instead. 

“And now we’re all here,” Twyla says, softly. 

Alexis’s smile, which had momentarily disappeared, returns by just a fraction. She looks down at her bowl and nods. “Now we’re here.” 

Next to her, Stevie’s looking down in front of her as well. She doesn't dare meet his eye, but he knows her better than she’d ever admit. Knows her like the back of his hand. Knows her like he knows the official NHL rulebook, front to back, inside and out. 

Knows that for the first time, in four years, it’s truly just now sunk in what a big mistake she’d made, leaving Alexis without even so much as a conversation. 

He’d never really understood the depth of her sour mood after returning to Toronto, four years ago – to be fair, he probably hadn’t pried as much as he should have, too wounded himself by the fact that he’d had to pull out of going with her. He’d known she was hurting, but never grasped the depth of what all that hurt was about. There had been a tension, there, something deeper than the sadness of a game loss or of a badly ended fling, or a casual relationship left unresolved. Here, sitting over soup containers in a dining hall in Vancouver, he’s beginning to see glimpses of what she’d really been upset about losing, and no matter how these games go, he’s sure of one thing: 

He’s not letting his best friend go through that again. Not only for her, but because he sees a hint of that same something in Alexis’s eyes, too. Like she knows exactly what they could’ve been, as well.

What, if things go the way Patrick’s hoping, they maybe could still be. 

There’s not much he can do anymore, besides keep forcing them into spending time each other, and if that’s what it’ll take to push them across the line then he’ll gladly do it, but he’s looking at the two of them now, next to each other, finally facing each other after stolen glances and professional handshakes over the past couple of years, and he just… He thinks they can carry this the rest of the way without him just fine. There’s enough there that they have a reason to. 

He decides he’s done enough pushing, maintaining casual, safe conversation with Alexis over the next few minutes before announcing he’d be heading back to his room.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he says to Alexis as he stands up. “And please, feel free to join us like this anytime you want.”

He heads up to his room without considerable fanfare, changing into his sleeping clothes and reading for a while before allowing himself to lie down. The exhaustion of the evening finally catches up to him as he stares at his popcorn ceiling in the dark. Between the ceremony and finally having a face and relationship to put on what’s had Stevie down for so long, it almost feels like he’s lived about a week in a single day. Sighing, he lets his thoughts wander. He thinks of the flashing lights of the opening ceremony. He thinks of Rachel and Twyla holding hands. He thinks of the way he’d felt during it, and the way it had itched a part of him he hadn’t even known had been bothering him for over four years. He thinks of how he’d felt, that first time, when he’d been announced on the Canadian men’s roster. He thinks of how much it had hurt to decide not to go, and how much more it had hurt to choose to step back from the game entirely. He thinks of walking back into the locker room at Scotiabank and being greeted by tears and hugs from teammates he didn’t think would ever understand him as firmly as they did. He thinks of the second chance Stevie gave him, vouching for him for the Worlds when he'd only just hit his stride coaching pee wee a couple of years ago, and he thinks of how he can give her a similar second chance now, with Alexis. He even thinks of David, for a moment, and of his expressive face and his beautiful hands and his kind, elusive smile. He thinks of how much he’d like to see him again. 

Someone knocks at his door. 

He jumps up immediately, startled – there’s no reason anyone should be knocking at his door past bedtime – bracing himself for an emergency before he opens the door to relatively okay-looking, definitely not worried Stevie, sleeping clothes in hand. 

“I need to sleep in your room tonight.” 

“What?” 

“Your ex-girlfriend wants to sleep with her current girlfriend, so now I need you to let me share your bed with you.”

“Oh,” he says, and then he moves away from the entrance, “yeah, yeah. Come in.” 

She heads inside the bathroom to change while he flicks the lamp switches on, settling his pillow over towards the side of the bed he usually occupies when they end up sharing. She’s quick to come back out, unbothered as she throws her clothes off to land over his unpacked suitcase standing off to the side, and climbs under the covers next to him. 

When he’s convinced they’re both settled, he switches the lights back off. 

“Did you just head up?” he asks, hesitantly in case she’s actually on the way to being asleep. 

“Mhmm.” 

“And everything was good, after I left?” 

“Yeah, we made out. It was fun.” 

He bolts up immediately. 

“Stevie! You kissed?” 

She groans and turns over so that she’s facing upward. “No, you idiot. Lie down.”

He does. 

“And we need to talk about you meddling,” she says. “It’s a pretty sad look.” 

In the dark, he can’t see her face, and she can be dry as hell when she wants to, so the sentiment leaves him cold. 

“I was trying to help,” he admits weakly, but it falls flat even to his own ears. He’s no stranger to pushing too far in a misguided attempt to make things easier on the people he loves.

And he does love her. Very much. 

He clears his throat and carries on. “I thought it would help, to get you talking to her again,” he speaks into the silence. “I think she’s good for you, but I can stop.” He feels Stevie shuffle next to him. “I can stop if you want me to.”

A moment goes by, and he can feel it weighing him down, pressing down on his lungs in some approximation of guilt and fear and disappointment. Finally, Stevie speaks. 

“I ran into her in the games lounge, the other day. We played a game of pool – I beat her ass.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, and somewhere, when we were playing, I went from wanting to beat her to remembering how fun it is to play against her, and suddenly all of this anger I’ve had for four years just disappeared. And I didn’t hate her so much.” 

“I don’t think you ever hated her.”

Stevie laughs. 

“You think?”

“She likes you,” he says. 

“I like her,” she replies. 

He turns to face her, and though it’s dark, he knows when he feels her moving that she’s facing him, too. It takes a moment, but he’s eventually able to make out her face, so close to his. He puts a hand out onto her arm. 

“You’re allowed to have good things,” he says, “and if this thing with her is one of those good things, and you want it, then I’m here for it.” 

“You’ve made that pretty clear,” she whispers, “and it was nice. What you were trying to do. Cringey, but nice.”

“I really mean it.” 

“We’ll see,” she says finally, “but no more meddling. You’re not subtle at all. It’s embarrassing.” 

“Funny, considering I’m not embarrassed at all.” 

“You should be.”

“Nope.” 

She pokes at his sternum with her index, tapping lightly. 

“You know who else was at the games lounge that day?”

“Feel like you’re about to tell me.” 

“David Rose,” she says, and grins.

“Okay,” he says, bringing a hand up to ruffle her hair, and then he turns around. “Good night.” 

“You gonna dream of David Rose?” 

“Gonna dream of you not talking about him.”

“Hey, I told you about my crush.” 

He refuses to look at her again. 

“He’s my rival, technically, you know.” 

“And Alexis isn’t mine?” 

“It’s different. You two are… good. Together.” 

“Patrick.” 

He sighs. 

“I’m gonna dream about David Rose, and about how he's definitely out of my league, and how he probably doesn’t want anything to do with me besides beat my team in this tournament.” 

He doesn’t think that’s entirely true. He’d been there with David yesterday. There had been… he hopes, at least, that there had been something they’d both felt. 

“Did he tell you that?” 

“We don’t know each other like you and Alexis do, Stevie,” he sighs, and, sensing a rebuttal, carries on before she can get a word in: “And besides, he’s probably not looking to find romance in the likes of a competitor.” It’s weak and he knows it. But he has to put it out there. Just in case it’s true. 

“Neither was I,” she replies, simply. Too simply. Surprisingly, though, it’s all she says, patting him on the back twice before he feels her shift around behind him.

He’s not sure if he’s grateful or disappointed.

Chapter Text

Alexis probably should’ve expected to see her when she walked into the fitness room, two hours ahead of the scheduled skate. She hadn’t, though, far too lost in her own jumbled thoughts of last night – of Patrick’s barely masked meddling, of the sly looks from both Rachel and Twyla that Alexis had had to pretend to ignore, of the jolt that came along every time her hand had accidentally brushed against Stevie's, or when their arms had pressed against each other's, and of the lingering gazes that neither of them had wanted to quite move away when it had finally come time to say goodnight. It’s been… a lot, the last couple of days, after four years of dutifully avoiding Stevie. It’s been memories she’d expected to have forgotten flooding in all over and feelings she hadn’t been able to recognize even the first time around fluttering inside all around her. If it weren’t for the big, lingering awkward thing between them, Alexis would almost think that they were back in Beijing, before it had all gotten like, effed.  

It’s a lot to think about, on top of the game later today, so it’s a bit of a surprise, even though it really shouldn’t have been, to come face to face with Stevie in a fitness room she had expected to be empty for at least another hour. She yelps at the sight of her (shut up, okay?) and coughs or groans or something – she makes some sort of sound – to try to cover it up. She’s got like, dignity to preserve. 

Stevie’s here. She probably shouldn’t be here but she is, right before a USA practice, deep into a set of knee raises. Her face is like, scrunched up all cute like it does when she’s really into what she’s doing and she’s sort of gone red at the forehead and the ear and chest. Her skin is shiny with sweat under the ugly tube lights of the room that work for no one but do for her, for some reason, and her gray tank top has a growing wet patch at the front and she’s in the most ridiculous bright royal blue basketball shorts Alexis has ever seen but she looks so good in them and it’s. It’s unfair. Like, there has to be some sort of rule against it. 

Stevie’s eyes snap over to Alexis as soon as she makes the offending not-yelp and widen a little, as if Alexis is the one who isn’t supposed to be here. “Oh,” she says, hopping down on her two feet and wiping her hands off on the side of her tank top, and Alexis isn’t affected even a little itty bitty bit by the move, she isn’t. “You’re early.” She’s breathing heavy and her hair is sort of damp and Alexis needs to focus. She’s a professional. 

“And you’re, um, here?” she squeaks, instead of anything cool or suave or normal, and fuck everyone , it’s not her fault, because technically Alexis’s team has first claim on the gym and practice rink today and Canada has a day off and no one besides Stevie fucking Budd is weird enough to show up at fuck o’clock in the morning on their day off, so it’s not fair. Alexis didn’t have a chance to prepare herself for this after… while she’s still processing last night. 

“I, um, yes,” Stevie says, taking a step forward. “I was going to leave before any of you got here. I can – If you need to do something, um, I can go now.” 

“No!” Alexis finds herself answering immediately. “It’s fine. I… you still like to do the early morning workout thing?” Which is a dumb question, why would Stevie not like morning workouts anymore, but Alexis’s brain isn’t working, okay? 

“Yeah, it, uh –”

“ – helps you relax,” she completes, ignoring the things Stevie’s wide eyes threaten to do to her, “stops you from feeling all anxious and jumpy, or whatever.” 

Stevie doesn’t really answer, besides keeping her eyes glued to Alexis’s face even as she lifts the hem of her tank top to wipe at her face. Alexis doesn’t peek. If she catches a little bit of the pale skin at Stevie’s waist, it’s just because it was in her peripheral vision and she couldn’t really avoid it. And if her pulse quickens at the sight, it’s because she’s nervous about the game she’s about to play, and nothing else. 

There’s a silence between them that lasts a few seconds, and then a few seconds too long. Stevie’s heavy breathing seems to be evening out, and Alexis hates how clearly she can hear it, even standing a few feet away. Her gaze catches some of Stevie’s hair ends, right above her ears and near her temples, matted from sweat, and where they cling right below the side of her jaw, and suddenly it’s all she can look at, she can’t bear to look away from them even with the pressing matter of professionalism and the game later today and just some fucking dignity, maybe. An Olympic event ago, Alexis would have run her fingers through that hair (though maybe after a shower, because ew ), and complimented Stevie on the haircut. Now all she can do is stare. 

Stevie’s mouth opens and then shuts, and then opens again. Her next heavy breath comes from it instead of through her nose, which is weirdly, devastatingly distracting, before she finally speaks. 

“I was a dick to you,” she says, and Alexis meets her eyes once more. “In Beijing. Leaving like that.” 

“Oh,” Alexis answers, and then, a little more nonchalantly, she hopes: “ Oh my god, no, Stevie. It’s okay – totally.” She shrugs, hoping to convey an air of casualness even though everything inside her feels anything but. 

“No, you –” Stevie pauses for a second, shutting her eyes, and then continues, taking another step forward. “I liked talking to you, yesterday. And, um, before that, too.” 

Another step. 

“And last night, you were talking like you maybe you liked being with, or like, being around me, too, and I guess it’s my fault we ever stopped, so. Just that. I was a dick. I want you to know that I know.” 

“I… yeah, I guess,” Alexis smiles. “We had fun.” 

“I did. And I’m… I’m not proud of the way I made it… um, end.” 

“Mm, that’s very thoughtful of you, yes, um, but like, I get it?” Alexis takes a tiny step backwards, because any closer to Stevie and she risks losing any ground she finally has, here. “You like, were rightfully upset you lost a pretty big thing. It’s like, basically how anyone would react. It didn’t even bother me.” 

That last part might maybe be a little bit of a lie, but that’s irrelevant. Alexis is being forgiving and mature. 

“Okay,” Stevie says. And then the dumb cliche thing that Alexis hates so much happens, where Stevie smiles and the world stops, just for a tiny moment, just to let Alexis focus on the way Stevie’s face is brightened by it. “And in the interest of us talking about it, now, I’m saying that I hope that if it ever comes to it, I’ll tell you before fleeing the country this time.” 

Alexis smiles back. “Um, I’m pretty sure you have nowhere to flee to, anyway, so.”

Stevie’s smile gets bigger, just a little, and then she laughs, she laughs, and suddenly Alexis is right back where she was, four years ago, before it all went to shit. 

So much for growth , she thinks, and for a moment there’s the fleeting thought that she needs to do better, this time, that she needs to protect herself a little bit better this time around, because if this doesn’t end well it ends in a steaming pile of like, horse poop, or whatever, but…  

But doesn’t she kind of, sort of want to find out if second time’s the charm? 

Besides, it can’t hurt more than it did last time. 

It can’t. 

And this is just friendship anyway, right? Low stakes or whatever?  

She marches over to the side, pulling two yoga mats off the storage shelf and gesturing for Stevie to join. She thankfully does, and it takes everything in Alexis’s power not to reach for where her hair ends at the nape of her neck when she comes to stand right next to her – the haircut really is working on Stevie, it’s so annoying. 

“And um,” she adds, settling down onto the mat and watching Stevie do the same, “Patrick is super sweet, and everything, but like, his wingman skills are like…” she makes a zero with her hand, prompting Stevie to burst out laughing again. 

“I mean, we’re both here, right? He probably did something right.” 

Alexis ignores the way those words land on her, far too big and sincere for friendship , opting for the tease instead. She puts on a grimace. “Did he, though?” 

Stevie pulls at her tank top up again, lifting the hem and bringing it up to wipe at the back of her neck, torso bare and shining with residual sweat and so, so close. It should be gross, and Alexis needs to tell her to not do that anymore, but right now… anyway. 

“He was trying to fix things in his own, weird idiotic way,” Stevie says. “And also saying anything to him wouldn’t have helped.” She shrugs, as if helpless about it. “He’s shameless.” 

Stevie’s tank is scrunched up at the waist now, and her basketball shorts sort of ride up as she positions herself on the mat. Alexis just smiles and tucks her face away. 

She’ll let Patrick get away with it, she decides. She’s starting to see the appeal in shameless. 

Stevie sticks around for nearly twenty more minutes, a delightful workout companion. They keep talking after putting the mats away, a little less tentative now, a little more firm, a little more daring. It’s not what it used to be, but Alexis is finally seeing a glimpse of the fun, thrilling thing that used to be between them when they’d trash talk across benches the last time they’d done this. By the time Stevie insists that she should head back up, letting Alexis’s team rightfully have the room, Alexis is buzzing all over with it. 

“Focus on the game,” Stevie says, placating, and well – yeah, okay. Alexis needs to do that. She lets her go pretty easy after that. 

“And uh, hey,” Stevie says right before she steps out of the room, running her hand across her neck to wipe sweat in a deeply incorrect move. “If you’re up for it, a couple of us were going to go watch the figure skating event later this evening.”

Alexis nods.

“If it doesn’t hurt your ego to be hanging around with the enemy, you’re welcome to join.” 

“I’d like that.” 

Stevie furrows her brow then, like she’s thinking hard about something, and then continues: “And ask David if he wants to come, too? Tell him Patrick will be glad to see him.” She tilts her head and smiles again, but it’s a little different this time, heated and sparked by some sort of mischief. 

“I thought David and Patrick didn’t know each other,” Alexis frowns. 

“Didn’t we all?” She’s still got that intention behind her smile, the one Alexis can’t decipher, so all she can do is nod again. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll invite him.” 

Something else settles on Stevie’s face, then, more serious, and she moves closer and brings a hand up to Alexis’s bicep. It’s the same hand she had used to wipe her neck, so Alexis tries her best not to cringe away from it. “And good luck at the game.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Build that ego up before I hand it back to you in two days.” 

Her tone is light, and she’s gone before Alexis can figure out a reaction. As the grin spreads across her face, loud and carefree and not at all detached enough for the fragile state of their newly bridged friendship, if that’s what they can call it now, Alexis figures it’s probably for the best. 

The rest of her teammates start fluttering in barely any time later, changed and ready. David catches her eye, raising his eyebrows at the sight of her already sweating and flushed, but she only waves at him before finding someone else to hang around. A short cool down and perfunctory clean up later, they’re all geared up and on the ice for a quick practice in a well-established routine. David shuffles a couple of them around, not messing too much with the lines this close to the game but providing last minute updates on the new special teams. Alexis is off the penalty kill to make space for Natalie’s more defensive play, but back on the offensive unit. No one seems too bothered by the change; they’d been discussing it since yesterday’s morning skate. Besides, it doesn’t change much. David’s rotated her enough that they know she and her linesmates will be more than fine.

They turn out to be right not to be worried when the puck drops a couple of hours later, followed by an immediate rush and wrist shot that puts them in the lead not even a minute into the game.  

It’s fast paced from there, if not a little tougher than Alexis had expected it to be. ROC’s power forwards are quick and sharp, coming in with their well placed shots luckily only to encounter Ruth’s better placed pads. By the end of the second period, they’ve outshot Alexis’s team 35-27, though by some masterful shooting and probably some manifesting on David’s part, judging by the anxiety wafting off of him at the bench, ROC still happens to be down only goals by the buzzer. USA’s still in the lead, still the only side on the board, but David makes it clear by the end of intermission that two goals isn’t nearly comfortable enough for them to be sitting on considering Russia’s offense, going on a wildly animated rant on the need for them to double down on their own offense in the last 20. 

At first Alexis had thought the speech was pure theatrics, just a way for David to shrug off excess energy (which he had a lot of, seemingly), but her team goes out and scores four more unanswered after it, almost back to back to back to back, bolstered by his unearthly screeching in the room, apparently, so – whether or not Alexis would ever admit it to him, it appears David’s got this team in the palm of his capable hand. 

When the game is called by the final buzzer, and she finally is able to step down from game-mode and look at David, really look at him and the high fives he receives as her teammates step down the tunnel, well… It's sort of the first time that she thinks of the gold medal as something they can win, him and her together, and not just as something he’ll be there with her to see her wear. She’d always wanted him here for her second Olympics, but there’s… well, it’s just the first time she seems to notice that she wants to be there for his first, is all. 

It’s the first time she realizes that he might want it just as much as she does, regardless of the fact that she’s his star player. 

That’s, like, emotional growth or something, right? It’s a cute look for her. 

David accepts her own high five and immediately exiles her to the shower the second after, and she spends the next couple of hours doing press and hanging with the social media team and cheering in the crowd during part of the half-pipe event. It’s all unexpectedly exhausting, somehow more so than the full-length athletic event she’s just competed in, and she almost doesn’t notice the way it weighs on her until she’s back at the residential complex, her feet heavy and her arms aching and her side cramping for no apparent reason. 

She’s just about ready to collapse onto the ground by the time she knocks on David’s room door. 

He looks a little surprised to see her when the door swings open – which, fair, even she’s surprised a little –  and for half a moment she expects him to yell at her, or at the very least ask why she’s decided to show up to his room instead of climbing in her own bed, but he surprises her by schooling his features and moving aside to let her in. 

Honestly, she’s kind of glad. She had no answer for him. She hadn’t known she’d be at his door until she turned right instead of going straight down the hall.

She practically wobbles her way to his bed, slightly larger than hers, barely toeing off her shoes in time before she’s climbing under his covers. David does let out an indignant squawk then, and screams something about outdoor clothes, but not much beyond it as he walks over himself, sitting down at the edge of it, in the general vicinity of her blanket-covered legs, with both his hands on his lap. 

They sit in silence for a moment, and Alexis almost feels herself sinking into the bed, melting into the mattress and finally, finally giving into the exhaustion before he finally speaks, pulling her back out of it. 

“You did good today,” he says, quietly, and it takes all of the muscles she has left working but she lifts her head up to see if he’s looking at her. 

He isn’t. 

“Um, thanks?” 

“Yeah.” He sniffles, or something, like he’s done talking. 

“You were really good, too,” she says before he can. It’s uncomfortable, but she needs – wants –  has? – can’t bring herself to let the conversation end. “Second intermission, with that speech and the plays.” 

“Thanks.” 

They both fall silent again, this time with Alexis awake and alert, and it’s a little awkward, but it also isn’t? And… she’s not sure she hates the way this feels right now, between the two of them. David shuffles a little, wiggling uncomfortably, and Alexis takes pity on him and moves to sit up so he has a little more space to scooch fully onto the mattress where her legs had just been. 

He finally turns to look at her, and his lips sort of like, pinch together in some sort of polite weird smile, but it’s enough. Alexis knows what he means. 

“David?” she says, meeting his eyes. “We deserve to win,” she says, and then she nods. She doesn’t know why, but she does. She hopes David understands. There’s so much she’s thought about today that she doesn’t say that she hopes he understands. 

“I think we’re going to,” David says, resolutely. “I… I don’t know how this ends except for us winning.” He pauses. “I mean, it’s probably not a big deal, you’ve already won one, and the team is great, so, you know, but it’d be cool. I guess.” 

“I think it would be a big deal to win a gold medal with you.” 

He smiles, then, really smiles, with his teeth showing and everything. “Thank you, Alexis.”

She smiles back, shrugging her shoulders in a gesture she knows comes off as far more nonchalant than she currently means it. Looking into David’s eyes as he watches her do it, looking at the way his smile brightens just a little, as if that were even possible, she thinks he can maybe see right through it. 

It’s not the terrifying thing she’d thought it would be, to be seen by her brother. 

It’s… nice. Familiar. Comforting. Like a reminder that even though she’d left him all those years ago, he’s still just David. He’ll always be just David. 

“Have you spoken to Stevie?” he asks after a moment. “Or… you know.” 

“Oh.” She hops forward at the mention of Stevie’s name with a sudden jolt of energy, the memory of her invite running through her suddenly, and crawls over the covers until she’s seated right next to David. He cringes a little and moves back. 

Right – outside clothes. Anyway. 

“I, um, so I hung out with some of them after the ceremony yesterday? After you left” 

David raises an eyebrow, probably trying to sound nonchalant and failing spectacularly. “Oh?” 

“Mhmm. And it was… like, I think Stevie and I are friends again.”

David exhales, and his eyes shift to something like they had when they’d first arrived here, meeting for the first time in forever. Something kind and like, empathetic and brotherly , and it’s nice, to know that maybe David cares about her little Stevie situation even though he’s getting nothing out of it. It’s nice and weirdly not surprising at all. 

“That’s really good, right?” 

She nods. “I think so. And – she was there this morning, before the rest of you got there. She said she was sorry she like, ran away from me, or whatever.” 

“And what did you say to her?” 

She throws her hands up. “ Ugh, I didn’t know what to say, David. She just like, spooked me, and I was focused on the game and it was totally like, way too early in the morning? So I just sort of told her it was fine.” 

“But it wasn’t fine.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to like, tell her that.” He scoffs at that, but she ignores him. “Anyway, I think we’re gonna talk more? Now?” 

“Okay,” he says after he looks like he’s thinking about it for a moment, nodding exaggeratedly. “Good. That’s good.” 

“Yeah.” She barrels forward, before she can forget again, “and she invited us both, tonight. To watch the figure skating pairs event with some of her teammates. Or, well, she can’t really invite or uninvite us, because anyone can show up, but I guess she asked if we’d hang out with them.”

David squints. Does he not believe her? Why would she lie? “Did she invite both of us?” he asks, like she hadn’t just told him that she had. “Or was it just you and now you’re throwing me like a pity bone, or something?” 

“Both of us, David!” she assures, and then, remembering what Stevie said, and the look she’d gotten when she’d said it: “She told me to tell you that Patrick will be glad to see you.”

David’s eyes widen immediately, and his recovery is just slow enough that he can’t get away with pretending he isn’t affected.  “Oh, um. That’s – that’s cool, that’s – she said that?” 

Okay, then. She smiles and shuffles closer, watching David practically slide off the bed as she gets into his space. Part of it is that she’s genuinely curious – Patrick is like, an absolute cutie, and super sweet. She’d heard a bunch of stories from Stevie in Beijing, but he’s a whole other level of like, absolute little button face in person that she hadn’t really expected. But David had made a pretty big deal the other day, about not knowing who he was, and as much as she’d like to believe he was putting it on, bless his soul, David is probably the worst liar she’s ever known. Besides, Patrick hadn’t pretended not to know who David was, so this clearly wasn’t some sort of like united front they were putting up. 

The other, bigger part of it is… well she’s pleased. Because if David wasn’t lying, then something’s happened, and he’s met Patrick, and probably came to the same conclusion that she had – that he’s absolutely adorable, ohmygod –  and now she’s not going to let him get away with it. David is handing her an absolutely delicious upper hand and she deserves, after all the sincere talking he’s made her do since they got here, to enjoy it. “Yep,” she adds, entirely put on, “apparently he’s insisting you join us, David. Which is like, super confusing. I thought you didn’t know who he was?” 

“I don’t!” he squawks. “Or I didn’t then. I still don’t.” He sort of groans then, and rubs his hand on his face like that’s gonna help his case at all. “We hung out once. We barely know each other.” 

“Mmkay,” she wiggles around on the mattress so that she’s fully turned to face him, sitting on her own crossed legs pointing a finger at him as she talks. “It’s just that like, ‘barely know each other’ is not the impression that Stevie seems to have, so I know you’re lying.” 

David’s eyes snap up. “He – what did he say to Stevie?” 

“Why don’t you tell me, David!” she whines. “You were there with him, right?” 

David just shakes his head. “We just talked. I was at the atrium and we got something to drink and we just talked. That’s all.” Then he twists his face all weird, like he’s thinking something and also kind of like half of his face itches and he doesn’t have hands to reach it? It’s weird. He’s weird. After a moment, he adds: “He’s probably like, trying to mess with me or something.” 

And, well, she maybe doesn’t know Patrick like that just yet, but she knows Stevie, and she knows Stevie wouldn’t hang around someone who’d do that. She also knows that the guy who pulled out of the Olympics because he’d claimed to be overwhelmed and unequipped for it after coming out on national television couldn’t be a guy who plays with hearts for fun. 

Especially like, hearts as mushy and weak as David’s. 

“I don’t think he’d do that,” she says sincerely. “Patrick is a sweet little cookie, David, and I don’t think he’s in the business of like, playing with people’s emotions.” Then, for good measure, and just because she can: “Unlike you.” 

“Okay, first of all, I don’t play with anyone’s emotions, fuckyouverymuch. And second of all,” David hops off the bed and stands in front of her, all indignant. “He’s not into me.” 

“And how do you know that?”

“I don’t know! He doesn't!” He throws his hands up. “Why would he want to keep tabs on me if not to like, mess with my brain?” 

He’s floundering and they can both see it, clear as day. She’s seen him do this before. Spook himself and start twisting things around until they make no sense just because he’s too dumb to understand them.

“I think if Patrick wanted to keep tabs on you he could just Google you, you know. No need to have romantic late night drinks with you, and stuff.” 

“It wasn’t romantic. And also he’s the enemy, if you remember!” 

Which… “That’s very hypocritical, David. You were all annoying about wanting me to french Stevie or whatever, and she’s on the same team as him.” 

David steps back like she’s burned him, or like he’s just caught her wearing a nylon blend outside of work, or something. 

“Okay, gross. Fuck. And in case you forgot , you and Stevie have like, weird complicated history, and stuff. This guy’s probably some man with a pretty little girlfriend at home who’s just trying to get close to me so he can get a kick out of beating me on the world stage!” 

“You really don’t believe that, David.” He doesn’t. She can see it in the way he’s scrambling. There’s no way he’s spent any amount of time with Patrick and he really believes everything he’s saying right now. 

“I don’t have anything to believe?” he replies instead of making sense.      

And, okay, Alexis has always known her brother was a little bit of an idiot, but this is a little pathetic, even for him. She leans over the bed to reach for her phone, abandoned somewhere on top of the covers, and begins searching for the article David’s apparently still not read. 

“Hello? You can’t just start texting people mid-conversation, you little B!” 

“Shut up, David,” she says, pulling up the article, and hands the phone to him. “Read, please!” 

David grabs her phone and grimaces at the article title, just like he had yesterday. “What am I meant to do with this?” 

“Read it!” 

“Why?” 

She growls, she knows – she’s not proud of it, but David is frustrating, okay? – and snatches the phone out of his hand, scrolling down to the bit she needs him to see. She makes sure Patrick’s all-star portrait is in clear view before handing David the phone. “David,” she says again, slower, “read.”

She sees it in David’s eyes the second he registers Patrick’s face, and it’s not hard to decipher his emotions while he goes through the rest of the paragraph. Alexis knows pretty much what is says, between “first active NHL player to come out as gay” and “Stanley Cup Champion” and “slated to attend the Olympics in Beijing” and “prematurely retired” and a dozen other phrases she’s seen associated with him over and over in the past four years.  To David, though, they all seem to come as a surprise. His features soften immediately, his put-on defenses melting away almost instantaneously as he takes in the article. Like he’s known that all of his excuses were baseless all along. Alexis knows – she’s been on his side of this before. 

His features are only able to school themselves into some sense of neutrality once he’s handed the phone back to her. 

“So probably not a pretty girlfriend back home, then,” he says.

“You never thought that there was one,” she argues, and she knows that she’s right when David makes no move to retort.

He smiles, but it’s sort of sad, a little longing. “Now’s not the time to get caught up in a fling, Alexis. We’ve got a game to play.” 

“So I should stop hanging out with Stevie too, huh?” 

He frowns, just as she had expected. “I’m just saying it’s unlikely that this actually works out for the both of us, you know? It all just sort of feels like we’re tempting fate by distracting ourselves. You and Stevie already have a thing. I don’t even know if Patrick’s thinking about something like that. With me.” 

“David,” she whispers, placing her phone back on the bed, and for the second time today she thinks, though it’s said aloud for the first time: “Don’t you wanna find out?” 

Chapter Text

Stevie tries not to let her hopes run wild as the stands begin to fill around them. As much as she thinks she and Alexis broke some ground this morning, maybe Alexis is finding it hard to forgive Stevie after the shitty move she pulled. Maybe she doesn’t want to. Maybe she thinks whatever it was between her and Stevie last time around isn’t worth rehashing. 

Or, you know, the other, more practical stuff. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she didn’t have the strength to get tickets and come watch the event live after a whole game this morning. Maybe her teammates asked her to hang with them, instead. That’s all fine – those are all great excuses, none of which Stevie can fault her for. If she’d really wanted Alexis’s time and attention that much. She should have tried not being a little cowardly bitch 4 years ago. It’s pretty simple. 

Right in front of her, Patrick bursts out laughing at something Twyla’s said, making that weird whistley noise that escapes him when he’s laughing particularly hard at something. It’s funny – his nose scrunches up and his eyes do too and he sort of looks like someone’s kicked a cabbage patch kid right in the middle of the face. 

Stevie smiles. Even if Alexis is a no-show, she can enjoy this, right now, with her friends. 

They’re seated behind the Canadian trainers, split into three rows in the seats overlooking the ice. Some of the younger players are in a single file at the front, with the coaching and conditioning staff right behind them. Rachel and Twyla, too, opted to sit in the second row, over to one side of Patrick. Stevie, Heather, and Alice are behind them, even. Stevie unzips her puffer vest as the crowd files in and places it on the empty seat next to her. Just in case.  The mixed pairs event is always a hit, and Canada’s new duos are especially promising, considering the large shoes they have to fill. People look excited to see if they’ll end up qualifying. 

There’s something like hope flickering at the pit of her stomach, dim but persistent, and she can’t help the way her eyes immediately dart sideways when she catches movement on the steps up to the stands in her periphery, no matter how fucking pathetic she realizes she looks. Twyla catches her looking a couple of times, and smiles a sympathetic smile at her before turning back, repeating the routine every couple of minutes. By the third time, she actually nods and throws Stevie a thumbs up, and if Stevie weren’t so damn preoccupied with the fucking… this fluttering inside her, she thinks she would have scowled at her. The minutes wind down as they grow closer and glower to the beginning of the event, and Stevie sighs, just about to take her vest back into her arms when two figures come rushing up the side of the stands. 

“Is that seat taken?” Alexis asks, pointing at Stevie’s vest, and she’s smiling, she’s fucking smiling because she damn well knows it isn’t, and the fluttering inside Stevie amplifies tenfold until she can feel it at the tip of her nose. Alexis is in this like, dark blue crocheted sweater and she’s wearing a bunch of gold chains (or is it just one?) that sort of rests at the neckline of her top and her hair is like braided to the side and she looks… she looks cute as all hell as she shimmies in excitement while watching Stevie move her vest to make space for her. It’s a rather safe getup, as far as all of her outfits go, but Stevie still finds herself struggling against the urge to dig her fingers where she can see Alexis’s shoulders through the gaps in the yarn, or at her waist, or anywhere, really, because apparently she’s a desperate pathetic mess. She has to close her eyes and compose herself as Alexis takes a seat. 

David Rose is right beside her, moving to sit on Alexis’s other side, and she offers him a small nod and wave as his eyes meet hers. He grimaces a little, but he’s waving back, so maybe that’s just his face, and then his eyes are off her immediately, darting down a row below, catching the side of Patrick’s face before he turns to face the ice in front of him. 

Real subtle, Rose. 

Rachel seems to realize they’ve arrived, just then, and suddenly she’s enthusiastically calling out her greetings just a little too loud. The whole lot of them shout out in delight, welcoming both David and Alexis with enthusiasm, but Stevie’s only looking at Patrick. Patrick, who looks at Alexis for just a second and smiles before his attention is immediately taken up by her loser brother – god he’s an idiot, David had the dignity to not stare in the middle of a crowd – and she has to reach over and pinch him on the shoulder to snap him out of it. 

“Hi,” he breathes as a greeting, and it’s too soft, it’s too gentle for the atmosphere, she’s embarrassed for him but right as she decides to make fun of him for it David is basically whispering “hi” back and oh my god Stevie needs to move from in between them, this is torture. Luckily, she’s not the only one who seems to be noticing this weird thing they have going on, because Alexis is immediately widening her eyes and sort of cartoonishly turning to look at Patrick, then David, then Patrick again, and Rachel is fixing Patrick with her patented hi-please-tell-me-about-this-now face and he’s blushing. David, on his end, simply scowls at Alexis and turns to decisively fix his gaze on the ice. 

“Hey David,” Stevie leans a bit forward to tease him, waggling her eyebrows. “What was that?” 

“Oh my god, it was nothing! ” He scowls again, and Alexis shimmies in delight in between them, twisting to flash a delighted smile at Stevie before turning on David again.

“Are you sure, David?” she asks. “Because the energy right there was like, definitely flirty.” 

“Mmkay, you can fuck right off.” 

Thankfully, (or regretfully, depending on how you see it), something takes pity on David and the event is finally slated to begin. The set up is anything but glorious, and for a moment Stevie wonders if they should have just gathered in a room and watched it on the TV, but she’s quick to shake that thought away. How many times will they get to be at the Olympics and watch these events in person all together? 

Soon enough, Japan is starting their qualifier routine, and everyone’s rapt attention is on the ice, on the duo slowly making their way onto center ice, collecting their breaths. Suddenly, there’s music blasting all around them, and the dancers are gone, swift and quick, they’re gliding on the ice hand in hand and then spinning and twisting and lifting in ways Stevie didn’t know people could be lifted, much less on skates. They glide on the ice like they’re soaring above it, looking so much lighter on their feet than she does on her own skates when she’s playing, but there’s no less power in their movement, no less intention; it’s not terribly distinct from the routine she herself follows four, five times a week. Stevie’s just got more partners. And a puck. And way less lifting to do, holy shit.

A couple more teams follow. There’s Italy and the USA and then Czechia, and then Sweden with the unfortunate trip and fall that basically takes them off the board, and then Canada and France and China. China’s young duo ends their routine with a bow, leading the group thus far and deservedly – Stevie didn’t even know people could bend that way – and then there’s a break in proceedings while they clean the ice. 

In front of her, Rachel sighs an excited little thing and turns back to look at her with her eyebrows raised, smiling wide. Twyla turns around as well, just about squished into Rachel’s side, and Patrick sort of twists around until his knees are on the seat and he’s sitting backwards to face her, as if he’s a schoolchild and not a fully grown adult. 

“You’ve all known each other for long?” Alexis asks, looking at the lot of them before fixing her gaze on Stevie. “It was just you in China last time.” 

“Oh, they didn’t think Twy and I were on her level back then,” Rachel replies, and Stevie knows she means it as a joke, but it still sort of rubs her wrong. It’s just not true, it really isn’t; Twyla’s always been a calculated player, clearing chances and making plays that almost always lead in points, and as much as Stevie and Rachel have a bantery thing going, she’s one of the scrappiest, most impactful people to have on the ice during a shift. She isn’t, unfortunately, given an opportunity to refute it. 

“Oh, Patrick was almost there!” Twyla exclaims cheerfully, and Stevie has to catch a breath as she watches Twyla’s eyes widen before they both turn to look at Patrick. For a moment, Stevie’s afraid when she sees him smiling. Is he doing that thing where he’s hurt and pretending he’s not? She fucking hates when he does that. Is he mad at them and trying to save face in front of David? But no, he just keeps smiling, really smiling. Like he’s not upset at all – which can’t be right – gently waving it off when Twyla whispers out an apology. 

“It’s fine,” he says, as if it really is, but it isn’t, everyone around them knows it isn’t. Patrick was good enough to be at the Olympics. He was good enough to win the Olympics. Stevie knows that if he hadn’t stayed back, he would have only returned with a gold medal around his neck. But Patrick continues nonetheless, looking none the more bothered. “It’s not a lie.” 

“So why didn’t you go?” It’s David who speaks now, and Alexis really wasn’t lying about him living under a rock, because Patrick was on every Sportsnet recap report for like a month, and The Athletic had done that one profile on this whole situation, and even the Toronto Star had weighed in, despite the fact that no one fucking reads them. Part of her understands he’s curious, especially if there’s… especially if he and Patrick are like, doing something right now, romantically, but there’s still something inside of her that wants to smother him with the vest in her hands, or throw him down the stands, just a little. The image of Patrick, dejected, exhausted, coming off of weeks of unwanted media frenzy is not one she wants to revisit, not even through faint memories. 

“Well, David,” Patrick replies, kind and placating, almost, “it would seem I retired.” And then he smiles, because he’s a ridiculous person who refuses to admit when shit aches.

David apparently takes that answer for what it is, not demanding more – which is a little off putting, Stevie had taken him for someone who nags until he gets all the answer he wants – and the atmosphere doesn’t seem to have soured or anything, which… which is good, she supposes. 

“You really need to keep up with the news, David, ohmygod,” Alexis says, right as the next team skates up to ice to continue the event. “Like, there’s aloof, and then there’s weird and clueless.” 

David rolls his eyes at her, and she in turn shifts closer to bump her shoulder against Stevie’s before widening her eyes in a way that sort of says “look at him, can you believe we’re related?” All Stevie can really do in return is laugh, and apparently it’s the right thing to do, because the next thing Alexis does is put a hand on Stevie’s forearm. 

The routines on the ice pick back up. Patrick is facing the ice again, and Stevie hesitates, for just a moment, and then she’s leaning forward just a little, just enough that she doesn’t have to move out from beneath Alexis’s touch, to place a light hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t turn around, but his hand comes up to touch hers, gone as soon as it came up. She lets go with a last squeeze and straightens. 

“Hey,” Alexis whispers, watching her retreat into her seat, and then she moves her hand just long enough so she can tap her on the nose with her index finger and smiles. And maybe it’s the fact that she’s tired, maybe it’s the stupid romantic music team Italy has chosen for their routine, maybe it’s just Alexis, but Stevie’s defenses are down and she smiles back, grabbing Alexis’s hand with her own and pulling it onto her lap as the dancers on the ice begin to move. Neither of them move until the next break in the event. 

The rest of the evening is less consequential, with small talk in between routines and the odd-placed joke from Twyla during them. Finally, when the ice is cleared and a first round of qualifiers is chosen, with one Canada’s duos leading. 

Alexis huffs beside Stevie, hopefully faking the pout in response to Patrick’s enthusiastic air-pump, and doesn’t let go of Stevie’s hand as they stand up to make their way out of the arena. 

Stevie doesn’t feel any way about it. At all. Not even a little. Shut up.

It’s well into night by the time they step out of the arena, and chillier than she’s entirely comfortable with, as well. Heather, Alice, and the rest of the younger players have bid them farewell and made their way over to whoever’s rented vehicle they carpooled in to get here, and the rest of them sort of stand there, outside the arena, apparently resigned to making the fifteen minute walk back to the Olympic village. 

Patrick’s still whooping and wheeing like a loser, too enthusiastic for his own good. 

“Is he always that patriotic?” David leans in to ask her, though he makes no effort to truly be quiet. Both Patrick and Twyla turn around to laugh as soon as he’s posed the question. There’s some light snow fluttering around them, enough that Stevie can feel them gather at her eyelashes but not so much that she can’t stand being outside, and Alexis’s hand in hers is surprisingly warm. If Stevie were someone with slightly less pride, she’d give in to the urge of burrowing into Alexis’s sweater right here, in front of everyone. 

“I don’t know, David. Isn’t the Olympics the one place where it might be a good thing to be patriotic?” Rachel counters. 

“Well, I just think it’s kind of reductive to attach meanings to flags if it’s the sport you claim to enjoy, that’s all.” 

“Ugh, David, let people have fun, please!” 

“Yeah, David, let me have fun,” Patrick says, and he’s got his menace smile on – the one where it kind of looks like he’s frowning but the rest of his face looks too happy for it to be anything less than a smile – as he takes a few steps toward him. “Besides, from what I know, we’re all Canadian here, aren’t we?” 

David scowls, but it’s a weak scowl. A baby scowl, even. Patrick’s still moving towards him, and his face goes from like, alarmed to confused to fucking, lovestruck, or whatever, and Stevie can’t believe she has to be here watching all of this. 

Thankfully, Rachel agrees. 

“Okay, you two. Less being gross and more walking? We should head in, soon.” 

Patrick grimaces at her in that schoolyard way that really couldn’t offend anyone if he tried, which he isn’t, and finally moves away from David to grab Rachel by the hand and lead the way back to the village. Twyla stands back a few moments, eyes flitting between Stevie and Alexis, and she has the grace to look a little guilty when she asks Alexis: “I don’t want to steal you away, or anything, um… but I actually wanted to you about that photoshoot you did with Bauer? You remember the photographer who did your shoot?” 

Which, Stevie doesn’t know why Twyla would feel guilty about wanting to talk to Alexis. It’s not like she’s Stevie’s… it’s not like Stevie’s got any authority on her. 

Alexis replies that yes, there was a cute little blonde photographer, to which Twyla says that’s her half-brother’s cousin, who apparently isn’t her cousin, and then they’re walking off and Stevie truly doesn’t care enough to follow the conversation enough. Next to her, David starts moving, too. 

“You coming or what?” he says, squinting his eyes at her when it takes just a little too long for her to move, and flips him off his response but syncs her steps to his, grateful to have someone with her if it means she doesn’t have to jog over to the front where Patrick and Rachel are now. 

They walk in relative silence for a bit, their friends causing a ruckus in front of them and fluffy bits of snow falling and settling on their jackets as they slowly move. David moves with a heavy step, the snow that’s already fallen crunching as it compacts beneath his black boots, and every once in a while he sort of sniffs like the cold air is starting to get to him. 

“So…” she starts a couple of quiet steps later, tentative, “are you dating my best friend now, or?” 

His eyes snap up to hers even as he keeps walking, wide and alarmed. 

“I – no. No. We just… he’s – we’re not dating. Did he say we’re dating?” 

“Nah,” she replies. “Just wanted to see how you’d react to the question."

David groans. “Oh my god, fuck right off.” 

“You want to date him, though.” 

David doesn’t turn to look at her, this time. 

“And you want to date my sister, but you don’t see me giving you a hard time about it.” 

They keep walking, neither of them adding onto that. Maybe neither of them knows what to say. Maybe they both know exactly what they want to say but refuse to. Who’s to tell? 

Finally, it’s Stevie who breaks the silence. 

“Patrick’s a good person, David,” she says, making sure not to make eye contact. “And I’ll shave your fucking eyebrows in your sleep if you tell him I said this.” 

“Okay,” David replies. “I – I know he is.” 

Stevie nods. “That’s it. If you’re – if you want to do something about it, I’m just telling you that Patrick’s probably… a good person to do something about it for.” 

David doesn’t answer, and that’s okay. She doesn’t want to force anything, and god knows this is too much sincerity for her anyway. She just…

If Patrick can meddle, so can she, right? 

“Also, give me your phone,” she says, glancing at the group of people still ahead of them. David furrows his brows at her. 

“I’ve already beat Alexis at pool, but I still need to kick your ass,” she explains. “And I might need to text you for that, so… give me your phone.” 

He does, without much more question, and she dutifully puts her own number in as the Village finally comes into view in front of them. 

“And um, David,” she adds, before she can lose the nerve, or before they catch up to the rest of them and the opportunity is lost, “Patrick’s really good, at um – like, at helping people deal with heartbreak. But I’m not.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just… keep that in mind. And good luck on your game tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

David fixes Stevie with the most incredulous, baffled look he can muster, and then proceeds to immediately drop it when it starts to feel like she doesn’t give a flying damn. In some ways, he’s starting to learn that he really likes that about her – this unshakeable ability to let people know she isn’t taking their shit. David could’ve benefited from someone like her back when he’d first started college, he thinks. 

At the very least, it would have been nice to have a friend who wants a game of pool out of him more than they want him to fund their next round of shots – although, something tells him Stevie wouldn’t much mind a round of shots, either. At least this one, he’d offer. 

The only reprieve for a good couple of months had been a monthly phone call from Alexis, as short and superficial as they’d been before they’d tapered off entirely. She never asked much – just if he was still alive and whose arm he was hanging off of for the week – but it had felt… more than nothing, at the time, to be able to speak to someone who wanted to know if he was dead or alive or drowning under the weight of the melancholy the city had begun to breed in him. 

It was two months after her last phone call, where all she’d done was ask if he knew whether their parents had chartered their jet off, that he’d finally decided to do something for himself and stepped back on the ice. The first game on a makeshift team was rough; he was out of practice and no one at the rink that day really had any experience, but the rush of it had caught up to him quickly. He liked it, David remembered after those first few days back to the game, being needed and appreciated and part of a collective and of use. He liked feeling like he was contributing to something and he liked it even more when he could step back into the locker room without a sense of dread lingering behind him. It was only a couple more straggling games before David had decided to return for good. 

He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does, somehow – he’d have done well to have had a Stevie in his life back then. She’s honest. She’s blunt. She would have stolen his credit card every time someone asked him for it. 

She’s with him now, though, and he thinks they’re getting there – building a friendship or something, or at the very least bonding since she’s Alexis’s… whatever she is, even as they gear up to face off against each other at the end of the tournament. 

And between that and getting to spend time with Alexis for the first time in forever, David has a feeling he might have a lot more than a gold medal to be grateful to these Olympics for. 

And also, you know, for the Patrick of it all. 

Stevie’s still being weird about the thing she said, about Patrick and heartbreak and David… doing something, and David is doing a wonderful job of walking ahead, dutifully avoiding it all. 

He’s not – He and Patrick aren’t even… it’d be sweet, and cute, and even fun while it lasted, maybe, but he and Patrick wouldn’t... it wouldn’t like, be a thing. Not past the games.  

David won’t be laying his cards down for a fling. 

It’s not too long until they reach the residence, Stevie and David just a couple of steps behind the rest of them as they step in, and Twyla excitedly suggests they grab a drink and hang around the atrium for a moment before retreating to their rooms. She’s met with fairly enthusiastic accord from the rest of them, which means David couldn’t have said no if he wanted without looking like a massive dick – but he’s surprised to realize, as he seemingly unconsciously nods in response to her words that he wouldn’t have wanted to decline, anyway. 

Patrick is a perfect… um, he’s a godsend as he takes everyone’s orders and volunteers to grab everyone’s milkshakes, and the rest of them follow Rachel over to a round table over to the side and take a seat. 

David’s about to drop next to Stevie before Alexis sort of… weasels her way in before he can, so he has no choice but to scoot over until he’s facing Twyla and Rachel with Alexis and Stevie off to his one side, and an empty spot to his other. 

Patrick’s spot. 

Not that that does anything. 

“So, David,” Rachel starts, sort of leaning forward with her elbows on the table (incorrect, but he’ll forgive it), “tell us more about you. Heard you’re a PHF legend.” 

He makes sure to scoff out loud, because there’s flattery, and then there’s laying it on too thick to be able to see through. Rachel seems nonplussed, though, simply raising an eyebrow expectantly when he looks back at her. By her side, Twyla looks just as interested, smiling wide like it’s somehow an exciting prospect to her, to have to listen to David’s career journey. 

“David,” Alexis scolds, smacking his squarely on the back of the shoulder. “Don’t be rude.” 

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna say, David,” Twyla replies, still smiling. “It’s just, Patrick was talking about all the things you’ve done with the Riveters and we were just curious, is all.” 

And that... Shouldn’t be what emboldens him. Patrick’s his rival and probably studied up on him because he keeps like, alphabetized files on each of his opponents, but dammit it does, it really does. Twyla’s still looking at him, offering an out but so hopeful, and Stevie’s next to her flashing back what David can only assume is her approximation of a supportive look, and somewhere in this atrium, standing in line to grab their milkshake orders, is a guy who coaches a team that has yet to be defeated at these games, that has coached them for years, that used to be a hell of a hockey player, if Alexis is to be believed, and who still, despite all of that, is able to look at David and find something impressive in him. It’s a vote of confidence he hadn’t realized he’d appreciate this much. 

“I mean, technically, it’s all Alexis’s fault,” he starts, meeting Twyla’s smile. “I played hockey, for a bit, because she wanted to, and then after a while the game just… started making sense to me? They kept me around at the rink, after I made them promise I’d never have to get body-checked again, and then I started assisting their coaching staff. And um, yeah. There was an opening for a coaching position with the Riveters a couple years later.” 

“Feels like there’s a big chunk of the story missing there, David,” Patrick’s voice sounds behind him, and he’s smiling at David as he passes the drinks around, dropping David’s chocolate hazelnut shake in front of him as he squeezes into his seat. There’s a sudden smug heat along the line of David’s side where the empty space had just been, and he tries his best to ignore it. Patrick keeps talking. “Wasn’t there a magazine feature at some point?”

And before David can marvel at the fact that Patrick remembers his spiel from a couple days ago, Alexis is squealing in delight. 

“Oh my god, David! Right! There were like ten junior league medals you skipped over, and then there was that front page feature of you in The Urban Athlete!” she shouts, apparently to Rachel’s delight if her gasp is anything to go by, and – 

Wait. 

“How do you know about the magazine features?” 

“Um, I read, you know!” 

“About me?” he asks, and he realizes it comes out just a tad louder than he expected, but he’s just — he didn’t know she kept track. 

He didn’t know she cared enough to keep track. 

“Patrick’s not the only one keeping tabs on you, David,” she dismisses, like it’s no big deal that she was keeping track of David’s career while they were barely talking, and Patrick sort of like, cough-chokes out his milkshake next to him, a burst of vanilla white liquid spraying out onto his lips before he catches it with a napkin. 

He clears his throat once, twice before looking back at David with his big brown eyes under these godawful tube lights, just a hint of milk still at the seam of his lips as he sniffs once before speaking. 

“Um, not – not keeping tabs. That’s… no.” 

“I mean, you’re keeping some tabs,” Rachel replies. “You were going off about his two championship wins the other day.” 

“That’s not – I know these things about most of the other coaches!” Patrick answers, his voice rising a pitch. “Sweden’s coach is on his second Olympics!” 

“I bet,” Stevie says, and nothing else. 

Patrick still seems to be flailing, poor thing, so David does the first thing he can think of and puts a hand on his shoulder, forcing his attention on himself. 

“I mean, for what it’s worth, it’s flattering?” 

Patrick squints his eyes at him, but he doesn’t retaliate, nor does he move David’s hand off of himself. David takes the opportunity to let his fingers linger there – just a couple seconds, just short enough that it wouldn’t be weird – before retreating to his own drink. 

Alexis chooses this moment to go off on a tangent about the time she’d spilled milkshake all over one of the Jonas brothers, and David is able to comfortably slip in and out of conversation from there. They talk about LA ad Rachel and Stevie’s college experience and then Twyla says something that David can’t quite catch, because his gaze is suddenly fixed on the space between Stevie and his sister, where their hands are definitely joined, but no one else is saying anything about it and David would be damned if it’d be him. He glances over to Patrick again, whose gaze is cast downward as he sips at his milkshake with a single-minded focus that shouldn’t come off as adorable as it does. When he lifts his face back up, his lip is shiny, tainted with remnants of a bright white drop of liquid, visible and glistening over where the skin’s been dried out from the cold weather, and all David can do not to make a fool of himself is clear his throat loudly, before purposefully staring into Twyla’s eyes and asking her about the third cousin or so who’d bought her her first skates. 

His mind flashes bright and glossy and white everytime he dares let it stray, and he has to keep shaking himself back to his own seat until they decide to call it a night. 

Alexis is the first to stand up, pulling a disgruntled Stevie up with her, and waving an enthusiastic little thing to the rest of the table as they all shuffle to make their way up on their two feet. 

David makes his way off the seat, too, a little lost in the sudden flutter of movement around him, almost ready to get himself into the right headspace to retreat, immediately, to his room in preparation for tomorrow, too focused on orienting himself as his new friends move around him that he startles at the feel of Patrick’s hand on his arm.

“Hey,” Patrick speaks, low enough that only David has to pay attention to him, “I know you have an early morning tomorrow, but, uh…” he shuffles a bit, retracting his hand and showing it deep into the pocket of his ugly beige slacks. “Do you maybe want to… stick around? With me?” 

He’s not necessarily nervous, per se — or at least he doesn’t look it – but it’s not exactly the light and teasing tone of voice he’d used on that first night, either. There’s something settled in his voice that David can’t quite understand. Something set. 

And yes, everything inside David is telling him that he’s probably safer the sooner he gets away from Patrick and his stupid adorable face, but he’s looking at him with something like hope in his eye and he’s really only asking for David to sit at a cafeteria table with him and David’s always been a little self-destructive anyway, so he says yes. It’s not a big deal. 

Patrick does some weird gesture-talking with Rachel and she only looks at David once before nodding and leading the others away. Stevie and Twyla are easy to follow, but Alexis, because she’s the worst, doesn’t move before giving a very obvious thumbs up to the two of them. Patrick only blushes and looks down back at his drink, nearly empty, and then meets Alexis’s eyes with a smile. David rolls his eyes. 

Someone calls her name, suddenly, and Alexis turns around only for Stevie to grab her by the hand and pull her away – which they will be talking about – and suddenly David is left alone with Patrick and his drink at the table. 

There’s a sort of, um, awkward silence while Patrick sips the last of his drink, and when he meets David’s eyes again he’s slipped back into that teasing ease.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean that we’d stay here, here.” He stands up, his empty cup in one hand and the other held out towards David. “Come with me, please?” 

David grabs hold of his hand, ignoring the warmth that spreads through him with the contact, only long enough to get up on his two feet before Patrick’s hand is slipping out of his and circling gently around his wrist to lead him somewhere. David follows dutifully, slow enough that Patrick still has to gently tug him along from where he’s got a hold of him, fast enough that he doesn’t have to force Patrick to let go. They find themselves at the main staircase soon enough, and Patrick swiftly leads them up one flight. (Why they didn’t just take the elevators with everyone else, David doesn’t understand.) He has to let go of David’s hand to pull the heavy doors to the second floor open, which David is very mature about, and soon enough he’s walking him over to a lounge of some sorts that David hadn’t yet learned existed in the building. It’s not much, sort of arranged like a large hotel lobby, with a lot more seating and a couple of cozy nooks here and there looking out onto the water. Patrick leads them to a tiny table next to the digital fireplace, right under one of the large windows. 

Outside, the mountains across the water are hard to see in the dark, barely a whisper of their rocky edges visible against what’s shaping to be a nearly black night sky, but the city skyline against the shore shines in a couple of different colours, reflecting on the calm water, and then in pale splotches on even the thin layer of snow in front of the complex. Somehow, the sight of it is just as magical as the grand majesty of the Rockies. 

In any other situation, David would think it was a romantic sight. 

Though, he can’t help but wonder as he brings his gaze back up to Patrick, who’s also looking out the window, bathed in a soft orange glow from the fake fireplace next to him with his mouth parted in wonder or, relaxation, or something – maybe the view wouldn’t be as mesmerizing if he were here with anyone else. 

It’s a dangerous slope to go down, but when Patrick sort of softly exhales, the hints of a smile dancing upon his features before he breathes “what a view, huh,” David can’t really bring himself to be too cautious. 

The silence this time around is more comfortable, more settled in the few seconds that it lasts. David is the first to break it. 

“Did you wanna, um, talk to me about something? Or?” 

“Uh,” Patrick shakes his head. “Hadn’t really thought past just this, to be honest.” He sort of shifts in his seat so he’s facing David again and no longer the window. “But we can talk.” 

“Okay,” David breathes. 

“Okay,” Patrick answers. 

“Um,” David thinks of the night at the atrium, and how easy it had been to talk to Patrick, how he’d listened to everything David had had to say. He decides to return the favour. “What about – can you tell me about how you got to coaching?” He hesitates. “Because you’re – you’re young enough to be playing, and um… Alexis says you were really good. Made me read an article about it, so…” He does not specify what article exactly, because he’d like to maintain his dignity in front of Patrick, thank you. 

Patrick hesitates. “Oh, uh, yeah. Okay.” 

“Or don’t!” David adds immediately. “That’s private. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“Oh, no,” Patrick’s eyes widen, and he puts a hand on David’s arm. “No, everyone knows, David. It was on Sportsnet.” 

“Yeah, I don’t…” he trails off, grimacing. Thankfully, Patrick seems more amused than offended, because he laughs a soft, hushed little thing. 

“That’s okay. I can tell you.” He takes a deep breath. “Um, so my dad and I, when I was a kid, we used to like, go play at this park near my house.” He smiles. “The rink would freeze over in the winter and my buddies and I would sort of just, shoot the puck around, you know? And we kept playing as we got older, my parents had me join a timbit league and I just sort of never let up. And whenever I had a chance I’d still go back to that park and play with my friends. And one day, this girl shows up, super excited, really good at the game, just… total fireball.” He smiles wider, shrugging. “And she asked me out and I was like, ‘hell yeah’, you know?” 

David doesn’t really understand how any of this has to do with anything, but he nods nonetheless. He can appreciate setting the scene for a good story. He’s his mother’s son, after all. 

“So Rachel and I got together, and we tried to make it work, you know? We were on and off a lot, but we always seemed to stick together in the end. Both went to college together – she joined the girl’s team, that’s where we met Stevie and Twyla, and I got drafted in Toronto, and then one day, I go to meet Rach’s new teammates, and one of them just has a girlfriend. Which – nothing wrong with that, obviously, but it threw me for a loop, you know? Broke up with Rachel that night. Didn’t even know why at the time.” 

“Okay.” None of this really spells out retirement and coaching to David, but he knows better than to interrupt someone. He prods Patrick on with a gentle nod. 

“Yeah, so I’ve broken up with my girlfriend, and then I’m immediately signing an ELC with the Leafs, and then we go on this massive cup run like the city hasn’t seen in decades. Rachel’s nice enough to forgive me for bailing, gets with Twyla, and the whole time something’s nagging at me but I just ignore it because, shit, we might win a Stanley Cup for the biggest fanbase in the league. And we do. Twice.”  He pauses, for some unknown reason, and David responds by putting his hand on top of Patrick’s where it’s laying on the table in front of him. Patrick smiles. 

“Suddenly I’m this massive guy, and I’m at the All Star game one day, sitting next to Sidney Crosby like it’s nothing, and I’m sitting in my hotel room one night, finally letting like, three years of ignoring stuff get to me, and the next day I’m doing a press thing, totally normal, and blurting out that I’m gay.” 

“Well that’s…” 

“Ridiculous, David. It was ridiculous, and I guess it was finally getting to me that I was just a 25 year old guy who was completely in over his head and suddenly I had to be the gay player too, and they’d just announced they were considering me for the Olympics, and none of this was ever a problem with Rachel, she never even had to come out to her league, so I just, um, ran.” 

“I was going to say brave,” David says, squeezing Patrick’s hand. “I mean, the execution was very flawed, but you knew when you needed a moment and you took it.” 

Patrick laughs again, but it’s more put on this time. Bitter. 

“Bailed on the biggest offer of my life because I was afraid of becoming a poster boy for sad gay athletes.” 

“It doesn’t sound like that’s entirely it.” 

Patrick just shrugs. David squeezes his hand again. This time, Patrick meets his eyes, flips his hand over so their palms are touching, and squeezes back. 

“And you’re here now.” 

“I’m here now.” 

They look into each other’s eyes for longer than is strictly necessary, hands still connected, before Patrick sort of, um… shimmy-shrug-wiggles, or something. 

“That probably got more serious than you were expecting, eh?” 

“I mean, I told you all about my dysfunctional relationship with my sister the last time we did this, so we’ll call it even.” 

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, his hand still in David’s and his eyes shining and the stupid stunning romantic view still visible in David’s peripheral vision, and David is completely, utterly fucked. 

“Yeah,” he reassures, and Patrick smiles in response, and David – 

Hadn’t noticed that Patrick had a dimple until this specific moment. But it’s there now, as Patrick smiles at him, gentle, not too pronounced, and David has to hold onto Patrick’s hand just a little tighter to resist the urge to trace it with his fingers. 

He’s….. yeah. 

Yeah. 

He finds himself staring at Patrick a lot through the rest of the evening, their hands still conjoined as Patrick talks about Rachel getting him the job with the national team, and about his first meeting with Twyla, his ex’s new girlfriend, and about how he and Stevie met in college and hit it off over being third and fourth wheels whenever the four of them would go out. David tells him about the time he drove Alexis home after the airport after her first back tattoo as a teen, and they argue about how clueless he has to be for being a prominent hockey figure that doesn’t know who Sidney Crosby is.

Patrick’s fingers squeeze around David’s, occasionally, especially when he thinks he’s being funny about something, and David lets him, lets Patrick’s warm touch settle into his bones, lets the weird pink flush at the tip of Patrick’s nose imprint itself onto his mind, lets his heart openly thrum a violent beat against his rib cage everytime their eyes meet under the golden lights meant to illuminate their surroundings. 

And David knows it wouldn’t last, knows he’d resolved himself not to put his chips down for something that’ll only hurt when this is all over, but Patrick fits so beautifully in his hand and he’s gorgeous, he’s ethereal against the soft glow of the Vancouver skyline through the window, and maybe David had lost all control of the situation the second he’d agreed to accompanying Patrick here. 

It’s a terrifying thought, but David can’t seem to care, just this moment.  

His heart is full, so full as they make it back to the elevators and still featherlight, like it might fly outside of his body any second. 

Patrick leads them in, puffing out loud breaths as he presses the button to head up.

“Thank you, David,” he says as they wait for the elevator together. “I had a good time, tonight.” 

“Mhmm,” David nods. “Me too.” 

Patrick shuffles a little, shifting weirdly, and then he’s digging deep into his pocket and pulling out a card to hand to David.  

“Would you maybe – Um, would you want to do this again? Tomorrow?” 

The elevator dings and its doors slide open with a grind before David can answer, and it’s only once they step inside, after Patrick’s pushed the buttons to their floor, that he brings himself to sound out a firm “Yes.” 

He grabs Patrick’s card and they wave at each other when the doors ding open and they have to head to separate ends of the hall, like schoolboys waving each other goodbye after a fucking homecoming dance, or something, he doesn’t know – he and his friends were fond of a more… strobe-light heavy scenery, at the time – and the simple image of it, of Patrick with his fond little smile and one hand raised while the other was still in his pocket, with the feeling of the small card in his palm, is enough to carry him down the hall and past the turn until he’s in front of his door. 

He’s still light, bright, and buzzing when he slides his key card in and steps into his room, ready to let the warm feeling inside him carry him all the way into sleep. His light switch is still turned on – oops? – and he rids himself of his coat and is about to head for suitcase when – 

“What the fuck, Alexis?” 

Alexis seems nonplussed, though, comfortably lying on his bed, under his covers, scrolling on her phone. 

“Oh my god, David! What were you and Patrick doing for so long? It’s…” she glances at her phone screen, “like 11, and we have a game tomorrow!” 

“What the fuck are you doing in my bed?” 

“Um,” she widens her eyes like he’s missing something obvious, “waiting for my brother, David?” 

“How did you get in my room?!”

“Where did you think your second key card went?” 

“You stole my key card?” 

“David,” Alexis whines, with a groan or growl or something. And then she pats the comforter in front of her, aggressively. “I needed to talk to you! I didn’t know you were off, like, gallivanting!”

“What the fuck did you need to talk about so bad that you sneaked into my room?” She pats the bed again, more insistent, and he knows he’s snarling at her, he knows it’s not pretty, but it’s not his fault. “Stop that. You know I’m not sitting until I’ve changed my clothes. You seen those dining hall benches?” 

“David! I need to talk!” 

“Then talk!” 

“No, I need to talk when you’ll actually listen.” 

“I am listening!” 

She growls again – which, is she a feral badger, or what? What the fuck. – and pats the comforter one more time, with vigour. 

“I’m not sitting!” 

“I think Stevie asked me on a date.” 

Oh. 

He hesitates for a moment, looking to his suitcase, off to the side, and then back to Alexis, face open and sincere. 

“Okay,” he says, putting a finger up in Alexis’s direction. “We are talking about this, at length, but I need to change first.” He shushes her as she begins to protest. “Alexis, I need to get the evening off of my body, and then I am pulling out the pack of cookies I put in my cupboard there and some plates, and we are talking. Give me a minute.” 

Alexis still doesn’t particularly look satisfied (but then again, she never does), and a verbal protest doesn’t come. David takes her silence as an acceptance and hurries to grab his clothes and make his way to the bathroom. 

It takes decidedly longer than a minute, but it’s okay, because David needs to process , through changing his clothes and cleansing his face, and then he’s finally back out into the room. Alexis has already grabbed the pack of jelly-filled cookies David had grabbed from the general shop that morning and no plates, but David is kind and generous and the bigger person, today, softened at the edges by his time with Patrick, so he decides to let it be. 

Distantly, he can picture Patrick’s dumb little frowny smile thing, the one he’d bestow upon David if he were to share the tale of his grace, just now. 

Alexis pats the bed again, and his attention snaps to focus. Right. 

“Okay,” he says, sitting down on the edge of his bed, which is becoming a weirdly familiar position, with Alexis at the headboard, “tell me what happened.” 

Alexis rolls her eyes. “I told you, David. I think she just like, asked me out!” 

“And if you’re gonna be a bitch about me trying to ask about it, you can go back to Carol.” 

She huffs, petulant, but David watches the defiance slip out of her as she nods minutely and moves to sit straighter. 

“Mmkay, so after Patrick like, whisked you away after milkshakes –”

“I wouldn’t say he whisked me away? I was asked if I wanted to join.” 

“ – shut up, please, David –” she snaps, but carries on without so much as pausing for a breath: “after he whisked you away, Twy like, asked if we were all heading to the rooms, because we all have games tomorrow, right, and like, right as Rachel was grabbing Stevie so they could go back to the room, she like turned to me and sort of moved me to the side and was all ‘we’ve been holding hands’ and I was like ‘duh, Stevie, I was there’ but then she um? Sort of like…. Grabbed my shoulder? And said that we should like, hang out just me and her after prelims.” 

She pauses as she’s done talking, eyes big and wide locked on David’s like there are still two cents missing from the conversation and she’s expecting him to provide them. When he doesn’t reply, she sort of like, kicks her feet petulant at him from under the pillow. 

“ Ow, what the fuck?” 

“Answer, David!” 

“Answer what? You didn’t ask me a question!” 

Alexis huffs but sits up straighter, pulling her feet back and presumably crossing them as she leans forward just slightly in front of his headboard. “So… do you think I should like. You know, should I go?” 

“Do you want to?” 

“Oh my god, David.” 

“Go if you want to! What am I gonna say?” 

“Ugh,” Alexis says, rolling her eyes, as if David is at fault here, somehow. “Just because your love life is like, soaring doesn’t mean you get to abandon me.”

“What love life?!” 

She huffs again but doesn’t retort, letting there be a second of silence that settles between them before she speaks again. 

“I don’t want to knock on her door only to find out she’s left the country again, David.” 

And maybe it’s the tone of her voice, that false confident tone that she knows hasn’t worked on him in 20 years, maybe it’s the hint of sincerity in her eyes he hadn’t seen in ages before they’d both landed in Vancouver, and maybe it’s just him and her, and the memory of how he used to braid her hair in the middle of the night to get her to go back to sleep after a nightmare, or of how she’d held his hand, as a five year old, when he was a little boy who hadn’t yet realized that schoolboys aren’t kind to boys who wear their mother’s skirts, and maybe, now, it’s a little bit that he knows what it feels like, to have his heart forced open a crack by a blinding smile and cutting humour.  Maybe it’s all of that, or maybe it’s just the fact that despite all the distance that might have grown between them over the years, despite all the people David has gotten to know over the years, Alexis’s heart will always have been the first one David had ever gotten to hold. 

He slides closer, just a little. For a moment, he wants to reach out, to put a hand on her shoulder, or something, but it ends up feeling a little too out there, even for this tender space, and his arm ends up floundering out aimlessly instead. 

“I think,” he says finally, “that you want to go. And if you want to go, um… you should.”

Alexis nods, like she’d been waiting for him to agree with her this entire time, and doesn’t answer. 

“And for what it’s worth,” he adds, lightening the mood, “she can’t really leave the country this time? She sort of lives in this one.”

Alexis frowns, but it’s not heavy. “She lives in Toronto.” 

“In case you’ve forgotten, you have a home there, too.” 

She rolls her eyes at him, dismissive, and then finally, finally she’s getting off his bed, taking the box of cookies with her. “Okay, well, whatever – we have a game tomorrow, and I need to go to bed. Don’t be late to practice, David.” 

His indignant huff is entirely ignored as she shoves her feet into her dumb, sponsored slippers, even though he should be saying that to her – she’s the more flighty of the two, surely. She flips her hair back, cookie box still clutched in one of her hands. He watches her move around, light on her feet once more, like he’d just imagined the tender moment they’ve just shared. She’s at the door soon enough, and it’s only as she reaches for the handle that she turns back to him.

“Patrick is like, very cute, David.” 

He smiles, despite himself, full to the brim with pride and excitement for her,  with… something, for himself. Maybe resignation. Maybe just the knowledge that he might not be able to ignore the thrum of Patrick Brewer under his skin like he’d been thinking until tonight. He answers: “I know, Alexis – see you in the morning,” and lets the hair flip she offers in reply be the thing to end the conversation. 

Chapter Text

Patrick’s not worried.

Nope. Not at all. 

Sure, USA won their game against Switzerland 7-2 earlier, establishing a three goal lead right from the first period, and maybe Patrick’s team is sitting at a 2-1 deficit well into the second against ROC, getting high quality chances and just missing the mark every time, but he’s not worried. He can’t be worried. 

If he gets worried now, he might crumble apart from the inside out. 

It had started pretty well. They’d gotten the first shot in less than a minute into the game, prompting a part of the stands to break into a passionate “CAN-A-DA” chant that he’s become well familiar with, over his years of coaching at the Worlds. It had raised goosebumps in him that first time, and it still does today. 

Of course, he’s no stranger to chants – there really isn’t anything quite like the memory of a roaring 19,000 people yelling “Go Leafs Go” as he raised the Stanley Cup above his head for that first lap, but it had been a whole different kind of exalting, to be hearing people who love the game cheering for his girls while he was standing on the side. Being cheered for is exhilarating, but watching his team get cheered for…. It’s something so entirely differently special. 

Of course, the glee he was beginning to feel had been cut short but possibly the nastiest deke he’s ever witnessed in his life, and he’s sort of been on edge ever since. 

Logically, he knows they’ll be fine. They’re at the top of the standings, right now, and unless the world flips over they could lose this game ten-to-nothing and still play the Americans tomorrow without any fear of getting locked out of the semis, but, well – he hasn’t come to the goddamn Olympics to lose. 

He’s always been a bit of a sore loser – Rachel loves to make fun of the way he’d once screamed at the Jays in a dream where they’d lost 9-1 to the Yankees, of all teams, and though he’s able to tamp it down in the name of professionalism and grace when it’s a matter of coaching, it’s just… he’s won the three games he’s coached so far over here, and he’s not too fond of the idea of snapping that streak just yet. 

He’d tried his best after the first frame. He’d shuffled powerplay units (not that they’re getting to use them often), pulled Wu out, put Desrochers on the first line, hoping her hard snipe would feed well off of Stevie’s smart passing. They’d only been at a tie then, only 20 minutes in, and Patrick had been scrambling until Rachel had pulled him to the side, pulled his head down onto her shoulder, and told him that they’d come back from it. 

That had been the first real deep breath he’d taken since Russia’s first goal. He’ll have to find Stevie after this and apologize for every time he’d called her a sore loser after she’d gotten back from Beijing. 

On the ice, ROC’s 14 passes the puck to her linemate right by Heather’s net, and Patrick’s heart is in his throat, he’s expecting the 3-1 score anytime, but suddenly there’s a flash of white where Pryce intercepts it and then she’s passing the puck over to Twyla and Twyla goes, goes goes goes until she’s on a proper breakaway and then Joyce is right by her and Rachel’s right behind and there’s a bit of a shuffle, a quick one-two pass, and the puck is tipped in over the Russian goalie’s right pad and the bench around Patrick is on his feet, there’s noise all around him, and he’s screaming with them, at them, his voice mingling with the cheers of the crowd as the game turns to a tie. 

As the noise slowly dies down, Patrick glances at the scoreboard. 4:31 to go in the second. 

The goal seems to have bolstered something in his team, and though they remain scoreless by the second buzzer rings, Patrick finds the space around his chest a little looser as he steps down the tunnel for intermission. Trottier had had a nice try for a one-timer, and Heather had made that absolutely spectacular save on Russia’s late breakaway that had nearly resulted in a successful turnaround, so it’s not really like the last few minutes of play had much for him to complain about. 

When he steps into the locker room to speak to his players the room is uncomfortably quiet where it’d usually be buzzing with energy, and he supposes it’s reassuring, to a certain extent, to see that they might be feeling just as uneasy with the idea of losing as he is. It’s that thought, more than anything else, that allows him to put his own competitiveness aside as he addresses them. 

“You’re doing great,” he reassures, trying his best not to react when he hears a scoff to the other side of the room. “The scoreboard doesn’t reflect it but you’ve been playing really well. Hell of a fucking hard time getting it in between the posts, though.” He’s standing as tall as he can, shoulders set, and he knows his tone is just this side of too much as he tries to go for a serious, no-nonsense tone, but none of that matters. He’s saying the truth, and he needs them to believe it. 

He reiterates some of the major plays he thinks will crack the Russian defense better, highlights their goalie’s weakest corners, encourages them to shoot at twice the rate they’re currently going.

“We’ve got twenty minutes to get one more puck to the back of that net. We’ve caused way more damage before. Piece of cake.” It comes out confident, far more sure than he really feels on the inside, but he looks around to the eyes of all of his players fixed on his face, resolved and intent, so maybe they needed to hear it. Maybe his faith will bolster their confidence. 

When he leaves the room, letting his players get ready to step back out on the ice, he’s just a tiny bit lighter on his feet. 

The third period begins, and then it comes and goes in a blur, and Patrick’s thriving, he’s fucking ecstatic, it’s been goals on goals on goals. The crowd has started up their chants again, louder than ever, a glorious reminder that they’re on home ice, and they’d greeted them with a flash of white lights from their phones after the commercial break that had followed Rachel’s goal. It had been gorgeous and glorious and magical and Patrick’s over the moon, basking in it until the timer runs down to 0:00 they’ve won with a 4 goal lead. 

He greets his coaching staff with hugs and high fives while the players celebrate amongst each other in front of Heather’s net, high on adrenaline, sweating through the new blue shirt he’d put on this morning and not caring a bit. He places himself right behind the door as his team comes to step down the tunnel, meeting most of them with fist bumps and shoulder pats. Stevie bypasses his hand entirely, however, practically jumping over the bench and into his arms as she reaches the bench, her helmet knocking the side of his head a little too hard in her enthusiasm, but he happily catches her, wobbling only a little as he lifts her heavy frame off the ground before the rest of the team decides to join in and piles around them.  

It’s a perfect, perfect moment. They’re at the top of the scoreboard, leading their group heading into the last game of the preliminaries, and tomorrow, they take on the United fucking States of fucking America. 

Patrick can’t wait. 

The rest of his afternoon is a whirlwind, first with his teams and staff in preparation for tomorrow’s game, and then of media obligations, first a post-game press and then an analytics panel, then finally an appearance for CTV. He’s caught by the social media team outside the rec center and roped into filming an Instagram story, and then some young blonde guy asked him to wear some comically large sunglasses for a Team Canada Tik Tok before immediately running off without so much as a thanks. 

Lunch is a rushed affair, with barely enough time to grab a cold sandwich before he’s meeting with Wendy to clear up details now that they’re looking straight down the barrel at the knockout rounds. 

He leaves the office with a couple of ideas to jot down and then he’s at the atrium in the residential complex, running into Mitchell and other Patrick and some new guy named Devon, who are able to successfully get him to stick around for a cup of tea. It’s surprisingly refreshing, getting to take a seat and be with the guys. He sees Mitchell around pretty often – they both live in Toronto and Patrick’s stuck around the team a lot even post-retirement. From charity events to hospital visits to hosting queer youth at SBA. It’s one of the things he’s most grateful for – that he’d been able to come out in this team. They’d been nothing but great to him, both when he’d told them and afterwards, supporting his every move. They’d drafted and put out a statement stating their unequivocal support and always made sure to keep him around the org to whatever capacity he’d been comfortable. It’s a support he doesn’t take lightly, not in the league he’s coming from. Mitchell had been in the locker room when Patrick had come out, and he’s been a dear friend ever since. Patrick’s glad to have him here now, even if it isn’t as a teammate on the ice. 

He leaves them an ambiguous amount of time later, running up to his room while there’s still time before the sun sets. He’s relieved when he steps into the room, the just-now darkening blue sky shining through his window, and there’s a tiny, exhausted part of him after the day’s events that wants to crawl into bed and not move at all until tomorrow. 

Another, larger part is buzzing at the core in anticipation of seeing David Rose again. 

He hasn’t called yet, which is fine — he’s had the same day as Patrick (longer, even), and he’s probably still out there meeting with managers and moving players and filming evening news recap panels. Patrick had seen him last night. Patrick knows he’ll call. 

His certainty remains unwavering as he makes his way to shower and then changes out of his suit and into jeans and a more casual shirt, muscles screaming in relief as he sits with his legs stretched out in front of him and pulls his laptop out. 

He sorts through his emails, most of them directly relevant to the Olympics and others less so, filtering out promotional coupons and the occasional community outreach opportunity his mother sends his way. It’s almost mindless, at this point; he’s mastered the art of reading the first few words of the subject line and filing accordingly, barely having to read any of the fluff emails at all. He’s well into it, working at an impressive speed, when he’s stopped short at the subject line of an email sent to him by his agent. His cursor freezes over the subject line.

He reads it once, and then he reads it again, convinced he’s understanding something wrong, but the text remains the same by the time he’s taken his second pass at it. 

The Toronto Maple Leafs want to honour him. 

On the surface, he supposes, it shouldn’t be all that different from the work he’s been doing for them for four years. They’ve always included him in alumni initiatives, and they’d had him drop the ceremonial puck on a pride night game that one time, and there was even that time they’d asked him to a series of Twitch interviews with young aspiring queer athletes in Toronto. He’d taken all of those opportunities in stride, understanding them as tokens of support from his community, but never in the past four years has there been talk of… honouring him. 

They want to offer him a proper farewell ceremony, the email states. And on the team’s slated pride night, no less. 

He stares at the open email for far longer than he should. Honouring him is not asking him to talk to gay kids over video call. It’s not asking him to join the team for pride or showing up to a hospital to sign some jerseys for sick teens. It’s… it’s more than he deserves. Way more. 

What would they even be honouring him for, on pride night? “Hey, congrats on liking men? We always knew you could do it?” 

It just feels wrong. 

He marks the message as unread. 

He knows his agent is expecting an answer within the week, and he also knows that that time will fly by like it’s nothing, and that he still might not have an answer by the end of it, but he can’t right now. He flags the now-unread message, noting down that he needs to get back to it before the end of the week, and shuts his laptop. 

A cursory glance at his phone informs him that he’s been up in his room for well over two hours, the sky now well and dark outside his window, and there are still no notifications for a missed call, or even a text from an unfamiliar number. For the first time since last night, Patrick feels his certainty in David Rose falter. 

There’s probably a reason he hadn’t called, right? Meetings or social media engagements or practices with his team or just exhaustion. Maybe he’d gone up to his room and just fallen into bed. 

Could have texted to let Patrick know, though. 

Another half an hour passes, and still Patrick receives no call. He sighs. He’s finally starting to accept the reality of the situation – David Rose might like him just well, but Patrick just doesn’t have him as enamoured as he has Patrick. It was wishful thinking to have ever thought that he would. All things considered, it’s a pretty easy let down, and Patrick’s almost glad for it. 

He’s just about ready to completely give up home and change into his sleeping clothes when he hears a knock at the door. It’s probably Stevie, again, if Rachel and Twyla wanted the room to themselves, or maybe it’s all three of them, here to celebrate. He doesn’t quite think he’s up for a celebratory outing, if that’s what they’ve come here to suggest, but maybe the company would be nice after he’s just been maybe-stood up. 

He opens the door to David Rose standing on the other side, a black jacket unzipped enough to show a sweater that looks far too soft not to distract Patrick the second he lays eyes on it, with an apologetic expression on his face. 

“I had to ask Stevie what room you were in.” 

“You were with Stevie?” 

“I texted her.” 

He steps aside to let David in, adamantly refusing to acknowledge what the sight of him in his bedroom does to him, hoping his level best that the heat he can feel rising up to his cheeks isn’t as visible as he fears. 

“Why didn’t you just call?” he asks once he’s closed the door behind them. 

David squints his eyes shut and sort of winces. “So I went back to my room last night with your card? But then Alexis wanted to talk so I guess I didn’t pay attention to where I put it and when I went looking for it after the game today I couldn’t find it, so.”  

Patrick blinks. “I thought you were just letting me down easy.” 

“No!” David squawks, and Patrick takes a second to be flattered at how indignant it comes out. “No, God, Patrick. I just didn’t know how to reach you.” 

He seems alarmed that Patrick would have gotten that impression at all, as if he doesn’t at all understand just how far outside his league he is, and maybe Patrick should tell him, someone really should, but hey, right now, Patrick won’t say no to a good thing when it’s come knocking at his door.  

He extends his hand, and at David’s confusion, answers: “Your phone. Can’t lose my number from in there, can you?” 

David nods quickly and digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone and handing it to Patrick. 

“I wanted to message, you know,” he says, and it’s low and so sincere Patrick could melt into it. 

“Now you can,” is all he says back, handing David’s phone back to him. “Did you wanna head down for a drink, then?” He kind of doesn’t think he’s much in the mood for anything to drink – or eat – after this afternoon, but he’s not about to turn David away,

For a moment it looks like David’s going to smile, but then he grimaces instead, contorting his lips and eyebrows in a way that should be far less endearing than it is. 

“Oh — about that? I’m um.  Like? Pretty sure I might explode if I hang around any more people than I already have today. So.” 

“Oh.” Patrick swallows down the disappointment at the back of his throat. David had come all the way to his room, after all. It’s as kind of a gesture as any, to postpone hanging out. “So tomorrow, then?” 

“I was actually wondering if you’d join me for a walk? Outside? I mean, it’s a bit chilly and I know you’ve probably had a long day, too, so it’s very okay if not, but –” 

“Anywhere in particular?” Patrick asks, interrupting his ridiculous rambling. As if Patrick could ever say no.

“Um,” David seems to be considering it, “the trail that goes in front of my window is usually pretty clear? And there are benches, which – we want that.” 

“We do, do we?” 

David rolls his eyes. “Do you want to walk with me or not, Patrick?” 

Patrick smiles and gestures toward the door, stopping only to grab his jacket off the back of the chair he’d dropped it on when he’d come in. “Lead the way.” 

David was right, Patrick realizes as they take their first steps outside, it has gotten chilly out, but it’s less of the biting winter cold that Toronto can bring and more of a mild sort of stagnant cool air all around him. His ears and fingers feel it first, just a slight discomfort at the tip of them, but Patrick’s easy to dismiss it. He’s not about to let a little bit of a chill get in the way of this, right now. 

David probably feels the chill, too, because he stops his stride to hurriedly zip up his jacket just a couple of moments later, scoffing at the amused look Patrick throws his way and reaching to grab one of Patrick’s free hands in his as he continues to the path. It’s a sweet (romantic?) gesture that Patrick knows is at least partly fueled by David needing to stay warm, if the temperature of his fingers is anything to go by, but Patrick leans into it, anyway, tightening his own hold against David’s palm, shifting their fingers so that they’re interlaced properly. David slows down just a couple of steps later, and when he turns to look at Patrick he’s smiling, big and bright and especially beautiful under the soft yellow glow of the lamppost a little above them. Patrick has to fight everything inside him not to lean up and kiss him. 

“Look,” David says, and for the first time since he’s stepped outside, Patrick does. He takes in the view in front of him, all open field covered in a thin layer of soft, glittering snow bathed in hues of gold and white and red lights from across the village before opening up on open water. In the distance, far in the distance, Patrick can see the deep black silhouette of the mountains on the island on the other side of the straight lining the horizon. It’s beautiful, and Patrick really shouldn’t be surprised – there isn’t an inch of this city that isn’t – but it still nearly bowls him over just how much. When he turns back towards David, only to be faced with his wonderstruck eyes and his lips slightly parted, almost in the shape of a smile, the urge to lean towards him hits against the inside of Patrick’s chest again, and this time with a force he’s not sure he’s experienced before. 

It would be easy, he thinks, to whisper David’s name, to get his attention, to put a hand on his cheek and lean forward just a little just until their lips touched. Patrick almost gives in, too, he’s so close and he wants to kiss this man so bad, but he doesn’t. He keeps watching David watch the view. He doesn’t ruin this moment for anything, this perfect nighttime picture that he knows he’s going to carry at the forefront of his mind for a long, long time to come. 

It takes a person only as beautiful as David Rose, Patrick thinks, to still be the most breathtaking thing in sight in a place like this. 

David does turn back to meet his gaze a moment later, finally smiling fully as he catches Patrick already staring, and he tugs at the hand of Patrick’s already in his to urge them to move. They go slower now than they were a moment ago. Unhurried, unwilling to be anywhere but firmly here, in this moment, together. 

They keep walking, exchanging pleasantries and quips at one another, tentative but so, so open here in this space together, and Patrick is floating, he’s fucking flying with his feet planted so firmly on this snowy path right now. 

“You know,” David says at some point, “I haven’t… the last time I was here was maybe fifteen years ago, and I’d always thought it was the most beautiful city. I told myself I’d come back someday, just to get to see it again, and then I just…”

“Got too busy?” 

David shakes his head. 

“I think that –” he pauses for a moment, cocking his head a little and gathering his thoughts of something, “I think that when you can travel the world, you know, see all these things and do all of this stuff all over the world, then coming back home sort of just, you know – why would I come to Canada when I can go anywhere else?” 

“I don’t know, David. I quite like Canada.” 

“I presume you haven’t been to many other places.” 

“I travel for work the same as you do, David.” 

“No but – to travel, Patrick. To just… see some of the world. You ever try going somewhere just to see it?”

Patrick exhales. “No,” he whispers, “I suppose I haven’t.” 

“It’s exhilarating,” David says immediately. “It’s like, the more places you go, the more you realize how large the world is and how little of it you’ve actually seen.” 

“That sounds amazing,” he breathes. 

David smiles. “It is, but that’s what I’m saying – it makes it easy to forget how amazing home is, too, sometimes.” 

“Well, um,” Patrick starts, “The next time you’re in Toronto, I’d be glad to remind you just how good home can be.” 

David’s smile sort of twists sideways, tucks into the side of his face. Patrick is so taken by it he almost forgets to pay attention to David’s reply. 

“Is that a promise?” 

“It’s, well – it’s whatever you want it to be.” 

“Okay,” David answers, still smiling. 

“Okay,” Patrick answers, mirroring him. 

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s sweet, comfortable, thick like a blanket even in the cold. Eventually, David’s the one to break it. 

“Tell me about your day, Patrick.” 

And Patrick does, he does well into the hour, until the sounds around them quiet down and the skies darken impossibly more above them. The whole time, Patrick keeps getting distracted by the way David purses his lips sometimes when he smiles, how even a wide open grin will find it’s to the side of his face, like he’s trying to bite his smile in. Like he has no clue what the sight of it does to Patrick’s heart. 

It’s a weird thing to fixate on, he knows, especially considering the rather spectacular conversation they end up having, but Patrick likes that he knows that now, about David. It’s a little detail he knows because he was allowed to get close. 

It’s worth a lot more to him than he’d easily admit. 

Eventually, despite the genuine laughs and the teasing glances, the embarrassing childhood stories and the heated debate over the best flavour of cake (red velvet, obviously), they do have to start considering heading back to their rooms. It’s gotten a little too chilly to ignore, now, and lights in the rooms behind them have started to shut. Despite their clasped hands, Patrick’s fingers have started to numb a little, too, and it’s getting a little darker outside than he figures he’s entirely comfortable with. And, you know, they might both need the rest. They play against each other, tomorrow. 

The walk back to the elevator is quiet, up until the metal doors slide open in front of them and they both step in and David punches in their floor number. 

Patrick watches the numbers increase on the display above the door. He knows now’s the time to say something, but what exactly, he can’t quite figure out. 

Thankfully, David speaks first. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Patrick.” 

Patrick smiles. 

“Hope you’re not a sore loser, Coach Rose.” 

“I’m betting you won’t find out.” 

The elevator doors ding open and they step out into the hall. This is where they separate, Patrick learns. David’s room is on another end of the hall, and Patrick’s is right here, right nearby. The seconds wind down around them and for the umpteenth time Patrick is overtaken by the urge to kiss David, but this time it’s stronger, more urgent, like if he doesn’t do it right now then the world might end around him. 

He moves slowly, gently, first placing a loose hand at the back of David’s waist and waiting, looking for signs of rejection. When one doesn’t come, and instead David’s hands come up to both of his shoulders, and Patrick’s definitely, very sure David’s gaze has just flitted over his lips, he whispers in between them, a last ditch attempt at giving David an out, should he want it. 

“How would you feel about kissing your competitor, hypothetically, on a scale of one to ten?” 

David laughs out loud for a second, just for a burst, and then schools himself into an air of put-on seriousness. “I mean,” he shrugs, “I’m pretty pro. Pro it, you know. If you are.”

And Patrick could probably quip back, say that’s not a scale-to-ten rating at all, but then David’s mouth is on his and the opportunity is lost, Patrick doesn’t give a shit, he’s kissing him back in the middle of this damn hallway in front of the elevators at some odd hour of the evening. It’s chaste, it’s gentle, it’s so incredibly well behaved from the both of them, it’s perfect. 

When they pull back it feels like a crime that they have to, but he knows it’s probably for the best, right now. Anything more and he might explode, or fucking… start floating for real, or something.

“Goodnight, David.” 

“Goodnight, Patrick,” David answers, and then he pushes forward one more time to quickly press his lips against Patrick’s once more, twice more, before he lets him go. 

The last thing he sees before turning towards his door is the pure glee on David’s face. He’s sure his own doesn’t fare much better, the ghost of David’s lips still pressing against his, the feeling of his fingers curled around his shoulders almost still tangible as he waits for the sounds of David’s retreating footsteps down the curve of the corridor and then presses his key card into its slot. 

Chapter Text

Alexis has a hard time, looking around the full rink, believing that they’ve already made it this far. Like, she obviously knows this is just the first round, and the real hard stuff only really starts after today, but like, holy shit, it’s the end of the preliminaries. 

The next game she plays, after this one, is going to be a quarter final game.

They’re skating for a last 15 minute warmup before the game, both teams having taken over a respective half of the ice. On the side she’s standing on is her team, obvi, these teammates she gets to know better and batter every day, that she gets to play with on some of the most important games of their lives. On the other, there’s Team Canada – some girls she’s played with, on other teams, some she’s seeing for the first time. Their faces and names and numbers are becoming increasingly familiar as the tournament goes on, and like, Alexis knows she has a rivalry to maintain, but it’s almost sort of nice, to look onto the other end of the rink and recognize a familiar face. Even if that face is Canadian. 

There’s also Rachel, and Twyla, and Patrick – all of whom she thinks she considers at least like, decent, for-real friends by now, right? She knows about how they both met, and she knows that Twyla has a weird digestive thing with sushi, and she knows that they both like to take trips to Italy during the offseason because they have some sort of weird, gooey, romantic inside joke about it. That seems like friendship stuff to know about people. 

She runs a couple of laps around their zone of the ice, and then David and the equipment managers throw a couple of pucks out on the ice that she’s able to grab to take a few practice shots on Ruth before heading back to the bench for her bottle. 

“So why are you staring?” she asks David when she gets there, effectively snapping him out of his weird trance-like state. “Is Patrick like, wearing the wrong shade of blue for his complexion again? Poor thing.” She doesn’t particularly think anything’s wrong with Patrick’s outfit, but David is like, way more judgy about this stuff than she is.

“He’s not wearing anything,” David says, and then, after swearing and catching himself: “ – wrong. He’s not wearing anything wrong. I’m not staring.” 

“Ohmygod, David,” she exclaims, then, ignoring the grimace he pulls. “Then what is it?” She taps at his shoulder a couple of times, coaxing. “I know you went to see him, remember?”

“Nothing happened!” 

“Then why are you looking at him like that?” 

“I’m not,” David grumbles, and then he sighs, shuffling a little and standing taller. Then, he does the thing where he’s trying not to smile but failing, just a little thing he’s terrible at hiding. “We went for a walk.”

“And?” 

“And we talked!” He’s fully smiling now. Alexis fixes him with a stare. “Okay, and we might have kissed, just a little.” 

“Oh my god, David!” she jumps, eyes wide. She drops her stick, grabbing his arms with both hands. “I’m so happy for you, frenching your little coach boyfriend. That’s so cute!” 

“Okay, slow down,” David says, pushing her arm away and shaking his head. His smile drops almost immediately and he scowls. “It was barely one proper kiss, and we are not doing boyfriend.” 

“Tell that to your cute little heart eyes, David.” 

“Go lick your skates, please,” he answers, because he’s disgusting, and then he stands up and shouts something at Natalie, shoving Alexis back towards the ice. “Pick up your stick. And go practice your shot.” 

She rolls her eyes but listens anyway, stepping back onto the ice and skating over to where Rachel and Twy are standing near the other bench, talking to Patrick. Patrick, because he has manners, unlike her brother, smiles when he sees her coming, and even nods after she boops his little nose in greeting with a soft little “Hey, Alexis.” He’s adorable, pretending he doesn’t know that Alexis knows he smooched her brother last night, like he thinks he’d be able to hide it from her in any way. 

“Is there something wrong with the way David looks today, Alexis?” Rachel asks as Alexis approaches. “Because Coach here can’t seem to stop staring.” 

“Be quiet,” Patrick mutters gently, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling. 

“I’m serious! Last time it was this bad was when Sidney Crosby signed his all star jersey and said he had a ‘remarkable shot’,” Rachel says. “For a second I was convinced you’d fall to your knees right in front of him.” 

“Wouldn’t you?” Patrick counters, and like, fair point. 

“So this is that, then? You want to fall on your knees for David?” Rachel jokes, startling all three of them. Patrick reaches his arm out, like he’s trying to reach her head, but Rachel squeals and jumps out of his reach, laughing as he shakes his head at her and then steps out onto the ice to go find another player. She and Twyla turn to Alexis. 

“How’s the team?” Twyla asks. 

“How’s the skate going, Alexis?” 

“I mean, same as always,” she answers, because what else is she supposed to say, and Twyla nods, smiling. It’s a perfectly Twyla response, friendly and kind, and it’s that realization, the sudden click in Alexis’s head that this nice friendship situation is a serious thing she has with them, so real and so off the ice, that has Alexis asking: “Doesn’t it like, bother you even a little bit that we’re about to play against each other?” 

Rachel furrows her brows, like the question’s ridiculous, and shakes her head. “Patrick’s the sore loser, not us.” 

It’s an easy answer, and probably not an entirely honest one, but Twyla’s nodding gravely at Rachel’s words like they’re an absolute truth. 

“Right. It’s just our jobs.” 

“Yeah. I know, but…” 

“Hey,” Rachel says, skating closer. “If someone loses, they get a day to brood, and then we get right back in here and kick ass another day – what are the other options, anyway?” 

Before Alexis can begin contemplating a reply to that, there’s a sudden whistle behind her, and Patrick yells out something she can’t quite catch that makes all three of them snap their heads up. 

“Oh,” Rachel says, “Patrick needs Twy and I, sorry.” 

The two of them slide by in a hurry, and Alexis figures she should get to her own end, too – David won’t be too glad if she isn’t warming up just the same as everyone else. She titans her grip on her stick and begins moving, taking short, quick strides to get to her own half of the ice before a tap on the shin causes her to turn around. 

It’s Stevie, smiling mischievously with her stick still outstretched. 

“Hey,” she says, sliding closer. “How are we feeling?” 

“We’re – um, yes. Good. We’re feeling good. You?” 

Stevie nods a bunch of times, quickly. “Yeah. Good. Good, yes.” 

“Okay, good,” Alexis replies, just barely holding in the urge to facepalm afterwards, because really? That’s the best should come up with? “Um, the game starts soon.” 

“It does.” 

Alexis takes a deep breath. “And I’ll see you after? To hang out?” 

Stevie nods again. “Yeah. Maybe not like, right away –” 

“ –right, not right away,” Alexis agrees. 

“But we will.” She sounds so sure of herself, so determined Alexis doesn’t want to ruin the vibe by asking to make sure again, so she just chooses to believe her and lets the topic drop. 

“Good luck,” she offers instead. 

Stevie smiles, once more mischievous, and skates forward to pat Alexis on the head before circling back. “I don’t need luck, babe.” 

Which, well – okay. 

Okay.  

Stevie yells something at Patrick and then yanks Trottier by the arm as she skates away, like she doesn’t know she’s just shook Alexis’s world just a little. 

It takes a while, running drills on only half the ice in such a short amount of time to go, but David is relentless. He’s drawing up plays on his little whiteboard, making sure they’ve got them memorized, sending them out in rows to shoot on Ruth, standing at the bench and making them reset and replay until he’s fully satisfied. He looks like he’s about to pop a vein, so Alexis is a little worried at first, but he seems to cool down by the time they get to stretches and then he’s looking at them as they step off the ice and telling them that they’ll do great and walking into his office like it’s nothing, so maybe he’s just being dramatic. It wouldn't be off brand. 

They barely have a couple of minutes of reprieve before they need to be back on the ice, and for good, this time, and Alexis takes the opportunity to rid herself of the residual anxiety she’d been carrying around all day.  “We will,” Stevie’s promised, and Alexis can’t do anything but trust her. She wants to trust her. Besides, her focus is much more needed here, by this team, right now.

When she steps back out of the tunnel a time far too short later,  she meets Stevie’s eyes on the other bench. She looks over to Patrick, too, looking dashing in his little grey suit with his little pride pin, but he isn’t looking back at her. No, Patrick’s attention is entirely taken up by the players on his bench. He’s fluttering around like a little hummingbird, getting right into players’ faces to tell them things, and it’s not until Twyla holds his face in her hands and says something to him that he seems to stop. 

Alexis joins her team at the bench, endures David’s awkward and enthusiastic screeching that always comes before a game he’s particularly worried about, and it takes a bit, but she’s able to find herself settling into her own bones and get her head in the game. Soon enough, she’s skating off over to center ice.

The sound of the opening buzzer is really all she needs to snap into laser focus, winning the first breakaway and going straight for the offensive zone. Canada’s defense is, of course, tougher to face than most of what her team’s had to work with before, and if Alexis weren’t so preoccupied with trying to outplay it, she’d be super proud of the pressure Rachel and her liney, Lee, are putting on her right now. 

She and Alisha, her new linemate, manage to tic-tac-toe the puck around Rachel, though, and a well placed pass from Courtney to her right is hit right towards the net, where it’s stopped by Heather. 

And with that, the whistle blows, and her first shift ends.

Alexis heads back to the bench for the line change, feeling the pressure even just a minute or so in, practically leaning over the boards where she’s trying to follow the action. On the other end of the ice, on his own bench, Patrick is whooping and cheering and yelling himself, quick on the line changes, tapping his players on the back as they step off. On her own end, David is in a similar position, looking a little less overtly impassioned but just as focused, eyes flitting from the ice to the iPad in his hand in an attempt to dissect these plays right as they happen. They’re both completely engrossed, perfect images of total involvement, and for a second Alexis allows herself to feel bad about the fact that she’d been so caught about her thing with Stevie that she’d never thought to talk with David about the fact that his own relationship is on the line, here, too. Before she can do anything about it, though, Natalie is jumping off the ice and Alexis is needed again, sliding onto her skates and asking for the pass. 

He’ll be fine, she decides. He’s a little like, eh, you know, but he’s always been a little bit smarter than Alexis when it’s come to like, being a good person to people and stuff. At least, he’s always been good to her, and she’s her. She can only imagine how good he might need to be to keep up with a little angel like Patrick. 

It’s another two shifts before someone scores, and though it’s fortunately her own team, Alexis can’t help but glance towards the other bench, where Stevie is sitting, looking for something she can’t place in her. Stevie’s not looking back, of course she isn’t looking back, she’s focused on the game. Alexis watches her swear loudly at the goal, and then Patrick’s pointing his finger at her and saying something, and the moment Stevie’s back on the ice it’s almost only a split second before she catches a rebound from Twyla and suddenly the game is a tie.

The game follows that same momentum, high energy and faster pace, into the end of the first period, and well into the second. A little more than halfway through, both teams are 2 apiece and not looking to stop, practically on top of each other but skillfully avoiding penalties as they fight to get the upper hand.  

The first penalty only comes about 10 minutes later, when Canada’s Whitecloud is inexplicably caught high-sticking in their own defensive zone. Patrick looks disappointed but is scarily calm as they skate over to the box, jaw clenched and eyes on the ice as the referee whistles the power play.  

Even with the one-person disadvantage, Canada’s fucking impossible to get through, and Alexis almost thinks they might let this power play go to waste when suddenly Stevie fumbles the puck where she’s just stolen it from her, messing up a pass so that it’s now sort of aimlessly bouncing away from her, only to be picked up by Shivani who pushes it right into the goal. 

3-2 USA, with  just under 2 minutes of the second period to go. 

Alexis takes a deep breath as Whitecloud gets back on the ice. 

Time to like, finish the thing, huh?

The last couple of moments are hers, easily stepping on for her next shift. Canada’s more careful, now, she can tell – Patrick must’ve said something to them that stuck, and there’s practically no room for any of her team to get past the neutral zone before losing the puck to one of them. At 10 seconds left, Alexis finally, finally thinks she’s got a shot at the offensive zone, and suddenly someone’s skating by her in a flash, grabbing the puck right off of her stick as they leave. Alexis turns around. 

Stevie. 

She’s aware of time winding down as she speeds up to reach her. Internally, she knows it’s to no avail. Stevie’s their fastest, and she’s their sharpest shooter, too. Alexis is just a few strokes away when their eyes meet, and something happens, something must happen, because when Stevie shoots, right before they collide, it hits Ruth right at the center of her raised glove. 

And that’s… Stevie wouldn’t have taken that easy a shot with the amount of space she just had to herself in any other situation. Alexis knows – she’s been playing against her for half a decade. That was not a Stevie mistake to make. The buzzer ends the period, then, loud and distracting and startling her, and Stevie skates over to her bench without sparing Alexis a second glance. 

Chapter Text

Stevie knows, stepping into the tunnel at intermission, exactly what’s waiting for her at the other end. Her steps are heavy, shoulders hung down in shame despite no one having said anything to her – each of her other teammates is far busier in their own heads, dissecting every second of the game and trying to figure out where they could have gone wrong. 

Stevie doesn’t have to do that. She knows exactly what she did. 

“Can I have a word with you, Cap?” Patrick’s voice suddenly calls for attention by the door to the locker rooms, just a few moments later, and Stevie can’t help but cringe at the level tone of his voice. He’s looking right at her when she meets his eye, serious and authoritarian in a way she’s seen but never had to be on the receiving end of before, and she knows, she knows that he’s all too well aware of exactly what had happened at the buzzer. It’s one thing to have a coach look at you fumble a play and demand an explanation. It’s entirely another for that request for an explanation to come from your best friend. She nods, silent as she walks towards him, smiling only a little when Rachel puts a hand on her arm in support as she passes by. Patrick just nods towards the hallway and starts walking, and Stevie follows. It’s quiet and tense like it hasn’t ever been before, not even when they’d lost games at the World Championships, unfamiliar and unwanted. She can’t tell if it’s the stage they’re playing on that explains the difference in his attitude, or just the fact that even when they’d lost before, he’d at least always been able to bank on the fact that she was giving him his best. 

She can’t say the same for today’s game. 

His frustration is clear as day even just by his gait, quick and clipped, and his shoulders and big and squared like she knows he sometimes carries himself around when he’s trying to make himself look like a bigger hotshot than he actually is. It’s a stance he takes when he’s in meetings, or in front of the press, or trying to prove a point to someone that only matters to him, and she sort of hates that he feels the need to do it here, with her. 

It takes turning down the hall and into the tiny little makeshift office he sometimes uses for him to finally turn to face her. 

He takes a deep breath. “So,” he starts after a silent moment, alarmingly calm. “What happened?” 

“What do you mean?” she replies instead of giving a straight answer, because… well – because what the fuck else is she supposed to say?

He sighs, a quiet, short little thing while rolling his eyes, and when he fixes her again his eyes are big and searching. “Are you maybe trying to throw the game, for any reason?” 

Which – what the fuck? 

“Why he fuck would I be throwing the game? Are you fucking serious?”

“Can we maybe keep it professional here?” 

“No! No, fuck. Why would you even ask that? Why would you even think that?” 

“I don’t know, Stevie!” he exclaims, and she flinches just a little, he’s so obviously, uncharacteristically, loudly bothered, but it’s okay, anything – anything is better than the levelheaded HR-appropriate bullshit he’d just tried to pull on her. “It just kind of feels like something was off, and you and Alexis have been getting along again, and I’m not quite sure what else I’m supposed to think right now.” 

“That’s bullshit. You don’t believe I’d do that.” 

“I don’t,” he agrees, dropping his gaze for a moment, and then, recovering: “But I don’t know what else to think, alright? All I know is that you had a clear shot on a breakaway, and that I’ve quite literally seen you take that shot with your eyes closed, and that for some reason, the second you saw 23 coming at you, you chose not to follow through. It’s my job to be watching you, Stevie. I saw it happen.” 

“Clancy saved it,” she replies, but it’s weak even to her own ears. 

“It was a weak shot and you know it. And I wouldn’t be mad if it was just a mistake, you know I wouldn’t but – it was right as Alexis came at you.” He breathes deeply, once more, and when he looks at her again it’s more familiar. “So you tell me.”

“I just… got nervous.” 

“About what?” he asks, voice soft, “Because it wasn’t Ruth – I know that.”

He cranes his neck slightly, cocking his head just a little as he awaits her answer, because even right now, even as they navigate one of the biggest tournaments of their lives, of course he’s going to want to know what’s going through her head, this fucking man. He’s seen her through too much not to. It’s almost scary the way he seamlessly goes from Coach Brewer to just Patrick, to her best fucking friend in an immediate instant, but he does, and suddenly the words come remarkably easy. 

She shrugs. “I messed us up pretty bad last time. Me and Alexis.” She breathes in, shaking her head. “But that’s not an excuse, I know. I know, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

Patrick nods. His hands fall out of his pockets, shoulders sagging, and he takes a breath, and then two more as he slowly takes a step towards her and places his hands on her shoulders. 

“It’s really not,” he agrees. “I know why you did it. I – I get it, and we’ll talk about it more later – but for what it’s worth I think you’ve got too much to just lose this time around, and…” he lets his hands fall to his sides, “right now, everyone on that bench is counting on you,” he finishes with a deep breath, and then he’s doing the thing again, the fucked up thing he does where he looks like he’s reading into her like only he’s ever been able to, and continues: “Alexis wouldn’t want you to give up on them.” 

He steps back and straightens up again before she can answer, the perfect image of professionalism once more, and she feels a stab of guilt at the shift. In being concerned about this thing with Alexis, she’s come too close to taking for granted the fact that this is Patrick’s first time at the Olympics since he’d rejected them. The very first Olympics that she gets to be at with her very best friend – this idiot that needs caring and support the same as she does, but wouldn’t dare ask for it. In having him so firmly by her side this entire time, it had been easy for it to slip up that she needs to be on his, too.

“We’re not leaving here without that medal, Patrick,” she promises. It’s not enough, she knows, and maybe nothing short of a gold medal will be, but it’s something. To him, it’s something. She knows that.

He smiles. “We better.” 

“And you better tell me whatever the hell went on between you and David that I’m apparently not aware of.” 

His eyes widen, and he sputters an incoherent thing.

“What? You’ve both been staring at each other all day. It’s weird.” 

“There’s nothing going on,” he refutes, but he’s wide-eyed and flushed like she’s just caught him in something, so the words mean nothing, really. 

“Patrick.”

He shoos her out of his office. “Win the game first. Then maybe.” 

“Since when do you not kiss and tell?” 

“Go to your team. Alice needed to go over some stuff with you. I’ll be there in a minute with some changes –” He glares at her, quite efficiently, when she keeps staring but doesn’t move.  “What? Go .” 

She does go, and by the time they’re stepping back out onto the bench the atmosphere is considerably lighter. Still tight, still eerily clipped under the nervous need to win, but lighter nonetheless. They win the initial faceoff and it’s constant puck control from then on, pressure pressure pressure on the other team, and it’s only a couple of minutes later, on Stevie’s third shift, that she’s able to bury in the equalizer with a well-time shot about Clancy’s right shoulder, finally taking she shot she should have taken half an hour earlier. 3-3. 

Now to get the lead.  

They battle it out to the best of their ability, it’s plain to see. Rachel’s burning red with the exertion, and Stevie’s definitely played more minutes than is strictly normal, but there’s just over a minute left and it’s still tied. At the bench, Patrick is running in overdrive, pointing out weak spots in the American defense and highlighting exactly what plays to execute in order to take full advantage of them. 

“Just don’t let it get to overtime,” he says as the line change comes. “Keep the pressure up. Grab the puck, crash the net. Make sure they don’t get a chance to reset.” 

In the end, the game doesn’t have to go into overtime. With a well-timed interception and a devastating 3-on-2, it’s USA’s Carol Chan that gets the game winner, just a few seconds before the end of the game. 

And Stevie knows that this doesn’t really change anything — both teams qualify anyway. They play the quarterfinals regardless of who takes the win in this one game, but… it’s their first loss. 

It doesn’t feel good. 

They step into the tunnel at the end of the game very aware, for the first time this tournament, of just how exhausted they are. The locker room is thick and heavy with disappointment, nearly silent except for the shuffling of gear and equipment and the occasional reassuring pat on the back from a teammate telling another that they’ll “get ‘em next time.” 

Alice joins them a minute later, announcing that the effort was great, out in the third, and that despite the loss the coaching staff wants them to know that this shouldn’t keep them down. It’s easier to say than to believe, but Stevie appreciates the speech. Better this than a staff to kick them while they’re down. 

Miguel and Patrick join them a moment later as well, with a knock to the door, sighing and sharing matching weak, thin lipped smiles across the room. 

“One too many mistakes,” Patrick addresses them. “Luckily, we get a shot at redemption. We were getting too comfortable in our skates, and I think this shook us just enough that we can really pull ourselves together, now, right?” 

If she were in a better mood, Stevie would make fun of him for being more gracious at an Olympic loss than he’d been that one time she’d lost him that game of Pictionary, back home, but he probably doesn’t want to hear it. She also doesn’t feel much in the mood for quipping herself – it’ll have to stay on the backburner for their next game night.  

She’s showered, changed, interviewed, and decked in sponsored gear up in her room with Rachel when she finally gets around to checking her phone. 

There are five texts from Alexis waiting for her. 

I’m still down to hang out if you still want that 

like now or whenever 

I promise not to be a dick about it 

you don’t have to hurry 

good game, budd <3

She’s grateful for them, she really is, and she will answer. She’s promised she’d answer. Just…

Just not right now. Not this immediate moment.

“Alexis?” Rachel asks, sitting down, cross-legged, on the edge of her bed.

“Yeah.” 

She gestures for Stevie to sit down as well, and Stevie complies, mirroring her position on her own bed, facing her. 

“How’re you doing, Budd?” she asks after a moment, leaning forward until her elbows are on her thighs and her hands are tucked under her chin, supporting the weight of her tiny head. 

“How’re you doing?” It’s a weak and clear rebuttal, but Rachel pays her transparency no mind. 

“Well, I just experienced my first ever Olympics loss, so you know – could be better.” She keeps talking slowly, kindly, and she’s doing that dumb Patrick thing, staring into Stevie’s soul. It’s a weird reminder that they grew up together. “I didn’t lose it to my girlfriend, though.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend.” 

“She’s something.” 

Stevie doesn’t answer. She won’t refute it, not to Rachel, and it feels like Rachel maybe doesn’t expect her to, either, because she’s immediately talking again. “You gonna talk to her?” 

Stevie sighs. “Yes.” She nods, both to Rachel and herself. “Yes,” she repeats. “I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“You sure seem to care a lot about what I do.” It maybe comes out a little snippier than she initially intends, but it’s been a long day. It’s been too much of a day.

“Of course I care,” Rachel says immediately. She drops her arms and sits up straight, frowning. “Listen,” she starts, a little hesitant, “I know you’d rather talk to Patrick about all of this – I get it, I want to talk to him about everything too, and it’s his couch you were brooding on, not mine, but…” she sighs. “I was there for all the pity brunches too, you know.” 

Stevie exhales and meets Rachel’s eyes. She’s right – Patrick had been the ground beneath her feet, last time, but Rachel had been there the entire time, too. She’d been the one to bring emergency movie night snacks and to organize girl’s days and to even offer to go out and wingman for Stevie, at some point. It’d be unfair to pretend she isn’t just as much of a rock as Patrick is, after all this time of knowing each other. 

“You’re right,” she says, trying (and most likely failing) to smile at Rachel. “I’m sorry.” 

“Ooh, an apology,” Rachel shimmies on her seat. “That’s new.” 

“Okay, you’ve lost me,” Stevie deadpans, “now shut the fuck up.” 

“Oh no, this is a forever kind of gift, Budd. A full ‘I’m sorry’? Oh man.” 

“You’re terrible.” 

“And yet, here you are.” 

They laugh that one off, letting the conversation fade into a sort of comfortable, light silence. Rachel hums and finally gets up, moving to mess with the clothes hung up in the room’s tiny closet. 

“I think she’s good for you,” Rachel says, still shuffling around her clothes. “Alexis.” 

“Yeah?” 

Rachel turns her head to face her, and smiles, big and genuine. “She’s cute.” 

Stevie won’t reply to that, out of respect to her own dignity, so she opts to change topics instead. “You spoken to Patrick at all?” 

“Not since the game,” Rachel sighs. “Figured I’d give him a couple of hours to sulk before badgering him. Why?” 

“Do you know if he and David have a thing?” 

Rachel steps away from the closet and eyes her with interest. “You saw it too, right? The staring?” 

Stevie nods exaggeratedly. “Both of them. It was pathetic.”

“And he hasn’t said anything?” 

“Not to me,” Stevie replies. “Not you either?” 

Rachel frowns and nods. “Since when does he not kiss and tell?” 

“That’s what I’m saying!” 

“Huh,” Rachel says, stepping back towards the bed. She picks up her phone and types something up real quick, smiling to herself. 

“Did you just ask him?”  

Rachel shrugs. “Figured it was a good place to start.” She glances down at her phone screen again, typing something else out, and then looks up at Stevie with intent. “You’d kiss and tell, right?”

Stevie just shrugs, which makes Rachel laugh. She says something about dinner, later, and then the conversation ends. 

Which is fine by Stevie – there’s an idiot she needs to go see. 

Patrick’s room is on the other end of the corridor, because he’s one of the little bitches who got one to himself. For a moment, she sort of debates letting him mope it out before talking to him, but he’s one of those dumbasses who will let the pain slide and then refuse to acknowledge that it exists at all, and if she’s going to make sure that his ass doesn’t self-sabotage while he’s here – well, she needs the full story. 

Never let it be said that Stevie Budd isn’t a good friend.

He’s in raggedy bed clothes when he opens the door, wrinkled and stretched, despite the relatively early time of evening, eyes wide like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing even though he’s the one who’s just let her in. 

“Hi,” he says, moving to the side, watching her drop onto the single chair by the single, small night stand in his room. “Did you tell Rachel that something happened between me and David?” 

“Can you tell me if something happened between you and David?” 

“Nothing!” he says, dropping down on the bed in front of her. 

“Well, that’s bullshit.” 

“We hung out?” he tries, as if she’s gonna take that for an answer. 

“And? Patrick!”

“And we kissed – but none of that matters right now, because I need to figure some stuff out before the quarterfinals.” 

“You have 3 days to do that.” 

“And I have a lot of work to do.” 

“Patrick,” she says, and she’s hoping it comes off just as serious as she’s intending it to, because she wants him to understand what she’s trying to say here. She wants him to get it. “Are you going to talk to him?” 

“It’s nothing,” he sighs. “We just… had a good time, and then I kissed him once.” 

“So it’s a fling?” 

“No!” he refutes right away. Then, he grimaces and shrugs. “I don’t think so?” 

“You don’t want it to be.” 

“I – no. No, I don’t.” 

“Does David know that?” 

“Know what?” he exclaims, “We kissed once. ” He runs his hand through his hair, a little out of sorts. “I’m not gonna go out there and talk him into a relationship.” 

“Why not?” 

“Have you met him?” 

“Unfortunately,” she answers. 

He sighs and nods, dropping both hands onto his thighs. “Let’s not make this a bigger deal than it is prematurely, is all, okay?” 

“You like him a lot.” 

His face does a weird, complicated thing, cycling through a bunch of emotions before it settles on like, a thin-lipped nodding situation. “Yeah, yep. Yes.”

“So talk to him.” 

“Since when are you a relationship expert?” 

“I’m working on it!” 

“And that’s good for you! I want that for you, just – I’ll see about me and David after I figure this stuff out for the tournament, okay? If there’s even anything there.” 

She makes him promise to follow through about five separate times, and then a sixth time with a threat just for good measure. They spend the next couple of hours in his room, her on her phone, staring at Alexis’s messages, and Patrick obsessively replaying today’s broadcast footage. 

She leaves him with a hug and the promise not to lose another game again.

It takes a whole other day before she answers Alexis’s messages. Not that she doesn’t want to; she does. She’s trying to do better this time around. But Alexis deserved — she deserved to celebrate with her team for one night, without having to censor her joy for Stevie’s sake. She deserved to have a night with her teammates to properly bask in the glow of the end of the first round of the tournament. America’s headed for the quarterfinals, and with a win, no less; Alexis deserves to enjoy it. 

It’s not exactly the most elaborate of replies. In fact, it’s probably a little too dry considering the circumstances, but Stevie reasons that it’s better than nothing. She’s already doing better than last time. She’s reaching out. 

You feel like a walk? 

It’s a testament of how much better a person Alexis is than Stevie that she answers her text almost immediately afterwards, exclamation points galore as she expresses her consent. It releases tension in Stevie that she wasn’t even quite aware that she’d been holding onto. They’re both without a game for the next two days, their schedules littered with video room meetings and skates and practices instead, and it’s still early enough in game proceedings that most other athletes are too busy to pay them any attention, focused on their own events either in progress or about to take place. So, when Alexis steps off of the elevator, ready to go, Stevie immediately spots her through the thin crowd at the dining hall. She waves at Stevie as they make eye contact, and her smile is brilliant, it’s beautiful, it’s captivating as she makes her way over. Her hair is done immaculately, loose blonde curls falling below her shoulders, and she’s in this, this white – sweater-dress, is the only term Stevie can think of for it, though she’s sure it’s wildly inaccurate –  that goes down to her thighs where only a sliver of skin is visible before her boot begins. It’s a strange ensemble to Stevie, objectively, especially considering the weather, but she’s not one to complain. Not when Alexis looks like that. 

For a moment, Alexis looks like she’s going to hug her as she approaches, but either Stevie’s seeing things or she catches herself at the last moment, because she stops right in front of her, closer than would be inconspicuous, and claps both her hands together. 

“Hey,” she says, and she’s beautiful, she’s so beautiful Stevie has to take a deep breath before she can manage a greeting in reply. 

“Hey,” she says, voice inexplicably tight. “Um,” she clears her throat. “You look… This is cute.” 

“Oh,” Alexis reacts as if taken aback, and she does this thing where she sort of scrunches her nose at the compliment and it’s ridiculously adorable. “Um, okay, thank you.” She sort of preens – shimmies? wiggles? – like she’s bashful, maybe, or maybe that’s not it at all, Stevie can’t tell. “I figured that like, there’s only so many days I get to hang out here and not be sweaty, so I should take advantage.”

“Yeah that’s… that’s smart.”

“You look very cute, also,” Alexis says, and she looks like she means it, Stevie thinks? But that can’t be right; Stevie’s in an old flannel shirt she’s owned since she started in the league and like, blue jeans. Even her Converse are starting to tear at the back. She looks like she could work for Alexis. 

“Um, thank you.” 

Alexis hums in satisfaction, and then she’s just standing there, sort of watching Stevie with interest. For a moment or two, Stevie manages to ignore it, both her gaze and her periodic hums, and then: “What?” 

“Is this going to be a date, or something? Or are we sort of like, keeping it casual?” 

“It’s not a date,” Stevie clarifies quickly. Firmly. The way Alexis’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little is a nice ego boost, but she keeps going before the disappointment can really settle. “A date will be when we’re both out of here and not competing and I can take you somewhere proper.”

Alexis nods, quickly, many, many times. “Mhmm, okay, okay, yeah. So it’s like, a pre-date. A warm-up date.” 

“It’s a walk,” Stevie says, “to make up for a lot of missed dates, maybe. And to talk about your win.” She puts a finger up when Alexis looks like she’s about to reply. “It’s okay. Really.” 

And it is. They talk, and they talk and they talk and they talk as they begin walking, and the more they do the less it stings, to have lost yesterday’s game. Somewhere inside, Stevie wonders for a moment if it would have been this easy the last time, and then she quickly shuts that train of thought down. No use now. Alexis tells her about some of the players gathering in her room after the game to celebrate, and about Alexis abandoning said room only to crawl into David’s. She tells her about how weird it had felt to her in the moment, to have realized that she’d rather be alone with her brother than the center of attention of all of her teammates. She tells her about how well David had taken the win, and about how the congratulations text from Patrick had come through and lit him up seemingly from the inside out late at night, while Alexis was still there. She shares that he’s apparently a terrible loser. She tells her about the teammates back in L.A. that keep talking about how much they miss her and about her degree. She tells her about how she doesn’t know what she’ll do once she gets it. She tells her about how she hopes to figure it out, soon.

Stevie talks, too. She talks about Patrick, and Rachel and Twyla, and about Toronto and how nothing else has ever really felt like home in the way that it does. She talks about how she’d taken the day yesterday to mourn their loss, and about how she’s kind of worried it’s sent Patrick into overdrive where he really doesn’t need to be. She talks about how one of her friends back home messaged her about a kitten she’d just gotten and how she wants that, too. She even talks about her aunt Maureen, the motel owner, and how sometimes Twyla and Stevie would go over the weekends to help out just because she’s understaffed and Stevie likes the idea of having family to go back to.

“I’d say I’ll take you, but I really don’t think you’d do well in those rooms. One of them legitimately just smelled like wet. I didn’t even know that was a scent until I stayed there.”

“Um, tell that to me when I was 18 and accidentally locked myself in Cameron Diaz’s boiler room, Stevie. Guess who doesn’t clean the boiler room? Whoever works for Cameron Diaz!” She looks genuinely offended Stevie thinks she wouldn’t survive at the motel, and it’s weirdly gratifying to see. Even though Stevie is 100% right. Twyla could barely handle it, and Twyla once dated someone who lived in a parking lot. 

“Are you inviting yourself to Maureen’s motel?” she asks, and it’s meant to be a joke, a rhetorical question, really, but lexis seems to really ponder it, squinting her eyes and staring into the distance. 

“Yeah,” she seems to decide. “As long as there’s like, someone sleeping between me and the door. I don’t – yeah, no. Don’t trust the little small town um, folk.” 

“I can manage that,” Stevie replies, laughing.

Alexis smiles, like it means something to her that Stevie would offer to sleep in between her and the door on this trip they’re not even taking to Stevie’s aunt’s place, and then spots a bench, pointing at it. 

“Let’s sit?” 

They talk and joke and bicker well into the evening. Alexis doesn’t seem to mind it, squealing excitedly about the view by the edge of the water and drags Stevie closer to the strait with her, acting entirely too unbothered by the cold for a woman with her bare legs out. 

They stand there, peering over at the city’s twinkling lights over the water, the breeze colder and starker now that the sun has gone down. At some point, Alexis’s freezing fingers come and tangle with Stevie's, their hands clasped tightly together in the cold between them. Neither of them move. Alexis keeps asking about Toronto, and about the way Stevie feels there, and she rubs her thumb over the back of Stevie’s hand where it’s held tight in hers when she promises to visit every dumb little Toronto nook and cranny Stevie tells her about, voice clear and steady in her assurance that it’s a promise she intends to keep. 

Stevie walks Alexis all the way to her door, afterwards, cheeks and noses bright red and fingers curling in on themselves from the frost, only letting go of Alexis’s hand when it’s time for her to reach for her keycard and bid Stevie farewell. 

“This was really fun, Stevie,” Alexis says when Stevie finally lets go. “I’m glad we, um, did that.” 

“Me too,” Stevie replies. 

There’s a split second awkward silence between them, and then Alexis is leaning forward, throwing her arms around Stevie’s shoulders in a tight hug, and Stevie doesn’t even have to think before she wraps her own around her waist. They hold each other like that, just a short few seconds that light Stevie up inside, and then Alexis is gently pulling away and walking into her room. 

It’s still not a date – Stevie is still firm on that. Their first date will be gross and over-the-top and romantic. It’ll be a little bit absurd but beautiful, perfect, and fun-filled, just like Alexis herself. But for now… this was nice. It was something. 

It was the best something she’s ever been on, she thinks. 

Chapter Text

David can’t say he’s done this a lot. Well, theoretically, he has – sitting on another person’s bed is hardly new territory for him. He’s been on like, a thousand beds, each one of them sturdier and comfier than whatever they’re passing for a double here in Patrick’s room. But this, sitting on someone’s bed in the middle of the afternoon with the sunlight pouring in, it’s… he can’t say it’s something he’d ever made a habit of. It’s a rather unfamiliar feeling, to be sitting in a… romantic dalliance’s bedroom without the intention for sex. (Well, without any immediate intention for sex. He’d like to think he’s a perfect gentleman, but he’s only human and Patrick had kissed him so firm and strong when he’d walked into the room that his toes are still tingling with it and he fills his stupid sponsored Team Canada sweatpants so well and David would very much like to get into them, thoroughly, at some point soon, thankyouverymuch.) To be sitting, hip to hip, touching practically from shoulder to toe seated on Patrick’s bed with his laptop playing Kellyoke clips. To feel Patrick occasionally grabbing David’s hand when it’s sitting free and slack on his lap and sort of gently tracing the outline of David’s fingers with the pad of his thumb in a move that absolutely should not turn David on but still kind of does. 

All of it, he’s unfamiliar with, and everytime it happens he has half a mind to put an end to it, to pull his hip away or to shove his hand in his pocket, because where else is he going to find this, when this ends and Patrick isn’t in New York with him, but every time Patrick’s fingers will ghost over his just so, sending a shiver up his spine, and David tells himself: “Just a minute longer, then I can ask him to stop.” 

He’s building himself to get hurt so bad when these games end, he knows, but what else is a man to do with Patrick Brewer within arm’s reach? David’s only human. 

Besides, if this is all he’s ever going to get of this man, David figures he has the right to be a tad reckless.  

He’d honestly been surprised, this afternoon, to have been invited at all. Their little kiss had been… good, very good, even, but even for as sweet and cute and kind as Patrick is, David knows that neither of them is banking on this thing to be anything more than it is. At the very least, he himself isn’t. He knows that kind of optimism seldom ends well. He’d thought he could protect himself, maybe not engage with Patrick at all, but in the end his kind eyes and sweet smile – and yeah, okay, his broad shoulders and firm biceps and gorgeous hands, all that, too – had pulled him in past the point of safety before he’d even had a chance to look and wonder what the consequences of feeling something for Patrick Brewer might be. 

Now, he figures, if he only gets Patrick for two weeks, he’s gonna make sure they’re the most wonderful two fucking weeks he can manage. 

At the very least, it’ll be two weeks of memories to tide him over for a while when he has to leave this place and make it back to New York. It’ll be two weeks of joy and kisses and of staring into Patrick’s gorgeous brown eyes as he strips himself bare in a hotel lounge, along a river’s edge, in Patrick’s bedroom, that’ll belong to David and David only. If only for a little while, David will think someday, he’ll have known what it feels like to receive the affection of someone like Patrick Brewer. 

Patrick’s silence after the game had shaken those plans a little, reminded David of the fact that he’s very much alone and not in a relationship here, and David had almost gotten to a place where he’d convinced himself that Patrick’s questionable sportsmanship was for the better. 

Besides, he’d probably have done the same. For all that he gets pissed at Alexis for calling him a sore loser, she’s not actually wrong about that. 

But then Stevie had texted Alexis, and they’d gone out, they’d gone out, like Alexis had said Stevie had promised her, and David had felt the flicker of hope he was trying so hard to extinguish spark back to life inside him. If Stevie had reached out, it could only be a matter of time before Patrick did, too, no?

But then day one after the game had come and gone and it was late into day two and with the quarterfinals inching closer and closer, still with not a single message, call, or wayward interaction with Patrick, the hope had finally begun to seep out of him.  

For a moment, he had considered just stomping over to Patrick’s room to gauge his mindset, because anything would have been better than this tortured state of limbo, but that would have been dramatic and unnecessary and a little too on-brand for David to attempt it in a situation so delicate. So he hadn’t. He’d opted instead to do the mature thing and forget about Patrick, determined to redirect his focus back on the tournament with minimum wallowing, and watch a movie. Just an hour later, about halfway into Bridget Jones's diary, David’s phone had buzzed against his pillow. 

I hope you didn’t celebrate the win too hard!

Wouldn’t want to get your hopes up for the final. ;)

How do you feel about seeing each other tomorrow? 

David’s heart had done a little swoop that he will never admit happened to anyone, ever, anywhere, and, with all concepts of self-preservation back out the window, he’d eagerly agreed. 

Which is how he finds himself here, just only inwardly apprehensive of just how easy it is to sit on Patrick’s little bed with his body heat practically radiating off of him, a line of heat pressed against David’s side but somehow not at all feeling anything less than absolutely wonderful. 

“You good?” Patrick asks, a moment into it, and David snaps his attention over to him, noticing only then that Patrick’s grabbed his hand again. He closes his fingers around Patrick’s fingers and nods. 

Patrick mirrors his nod and presents a thin lipped smile before turning back to the screen, and David takes the opportunity to study him. It’s the first time he gets to do this – to just look at Patrick without having anything else to do, to run his eyes over the strong bridge of his nose, to see the way the afternoon sunlight makes his gorgeous long lashes shine two shades of brown lighter than the hairs on his head. 

He’s so beautiful it almost hurts, and David can’t help but think that no fling will ever be as much of a bitch as this one. It’s unfair, that he gets to be here with him, see him like this, and then will have to carry on with his life like nothing’s happened once it’s taken away.

Patrick turns then, almost as if he can feel David’s eyes on him, and a small smile makes its way onto his gorgeous little face when he catches David staring. They stay like that for a moment, just looking at each other, Patrick’s face sort of blocking out the sun shining in from his curtain in a way that makes it look like the room is glowing around him, and David gives in. He leans forward, pulling away from Patrick’s gentle touch with some effort to cradle his jaw, and kisses him. It’s their third time kissing – yes, David’s keeping count and no, he will not be ashamed, he’s savouring – and it still makes David feel like he’s floating, like Patrick’s hand on his cheek, his lips on his own, his socked foot pressed in between David’s calves are the only things keeping him here, in this room, grounded on this shitty little bed. 

It’s less than three days into this thing with Patrick, with barely a proper date under their belt, and it’s already so, so much more than David’s ever felt before.

If he could freeze time, somehow, David finds himself thinking, so that he and Patrick never have to leave this room again, he’d probably do it in a heartbeat. 

It’s an achingly terrifying thought that he refuses to dissect further. 

Patrick is the first to pull away, deliciously slow, with a hand still gently caressing David’s cheek and his face still so close that David swears he can feel it when Patrick’s eyes flutter open. Patrick’s just out of reach enough that that seems impossible, but still he swears he did. 

“I really like being with you, David,” Patrick says softly, and there’s an undercurrent of something to it, an apology or an explanation, maybe. A ‘sorry I wasted two of our days’ and an ‘I’m glad I came back’ and an ‘I’ll be broken when this ends too’ wrapped in one. Whatever it is, David is glad to receive it. David would gladly take any words Patrick lobbed at him right now, if it gave him more of this. 

“Me too,” he says, and it’s all he can say, disappointingly, but Patrick seems to get it; seems to get him , somehow, despite how new all of this is. It’s a little scary, in some weird sort of way, and David is surprised to find out he likes it. Likes the little bout of fear that comes with Patrick trying to know him. “Um,” he begins, extending his own curiosity, his will to know Patrick as well, “can I ask you a question?” 

Patrick shifts slightly, sort of lifting himself up a little and fixing his arm so that he’s leaning on his elbow as he raises his eyebrows, waiting for David’s question. 

“You don’t have to answer,” David starts, “because like, I probably wouldn’t. It’s… we barely know each other; you don’t owe me anything.” 

“David,” Patrick smiles, “I think we at least know some things about each other.” 

“Yeah, but… you know, not like that. ” 

“Okay,” Patrick nods seriously, “so how about you ask your question so we can. You know, like that.” 

“I’m just saying, you don’t owe me any answers, especially if it’s like, embarrassing or whatever, or if it feels like I’m judging you. Just –” 

“David,” Patrick says again, and then he leans forward, still balancing on his elbow, placing a chaste kiss against David’s lips once more. “Ask, please.” 

David looks at him, quiet still for a moment longer, searching in vain for any hint of doubt in Patrick’s eyes, any hesitation, but there isn’t any – and that in itself is almost enough to unravel David. Patrick wants him to ask. He might even want to answer. 

As if that isn’t earth-shattering. 

“Okay,” David says, and he hopes it didn’t come out as breathy as it sounded to his own ears. Patrick smiles, patient. “Um, just – were you pissed at me? That we beat your team?” 

Patrick’s smile falters, and David had expected it, expected this down to the way he clenches his jaw and clears his throat and shifts a little, never really moving away but definitely looking like he’s more ready to now than he was thirty seconds ago. 

“It’s okay, like I said – it’s no matter, honestly…” 

“David,” Patrick interrupts, and he’s got this determined look that he fixes David with that forces David to look back. “I’m... just give me a minute, okay? To say it right.” 

“That hard to say?” David jokes, and then he almost opens his mouth to… to add that Patrick doesn’t have to say anything, if it’s hard. Not to David, when David’ll be gone so soon. He really shouldn’t have to do anything harder than kiss David a few times, these next few days, but before he really can, Patrick seems to have gathered his thoughts. 

“No. No, just… um, I just – no one comes to the Olympics to lose, David.” 

David winces. “Right.” 

“So I was dealing with that. So that my team doesn’t have to feel that again.” 

He’s so matter-of-fact about it, sort of professional in a way David hasn’t had to face yet. He shuffles again and sits up, straight up with his back to the window so he’s only kind of a silhouette with the blinding light coming in from all around him. David’s almost glad he can barely make out his face like this. It’s… he doesn’t want to really face the fact that the Patrick he’s been… doing feelings with is the same Patrick that he beat and the same Patrick he might have to beat again. He doesn’t want them to be the same. 

“So you just…”

“I was preparing, David. We’re all here to do a job, and my only options have always been either to give up or to win the whole thing. So you know, I owed it to my team to get, um, focused. So we wouldn’t give up.” 

“And I was getting in the way? Of focusing?” 

Patrick sort of tilts his head, considering something. 

“I mean, you’re definitely threatening to shift some priorities, David.”

David sits up, squinting at the sun shining right at him but face to face with Patrick. 

“And what happens if we – if you lose again?” 

Patrick leans closer, and there’s a smile on his lips, but it’s not the one David’s used to. The soft, kind, affectionate thing Patrick always throws around freely. This one’s different. It’s almost… challenging. David’s not sure how he feels being on the receiving end of it. 

“I won’t lose again, David.” 

And David wants to object to that confident statement, because it implies that Patrick plans on David losing, which just  – which won’t happen, it can’t happen, David definitely isn’t as gracious a loser as Patrick’s making himself out to be right now – but then Patrick’s leaning in and his face is getting closer and closer and blocking out the too bright rays of the sun around him and then his lips are on David’s and nothing else really matters anymore. Championships and medals and hockey all flies out of his mind and suddenly all that there is is Patrick’s warm mouth against his and his fingertips under his shirt at his sides and gentle thump as David is maneuvered around and his head hits the pillow. 

Patrick pulls away. 

“The practice rink’s empty and open until this evening. You wanna go skating?” 

“You asking me out on a date?” 

“Depends. Will you come?” 

David pretends to consider, as if every cell in his body wouldn’t go anywhere Patrick suggested right now, lying on top of him on this sunlit bed. 

“Can we make out first?”

Patrick laughs. “We can do whatever you want,” he says and then he leans in. 

They do go skating, a little over an hour later. Patrick’s back in his godforsaken sponsored Team Canada vest and David is stubbornly not in his, thank you, instead in his white Prada cable knit number that Patrick had very generously felt up when David had reached the rink. They’ve both got their skates on and are doing laps around the ice. A couple of other people are around, too. Some David recognizes, and some he swears he’s never seen in his life, even though Patrick promises he’d played against them just last week. 

(It’s not his fault people look wildly different when they’re not sweaty and wearing helmets.)

Patrick is much quicker than David is, he learns, small and compact and speedy like a bullet. It’s not hard to see why he would’ve done well in the NHL. He tries slowing down for David’s sake, but every once in a while some of his energy will like, get pent up or something, and he’ll go flying at full speed for a couple seconds like he’s got some sort of temporary booster attached. 

David doesn’t mind much. Patrick, crouching and exerting himself in front of David, looks very nice from where he’s standing. 

While Patrick’s definitely got speed advantage, they’re both quick to learn that David’s precision knocks him well out of the park. His turns are tight where Patrick sometimes wobbles, he moves in even, easy glides and is decidedly less exerted than Patrick is by the time they cover the same distance. It makes sense for them, David thinks: Patrick’s an absolute fucking powerhouse, and David’s an unassuming, graceful master. 

Patrick’s out of breath and flushing red in just a couple of minutes, exhilarated and far more beautiful than a man with hair matted down to his head with sweat has any right to be. 

“Sticks?” he says. 

David squints his eyes at him. 

“There’s gear down the tunnel. You wanna play with sticks?” 

David bites back the joke at the tip of his tongue, because he’s classy, and joins Patrick as they find their sticks and grab a puck for the both of them. 

They take turns shooting on each other. Patrick’s quick and scrappy play makes him hard to read and harder to follow, and he reminds David a lot of the way he’d seen Stevie play at the last prelim. It figures that someone like Patrick would bring out the best in her. They’re basically the same player in different height brackets. 

David himself is more precision over power, with an accurate shot and an agility that even Patrick seems impressed by (which definitely doesn’t make David preen, shut up). At some point he even gets competitive with it, and David has to pretend everytime not to be hopelessly endeared by the frustrated grunts Patrick lets out when a perfect shot is blocked, has to act like he doesn’t want to kiss the little crease in his forehead when his brows pinch in concentration. They play like that for what seems like much shorter than it actually must be, because David’s still floating on delight and adrenaline when people begin clearing out. Patrick must feel the same, because he’s a little taken aback when they’re told they need to clear the rink, and he goes to grab the puck David had shot off as they turn towards the bench. 

Only to see Stevie and Alexis standing behind it, hand in hand, looking right at them. 

Which – he guesses the date went well, then. 

Patrick’s the first to reach the bench, immediately holding his hand up for high fives, which he somehow receives enthusiastically even from Stevie, and waits for David to follow before announcing that he’s going to go put their gear away. 

The second he’s turned away, David is faced with the menacing smirks of his sister and her evil… Stevie. 

“What the fuck are you both doing here?”

“Same thing you are, I suppose,” Stevie replies, letting go of Alexis’s hand to cross her arms in front of her chest. “Good date?” 

“Mmkay, we were actually on the ice, and not staring at other people like creeps!” 

“We were on the ice, too, David. You just were both like, so lost in each other’s eyes or something that you didn’t notice us even like an hour into it.” 

David wants to curse at her and retort, but – well, they had been pretty lost in each other’s eyes. In David’s defense, has anyone seen Patrick’s eyes? No one would be able to look away even if they tried. 

“Hey,” Stevie says, snapping him out of it. “It’s nice. Haven’t seen him that happy on the ice since he retired.” 

Which is a devastating thing to say to him after he’s just sweat his ass off for a couple of hours, but okay. He’s gonna pretend like that’s a normal thing to know. 

Patrick emerges from the tunnel again, smiling bright as he reaches them, and he does look pretty happy, fucking Stevie, enough that David has to turn away for a second to make sure he doesn’t embarrass himself by like, crying or something, jesus fuck. Patrick keeps coming closer, seemingly unaware of the rising tide inside David, and it’s a true testament to the way he’s fucking up David’s entire internal brain wiring with his pretty fucking face that David almost has the urge to disregard the sweat and flush of him and kiss him right then, right there, right in front of his sister. 

Almost. 

Patrick looks around at the three of them, then excuses both himself and David off to the side with some excuse about leaving Stevie and Alexis back to each other. As soon as they’re alone, he leans up to kiss David’s cheek, brief and sweet. 

“I’m gonna go shower,” he says, “and then I have some things to figure out for tomorrow’s game, okay?” He reaches to hold David’s hand, squeezing it tight before letting go. “I’ll see you after your game?” 

David nods, looking right at Patrick. His heart is so full he might pass out right here, in the tunnel of this dingy practice rink surrounded by all these athletes and his sister , of all people. He can almost see the obituary she’d publish. “RIP David Rose. Died because the guy he liked looked at him too nice. What a fucking loser lol.” 

Patrick smiles at him, which – he needs to stop doing that, because David is three seconds from cardiac arrest he likes his smile so much – and then leaves with a final squeeze of David’s bicep. It’s a touch that feels alarmingly comfortable by now, with how often Patrick does it, passing him by or reassuring him or teasing him, and David knows immediately, when all is said and done, that it’s gonna be one of the things he’ll miss the most about being with Patrick. The goddamn bicep squeezes. 

He’s still looking down the tunnel Patrick’s disappeared down when a hand lands on his shoulder. He startles a bit, jumping as he turns to see who’s just caught him, only to come face to face with Alexis again. She’s alone, smiling sweet saccharine at him in a way that makes him deeply uncomfortable. 

“What do you want?” 

Her smile widens, somehow. “I like this for you.” 

He can feel himself flushing under the comment, and he can’t help it; he has to physically shake the unease off of himself even as she watches. “Okay, whatever.” 

“No, ugh, ” she says, fixing him with her gaze. “I’m serious. Stevie was saying she hasn’t seen Patrick that happy in four years, David. I haven’t seen you that happy like, in your whole life. And you’re old. ”

“Okay, fuck off. You don’t know anything about me.” 

“Oh my god, are you even listening to me right now?” she says, louder than she should and sounding reasonably more upset, too. “Patrick’s a cutie little button face who makes you so happy, David,” she huffs. “I’m just – I’m saying that I’m happy that’s happening to you, or whatever.” 

And that’s… well. 

“Thank you,” he says, because he can’t bring himself to quite say anything more, and heads towards the nearest shower. 

He’s back at the rink the next day, laser-focused after having sent both Stevie and Patrick a short congratulations text for Canada’s 6-0 shutout over Sweden, watching Olivia lead the team through pre-game stretches on the ice in front of him, with Team Czechia on the other end. He watches them with tense shoulders, refusing to give into Alexis’s assurance that they have this game in the bag. 

Analytically, he guesses, the numbers are on this side, and he knows Czechia’s offense is much slower than theirs, but they have a hell of a goalie and their defense and David can’t let down his guard. Not even once. The prelims were an easy game, with the point system and USA’s surefire shot to the next rounds, but they’re in a knockout, now. David can’t allow himself even a single off day. 

They start the game strong. Puck possession and shot numbers are brutal in their favour despite the high sticking penalty they’d had to take about 2 minutes in. Czechia’s barely touched the puck at all about halfway into the period, and David and his crew are both feeling ridiculously optimistic. 

That is, until Czechia catches an ill-controlled rebound and opens the scoring. Suddenly, David’s anxiety is up from a sensible 7.2 to a whopping 12 (out of 10), and it’s almost an out of body experience, the way every gear in his mind suddenly starts spinning at full speed, almost buzzing to the sense of overwhelm inside him as he shouts plays and strategies at every player heading toward the bench after a shift. The iPad never leaves his hand, and he watches the game from every angle at once, slowed down and then sped up and then from the other side. He’s about three seconds from collapsing to the ground when Alexis passes the puck to Carol and finally, finally, they tie the game. 

The first period ends 3 seconds later. 

The first intermission feels too long and not nearly long enough. He’s passing the iPad around in the room and pointing out mistakes to avoid and suggesting new plays to try and pacing up and down the hall behind the tunnel. When his players step back onto the ice after their 20 minutes are up, he’s still fidgeting all over, but he hopes it’s with renewed vigour. 

It’s long, and it’s hard, and it’s stressful – god, they hadn’t all been this stressful, even the game against Canada wasn’t this stressful! – but by the end of some tough, tough two periods later, his team emerges with a 5-2 win. He only feels himself exhale, the buzzing in his brain finally coming to a halt the moment that last buzzer goes off. 

He’s sweating in his suit – fucking gross – by the time he makes it out of press and into the locker rooms. He walks in to the distinct scent of sports and the sound of cheers, pulled despite himself in by the urge to join in on their joy. 

“Two more games!” Clancy shouts at him, whooing as he walks by, and he throws his fists up in the air in return. 

Two more games. 

Shit.

It’s three more days until the quarterfinals, and there’s a fuck ton of work to do before he meets with Marina, Ted, and Alessia tomorrow, and then even more before the four of them gather everyone in the video room. It’s overwhelming and ambitious, even the mere thought of it makes David feel like he’s getting frayed at the edges, and it’s only as he finally washes the sweat and anxiety off of him, back up in his room ahead of what promises to be an evening full of work, that he’s able to regain some sense of reprieve. There’s so much still out of his control, there’s so much still to do, so much to figure out, but he’s exhausted down to his bones and he’s just about sure he’ll throw up if he tries to turn on his laptop now. Pretty much every option feels unattractive to him at the moment, television or a walk or lunch alike, and the more he lets himself think about it, sinking into his fatigue, the more there’s only one thing he can think to do for the next foreseeable few moments. 

Or, you know, one person. 

He takes a deep breath before knocking on Patrick’s door. He probably should have texted before showing up to his room like this. He doesn’t know if Patrick’s even in his room, and if he is he might be working, or he might want to be alone after the game, or maybe he has plans with someone else —

David shakes his head at the closed door. Patrick had asked to see him today. If he’s busy, he’ll probably smile and apologize for it and send David off with a kiss, and it’ll be fine. It’ll be okay. 

Still, he can’t help the nerves. 

The knob turns just a short moment later, Patrick’s door making a weird screeching sort of noise as he pulls it open.

He smiles as he sees David, his dumb blue button up looks disgustingly good on him, and his ears do that weird thing they do where they sort of hop up when Patrick’s a little too happy. 

The fact that David apparently makes them do that is not lost on him. 

“David,” Patrick says, like he’s surprised but not all displeased. “Congrats on the win.” 

He leans forward and kisses David’s face, sort of right at the cheekbone, and then walks back into his room. 

“Come in,” David hears him say from inside. “I was just getting some work done.” 

David takes a few hesitant steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him, turning to look at Patrick just in time to see him drop down onto his bed and shuffle towards one side of it, pulling his laptop onto the pillow set up in front of him. He pats the empty side of the bed. 

David figures that should be a cue to walk over, or something, so he goes over easy, easily setting into Patrick’s side. 

“Give me just a minute to finish some stuff?” Patrick asks, and David nods, shuffling closer. He can wait. 

He sort of leans his head back, onto the pillow propped up against the headboard, and closes his eyes. Patrick clicks something next to him, and then there's the dull sound of what David recognizes as a game broadcast. 

David smiles. He always knew Patrick was the type to study his competition obsessively. 

He lets himself get lost in the familiar sounds, letting himself sag into Patrick’s mattress, the feeling of Patrick’s body ghost-light next to him where they’re just almost touching. Patrick keeps making noises next to him. Sometimes typing and clicking, sometimes tutting at something, sometimes making this soft hum and clicking his tongue a little when he’s thinking too hard. David keeps his eyes closed and lets himself listen. It’s oddly soothing, after the exhaustion of this morning’s game, to be able to get lost in the sounds of Patrick working next to him. It’s relaxing, weirdly. David keeps listening, taking in the nuances in every sound, every tiny shift of the mattress until they all blend together into one, continuous sensation that sets up shop in his mind. 

When he’s finally able to pull himself out of it, it’s with blurry vision and a heaviness in his limbs, his eyes blinking awake where he’s somehow turned and pressed his face into Patrick’s side. 

Patrick seems to feel him shift, because he turns his head to look at him immediately, smiling softly as David’s vision finally sharpens. 

“Morning,” he says, as if he’s not offended at all that David showed up to his room only to take a nap. 

“Shit,” David says, shuffling up. “Sorry.” 

“You’re good,” Patrick says. “Took your beauty nap as an opportunity to go through some emails. How you feeling now?” 

“Like I need not get out of this bed for the rest of the day,” David says, and then freezes. “For sleeping. To sleep in. That was weird, I’m sorry.”  

Patrick doesn’t seem scandalized at all, though, laughing at David’s embarrassment and patting a light hand against his hair one, two times in a move that David desperately needs him to repeat, maybe more enthusiastically, with his fingers tangled in David’s hair, but doesn’t dare ask for. He turns back to his computer. Shuffling up, following his movement, David catches sight of his screen.

“What’s that?” he says, pointing at the rainbow banner across the top of the email Patrick has opened. And then, immediately: “Sorry, You don’t have to tell me.” 

Patrick furrows his brows. “No, um…” he hesitates, for a moment, looking at the screen again and then at David. “It’s an invite. For pride night. For the Leafs.” 

“Oh! That’s nice. You’re going to some press, or something?” 

“No – no, they want to, well… They want to honour me with a little ceremony or something. After my retirement. On pride night. Two birds, one stone or whatever, I guess.” And then he shrugs, like it isn’t a big deal. 

And listen, David doesn’t really care for the NHL as a league, so his knowledge of their rituals and ceremonies is surface-level at best, but even he knows that this is a big fucking deal. 

“You’re gonna go, right?” 

“I don’t know, maybe?” 

David sits up, alarmed. 

“Patrick – you’ve got to go.” 

Patrick sighs. “Doesn’t it feel like – I don’t know, gratuitous? Let’s bring in this guy who played with us a couple of years and dedicate a ceremony to him because he’s gay?” 

“Because he’s coaching the Olympics, Patrick? Because he won them the cup?” 

“That was a team effort.” 

“A team that you were on!” 

But Patrick doesn’t seem convinced, looking over to his laptop, abandoned on the side, again. David sighs. 

“Listen… “ he starts, and then he immediately regrets starting, because who the fuck is he, anyway? “No, you know, it’s okay. This – this isn’t my business.” 

“David,” Patrick says softly, sadly, and David does not look him in the eye, he can’t. “What, David?” 

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It probably means nothing, what I think, you know? Like, who am I to say anything to you? It’s nothing.” 

“Well you’re gonna have to say it now, David,” Patrick says firmly, decisively enough that it could be an order, but just gentle enough that David knows it isn’t. It’s a request. 

David learns, in that moment, that he’s unable to turn down Patrick’s requests, as it turns out. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Alexis said something to me, when we first got here, about inspiring the athletes of the future, or whatever.” He does not bring up the article, because he has more dignity than that. God, no. Patrick can’t ever know.  “And I know you don’t want to be a spokesperson for gay people – I get it, it’s too much pressure to put on you. But maybe you don’t have to go there to be the guy who gets honoured because he’s gay. Maybe you… maybe you go there and get to be the gay guy who gets honoured because he was really fucking good at hockey?” 

Patrick seems to soften at his words, his eyes crinkling at the corner like they sometimes do, his mouth pulled thin into some sort of smile. His hand comes up to rest on David’s thigh. “Can I think about it?” 

“You can do whatever you want, Patrick.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says breathily, and then a little more firmly, again: “Okay. I’ll think about it. Not now, but I will.” Then he , moving his hand from David’s leg and flipping the flap of his laptop shut with a decisive click . Then he crawls back until he’s closer, he’s so, so close, and he leans forward, pushing a soft kiss onto David’s lips. “You wanna go grab a bite?” 

“Um, yes?” 

Patrick laughs and kisses him again, fully this time. David’s just sinking into it when he pulls back. 

“And just so you know, it does matter.”

“What?” 

“When you say something to me. It does matter, coming from you.” 

And Davids can’t answer that – he can’t, without promising the both of them things that this two week thing can’t possibly give them, so he just kisses him again. 

Chapter Text

Patrick’s always been competitive. 

When he was 10 and playing pee wee, this kid, Nick Soreikis, had made fun of him during one of their practices. He’d put on his helmet and his too-tight sweater and skated circles around Patrick and called him slow, as kids who are dicks often do, and Patrick had responded by walking in next practice, holding his head high, and challenging Nick to a race that had ended with him going too fast to be able to stop before he’d run into the boards. Luckily, the only injury he’d sustained was the loss of two of his bottom teeth. His parents hadn’t been too thrilled about that.

More importantly, though, he’d won the race.  

He’s grown since then, learned to pick his battles and matured as a person and player both, but the fire that had prompted him to challenge Nick in the first place hasn’t quite gone out yet. 

He doesn’t like to lose. 

It still comes out sometimes, often recklessly, like when he’d realized the Martlets were going to have to head to overtime in college and had appealed to Stevie’s ego by daring her to try shorthanding a Datsyuk, or when he’d spent half an hour during a bar trivia night out with Twyla arguing with the host about the validity of one of his answers. It’s never come easy to him, and he doesn’t really think it ever will. 

He just really, really doesn’t like to lose. 

So, evidently, his first loss being handed to him at the hands of his – of David – who is quickly becoming something so much bigger and beyond than the tournament Patrick had signed up to play, certainly hadn’t helped his ego. 

He’d always known David was good. He’d always known Alexis and Carol and Ruth and Olivia and Natalie were good, too. They all are. He’d just never stopped and wondered how them being this good could impact him. 

It had been easy, in the midst of how growing feeling for David, of his budding friendship with Alexis, of Stevie’s… whatever they’re defining it as with her, too, for the tournament to have shifted to the back burner for a moment. Not forgotten, never forgotten, but a sort of… afterthought. Like the Olympics just happen to be what’s going on while he gets to be with David Rose. 

Well – it’s definitely not on the back burner now. 

He knows, now, what exactly he’s up against, and what it feels like to fall by their effort, and he’s not too keen on experiencing a repeat demonstration. There’s only a semifinal against Switzerland standing in the way until they face USA again, and this time, Patrick’s going in prepared. More than prepared. He’s going in for the gold and nothing less. 

They have a team meeting in the video room that Patrick spends making sure to painstakingly dissect their game down to the tiniest detail. He has all of the faith in his players, he really does, and they haven’t ever let him down, but he can’t risk it anymore at this point in the game. If he needs to point out their every mistake until they entirely stop making them, it’s what he’ll do. It takes only one mistake, after all, for it all to end, now that they’re in the knock out rounds.

The meeting ends with Rachel flashing him a look of abject concern, and all that he can really do for her is smile as he waves her away. He’s in his head, he knows it – he also knows that he can’t get out now. 

It had been especially bad in the moments right after the game. Fresh off the loss, Patrick hadn’t been able to do anything other than be on the phone with the rest of the coaching staff, obsessively analyzing all the places they went wrong, doubling down on their observations both of their own team and of the American one. Before Stevie had knocked on his door, he’d almost not realized that he’d been locking himself away. 

It’s the sight of her, also, that had made him realize all of a sudden just how unfair he was being to David by not reaching out. 

Patrick’s always known that they were both here to do the same thing; neither of them had come here with the intention to lose. To shut David out after the game for being good at his job was dumb, and it would have been unnecessarily cruel to have kept it up. Besides, maybe David doesn’t know what Patrick does – David had admitted not being particularly close to Alexis at the time of the last Olympics, but Patrick had nursed Stevie back to functioning state after she’d left. He’d seen her live with the regret of it and suffer the loss of what she’d recognized, even as she was walking away, as a terrifyingly good thing. That’s what he has, here, he thinks: his very own terrifyingly good thing. 

He owed it both to her and to himself not to be the person to let that go. 

He’s only human, though, so he’d taken another whole day, just to process. Eventually, when he’d finally reached out to him, and when David had reached back nearly instantly, the relief he’d felt was palpable, like he could’ve held it in his hands as it emanated from him, like he could feel the weight of it. 

He walks into his room after the meeting to the sight of his laptop on the little side table, right where he’d shut it this morning after yet again staring at the email about the Leafs’ ceremonial pride event. He slowly makes his way towards it, flipping it open and pulling a chair out for himself to sit on before he can get busy doing something else and convince himself out of this.

David’s voice from yesterday rings in his head, about little gay hockey players of tomorrow and about being the gay guy who gets honoured because he’s good and about how in Toronto more than anywhere else he knows, how many people a gay guy being honoured for being good can give hope to. 

When he’d retired, it was because he was unable to handle suddenly becoming the spokesperson for all gay people in the sport, but maybe David’s right – maybe it was never about being the gay player. Maybe it was about being the player that being gay couldn’t stop. 

He can’t undo retirement, but he can do this. He can drop a puck and wear a jersey and give a speech. It’s the least he can do, really. 

He sends the email, weirdly feeling relieved of a weight on his chest as he does, like suddenly being free of an ache he hadn’t ever noticed was there, and he can’t stop smiling as he reaches for his phone to update David. He smiles and sighs and revels far too much for his own good in the way David’s prompt response makes him feel before finally heading to his bathroom and changing out of his practice gear and into something more comfortable. 

He’s meeting his old teammates for lunch an hour later, lighter on his feet than he’s been ever  since the preliminaries, joking and reminiscing. It’s good to be among them, it always is – for a moment, hanging out with his old friends, Patrick can pretend that they’re all here in the very same way that they were meant to be the last time around. None of them quite mention his retirement, and he doesn’t, either – opting instead to talk about their kids and the bars they all like to hang at and whether or not people in Montreal really do jaywalk as much as everyone often complains about. It’s light and familiar in the best of ways, and by the time they part ways, just in time for the evening to fall, Patrick is finally able to dissipate some of the anxious energy surrounding the next two games that had taken up residence inside him.

He pulls his tuque on and finds himself walking towards the water instead of toward the residential units, breathing out a cold breath that puffs out of him like beautiful smoke as he begins walking. It’s barely a few steps later that he hears her. 

Turning his head around immediately at the familiar sound, Patrick locates Stevie, mid-laughter, just a couple of feet away standing by the side of the dining hall. She’s sort of leaned back against the wall awkwardly, and she’s got a mittened hand up against her mouth in order to stifle the outburst that had alerted Patrick of her presence in the first place. In front of her, smiling just as broad and looking no less beautiful than Patrick is quickly growing accustomed to, is David. For a moment, Patrick has half the mind to go join them, or even just to say a quick hello, maybe drop a warm kiss on David’s undoubtedly cold face. He hesitates, though, just long enough that David says something to Stevie again that has her coughing out another laugh as she reaches forward to swat at his chest in a move that Patrick is intimately familiar with. She does that, he knows – resorting to playful violence to sharpen the edges of a moment too soft, like she’s afraid of what that softness might do to her, how much of her it might reveal even to people who have already learned her inside and out. He’s been on the receiving end of it far too many times, and it’s that understanding, the knowledge that she’s building something with David here, on the side of this building, something real enough that she feels the need to protect herself from it, that has him walking on right past them. 

David and Stevie, he reflects, smiling. It makes more sense than either of them would admit. 

He heads down the same path David had pulled him down, just a handful of days ago. It’s a beautiful bit of open space, with the thin patches of snow here and there glittering right under the streetlamps and the water to his side reflecting the glow of the thousand city lights of the skyline. The sky is a deep, dark blue, and all that he can see in the distance that isn’t light is a collection of black silhouettes, familiar and foreign all at once, always beautiful. It’s serene but not silent – he can hear the buzz of the Olympics village behind him in full swing but he’s far away enough that he can also hear the snow crunch beneath his feet. The cold is settling on the back of his hands and the apple of his cheeks, as well as down the lobes of his ears, but it’s a pleasant kind of cold, like the brisk sort of air you can feel when you walk along Lake Huron right at the turn of the season. A loud cheer erupts from one of the tracks off to the side, at a little bit of a distance. It might be the luge event, he thinks, or maybe the moguls. One of them was earlier in the day, but he can’t remember which one it was. 

He keeps walking down the path alone, enjoying the view, taking in the distant sounds. He returns to his room an undetermined amount of time later, pulling out his phone only to be graced by a flood of messages from David, who seems to have had a very unfortunate run-in with a coffee machine. He doesn’t mention Stevie and neither does Patrick. He figures their friendship might be theirs to keep. When he switches off the lights, sitting right by his window and looking out onto the illuminated village, his phone buzzing in his hand with David’s reply, he feels the most settled he has in his entire time here. It’s a moment he knows he’ll cherish no matter how these games go. 

Practice the next morning goes smoothly. They’re ready and kicking, everyone’s tight on their game as can be, and Patrick is once again filled with a renewed sense of confidence in their chances for the semis tomorrow. After that, it’ll be just two days before the final. It almost feels impossible to him, the way that time seems to be flying. Just 15 days ago, he hadn’t had a clue what it would feel like to have come this far. He didn’t know the way it feels to shake hands with athletes he’s admired for so long, to be considered their equal and to play in their midst. He hadn’t met Alexis, or gotten to see the beautiful, blossoming thing between her and Stevie that he’s so honoured to get to be able to witness. 15 days ago, he hadn’t yet kissed David Rose. 

It’s incredible how much can change in just about two weeks. 

He takes about two hours to clean and rest himself after practice, and then makes a leisurely solo trip to the dining hall to grab sushi that he knows David would question the integrity of for a quick lunch. It’s a rare slow day – and undoubtedly, one of the last for the forthcoming week, at least – and he’s making the best of the opportunity to laze about, wandering aimlessly down the halls after he’s had his meal and is back on his floor at the residential complex. 

“You officially lost it before the finals, or…” Rachel’s voice comes from somewhere off to the side when he rounds a corner, and he smiles as he catches her eye. She’s in jeans and an old Leafs T-shirt she’d stolen from him an eternity ago and adamantly refused to give back. The print is fading and he’s almost sure that she’s hiding an oil stain where her hair is placed in front of the shirt down her shoulder, but it fits her well – god, he must have been tiny in high school, the way it fits her. She’s got a hand on her hip and another fisting two Coffee Crisp bars (she’s on a trip back from a vending machine, he supposes), and her smile is part incredulous, part teasing, and entirely endeared. 

“Just bored,” he shrugs, which probably isn’t entirely accurate – but neither is anything else, frankly.  

“Oh,” she frowns, tilting her head. “Come with us, then. We were gonna go watch the half-pipe.” 

“Oh no,” he reassures, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna crash any plans. You go. Have fun,” he tries to wave her off.

“My god,” Rachel mutters, all too familiar as she rolls her eyes and steps forward, her empty hand reaching out to grab at his outheld one before she’s forcibly pulling him down the hall, toward her door. “You’re coming. Idiot.” 

She’s always been the only person he knows who’s more stubborn than he is, so all of his protests are entirely in vain, and her grip on his hand only eases when she has to reach into her back pocket to pull out her keycard. 

“Stay,” she says sternly, and it’s almost comedic, for a moment, so he smiles as he nods to comply. 

She opens the door to Stevie and Twyla playing what seems to be a pocket-sized chess game (since when does Stevie play chess???) on Stevie’s bed, waving him in and dramatically dropping onto her bed. 

“I come bearing Patrick,” she announces to the room, both of whom keep playing as if they don’t care for his presence at all. He’d be offended if he weren’t still alarmed at the fact that they’re playing chess. “I found him loitering down the other end of the hall.” 

“Who were you stalking?” Stevie asks, moving a pawn. 

“No one. I was just walking.” 

“Down the hallway?” Twyla asks, studying the tiny board in front of her. 

“I don’t know – yes?” 

Rachel hums from her seat on her bed, then taps the mattress next to her, urging him to sit down. “He’s a lost soul who can’t locate his boyfriend.” 

“David’s in a meeting,” he protests even as he sits down, “and even if he wasn’t, I’m very capable of spending time by myself, you know.” 

She slaps a hand down onto his thigh, patronizing. “I know, buddy.” 

It’s not as reassuring as one would expect the words to sound – he’s clearly still the butt of some joke he doesn’t understand here – but he’ll let it go. He puts his hand on top of Rachel’s. 

“So – the half pipe?” 

“Yes!” Twyla replies, still focused on the game in front of her. “It’s in about an hour. We’re thinking we might join the crowd and watch.” She moves her bishop. “You’re gonna join?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing better going on.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Stevie replies, smirking, and then she plucks Twyla’s well protected king off the board. “I’m bored; Checkmate.” 

Twyla grabs the piece back but looks otherwise unbothered, smiling as she clears the board and tucks it away into a corner. She turns to look at Patrick, looking at him properly for the first time since he’d walked into the room, and then frowns as she says: “You’re going to change your clothes before we go, right?”

He’s escorted to his room by the whole lot of them, each nitpicking at his outfit like one of them isn’t literally in his clothes, and they’re down by (and by is a relative term, here, he can barely see the trail from where he’s standing) the barriers with a good amount of time to go before the event is set to begin. 

It’s still bright out, the mid-afternoon sun shining on the snowy trails as the crowd thickens. The event is amazing, despite their spot – they always are – though Patrick will admit his knowledge of snowboarding is minimal. All he can really grasp right now is that it’s the finals and Japan’s in the current lead. Twyla seems entranced, though, recounting the winter her step-brother went missing off a snowboarding trail only to be found a day later, barely surviving out of a makeshift yurt a couple of kilometers away. She says that somehow the incident incited a love for the sport which, well, Patrick won’t judge what he doesn’t understand, so he happily lets her explain the points system to him over the course of the run. The event is over sooner than he’d expected it to be, with Japan indeed taking the first place on the podium, and it’s only beginning to darken by the time they start to head back towards their rooms. 

Rachel and Twyla are hand in hand in front of him while Stevie slowly trails by his side, sighing contently at the dispersing crowd as the residential complex comes into view. 

“This help?” she asks, eventually, as they’re still walking. “With your stress about the quarterfinals?” 

“I’m not stressed,” he answers back immediately, but it’s a lie and he knows it. Clearly, so does she, based on the stare she levels him with. “Okay,” he sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, it was nice.” 

“We won’t lose again,” she says. 

“I know.” 

“And if we do, it’s not because you suck.” 

He ducks his head a little, a wave of embarrassment rising at the back of his neck, clearing the itch in his throat before he looks back at her. “I guess?” 

She’s looking at him like she can see through him, which he supposes she can, right this moment, and smacks at his bicep with a grunt. “The fuck do you think you are? You think you’d be the only person responsible if we won?” 

“Of course not,” he answers. Of course he wouldn’t. He’s not even the one playing.  

“So why would it be your fault alone if we lose? Fucking idiot.” 

Something catches her eye before he can properly reply, and she lifts her hand up in a wave and jogs forward without waiting for him. He squints his eyes, trying to see what she’s just caught sight of, before he sees Rachel and Twyla, no longer walking, standing next to David and Alexis. Alexis hasn’t seen him yet, all eyes on Stevie as she reciprocates her wave, and her face practically lights up with the smile on it, bright and glad. Stevie reaches her and throws her arms around her shoulder, moving with far more enthusiasm and affection than he’s ever seen her do, and Alexis sort of folds herself over her, holding back. 

It’s nice to see.

Next to Alexis, looking right at Patrick, is David. 

It really takes him by surprise every single time Patrick lays eyes on him, just how extraordinarily beautiful David Rose is. He’s sort of got his head cocked a little, smiling softly as he watches Patrick coming. His eyes are sort of squinting and shining with amusement, and he’s pressing his lips together trying to stifle a smile that Patrick knows will just end up finding its way out anyway.  He’s surprisingly standing in his sponsored Ralph Lauren puffer, left unzipped so that Patrick can see the black sweater (sweatshirt?) underneath. His small smile, as predicted, grows wider and wider as Patrick approaches, their eyes locked and expressions of glee matching until David reaches his arms out of his pockets and brings his hands out to place on Patrick’s shoulders while he angles his face down to meet Patrick in a greeting kiss. 

It’s light and chaste and perfect, the both of them still smiling as they pull away to the sound of squealing.  

When Patrick finally tears his eyes away from David long enough to try to find out who the squealing is coming from, he’s met with four matching expressions. 

“So, we’re talking about this, yes?” Rachel says, wiggling her finger in his and David’s general direction. “Because I’m not gonna let you both go without an explanation.” 

“You guys are so cute together!” Twyla adds. “I mean, you’re both cute on your own, and then it was cute when we all thought there was a vibe, but this is so cute. ”

“Okay, we don’t need to get dramatic – Stevie and Alexis are together, too!” 

“Nope,” it’s Stevie who speaks this time, smiling maniacally. “You don’t get to shift focus, Rose.” 

Patrick feels David groan under his arm, and quickly pulls him tighter against himself, rubbing his hand against David’s side in a move he hopes is calming him down somewhat. 

“It’s fine,” he reassures David, calmly.  Then, he turns to Stevie. “How much detail are we talking? Is this more of a story-telling session or are you looking to see how we’re doing on covering our bases?” David scoffs next to him, and rightfully – they haven’t been covering any of the bases, as far as he knows, but he also isn’t really familiar with the specifics of that metaphor, so who knows? Either way, he keeps talking. “Just the other day, actually, David and I were on my bed. That was fun, wasn’t it, David? I can tell you all about it if you want, Stevie.” 

“Fuck off,” Stevie rolls her eyes, just as Alexis shrieks out an affronted “Ew, Patrick!” She puts a hand on Alexis’s arm, placating. “You’re disgusting.”

“I don’t know, Budd, am I? Maybe I just really, really want to share this mind blowing information with my best friend.” 

“Yeah, okay,” she dismisses. “Glad you and your boyfriend have a thriving sex life. Don’t ever tell me about it or I’ll throw up in your suitcase, fuck.” She grabs Alexis by the hand and tugs, just a little. “Now can we go inside?” 

“We can go back to our room?” Rachel suggests, and no one quite replies so much as they begin following her when she turns to lead the way, both couples in front of him walking hand-in-hand, and David standing by his side. 

“You good to join them?” Patrick asks at first, turning to finally look David in the eye. He’s taken aback by the sight of them open wide, like David’s in… shock, or alarm, or something. Dread pools in Patrick’s stomach. “Um, David? Is this about what I said? Because it really was because Stevie does that sometimes, and I like, when I say stuff like that she usually backs off. She knows it’s probably not true, but I can tell her? To make sure? Um, if you.. If you want."

David looks like he snaps out of his at the sound of his name, listening to Patrick’s ramblings and casting a look over to make sure the others are at a suitable distance. He shakes his head as Patrick finishes. 

“No,” he says, and Patrick eases up a little. “No, it’s not that. That was um, yeah it was funny. But, uh…” He leans closer, so that he’s whispering in the small space between them, “Boyfriend?”

It comes out practically as a hiss, and Patrick really, really hopes that the disappointment that settles so suddenly in his gut isn’t being broadcasted on his face. Of course , he thinks, the thought landing like something heavy on his conscience. He and David have barely known each other for two weeks, barely been… doing this thing together for just a handful of days. Boyfriend is… it’s a big word. Besides, they haven’t talked about it. It’s… yeah, it shouldn’t be a surprise. He takes a deep breath, and some of the disappointment dissipates inside him. It’s too quick, he reasons. They’re just getting to know each other, and with the tournament coming to a climax, and the whole… Alexis and Stevie of it all, it’s no wonder David might be worried about being attached to the qualifier.

Better to give it some time, probably. They can talk after the games.

Steadying himself, he brings his hand up to either side of David’s face, turning and leaning up to place a peck at his lips before he answers. 

“David, it’s Stevie,” he says, hoping he’s projecting enough confidence into his voice. “She’s trying to mess with us, and she just said it.” He rubs his thumb over the cold skin at David’s cheekbone and smiles. “It’s okay.” 

Something flashes across David’s face, too quick and subtle to recognize, but then he’s sighing and placing his hands on top of Patrick’s. “I, um… okay, Okay, yeah,” he nods. He takes a breath, slow and deep, both his hands and Patrick’s still framing his face, and then speaks again: “You know Rachel’s room, right?” 

Patrick nods. 

“Okay, because I want to join them, but I also want to get a milkshake first and I don’t know the way if they’ve already gone out of sight.” 

Patrick laughs. “Let’s get you that milkshake, David.” 

Despite the minor hiccup, it ends up being another in a string of incredibly good days. Patrick doesn’t know how long the feeling will last, or if it’s even sustainable at all, the amount of… everything good that’s floating inside of him, lately, but he won’t be the one to question it. If quitting four years ago means he got to be here, feeling like this, he figures that it was totally, entirely worth it. 

He wakes up the next morning to a good luck text, sent far later at night than should be normal – god, David – and the return of the fire in the pit of his belly that’s carried him this far. A quick glance at the top of his phone screen lets him know it’s 5:30am. 

7 hours to the game time. Time to get his head back on the ice. 

The hours pass by in a flurry, through a team workout and a pre-game skate, past a short lunch break and into warm ups. Patrick’s in the thick of it the entire time, buzzing around Rachel then Twyla then Stevie, repeating notes and plays as if they haven’t got them memorized down to the wire by now. They’re back in the tunnel before puck drop soon enough, starting line up announced and the rest of the roster at the bench, and Patrick is still shaking with a mix of nerves and adrenaline that is so close to spilling out of him in waves when Stevie puts both of her gloved hands on his shoulder on her way to the ice. 

“Fucking get a grip,” she says kindly (or as kindly as she can, he knows), patting both his shoulders twice. “They don’t know what’s coming.” 

He smiles at her, placing a hand at the top of her helmet and sending her off. 

He breathes.

Damn right they don’t. 

It’s apparent almost immediately that his team has the upper hand. Stevie gets the first face-off and it’s pretty much a massacre from thereon, save for a power play snipe after T. J. gets sent to the box for holding. The pressure is constant, the possession minutes are brutal, and the shot numbers are… dear god, are they something. 52-21 and counting, all in their favour. Even after Switzerland gets a second and third in, they’re still three goals in the lead. It’s not particularly stressful, watching the game unfold. In fact, Patrick’s sure of their win about 15 minutes in, but the effort lasts all 60 nonetheless, shot on shot, goal on goal. 

Between this and the 6-0 win in the quarters 3 days ago, it’s clear that he’s not the only one who’d been lit on fire by the loss against the USA. 

It’s been a handful of days since then, and they’ve collected two wins ever since, too, but it’s apparent to see that it shook them all just enough to have them get back on track stronger than ever. 

They won’t lose again, he thinks, with a certainty that goes down to his very bones. He feels it. He knows it. 

The buzzer sounds right as right as Stevie tries to go in for another shot, and immediately the players on the bench next to him are jumping onto the ice, piling onto their teammates in celebration to celebrate their 7-3 win. The staff is congratulating him over at the bench, trading exclamations and high fives and hugs, and almost before he’s ready to truly brace for it Stevie comes barreling at him, arms thrown in the air as she engulfs him in tightest hug he thinks he’s ever received. Someone else joins in on the barrage to his side, and he thinks it’s Rachel but he’s not sure, they’re all cheering and laughing and holding him, and it’s glorious, it’s perfect, it’s everything. 

They’re going to the finals. 

In three days, they’ll play the only game left standing in between them and the gold medal.  

Holy shit. 

They technically don’t find out who they play against until tomorrow’s game between USA and Finland, but even though Finland’s a tough opponent, and hockey has a reputation for being unpredictable, Patrick knows what it’s gonna be. He just knows. 

Watch your fucking back, America. 

The celebrations last well into the evening, though they do have to keep it subtle once they head back into the residential complex – athletes who have yet to compete don’t always take kindly to rowdy celebrations, he’s learned over his career. 

They spend the evening in Rachel and Stevie’s room, again, McDonald’s burgers from the atrium downstairs piled up in between them and a tray full of smoothies on the table to the side. He and Stevie are eventually kicked out, made to share a room again so Rachel and Twyla can have a night in. 

They go to bed laughing and teasing each other, the rush of their victory still coursing through them, and the other thing, too – the thing Patrick doesn’t want to name until it’s strong enough, until it doesn’t feel fragile on his tongue and stretching across his heart, like it might snap at any moment.

“Are you good?” he asks Stevie once they’re in bed, lighthearted. He just wants to know. At her hum of confusion, he clarifies: “You and Alexis, it’s going good?” 

“I mean, we’re not like, making out like you and David are, but it’s alright.” 

“You think you’re gonna keep going once we’re done here?” 

She turns to look into his eyes with a frown, but then her features school themselves a little, settling into something less questioning and a little more… sure. Determined. “Yeah,” she says, nodding. “I’m gonna talk to her, and I’m gonna ask her out, um, for when we’re back in Toronto.” 

She sounds like it’s the most indisputable thing in the world. Like she’s making sure it is. He believes her. 

“You?” she asks, nudging at his arm with her elbow, “you think you and David’ll get through it?” 

And that’s – well, he probably should have expected her to ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies, honestly. “We haven’t talked about it.” 

She hums in response, and then moves her hand so that it’s sort of lightly lying on top of his forearm. “Last time I didn’t talk about it, I ended up on your couch for a week.” 

“It was more than a week.” 

“You’re scared,” she pushes, ignoring him. 

He sighs. “I’m just being realistic.” 

She turns to stare at him, judging and evaluating something, but he can’t exactly tell what. “If you call being an idiot realistic, maybe.” 

He doesn’t answer, and when the silence stretches up to a minute, he thinks that might be where the conversation ends for the night. Until she speaks again: 

“If he doesn’t want you,” she says, slowly, “he might be a bigger idiot than I ever was in Beijing.” 

Sleep is slow to come, after that. 

Chapter Text

Alexis’s team is leading what is shaping up to be a spectacular shutout by the time they begin the third period. They’re at a 6 goal advantage with about 15 minutes to go in play, and the finals are so close she can practically taste the victory already. She’s practically vibrating with it – it’s really all that she can think of as she steps off the bench for a line change, as she hops onto the ice and immediately grabs control of the puck, as she shoots and misses and receives a well-times pass off the rebound and shoots again, this time successfully. 7-0. Only getting closer. 

Her teammates are shaking with the adrenaline of it, Alexis can smell it coming off of them (along with a lot of sweat, gross – it’s gonna be a fight for the showers after this), and David hasn’t stopped pacing even once in like, the past 30 minutes. 

It’s barely a minute and a half before she’s scurrying back off to the bench, spent and exhausted, but despite the fatigue she knows is starting to weigh on all of them, the game never lets up. Finland might not be scoring much, but it’s not for a lack of trying. They’re like, quick. And scrappy. And so full of energy, god. Like a bunch of like, buzzing little bees, or something. So persistent. 

Alexis’s throat is burning with the exertion, her hair sticking to the back of her neck in places she’s much rather it not, waiting on the bench with her stick in hand as she waits for David to send her back in. He does, soon enough, with a tap on the shoulder and a vague wave in the direction of Alisha skating towards the bench in front of her, and she’s back in, giving it every bit of energy she’s got in her, blocking passes and intercepting shots and setting up a play that nearly ends in a slapshot but goes just wide.

By the time Finland pulls their goalie in favour of an extra forward Alexis is already celebrating in her head. She’s seen a lot of things happen in hockey, but 8 goals with less than 50 seconds to go would be excessive, even for the Olympics. Predictably, nothing really comes from it – as a matter of fact, the gap is only widened to 8-0 when Angelika puts in an empty netter just a split second before the final buzzer sounds. 

Then it’s chaos. 

Someone next to Alexis throws their gloves off, and then someone’s barreling into her, and then she’s in the center of a team celebration like, pile, as they hold onto each other, cheering and shouting and crying. It’s everything all at once, all around her, and it’s adrenaline and joy and anticipation shooting up her veins from her extremities to her core. It’s everything she remembers it being and – when she makes eye contact with David, hair undone and smile overtaking his face with his hand thrown over Ronnie’s shoulder – it’s a whole lot more than last time, too. 

David apparently feels the same way, because he’s smiling all big at her and throwing a thumbs up when she steps into the tunnel. (The hug she tries to give him is rudely rejected, though – like, obviously she’s sweaty after winning a whole hockey game, David.)

The locker room is buzzing with excitement, and it’s fun, it’s familiar to Alexis, it’s just like last time, when she was doing it for the first time ever, and every step closer to the final  felt like she was on top of the world. For a moment, if she really lets herself get lost in it, she can pretend she’s in Beijing again, with her old teammates and the first time adrenaline carrying her through. 

Except it’s better, because last time she didn’t have David – she was barely talking to David – she was too new to it to really have a good time at all, and she had ended up going home with a golden medallion around her neck and her heart like, ruthlessly squished and twisted and mangled and stuff. So it’s better this time, she thinks. 

She hopes, at least. 

Also this time, like, Rach and Twy and Patrick are here, which makes it better than last time, too. Alexis would have loved to have had them around last time. At the very least, it would have given her some friends to go to after Stevie stopped talking to her. 

It’s a long while before everyone’s clean and done and left, and by the time she herself is making her way to her room the buzzing excitement has simmered down so a sort of zipzapping energy at the back of her mind, dimmer but no less thrilling as time goes by. 

Like, holy shit. 

They’re going to the finals. The next game is the last one of the tournament. THe next game is the one where she could get her second Olympic gold medal, and where her brother could get his first. 

The next game is the one where she can beat Canada again. 

Which – she needs to see what’s happening about that? Now that she and Stevie are like, um… sort of in a situation? Like, a real one? 

They’re supposed to meet up later, after Alexis has had a moment to to like come down from the game high; Stevie had made sure to invite herself over for the evening, and Carol had very nicely sort of smirked at Alexis and promised she’d find somewhere else to be until the coast was clear again. 

Which it will be before bedtime, because they’re not – it will be clear before bedtime. 

Carol’s settled into her bed for an afternoon nap, wiggling under the covers like she does right before she goes under, and Alexis takes advantage of the quiet moment by planting a chair in front of her window, relishing in the opportunity to just, like, sit in silence for a minute in between all of this chaos. 

Their room didn’t get the cute ass view David did, with the island and the bridge and the pretty skyline, which is totally rude, but it’s still like, cute in like a new york city cityscape romcom kind of way? There’s tall buildings and greenery and teeny tiny little people and cars everywhere, and right below her window there's a trail that some of the athletes jog across to train and always a sizable crowd of participants and staff alike. It’s bustling and busy in a settled sort of way – she’s so grateful the press can’t get into the village unless they’ve got like, fifteen levels of clearance, because imagine? – and Alexis really lets herself take it all in. In like, a week, they’ll have closed and won and she’ll have to go back to the real world. She’ll have to like, step out of this little bubble and go back to LA and finish up her degree and not share a room with Carol everyday. She’ll probably not see Rachel or Twyla or Patrick as often, if at all. She won’t get to knock on David’s door whenever she feels like it. She’ll have to like, do long distance with Stevie or whatever. 

If they’re still, um… pre-dating. Together. Interested in each other and expecting to date more. 

It’s harder to think of goodbye than last time, when all she really wanted was to win and that nothing in Beijing was really going to be left behind when she flew back. This time there are like, stakes. Like real people. 

She should get Patrick’s number. And Rachel and Twyla’s. Stevie will probably give them to her. Or David might. David’s probably going to keep talking to Patrick after this, right? 

The thought nags at Alexis a bit. She knows David’s a like, grown guy or whatever, but he’s not exactly a relationship expert, poor thing. She basically had to coach him through that entire fling he had with her personal trainer, that one time, and even then it hadn’t gone well – poor girl was more interested in Alexis, it turns out, and it’s like, how is that her fault? But anyway – like, what if they win and Patrick leaves and David goes all ballistic in New York and Alexis is across the country? David would never recover. He’d never date again. He’d like lock himself up in his apartment and cry himself dehydrated and stuff himself on mall pretzels until the end of his life, she thinks. And like, yeah, she shouldn’t have to be in charge of him, but she’s like basically his only friend and who will take care of him if she’s not there? It’s sobering to think of. It’s important, and she needs to talk to him about it. Or to Patrick. 

Her phone rings. 

Or to Stevie. 

The phone call doesn’t end up being long enough – Stevie’s with someone and only called to ask if an hour's a good time to come – and they hang up fairly quickly after Alexis reassures her that yes, it is. Watching David’s back will have to wait.

Carol is a dear doll and friend and is up from her nap, ready, and out the door for dinner with one of the other players before Stevie knocks at the door. If not for basically being the best teammate ever, Alexis should take her out to dinner for this at least, when they’re back home. 

Alexis opens the door to Stevie about midway through a second knock, or something, with her flat palm up in the air and her brows sort of furrowed. She’s in like, this cute little number, a sort of powder blue linen button up that she’s tucked into her blue jeans. Her hair is clearly brushed, which is more than she can usually say for it, even though she should probably start using some products for the way they sort of curl out at the bottom. 

She looks… like she dressed up for this, which is… which makes Alexis feel a whole lot of ways at once. 

Also the line of her buttons goes just a tiny bit crooked where she has the hem tucked in behind the waistband of her jeans, and Alexis really, really wants to like, hook her fingers behind that waistband and tug the fabric loose, but that’s besides the point. That’s a not-for-now thought.

She gestures Stevie in and follows her to the chair she’d left by the window and Stevie like, looks at the chair, and then the window, and then back at her, and then she kind of cocks her head. 

“Are we having, like, a romantic coffee with a view or something?” 

“Um,” Alexis starts, frowning, but there’s no real upset to it, “we weren’t going to, but now that you mention it it’s kind of a cute idea?” 

“I know,” Stevie says, smiling just a little, just a teeny tiny thing, and settling down in the chair. “Come.” 

Alexis waits back a moment, watching Stevie look out the window, and then she happily pulls herself a chair up and sits down next to her. Stevie smiles a little wider as she sits down, and it’s so damn cute, the way she smiles with the bottom of her top teeth poking out and her eyes sort of squinting and her cheeks pulling upward and sometimes she looks so much younger, full of youth and untouched by the four years since they first met. 

It’s a smile that makes Alexis feel as weak in the knees as it makes her brave, so she takes the chance to hold her hand out for Stevie to hold. It doesn’t stay empty for long. 

They sit like that for a while, just the two of them on chairs in front of a dorm room window, talking and laughing and bickering. Alexis tells Stevie more about LA, and college, and what she might want to do with her degree once she’s done, by the end of the summer. She talks about her favourite little park to hang out at in between classes, and the ice cream place from her apartment that she loves. She tells her about college league and how her time within hers might be limited, and how she isn’t entirely sure where she’ll go when that chapter closes. Maybe New York. Maybe Chicago. Maybe not in the States at all.

Maybe in Toronto. 

Stevie never lets go of her hand, telling Alexis about her life as well. She tells her about going to a Blue Jays home opener with Rachel and Patrick and about paint and sip nights with Twyla. She tells her about how Patrick always invites them when he does charity events with the Leafs and how they want to start a little organization for little queer kids in sports when they’re both too old to play. She shares dreams that Alexis can’t help but admire, can’t help but selfishly hope she’s with Stevie long enough to see come to fruition, because Alexis has seen a lot in her life, and there’s a lot more she’d like to see, but she’s never known the kind of stable reassurance that Stevie has in her voice when she talks about going home and hanging out with Patrick and visiting the pee wee team he coached for Christmas, like she knows it’s a sure thing and she won’t let it change. Like a sure thing is a good thing. 

Alexis wants to know what that might feel like. She wants her own sure thing. 

At some point, she gets up to make them both coffee, and they both twist their seats a little when they’ve got their cups in hand so that they’re facing each other instead of the outdoor view. Stevie does the right thing and finally tugs her shirt loose from where it’s trapped at her waist, shrugging innocently when she catches Alexis watching, and Alexis tries her best not to blush when Stevie grabs a strand of her hair and tugs it gently between two fingers as she recounts the story of her own haircut. 

The outside sky fades to black pretty soon, far sooner than Alexis would like, and as much as Alexis would love to spend the rest of her night just like this, next to Stevie, talking and smiling and touching, she’d promised Carol an empty room to come back to. Carol probably wouldn’t mind having to emergency evacuate for a couple of hours, but… 

A sure thing. Alexis is trying for a sure thing. Maybe a sure thing needs to be carefully built. Getting into Stevie’s fugly denim pants tonight isn’t carefully building – at least not for right now. 

Reluctantly, because she’s doing better and wants good things for herself, Alexis lets Stevie stand up off her chair and announce that Rachel’s probably expecting her at their room soon. Honestly, it’s a real sign of growth and maturity that Alexis is able to wait the few seconds it takes Stevie to reach the door before practically falling after her to hastily grab her arm. 

When Stevie turns, it’s with wide eyes and a few glances from Alexis’s hand back up to her face and to her hand again. 

“Um,” Alexis starts by way of explanation, letting go of Stevie’s hand. “before you go, um… I sort of like? Promised myself I’d force us to talk.” 

Stevie stares at her a second. Confused, but then she sort of settles into a serious thing, looking Alexis right in the eye, and nods. “About what?” 

Alexis pauses, unsure of how to broach the topic. She fumbles and flails a little, faltering for a moment in the face of Stevie’s impressive patience. Finally, what comes out, instead of what needs to, instead of what she wants to , is: “You know how, like, David and Patrick are together?” 

Stevie’s eyes widen, not so much in shock as confusion, probably, but she nods nonetheless. “I do know that, yes.” 

“Well,” Alexis musters up some confidence. “You know how they’re sort of together, but not like explicitly? Like no one DTR’d, and it’s like, totally casual or whatever.” She pauses, just a second, and continues before Stevie can interrupt. “And it’s like, the final game is coming up, and no matter what way it goes it’ll be like, super intense, and they just haven’t talked about it, is all, I think.” 

Because she’s concerned about David. That’s what they’re talking about, here. Totally. 

Stevie stares at her a little longer, like she’s trying to decipher her even though Alexis was just like, super clear. 

“Is that what you think?” she asks after a moment, but she’s smiling, kind of like she’s making fun of Alexis? But also kind of not. 

“Mhmm. Yep. I do think.” 

Stevie takes a step closer, and it’s alarmingly loud on the room’s carpeted floor, or maybe Alexis is just hearing things. “Okay, well I think that the relationship is… what did you say?” 

“DTR’d?” 

“Yeah, that’s like, determined or something, yes?” She grabs Alexis’s hands in both of her. 

“Determine the relationship, ugh, Stevie.” 

“Okay. I think it’s determined. If um, if we’re both okay with that.” 

“You mean David and Patrick,” Alexis clarifies, because this is totally about them, because Alexis is concerned. It’s about them. 

“Whoever.” Stevie shakes her head. “I think what’s determined is that there’s a relationship, and um. If we need to talk… Patrick? Is that who I am? Patrick promises that no matter what happens, uh. He won’t be the one to run away this time. Kind of learned his lesson.” 

It’s not about them. It was never about them. Sorry to David and Patrick.

“Yeah?” Alexis asks, something nervous blooming in her chest.

Stevie nods. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” she breathes, and they’re both looking at each other, both of Alexis’s hands in Stevie’s, and they’re close, they’re so close to one another. Alexis takes a deep breath, and they both keep looking first at each other’s eyes and then their mouths and then back up again, and they’re still looking, and then even after that, they’re still looking at each other –

And then they kiss. It’s four years coming, it’s so much heartache overdue, and Alexis is practically falling into it, leaning into Stevie as far she can go without physically knocking them both over, her hands freeing themselves to rest on Stevie’s shoulders, on her neck, on her face. Stevie’s hands are somewhere at her back, keeping her against her, and Alexis finally, finally gets to bring her fingers to the ends of Stevie’s hair at the nape of her neck, to tangle her fingers through it as they pull away. 

Stevie breathes out shakily, and smiles. 

“Just to make sure,” Alexis whispers in the space between them. “We were talking about us?” 

Stevie laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, we were.”

“And um… I won’t leave, either.” 

Stevie’s eyes flicker back down to Alexis’s lips. 

“So we both stay. No matter who wins.”

“We both stay,” Alexis nods in confirmation, and lets herself be pulled back in. 

And she really had meant to talk about David and Patrick, she really had, but who is she to think of anything else when Stevie’s lips are against hers?

Stevie does return to her own room, eventually,  a little while and a handful of kisses later. She leaves Alexis with an assured feeling that settles unfamiliarly at the pit of her stomach, but Alexis is learning to make space for that feeling. She’s learning to live with it. If this is what a sure thing feels like, she’s going to learn to get used to it the best she can. 

For once, Alexis thinks by the time Carol returns with a mischievous smile, she’s going to try letting the feeling stay.

When she falls asleep that night, she dreams of a Toronto she hasn’t seen in far too many years. 

It’s the best night of sleep she thinks she’s gotten since she’d very first left. 

The next day is the last before the final, and it begins with the most demanding, gruelling practice she’s ever taken a part of. Alexis can’t tell if it’s because the coaching staff is pushing them more than usual or if it’s the accumulation of a few too many days in a row without the rush of a proper game. Still, everyone’s spirits are high and their confidence is higher as they run drill after drill, testing special units and shifting lines after a couple of new medical evals. They work on shooting accuracy and on passing, and David is especially hard on them about their defensive tactics – all four of Canada’s offensive lines are powerhouses. She’s sweaty and spent by the time skate finally ends, but the blood rushing inside her is more exciting than anything else, and the cheers of her teammates as they rush to get out of their gear is an indication that at least most of them feel the same way. 

And why wouldn’t they? They’ve beat Canada once before – another should be a walk in the park. 

She meets up with Stevie and Twy once showers and media scrums are out of the way, because apparently Patrick and Rachel are off on some like, cute childhood best friend datie or something. Twyla greets her with a smile and hug like she always does, and it’s good, it’s familiar, it settles Alexis a little before she turns to Stevie. There’s a moment of awkward thought, on both of their ends, Alexis thinks, and then finally she lands on a hug – a hug is appropriate – but Stevie seems to have different plans as she slides her hands around the back of her waist and leans up until their lips meet. If Twyla’s surprised by the greeting, she keeps it to herself, only smiling brightly at the two of them as they part. When Stevie turns away for a sec, Twyla’s eyes meet Alexis’s, and she raises her eyebrows in excitement, and then she grabs her hand and squeezes it. 

It’s….

Alexis likes it. The fact that Stevie could do that in front of Twy. The fact that Twyla seems like she’s happy about it. 

They spend the afternoon trash talking and poorly executing ping pong skills over at the recs lounge. For all that she’s lauded as an accurate shooter with a hockey stick, Stevie’s ping pong skills leave much to be desired, and although Alexis is usually a pretty good player herself, she’s a little too floaty on her own feet right now for any of her hits to land the way she means them to. Twyla’s good enough, but she’s really the only one, so her skills end up meaning nothing anyway. They wrap the afternoon up with a stop at the atrium for a lemonade before Twyla announces that she’s gonna go meet up with Rachel, who’s supposedly free now, leaving the other two seated at their table in the atrium. 

“Do you, um, are you gonna not go with her?” Alexis asks Stevie as Twyla disappears down the hall to the elevators. 

“Mm” Stevie sounds out around the lip of her cup. “No. Yeah, no. Um… they need a minute.” 

“Are they fighting?” 

“No.” 

“Oh,” She widens her eyes, hoping Stevie understands what she means. “Are they like…?”

“What?” Stevie frowns.

Alexis repeats the gesture. Frankly, she thinks it’s pretty self-explanatory. 

“I still don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“Ohmygod sex, Stevie! Do you think they…” she widens her eyes again, proving how clear her gesture always was. 

“Oh.” Stevie nods quickly, a couple too many times, in succession. “Yeah.” 

“Oh.” 

“That a problem?” 

Alexis shakes her head furiously. Of course it’s not a problem. Why would it be a problem? “No. Ohmygod, no. No.” 

“You can stop shaking your head, then.” Stevie's smiling, or like, smirking at her, which Alexis doesn’t get. 

“I’m not shaking my head.” 

Stevie grabs her face in both hands, steadying her – perfectly still, might she clarify – head and forcing her to make eye contact. Then she leans forward and kisses her. 

It’s just a peck, really, not much at all, but Alexis still feels… she feels so much about it, so she takes the opportunity and pecks at Stevie’s lips again, just once, before Stevie lets go of her. 

Just to get some sort of control up here, finally. 

“You’re something,” Stevie says to her as she lets go of her face. “You know that?” 

It’s not the first time someone’s said that to Alexis – she’s always prided herself on being more than people can grasp. People want Alexis because they can’t understand her, and Alexis is okay with that. They’re never really with her to begin, that way, just with the version of her that they can wrap their heads around. It’s why it never hurt when her relationships ended, until Stevie. Stevie not only looks at Alexis like she understands her, which would be devastating enough, but like she’s created her. Like she knows that being seen by her makes Alexis feel whole in a way she’d learned to forget in her time away from home. Like she gets it. Like yeah, Alexis is something, but Stevie knows exactly what that something is, down to its very parts. 

Alexis likes being something, when it’s the something that Stevie gets to be the one to decipher. 

“I’m just me,” Alexis says simply, not quite able to put all that she means into words that might make sense. 

But when Stevie laughs and replies with a whispered “yeah, you are,” it sort of feels like the message has gotten across anyway.

Chapter Text

Stevie nearly forgets what day it is when she wakes up – which is insane. 

After two long weeks, after all these games, after a week of near relentless practice, of hyper focused teammates and of an even more tenacious coach, today is the day that her entire time here has been building up to. 

Today, they play the US of fucking A for the gold medal. 

It’s been a hot minute since her last game – and it’s felt even longer, what with her entire world having been flipped the fuck around by the likes of Alexis fucking Rose, by the feeling of being with her, of holding her, of kissing her. In just a handful of days, she feels miles, leagues away from the girl who’d lost a preliminary game to an old flame and lightly brooded about it just a few days ago. 

It’s weird to think about. 

Now that old flame is a…. current? flame? And the game is a redemption four years overdue. It’s everything; it’s terrifying. It’s a second shot where so many don’t even ever get one. The stakes are higher. She’s got more to win, and maybe so much more to lose, too.

But no threat of loss can distract her today. It can’t. Shots at redemption like this one don’t come easy, and Stevie’s no fool – she isn’t letting this one slip her by. 

Not even for Alexis. 

Part of her inevitably worries about how the endgame of today might affect them, now that they’re… now that there’s a real thing, there. Would it hurt more to compete now? Now that they’ve made each other all these promises, as opposed to when the idea of them was barely a sketch in the sand? Would it be harder? Is she putting Alexis in an impossible position? After all, she hadn’t been one to do much thinking when it was her on the other end – is it selfish to hope that Alexis should do any different? Is all of this just – 

– nope. Can’t go there now. She and Alexis aren’t the flighty athletes from last time, flirting shamelessly, aimlessly , only to realize a good thing when it was across an ocean. They’re… they’re solid now, she thinks. More solid than they’ve ever been – hell, more solid than anything’s ever been, for Stevie, and at some point she has to close her eyes and trust that the pull in her gut that leads to Alexis even after all this time exists on the other end, too. That maybe Alexis thinks of them as something worth surviving the games in the same way that Stevie does. 

It’s that trust that carries her along the beginning of the day. She can’t afford for it not to, today. 

Breakfast is a rushed affair – she has some toast and cut up fruit and a bottle of orange juice, and then it’s barely enough time to get her mind in order before she has to head toward the arena for practice. They’ll have the ice for a standard 40 minutes, and then it’ll be a mad rush just to sort of get their heads together before they’re heading towards the venue for the game. 

She and Rachel get on the shuttle taking them to the arena just barely on time, greeted by the rest of their teammates and some of the coaching and conditioning staff at the back. Wendy is standing at the bus’s entrance, nodding gravely at each of them as they walk by, stern even in her approval and her reassurance as each of them climb aboard. 

Rachel quickly finds Twyla’s bench, plopping down next to her, and Stevie quietly takes her own seat on the bench to their side, head leaning against the cool glass of the window as the bus’s engine roars to life. The glass is cool under her temple and the cheap leather of the seat beneath her runs nearly just a cold. It’s nearly overwhelming enough that she can get lost in the feeling of it, of the cold seeping in from her head and her back and her toes, almost meditative before there’s a shuffle right by her side, followed by a muted thump and the friction of cheap plastic against her arm as Patrick takes a seat down right next to her. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” his voice sounds, and when she opens her eyes (with much effort) to look at him he’s smiling at her, but it’s not the wonderstruck look he’s been sporting these past couple of weeks – it’s something heavier, more reassuring than excited, eyes wide open and face still as he awaits her reply. 

“A penny might be overselling them, honestly.” 

He exhales through his nose, and his smile dampens just a little. 

“Worried about the game?” 

“Aren’t you?” 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t take the bait to retort, like he so often would, instead cocking his head just a little, furrowing his brows just slightly and frowning in an almost cartoonish expression. Then, he shakes his head. 

“Not really,” he says, looking right at her, impossibly serious. “Because we sort of have to win, right? Not much else to do now.” 

“You’re awfully confident.” 

“I don’t think it would bode well for us not to be, Stevie.” He isn’t smiling anymore, but his expression is still open. Nurturing, even, she’d say if it weren’t the absolute most ridiculous thing to say about a man who’d once filled her shower gel bottle with purple dye.

Fucking weird people she chooses to associate with. 

“That’s not it,” she shakes her head, answering him. “I’m confident,” she reassures. “It’s just…” 

“You’ve been confident before.” 

He’s looking at her like he already knows he’s right, because of course he is, the idiot, and all she can really do is look back at him. 

“Second time’s the charm?” he asks, and a hint of that smile is back. “Besides, you didn’t have me last time.” 

He means it as encouragement, and it is – having Patrick around has been better for her sanity than she’d care to admit, but…

“Right. I had less people to disappoint.” 

That was probably the wrong thing to say, because the fucker frowns, really frowns, like he’s concerned or something. Which he has no reason to be. He knows what she’s like. 

“Stevie,” he says, all soft and annoying and shit. “You know that’s not going to be a thing, right?” 

“I know. Whatever.” 

“No,” he says, firmer. “If we lose, it’s not like you sabotaged the game alone or anything. We all just didn’t do enough. If anything, it’s my fault more than yours.” 

“Don’t fucking say that.”

“No, it’s true though, isn’t it? I put you guys together and tell you what I think might work based on what we’ve learned about the other team. You’re all great at what you do and it’s up to me to try to make the best of these awesome players I’ve got.” 

Which is a total load of bullshit. Utter bullshit. They’ve had this conversation before. 

“Okay,” she answers to end the conversation, because if she doesn’t end it now it might never end, and they’ll be having this same argument a third time, over and over because neither of them has ever learned to deal with a thing normally. “So we’re both idiots.” 

“No,” he says, “we just both care a lot. And we’ve got a lot to prove.” 

 When she looks back at him, he’s fixing her right back with that weird look in his eye that he’s had today, sympathetic and preemptively placating and kind – like he’s bracing himself for either outcome and making sure he’s prepared for it. He looks both unwarrantedly confident and nervous as shit at once, somehow, or maybe she’s the only one who can read past his bullshit, and it’s the first time she’s able to reconcile the two versions of him – her best friend and the ex-hockey player, the youngest coach at these events, the guy who’d stepped away from the game only to be found here, right at the thick of it, just a couple years later. 

It’s been a little too easy, in the midst of everything happening over the past couple of days, to forget to think about what might be going through Patrick’s head. She’s not the only one here with a shot at redemption, and it’s a little unfair that he’s been acting like she is. 

She suddenly feels guilty not to have been paying more attention. 

“Patrick,” she says, stern like a promise, or maybe a threat, putting a hand on his jacket-covered bicep. “We’re gonna do it.” 

He smiles again, and it’s a smaller thing than she’s used to but it’s a real one, honest and open and vulnerable, and then he nods, gently. “I think so, too.” 

And fuck her, in that moment, she really does fucking believe it. 

They both seem to settle a bit, after that. The city rolls by outside their windows, the arena getting closer and closer by the second. Next to her, although Patrick looks a bit more relaxed, there’s still a faint hint of tension around him, in him, from him. There’s probably not much she can do about that, she reasons. He might be trying to be gracious, but he’s still himself. He still fucking hates losing. Confidence doesn’t change that, no matter how well he might embody it.

“Hey,” she says, just to change topics. “How are things with David?” 

“Ah, you know,” he starts, shrugging, “it’s good.” Which – when in the history of ever has anything ever been good when someone says they’re just good? 

She frowns. “Is it?” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, but it’s overenthusiastic and overcompensating. “He’s excited for the game.” 

She stares at him. He stares back. 

“You haven’t spoken to him,” she concludes, and then she punches his arm.

“Ow!” He rubs at his bicep, looking scandalized. “He’s been busy!” 

“We talked about you talking to him!” she hisses back, and it’s suddenly unfathomable to her that he was trying to play wingman for her just a couple days ago, when his own relationship is a fucking mess. 

“I told you I wasn’t going to spring a relationship on him! He freaked out when you even mentioned it the other day.” 

Which – wait.

“When I what?”

Patrick doesn’t answer, and she winds up to punch him again. He glares at her before she can follow through, though, and then, after losing a very heated staring contest, sighs dejectedly. 

“You called him my boyfriend and it sent him into basically an existential crisis.” 

Now, she knows David’s dramatic – they’ve been hanging out a bunch, and no one really gets quite as vocal as he does if you catch him at the right time of night – but this seems... This seems wrong. Incorrect. 

“You’re sure about that?” 

Patrick looks at her like she’s dumb, which – okay. 

“But he likes you so much? It’s fucking disgusting?” 

Patrick’s grimace drops and his shoulders slump, right before he lifts them up again just a bit in  a shrug. “Guess we’ll see.” 

And that’s a recipe for fucking disaster, Stevie knows – her last “guess we’ll see” ended with a temper tantrum on her end, but they’re pulling into the drop-off zone before she can vocalize any of it. Ever the leader, Patrick is up and shouting instructions right away, as well, so maybe he wouldn’t have listened even if she could. 

It’s just… She’s seen the way he is about David. “Guess we’ll see,” is just… it’s not good enough. 

David better have his act straight. 

If not, her first Olympic gold medal might have to be followed up by her first ever assault charge. She’ll take it if she has to. 

Any lingering thought about Alexis or David or assault flies out the second she’s in the arena. It’s a fairly rushed affair, they’re changed and warmed up quickly enough, tossing balls around and dancing to the now perfected choreography that any one of them could pump out by heart with their eyes closed. There’s an energy that follows them as they prep for the game, nervous but excited, and Stevie has to remind herself, routinely, to get out of her own head and enjoy it for what it is while she’s still here. She only gets to be here, to do this, with this exact team, once in her life. It’s more than enough to want to take in. 

Sooner than she’s ready for it they’re ushered into proper gear and onto the ice for practice. The coaching staff is as relentless as can be, and the players are just as pushy themselves, hyper focused and unrelenting in the amount of effort they put in, even just during practice. 

They won’t lose this one. 

Game time rolls by soon enough. Stevie escapes her press availability and is back in gear, ready to give it her all as she steps onto the ice where several players from both teams are now skating. Vaguely, she’s aware of the other team on the other end of the ice, now, David’s coaching bench visible out of the corner of her eye, but she really doesn’t have the mind to pay them much attention. Staff is setting up by either bench, Patrick out of his practice athletics and in a textured blue suit she’s never seen on him before, probably new for the occasion, with a typical white shirt underneath. Most notably, though, right next to where he always wins his little Canadian flag pin, right at the lapel, is the little pride flag she’s seen him sporting the entire tournament as well. It had always been cute, but she wonders for the first time today if it’s more than a simple acknowledgement of his sexuality. If it’s a reclamation of the gay guy who’d had to give up on the Olympics last time. Stevie’s heart swells for him, for this brave man getting to live out the dream he should have lived four years ago, and her determination to win the game doubles, as if any more determination were even possible.

If no one else, then at least Patrick deserves this win. She’ll damn well give it to him. 

The minutes wind down around them, first through the end of warm-ups and then as the seconds to puck drop tick by. Everything is set, the broadcasts are in order, the stands are filled, and then their country is being called and Stevie storms down the tunnel, they’re crowding their bench, it’s time to go. 

Alexis skates out of the opposite bench. Strong, confidant strides as she comes to stand at center ice to take the faceoff against Stevie. They both lean forward, sticks in hand with the official standing in between them. 

“Good luck,” Stevie manages before the puck falls, in a last ditch attempt to reassure both herself and Alexis that they’ll be fine, this is fine, this game won’t be the undoing of them. 

Facing her, Alexis smiles. 

“I don’t need luck, babe.” 

The puck drops. They both scramble for it, sticks jabbing at the rubber puck in the midst of what is becoming a pretty involved scrum until Stevie kicks it out over to Rachel, who is able to soar over to the offensive end with it. From there it’s a coordinated entry into the other zone, it’s quick, it’s tough – USA is all over them at the worst of times, and it’s only a moment before they’re able to intercept a pass and take it over to the other blue line. Stevie’s on Alexis on the defensive play, she won’t let her breathe if it’s up to her, and they struggle against each other until Morgan catches the pass and they’re back on the attack and Patrick calls out her name from the bench for the line change. 

The game isn’t any less stressful as the second line steps onto the ice behind her, the tension palpable even amidst the excited jitters traveling across the bench. She’s swaying with nerves even as she takes a seat and downs her entire bottle of water, focused pulled from the game only when she feels a strong pat at her back accompanied by a muttered encouragement from Patrick. 

It’s quick and busy on the ice. There are scrambles along the boards and shots flying at either goalie and more net crashes than should be entirely normal. Both teams are playing stride for stride, shot for shot, and it’s not long into it that Stevie feels the exhaustion of it weigh in on her lungs. By the look of the bench, by the time she skates back after only a third shift, she’s not the only one. Nonetheless, the game goes on. 

The first reprieve in their favour comes when USA’s Maxwell takes a high sticking 2-minutes. Alice is on them immediately, refreshing a quick well-practiced power-play formation, sending each of them off onto the ice with a fist bump and a cheer of encouragement. Patrick shifts slightly, shoving his hands into his pockets as they take their positions. 

Twyla takes the face-off, winning the draw easily and allowing them to set up in a flash. The first shot goes off of Stevie stick, a classic slapshot, but by some ill-chance it catches Clancy’s pad and sort of bounces away, only to be struck out of the zone by USA’s Chan. It’s no matter, they get set back up nearly right away, and then there’s a bit of a back and forth between Twyla and Caroline that ends in a wrist shot from the slot, carefully tipped in, landing right behind Clancy’s left leg. 

And just like that, they’ve got the lead. 

It’s a momentary sigh of relief, but in no way is a single goal anything of note against this team, so the relief is only as short lived as the next shift before they’re back out there and struggling to extend it. It’s tough, and the extension doesn’t really come, not when USA ties it at 1 and then grabs the lead with a second, but they’ve got enough vigour to keep going at it right until the minutes drop down to seconds on the clock, ending the first with a this-time successful slapshot about the glove that lets them head into intermission with an even 2-2. 

With the period over, Stevie finally chances a proper look over at the other bench, where Alexis meets her eye with a weak wave before turning down the tunnel to the locker room. David, however, doesn’t seem to notice her as his gaze remains fixed on what she confirms with a quick turn behind her is Patrick, looking set and determined and not at all like he’s having a good time. She watches as Patrick finally lifts his gaze from the iPad in his hand to meet him, and then he’s smiling a little, tentative as he throws up a hand to wave as well, but David doesn’t reciprocate, opting instead to follow his team down the tunnel without so much as an acknowledgement. 

Patrick’s smile drops immediately, and his hand, too, and Stevie has to resist the urge to call out after the asshole before Patrick walks over to her and pats her gently on the arm, asking softly for her to head to the locker room so that he can brief them in a minute. If David’s reaction has him feeling any which way, he’s great at hiding it. 

The fucker. And to think he hasn’t even lost yet. 

Intermission goes by quickly. Caroline showers, just like she always does in between periods, because she’s ridiculous, and Patrick, Alice, and Miguel come in, followed by Ronnie, providing what is in equal parts a pep talk and a tactical strategy recap. In an unprecedented move, Patrick shuffles two lines, and Stevie finds it a testament to how much faith this team has in him that no one questions the mid-game change. 

They’re back out for the second in no time, and it’s more of the same if not worse. Both teams have come back with reinvigorated passion, and the scrums are messier, the passes are sharper, the shots are tougher than they’ve been this entire tournament. 

USA gets up to four goals, putting Stevie and her team down to a two goal deficit  about halfway through the period, after a couple of mistimed shots that don’t go their way. They’re scrambling and they know it, but they refuse to give up. Patrick is passionately shouting his lungs out behind the bench like he’s about three seconds from jumping into skates himself. Somehow, they get it together, the passes are crisper, and the second half of the period is overwhelmingly all them, she can see it when she watches and feel it when she plays. With about 3 minutes to go in the period, she catches a wayward shot coming her way and takes a chance by tipping it mid-air. Miraculously, it makes it past Clancy and over to the back of the net, and with a now 4-3 game and 20 minutes to go, she’s managed to give her team a fighting chance. 

Second intermission is more tense, less excited. They’ve got twenty minutes to match a lead at the very least, all while trying to stop America’s fucking powerhouse of an offense from scoring any more than they already have. 

“Defense,” Patrick says, before they head back out. “Defense, defense, defense.” It’s followed by a pretty substantial, productive speech on smooth transitions and puck possession and tighter, more frequent passes, but that first part of what he keeps latching onto, and what Stevie takes with her as they step onto the ice for a third and last time tonight. 

Defense, defense, defense. Peace of cake, right? 

They do a pretty good job of it, keeping up the pressure just enough never to let USA’s players set up, breaking out of the defensive zone as far and as often as they can. There are a couple of good shots on their end, but nothing that ends in anything much too substantial. Still, they keep it up. Time is winding down, they’ve barely got five minutes left to the game, and Patrick should be pulling Heather out any minute now for their sixth skater. Stevie’s only just preparing for it to happen when a whistle sounds to her right. 

With 4:43 seconds to go in a period, Canada’s Joyce Deer is called for a tripping penalty. 

Fucking shit. Fucking shit. 

Stevie skates back over to the bench, where Patrick looks stern and focused for a moment before something looks to click and he leans forward to whisper something to Alice, who frowns but nods as Stevie reaches her. 

“Hey,” Patrick says to her as Alice sketches something on the pad in front of her, “you remember when you played that season-ending game in college and Rachel was called for delay of game and I dared you to do something really dumb?” 

Stevie frowns. “What happened to ‘defense, defense, defense’?” 

Patrick smiles and shrugs. “They expect us to play smart.” He glances up towards the other bench, then, just for a fraction of a second, and Stevie doesn’t need to turn around to know that the person he’s looking at isn’t looking back at him. 

“Alright,” she says, tapping his suit-clad arm with her gloved hand, because even when he’s being dumb as shit she trusts him with everything she has. “Let’s do something really dumb.” 

He smiles again, and the rest of the penalty-kill unit is briefed and set up right after. 

Stevie holds her breath through the faceoff. This either goes unexpectedly well, or they’re out here in the eleventh hour giving up their shot at the medal. Still, Stevie goes according to plan. She trusts Patrick. He’s a fucking idiot, but he’s more often than not right about stuff like this. 

When USA breaks into the zone, Stevie skates to take her position between both of the players positioned at the blue line. She catches the surprise register on Outerbridge’s face and smiles – they’d expected her, rightfully, to be covering Alexis. USA takes its handfuls of shots, each skillfully (and luckily) deflected by Heather, and when the loose puck comes bouncing back towards the center of the zone Stevie’s pouncing on it, passing it over to Rachel and then speeding off towards center ice to receive a pass back, and then she’s on a breakaway, she’s rushing towards the net at an alarming speed, there’s no one on her, between her and Clancy. She’s vaguely aware of Patrick shouting from the bench, and then she’s settling the wobbling puck on her stick’s end, faking a wrist shot off to the left that has Clancy scrambling off over to the side. Before she can realize there’s no puck to catch, Stevie sweeps the puck over back to the right and tucks it in, gently, from the now empty space between Clancy’s skate and the goal’s post. 

The crowd erupts in cheers around her and Rachel comes crashing at her, enveloping her in a hug as the goal buzzer sounds. Over at the bench, Patrick is smiling so wide Stevie sure it hurts at least a little bit. They’ve tied the goddamn game. 

3:14 to go. 

She’s greeted by cheers and taps as she heads off to the bench, barely able to contain her glee as the next line takes their positions. 

“Fuckin’ ace,” Patrick says to her as he passes by, shaking her excitedly by the shoulders before the play begins. 

The next shift is chaos for both teams alike, both sides looking to defend their even positions in the hopes of taking the game to overtime. It’s quick and tough, and the exhaustion seeping into players on both ends is becoming more and more apparent as the seconds trickle down. By the time Patrick nudges her forward just slightly, signaling her impending shift, she’s barely certain she can even stand anymore. 

Against all odds, she does, though, with just about thirty seconds left in the game. 

She’s the one to take the faceoff, losing it to a well placed stick by Alexis, who pushes it backward for Chan to pick up, only to lose it to a well intercepted pass by Rachel. Stevie catches the play, they all do, and then all five of them are skating towards Clancy’s net, the puck always moving, never stagnant, first going from Rachel to Stevie to Caroline back to Stevie, and then there’s a bit of a mad scramble that ends with Kathy, Rachel’s linemate, settling the puck at the blue line and then slapping it in, right under Clancy’s pad, just a moment before the buzzer sounds. 

Holy fuck. 

Holy fucking fuck. 

Stevie’s vision blur and her ears ring an indiscernible thing as she throws her stick off to the side and shakes her gloves off, immediately getting tackled by the teammates skating off the bench to get to her. Everyone’s shouting, she can’t tell what, she doesn’t fucking care. 

They just won.  

The huddle lasts no time at all and also forever, bodies hopping and shouting in glee, and it’s maybe a whole minute or so later that she’s able to step out onto the ice and rush towards the bench where the rest of the staff is waiting for them. She goes to Patrick first, practically throwing herself at him, gear and everything, and he’s probably expecting her the way he catches her without a flinch. Alice and Miguel are next, and they’re laughing so hard she can’t help but mirror them. Wendy and some of the conditioning and maintenance staff have stepped out as well, joining the team for the celebration amidst the roaring chants throughout the stands, and Stevie is soaring, she’s fucking flying, holy shit.

This is what she’d come for, four years ago. It’s way overdue and it’s perfectly on time because she has Rachel next to her, on her, screaming in her ear and Twyla excitedly patting her on the back and she’s got Patrick, Patrick who’s smiling like he’s just been offered the world as he throws himself into a hug with Heather as she skates up to him. It’s a wrong that feels finally, finally righted. 

More than all of that, it just feels fucking good. 

Holy shit. 

There are people all over the ice now. People unrolling long carpets and people walking with bouquets boxes. The podium stands are set, and three dudes in elaborate and unnecessary costumes walk up the length of the blue carpet laid down with each of the three winners’ flags in their arms. On the other side, the American team stays gathered around their bench, considerably quieter than they themselves are, some kneeling, others embracing in consolation. Stevie watches them carefully, searches amongst the sea of white and blue jerseys for the block printed ‘23’ when she spots her skating towards her, slow but not unsure, defeated, but not looking like someone who’s about to run away. 

“Congrats,” Alexis says as she reaches her, and Stevie wishes she had more to say, right this second, but no words escape her besides a whispered apology, and all Alexis does in reply is pat her gently on the arm, just twice, before turning back to skate towards her team. Stevie’s frozen for a moment, she doesn’t know how to react, but then there’s music filling the arena and marching line passing by them to indicate it’s time for the victory ceremony and the team has to go take its place to receive them. 

“Good job,” Patrick says to them as they skate by, hand held out for high fives where he can reach them, and Stevie smiles when she crosses him on her way to stand behind the blue carpet, struck by the thought that it feels wrong for her to be receiving a medal and not him. 

Still, she goes. Once they’re all lined up, some French lady starts handing the medals out to the Finnish team, who’d won their game for the bronze medal just yesterday. They go down the line, with the announcer reading off each player’s name over the speakers accompanied by the thundering applause of the crowd as the players put the medals on each other. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing to see. Next to her, Rachel throws her arm over her shoulder and laughs, and Stevie throws her own arm behind her waist to hold her right back, glancing over her shoulder to look at the coaching staff. Patrick throws a thumbs up at her and loudly cheers, making laughter bubble up inside her, as well. When she looks to David, he isn’t making eye contact. He’s looking straight ahead, not even at his own players, clapping politely without the hint of an expression on his face. 

It just doesn’t make any sense, looking at him, for him to be behaving this way. Out of the two of them, she wouldn’t have expected David to be the sore loser. 

Then again, she hadn’t thought herself a sore loser before Beijing – and look at where that landed her. 

That’s one thing she’s gonna have to take care of, once they’re done here. 

For now, all she can hear is the cheers of the American team, and then of some of the players right next to her, as the medal holders move to Team USA. Stevie joins in – as much as the competition is fierce, and god, it is, there really isn’t anything like playing against them. Or with them. Some of them have been teammates, too, in the past. When Alexis’s name is called, the cheers are loudest, both from her own team and from the players next to Stevie. A loud whoop comes from behind that can only have come from Patrick, and Stevie is overcome, just for a moment, by how beloved her – by how beloved she is. By the fact that everyone in this packed arena sees Alexis Rose as just as extraordinarily brilliant as Stevie always had. 

Soon enough, her own team gets bestowed with medals, these ones gold to make up for the previously won silver ones with bouquets to match, and none of them can stop smiling, she’s ecstatic, the crowd is rumbling with every call of everyone’s names. Rachel gets to be the person to put her medal on her, and Stevie smiles bigger than she thinks she ever has as she leans forward into it. 

No sooner as they all newly accessorized that the announcer announces the beginning of the anthem, and Stevie gets to watch, arms around her teammates, as the Canadian flag gets raised front and center over the words to ‘Oh Canada’ resounding throughout the arena. It’s a surreal experience all over, from singing the anthem with Rachel’s arm thrown around her to posing for a golden picture to skating down the tunnel, medals around their necks, tangible proof of their success. 

When she goes down the tunnel Patrick’s there, right before the entrance to the locker room, smiling with his hand in Alexis’s. Alexis meets her eyes with a smile, still in gear but without her jersey, tied up hair matted to the back of her head with sweat, the hand that’s not in Patrick’s fiddling with her silver medal. She looks hopeful and resigned and kind and fucking beautiful, Stevie has to fight every cell in her body not to jump at her right in that moment. Patrick lets go of Alexis’s hand as she approaches, reaching Stevie first, putting both hands on her shoulders. 

“That was amazing,” he says, leaning his forehead closer to hers. “You were amazing.” 

“Where’s David?” she asks, instead of answering him. His eyes widen at the question, like he wasn’t expecting it, and he flails for just a moment before his lips stretch into a thin line, sort of like when he tries to smile just to be polite, and steps back. 

“Doesn’t matter.” He moves a little. Then, sensing something in her, again: “That doesn’t matter.” He claps his hands over her shoulder and pulls away. “I’ll um, leave you two to it.” 

She watches him go, at a loss for what to say to him until she remembers her thought from earlier, calling out his name and reaching for the medal around her neck when he turns back to look at her. 

“Congrats, dumbass,” she says, handing the medal over to him, and she watches the way his fingers carefully trace the carved metal before he inexplicably pushes it back to her. 

“Congrats to you, Captain.” 

He’s down the hall and out of view before she can react. 

Suddenly it’s just her and Alexis in the hall, the sounds of muffled cheering coming from the other end of the closed door to the locker room. 

“Hey,” Alexis says, smiling. She’s sweating buckets and flushed red but she’s here, she’s smiling at Stevie, and that’s really all she had to do. Stevie takes the couple of steps that separate them and then she’s on her, she’s got her hands on Alexis’s wet and sticky face but she’s kissing her so it’s perfect, no notes, she could do this forever. 

“I’m glad you didn’t run away,” she says as she pulls back, reveling in the way Alexis shimmies at her words, proud of herself and adorable. 

“I promised.” 

“So we’re good,” Stevie confirms, or asks, maybe, she’s not sure. “You’re not upset.” 

“I mean,” Alexis shrugs, “I did lose, so I’m not like… I’m not about to like, go out drinking with your team or anything.”

“Of course, yeah. That makes sense.” 

“But I guess it’s fair that you get to feel like that, too. I guess it was your turn.” 

“Feel like what?” 

“I don’t know,” Alexis replies, rolling her eyes. “Feel like you like, did something, or whatever. Like you did something really cool.” 

Stevie nods, and then she embraces Alexis again. “I did. We did. Yeah.”

“I’m happy for you.” Alexis smiles, and it’s a real smile, big and bright and beautiful just like Stevie had fallen for in Beijing – because yeah, that’s a thing she did. Falling – and she doesn’t even know how to reply to that besides laughing again. 

“I really fucking like you,” she says in between fit of laughter, and she’s vaguely aware she might be stepping onto manic territory here, but it’s fine. She doesn’t give a shit, she just won the Olympics. “God, I really fucking like you.” 

Alexis preens. “I really like you too, Budd.” 

“I’m gonna date the hell out of you when we get back home.” 

“Okay,” Alexis agrees, nodding, pressing her lips together in a close mouth smile. “I’ll have to go back to LA for a bit, you know, but like – yeah, my parents are in Toronto. We can do that. Yeah.” 

“Good.” 

“Good.” 

Another round of cheers erupts from inside the room, and Stevie only then becomes aware of how gross she is, standing in a pool of her own sweat under all this gear, hot and sticky and wet all over. 

“I’ll see you later,” she says, and Alexis nods, understanding, and leans in for a last kiss that Stevie graciously gives her before stepping away. 

“Have fun, um, celebrating, and stuff?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And,” Alexis takes a deep breath. “Um, tell Patrick I hope he’s like – tell him I hope he’s okay. And congratulations again.” 

And then she leaves. 

Stevie watches her go and then turns towards the shut door next to her, the noise on the other end loud and celebratory, grabbing its handle to pull it open. The moment she’s in the room, there’s an entire water bottle being emptied above her head by she-can’t-quite-tell-who, and then there’s more cheering and laughter like she’s never heard before. 

Someone’s opened the door and left it open when she comes out of the showers, now changed, media scrum dealt with, and only a couple of minutes later Patrick walks in after his own. He laughs as he accepts high-fives across the room and the rest of the staff follows. He scoops Rachel in a hug that has her in the air for a solid few seconds and then he unbuttons the jacket of his suit, still smiling, and addresses the room. 

“I don’t think there’s anything important that I could possibly say right now,” he starts. “You were all so incredible, I just – I think your Captain’s gonna have to handle this speech.” 

Before Stevie can even begin to refute, or at the very least throw something at him, the room is chanting out an uncoordinated “Budd! Budd! Budd!” that she can’t ignore, so she settles for scowling at his delighted face as she stands up, sighing into the silence that follows as they hand her their attention. 

“I don’t fuckin – good job? You nailed it. We nailed it,” she starts, unsure. “Some of you were here last time, and if you were you know we fell just short. It felt shitty at the time, but…” she catches Rachel’s eye and shrugs. “Maybe it was meant to be this team that won it. So good job. That’s all I have to say.” 

She’s met with applause and shouts from all directions, and Twyla puts a supportive hand on her thigh when she sits back down, whispering compliments at her. 

All in all, Stevie thinks, it’s nearly a perfect end to this tournament. 

Nearly. 

As soon as a certain fuckass is dealt with.  

Chapter Text

David has never said he wasn’t a sore loser – let’s get that clear. He’s a self-admitted menace on game nights, and he always has to have the last word in argument, no matter how wrong he might be, and he doesn’t think he’s genuinely apologized to anyone for anything substantial since 2016. He’s a real piece of work, honestly – he’ll be the first to say it in any situation.

The thing is – this time, losing isn’t what’s got him all fucked up. Like – yeah, the loss fucking sucks, no one comes to the Olympics for fucking second place, but it’s not just that. What’s messing with David’s head right now, more than anything, is the giant glaring reminder around each of his players’ necks that this is over.

Goodbye fucking Vancouver.

David had almost succeeded, over the course of the past couple of weeks, in forgetting that he has a life to return to when this all inevitably ends. A life in New York, full of wealth and depth of culture and constant buzzing and that cute ass place with the matcha ice cream down the street from his apartment.

But no Patrick. 

Because this thing with Patrick isn’t supposed to last past the games. He’d known that going in. This thing they have, this thing they never should have had in the first place, wouldn’t have had if David had just been a little bit stronger, a tad bit smarter, the end of the tournament's just reminded him that it’s finally time to put a pin in it. It’s better this way, for the both of them to… for there to be a clean break where they both always knew there was going to be one, than to let it keep dragging the both of them along, filling the both of them up with hope before it inevitably comes to light that there’s just… That him and Patrick is not a thing that gets to exist outside Vancouver. All they’d end up doing is making promises David knows he can’t keep and letting hope swell inside until Patrick realizes that David’s a mess, actually, that he’s not impressive after all, and David’s going to have to sit there collecting the pieces of his heart that Patrick will have mournfully, carefully carved apart with the blunt end of his stupid skate.

It’s a shitty feeling, is all. 

Realistically, he’d always known time would run out sooner than later, that whatever time he’s been able to steal with Patrick, it’ll never be enough, that pretending for the last couple of days like this is something that he gets to have could have only ever ended in disaster – and yet he’d still walked right into it, into Patrick’s open and waiting strong arms, ignoring it all. 

David’s always been a little self-destructive in that way. 

Fucking Canada. This is why he left. Nothing good ever comes out of fucking Canada. 

Nothing that David gets to keep, anyway. 

He sticks with his team after the game, through the aftershocks of it all, because he’s a good coach, and – he hopes, by now – a person worth their trust and care. He sits with them in the heavy, charged locker room and congratulates them on their second-place run. He tells them that there’s nothing he’d change besides the result. He says that if he ever gets the chance to do this again, and if it were with the exact same people as are in that room, right now, that he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d do it in a heartbeat. 

He sits down and lets Alexis sag against him when she walks in, later than everyone else, and in a move uncharacteristic to even himself, kisses the top of her head as he placates her when she leans against him (of course, only after he forces her into the showers). 

They take their sweet time vacating the hall. They might have lost, but their lives were changed here. They did something big. He knows the rest of them are taking it in just as he is as the minutes tick by and their time winds down on their sojourn at Rogers Arena. 

The shuttle back to the residential complex is silent, despite the medals around their necks, and the goodbyes are a drawn out, calm but pleasant affair. Everyone repeats the same sentiments, whispers the same encouragements are they part ways, reassures that they’ve done the best they could, as a team, and that there’s no resentment left that could like, cause any full blown issue between now and the closing ceremony. 

Most of the players are sticking around, hoping to catch other events and then take a couple of easy days before attending the final parade, and others are already half-packed. David’s not too sure yet, which side he falls closest to. On the one hand, he’s pretty sure Alexis will be sticking around as long as she possibly can, maybe even heading to Toronto before she returns home, and he wants to be here with her. Another, increasingly insistent part of him wants to get out of here and get back to his life as soon as he can manage it. 

He heads down the length of the atrium after the rest of the group has turned towards the elevators, reassuring Alexis with a nod of the fact that he’s quite alright, and finds himself stopping right in front of the juice bar. He orders a refresher to go – the same one he’d gotten that first night, with Patrick, the strawberry and passionfruit one – and sits in silence, alone, as he sips at it. 

Once he’s back in his room and changed for bed, the exhaustion of the day seems to settle over him suddenly, all at once, and it’s a struggle even to get himself into bed. He realizes a little too late that he’d forgotten to pull his curtains shut as he did and groans. Whereas the skyline had looked peaceful, even romantic once, all it seems to serve to do now is filter unwanted light into the room. 

With a whispered curse, limbs heavy, David pulls himself up and yanks the curtain closed, the room suddenly bathed entirely in darkness, and lays back down. 

You’d think he’d fall asleep right away, after that. 

But no, sleep evades him still. Suddenly, the room is too dark, it’s too silent, it’s too cold. David can’t stop shifting around. He pulls his blanket up over his head, then pushes it off entirely, and then pulls it back up again, always to no avail. Groaning, he lifts his head off the pillow and reaches to the nightstand to grab his phone. When his phone lights up with the movement, he’s surprisingly taken aback by the lack of notifications. 

It’s not like he should’ve been expecting anything. The only person he’s really consistently been texting the past couple of days other than his sister was Patrick, with the occasional quip or other by Stevie. Both of them are probably out, still, celebrating their win, and even if they aren’t – David hasn’t even so much as congratulated them, why should they text him? He hadn’t even said bye when he’d left the bench after the game. 

Still, it stings. 

He taps his passcode in and swipes through his home screens, pointlessly letting his eyes wander over the collection of apps before his fingers land on the little red YouTube logo of their own accord, and suddenly he’s typing in Patrick’s name and playing the first video. 

It’s a highlight pack, and it’s… no one was lying, when they’d called Patrick impressive. David watches as the video cycles through goals and blocked shots and breakaways, each more impressive and complex than the last. Every video is similar, Patrick, in a blue or white (and once, green?) uniform, a couple of seconds of idle play, and then a move so skilled most of them have David gasping in the dark of his room. 

When the video ends, David clicks on another. 

He spends well above an hour or two like this, watching Patrick highlight reels and Patrick’s media scrum availabilities (he replays a couple of those several times, Patrick is a vision sweaty and in under gear). One of the videos is a thirty minute segment where Patrick interviews queer kids in sports from Toronto, and David finds himself surprised to have to wipe a tear away when it ends. For all that Patrick had said he didn’t see himself fit to be a queer sports model, his gentle questioning, his genuine interest and investment, his kind smile and gentle eyes told an entirely different story here, faced with these young athletes. If he didn’t know it before, David would have had it solidified for him in that moment exactly just how wonderful his Patrick really is. Well – not his Patrick. Not – never his Patrick. 

Eventually, the shame of the act catches up with David, and he moves his thumb to close the app and put a phone away, but a thumbnail at the bottom of his screen catches his attention and David thinks, one last one. Just one more. He presses on the image, simply of Patrick looking dashing in a black button up, standing wide-eyed in front of a scrum of microphones. 

Curiously, the video is just about 11 seconds long. When David plays it, it starts with a muffled question from a reporter that David doesn’t care to try to decipher, and a small laugh that it apparently elicits from Patrick. 

“It feels good to be with these guys,” Patrick says, about whatever the reporter asked. “I mean, that’s what it’s about, right? Whether we win or we lose, it’s about the guys you get to come back to in the locker room.” He smiles, and the reporter says something again. “Yeah,” Patrick says again, “It’s all about doin’ it with them.”

The video ends. David closes the app and lets the screen fade to black, gently dropping the phone back onto his nightstand. 

He turns so that he’s laying on his back, facing the ceiling, and closes his eyes. 

“It’s about the guys you get to come back to in the locker room,” Patrick’s voice rings in his head, distant, and that’s the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep. 

When he wakes up, still to a dim room, some of the melancholy from yesterday has seeped out. As he groans and stretches he can make out the rectangular sliver of light around his curtains where they’re just a tad too small to cover the window’s entire frame (deeply incorrect), and the plunging silence of last night has given way to a soft silent hum, comforting and kind. He rolls over, stretching just a bit more dramatically, and then opens his eyes and reaches for his phone on the nightstand with a jolt. 

It’s not surprising in the least that he doesn’t have a message to wake up to, not from Alexis, not from Stevie, and definitely not from Patrick, but the sight of the blank lock screen hits him like a brick just the same. He drops back down onto the mattress with a sigh. 

When he finally manages to drag himself into the bathroom a moment later he has to force himself to force the reality of the situation. He’d walked away from Patrick last night. He’d been the one to reject Patrick’s every smile, every wave, every attempt at even a civil handshake. He’d been the one to freak out when Stevie had pulled out the relationship labels. Why should Patrick text him at all, when David’s given him no reason to? Why should Patrick extend any grace towards him at all? Fuck knows he hasn’t offered Patrick anything in return. 

Whatever – he’s done well without Patrick before. He sure as hell can do it again. 

Right? 

He emerges out of the small bathroom just about an hour later, skin fresh and dewy, hair still damp, and he’s stretching over his unmade bed, reaching for his phone when an incessant knocking at his door grabs his attention. 

For a moment, he ignores it, grabbing his phone and seeing the telltale banner of a notification right beneath the date and time, but before he can really pay attention to it the knocking sounds again, louder, more insistent, and he has to shove his phone into the pocket of his hoodie with a sigh as he makes his way to answer it. 

On the other side, it’s Alexis. She’s in her athletics (thankfully though, not looking or smelling like she’s done any athletics in them, yet) with her hair tied up and a potent frown on her face. 

“David,” she says, loud and stern as he faces her, and then she pushes past him like she’s upset at him or something.  She doesn’t even bother to be invited in or anything, doesn’t even offer him a hello, which is rude – he’s already feeling fragile today and she should know it. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, dutifully following where she goes to sit on his bed, like she’s just taken to doing now. “And why are you being a little b?” 

“Sit, David,” she orders, and he does, still glaring at her. He’s not much in the mood to start arguing with her before his hair’s even had the chance to dry. 

She goes on staring at him as he just sort of sits there, because she exists to infuriate him, and he’s generous enough to let the weird uncomfortable staring go on for at least another five seconds before addressing her dumb fucking ass.

“What the fuck are we doing here?”

Alexis rolls her eyes. “I’m just like, trying to see where you went wrong, David,” she says all matter of fact, like any of that makes sense, and he’s immediately hopping off his seat at the edge of his bed in fury. 

“Okay, no. No – you do not get to be a bitch about losing.”

“Ohmygod, David! Who cares about losing?” 

“You care! We both care! Why else have we been here for the past god-knows-how-many days?” 

“Ugh, obviously we care, that’s not –” she groans and paces around the room a little, looking quite manic if you ask him, and then aggressively sits down on the bed, where he’d just been a second ago. Slowly, he lowers himself down next to her. “I was with Stevie this morning, David.” 

“Oh,” he replies, not unkindly, but still on edge. “So that’s… that’s going good then. You and Stevie. That’s good.” 

“I’m talking!” she exclaims, holding a finger up to his face. “Please let me talk.” 

“Oh my god,” he whispers, but lets her continue.

“So I was like, with her or whatever, and like she was talking about how her team is all cool and happy and stuff, but Patrick isn’t even like – he barely stuck around after they got back to the Village yesterday, David. Just went up to his sad little room all by himself.” 

“His room isn’t sad.” 

She glares at him again. This time, he knows not to retort. 

“You’re an idiot, David,” she says, shoving him hard with both hands. He stumbles a little, landing sideways on whatever is left of the mattress, careful not to roll off, and his resulting scoff and swear goes unacknowledged. “Like, you’ve been dumb before, but this is a little sad, even for you.” 

“I didn’t do anything!” he defends himself, because it’s true – he didn’t. He and Patrick always knew this was going to end. None of this is unexpected, or blindsiding in the least. David just… he’s giving them the clean cut they need to be able to have a good last couple of days before they head home. 

“Patrick’s sad,” Alexis says, calmly, and the simplicity of the statement knocks David’s breath out just a little. “He’s not like, brooding, but Stevie says she can tell.”

“Maybe she’s wrong,” he tries weakly. It comes out breathier than he expects, but he can’t help but feel a little affected by the idea of it – of Patrick quiet and still and unsmiling. It feels… look, he doesn’t love the image of a sad Patrick. Patrick deserves to be smiling and laughing with his crinkled up eyes and his scrunched up nose and his fucking, little dimple, always. The idea that David ignoring him for one night could make him sad is…

It’s weird. No one’s ever been sad about ending a fling with David before.

Alexis has got this somber expression on her face, and it hits David suddenly, that despite how – despite how well this thing is going now, between her and Stevie, his sister has been here before, desperate to knock on someone’s door to talk to them only to learn they’re not on the other side anymore. He feels something tugging at the thought of it. 

Empathy, or whatever.

He sighs. 

“I’m not… Patrick isn’t like, breaking my heart or anything.” She looks up at him, and when she doesn’t say anything, he keeps going. “I just think…” he takes a deep breath, and then, voice as steady as he can manage it: “I think it’s better to cut our losses now than when like, he’s heading back to Toronto and I’m in New York and we suddenly realize we’re in way over our heads.” 

“L. A. is further away from Toronto than New York is, David.” 

“And that’s great! But what you and Stevie have, it’s… you know, solid. You’re gonna work it out just fine.”

“He’s still Stevie’s best friend,” she argues. “You’re still gonna have to see him. Especially if you keep coaching.” 

“And I’ll deal with that when it comes.” He won’t – he’s notoriously bad at dealing with exes (and ex-adjacents, in Patrick’s case?), and will probably end up creating elaborate schemes to avoid Patrick for the rest of his life, but he’s not about to say that. 

The fact that the very idea of deliberately not facing Patrick when given the chance makes him nauseous is besides the point. 

Alexis stares at him another moment, and then she sighs and shakes her head as she stands up. 

“I still don’t think you’re being very smart, honestly,” she says, a little too matter-of-factly for his taste, “but we can talk about it later.” She starts walking towards the door. “Now come, I told Carol you were going to join the team for lunch.” 

And then she’s grabbing him by the arm and leading him out into the hallway before he can yell at her for making plans on his behalf. 

Lunch (well, breakfast for him, but who cares) turns out to be a pleasant affair, so the yelling is postponed. The team is still in relatively good spirits, considering, and those deciding to stay through the rest of the games animatedly recount their plans to attend other events or to take full advantage of the rec center. Alisha and Maddison talk of their plans to get a hotel room deeper in the city for the next few days, which is how David learns, after all this time, that they’re married, and Thomas says they’re leaving the village tonight to go spend the next week or so with a cousin in Victoria. 

It’s a gentle farewell, and one that David finds a way to soak in and to treasure, despite everything. Weirdly, he thinks, even with the Alexis and the Stevie and the Patrick of it all, this might be the thing he misses the most when he gets back. 

Maybe one good thing can happen in Canada. 

Alexis sticks by him throughout the rest of the day, despite his gentle, then frustrated, then resigned hinting at the fact that he can get through the day just fine without her.

She’s on hour eight of constantly following him around like a needy little cretin, back up in his room sitting under the covers on his bed while he organizes some of his suitcases and reading out celebrity gossip that he frankly doesn’t care much about, when a loud pounding at the door startles them both. 

He frowns at Alexis, who just shrugs and shakes her head, and then makes his way over toward the pounding, taking slow, careful steps. 

“Sit,” Stevie spits at him as he opens the door, pointing towards the inside of his room, and she’s fucking terrifying when she wants to be, so he scrambles to obey as she stomps in, hot on his heels, her angry steps faltering slightly only when she sees Alexis on his bed. 

“Oh. Hey,” she says to Alexis, much kinder than she was to him. “I didn’t know you were here.” 

“I didn’t know you were coming here,” Alexis replies. 

“Yeah, well.” She returns her attention to David again, scowling at him, and points to the bed, next to Alexis. “Sit,” she spits out again. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers, but neither of them pay him any attention. 

Stevie starts pacing around his room, angrily muttering to herself. At some point, Alexis shuffles out from under the covers, shoving David in her movement, and moves to the edge of the bed where she grabs Stevie’s hand, prompting her to look up and soften, just slightly. The interaction causes a pang of something inside David, who’s still watching her, mildly fearing for his life. 

“I told you one thing,” Stevie finally says when she addresses him. “I told you not to do one thing, because I don’t know how to deal with a heartbroken Patrick, and you’re a fucking… you’re a fucking moron who went and did it anyway.” 

“I did nothing!” 

“Exactly!” she yells. “You wouldn’t even look at him yesterday, and then I thought I’d give you another day to fuckin’.... to brood or whatever, but you still haven’t talked to him!” 

“There’s nothing for us to talk about!” 

“Did you maybe think to tell Patrick that?” 

“What even–? He knows!” he shrieks back. 

Stevie stops pacing suddenly, and her glare turns downright murderous. It’s… well, David hadn’t been feeling too great about himself before this anyway, and the way she’s looking at him somehow makes him feel worse, like maybe he needs to crawl into a corner and wither away and he deserves every second of it. 

“You are the biggest fucking idiot I’ve ever met,” she says, softly, incredulously, and something snaps inside David, because he’s tired, he’s positively exhausted of being called a fucking “idiot” by everyone he knows when all he’s ever tried to do is honour what both he and Patrick deserve. 

“Okay, the two of you need to shut up, ” he starts, ignoring both the look on Stevie’s face of the smack Alexis lands on his shoulder, standing up. “First of all, this is my room, and I will not have both you come in and – and berate me like this.” 

Stevie furrows her brows, but neither of them says a word. 

“And second,” he continues, “I don’t need either of you to coach me on my relationships! Patrick and I will be fine! He’ll go back to Toronto and find some guy and get married and adopt a litter of kittens and forget any of this happened!” 

“Patrick’s allergic to cats.” 

“Not the point!” 

Stevie sort of closes her eyes then, dropping down onto the mattress (he needs people to stop doing that, that’s his bed) and taking a deep breath. 

When she opens them again, some of the red hot fury is gone, but she remains stern and mildly threatening just the same. Alexis puts a hand on her arm, which sort of seems to help. 

“Okay, yeah. No one needs to coach either of you on your relationships,” Stevie agrees, “but just – Patrick’s a good guy,” she says. “Patrick’s the best guy. I know it because he had to pick me back up after I did the same fucking idiotic thing you’re doing right now and didn’t make me feel bad about it even once.” Her gaze shifts, landing on Alexis for a split second before it’s right back on him. “I also know that for some reason, he’s completely gone on you. Beats the shit out of me why.” 

Alexis moves her hand until it’s in Stevie’s, their fingers tangling. Stevie stands up, staying close, her hand never dropping his sister’s. It’s an awkward move, and now Alexis’s arm is extended all weird for her hand to remain in Stevie’s, and it all makes David ache so bad. 

“I made both me and Alexis miserable for a long time when I left, last time. I know you weren’t here for it, and maybe that’s good for you, but Alexis didn’t deserve it then — I’m gonna have to spend a fuckton of time making up for that – and Patrick doesn’t deserve it now.” 

He swallows. 

“I don’t know what you said to Patrick. If you said it was a fling or whatever, but whatever it is…” she looks away for a moment, and then back at him. “He doesn’t know. So whatever it is, just say it to his face.” She smiles a bit, and shrugs. “I mean, we know he’s good with exes, historically, so.” 

She looks back at Alexis and something passes through them, something they both understand that escapes David so wildly. She lets go of Alexis’s hand and sideway shuffle-steps or something, just enough that she’s now closer to the door than he is. 

“Um, I’ll see you around before you leave for New York,” she says, and then: “And Toronto’s not that far if you ever get your head out of your ass and wanna play pool.” 

He doesn’t leave his bed after that, not after Stevie and Alexis leave that night, and not for most of the next day, either. 

Alexis keeps coming in, mostly uninvited, rarely unwelcome, sometimes talking to him, sometimes helping him pack, sometimes just sitting on his bed and scrolling on her phone while he applies his hair mask with the bathroom door open. 

“We’re gonna keep talking now,” she says at some point, when David jokes about returning to their old lives in just a handful of days, and David is somehow, even after all they’ve shared here, on this mass of land in their home country, taken aback by the sheer sincerity in her voice. 

It’s a promise she intends to keep, by the sound of it, and though he doesn’t really answer, he thinks she understands that it’s a promise he’s extending right back. When she leaves his room a few moments later that second night, with a tap on the nose and a promise to hang out again the next day, the full force of his emotions swirls inside him after the click of the shut door she leaves behind. There’s anxiety and apprehension and so, so much fear, but there’s a mix of other stuff as well. Lighter stuff. Brighter stuff. Stuff being here has made him feel in ropes and waves since they’ve met here. Stuff he’s not sure he’d ever felt quite as strongly in decades before. Stuff Alexis has made him feel. Stuff Rachel and Stevie and Twyla have made him feel. Stuff Patrick has made him feel. 

By the time he climbs into bed that night, a third in a row without a text from Patrick, the sting from the loss of the finals barely feels like anything relevant. Instead, what stays, what keeps him up well into the cloudy black night, is the loss of Patrick. 

He thinks of being in the lounge with Patrick. Of the way he smiles and the way he talks like talking to David is a gift. He thinks of walking in the cold with his hand in Patrick’s and not minding the winter air. He thinks of the sight of white milkshake on his chapped lips and of his firm handshake and of the way he listens to David when he talks, really listens. He thinks of the way he kisses, like David’s the only thing he’s conscious of and the only thing he wants to be conscious of. Of the way he let David tuck into him while he napped. He thinks of his kind eyes and gentle prodding smile as he interviewed those young queer kids. He thinks of his voice, amidst the hubbub of a press scrum, saying “It’s about the guys you get to come back to.” David knows he’d been talking about his teammates, in that specific instance, but he can’t help but feel it’s a statement that could extend to him, as well. 

David wants to be the guy that Patrick gets to come back to. In the locker room, outside the arena, at home. After losses, after wins. He wants it to be him. Besides, like Alexis said, New York to Toronto isn’t the worst distance to travel, is it? 

He leaps off his bed with an urgency that has him buzzing right down to the core. It’s fucking 3am, there’s no way Patrick is even awake right now, but there’s no way in hell David thinks he could catch even a wink of sleep now – not when he has something this important to do. There’s not much he can do, not until the morning at least, but David’s suddenly full of more adrenaline than he’s been in this entire tournament. After a few minutes of mindless pacing, the ridiculousness of his state catches up to him, and he strides over to the tiny sink in his bathroom to splash water on his face and look at himself in the mirror. 

In the morning. First thing in the morning. 

He’s not going to be an idiot. 

Chapter Text

Patrick was on cloud nine for the first few moments after the buzzer. He really couldn't think or see or feel past the triumphant sound of it, the green light behind the net flashing on, the crowd erupting into cheers, gloves and helmets and sticks flying across the ice as his players practically leapt on each other in victory, the loud clap at his back from Miguel and the practically feral cackle Wendy let out where she was standing next to him, just – just all of it. 

Finally, finally, it had felt like to Patrick, something that had been sitting just slightly ajar inside had slipped firmly, permanently into its rightful place. 

Stevie had come barrelling at him immediately, all five foot of her with the twenty five pounds of gear on top, and by some sort of miracle he’d been ready to catch her, her laughter ringing right into his ear, the smell of her surrounding him, the tight grip at his back just a tad bit too uncomfortable and yet so utterly, utterly perfect. Rachel had held his face in both of her warm hands and planted a kiss right on his cheek, pulling back with an ecstatic smile that had taken his breath away. She’s always been beautiful – he’s always known she was beautiful, but the sight of her in Olympic victory is one that Patrick couldn’t have even fathomed, not in his wildest dreams.  

For a brief, beautiful moment, it had felt like his entire life had been amounting to just that moment, with the national anthem blaring and golden medals around his best friends’ necks and nothing but the weight of victory on his shoulders. 

And then Alexis had come to congratulate them, courteous and kind and charming in her defeat. 

David hadn’t. 

Which – Patrick knows more than anything what a bummer it can be to lose, so he’d waited it out a day.

And then another. 

And then one more. 

And, now – Patrick might be the greatest idiot on the face of the planet, if Stevie is to be believed, but even he knows to take a hint when it’s being waved big and obvious in his face. 

David Rose isn’t coming. 

It hurts, for the most part of that second day, it does. Patrick won’t lie about that. But as the night hours fade into morning he can’t help but feel the hurt slowly seep out of him, replaced instead with a festering sense of disappointment at the pit of his stomach, dull and void and numb. 

He has absolutely no right, he realizes, to be upset at all. 

Maybe, he figures, he even deserves it, thinking for even a moment that he’d ever had a shot at something real with David Rose at all. 

He should’ve always known, he thinks, deep inside somewhere, somehow,  that this… thing, he guesses – relationship might not be the word for it anymore, or maybe it never was – was going to end with the two of them returning home after the games. He and David had found each other, here, thick in the competition and neither of them particularly searching for romantic connection, and they’d spend a beautiful week or so in each other’s arms before returning right back to their lives with the memory behind them. Patrick back to Toronto, still coaching, still mentoring, maybe opening up that foundation he and Stevie sometimes talk about, and David off to New York, next to beautiful people with beautiful taste and a knowledge of the world that Patrick can’t even begin to conceive. David was right, when he’d guessed that Patrick hasn’t seen much of the world at all – he, on the other hand, has seen enough of it that he forgets to come home. 

It’s a mismatch. In the long run, it was always going to be. 

That doesn’t mean that Patrick wouldn’t have loved the opportunity to at least try. 

It had been easy, sitting in front of the Vancouver skyline, to forget about the ephemerality of their circumstances. To pretend like he and David could exist in this bubble together for a much longer time. He’d begun dreaming beyond its confines. Double dates with Stevie and Alexis, driving down to that Indian fusion place in Ajax, spending an evening wrapped up in one another as the sun sets over the horizon at Lake Ontario – it had seemed so easy, since the moment he’d first kissed David, to imagine that he could keep kissing him forever. 

Of course, that had all been hopeless. Patrick should have known it – when David had insisted his opinion wouldn’t matter to him, when he’d made fun of Patrick’s lack of worldliness, when he’d practically gone blue with anxiety at the mere mention of being his boyfriend. 

Oh, well. He knows now. 

Someday, he thinks, he might genuinely be able to look back on his time with David Rose and see it for the beautiful thing it was. A connection just as golden as the medallions on his players’ chests. 

Stevie’s been great about it. She’s been practically glued to his side since the medal ceremony, despite his insistence that she go out and celebrate without him. She’s been teasing and biting and dry, just like she always is, but with an undercurrent of, well, of a Stevie he’s known and loved for years now that she loves to insist doesn’t exist, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary.  Stevie, his Stevie, sharp as a bullet but always gentler with him than he’s ever thought to deserve. 

Alexis had shown up, too. She’d shown up to Patrick’s room tonight, Rachel, Twyla, and Stevie in tow, and congratulated Patrick gracefully with a tap to the nose and an embrace tight enough to break bones. She’d brought along a burger, just like he likes it, and gloated about offering him a meal “on her” despite everything at the dining hall being free of charge. Then promised him a congratulatory lunch when they’re back in Toronto, on her dime. She hadn’t brought up David at all. 

It’s only been an hour or so since they’ve all left his room, leaving him with lingering hugs and pitying looks he’d forced himself to ignore. 

He hopes, despite himself, as he thinks of the way they’ve been hovering around him the past couple of days, that they’re making the time to be there for David as well. 

Losing couldn’t have been easy, and the last thing Patrick wants is to taint the memory of David’s first Olympics by hogging his friends. 

If David doesn’t want to be with him, he at the very least shouldn’t have to be alone. 

The sky is pitch black tonight, the outline of what looks to be rather large clouds just only faintly visible as they blow by. His room is silent, and for the first time since he’d arrived, Patrick finds himself thinking that he can’t wait to go home. 

Toronto is a lot of things – Patrick could go on and on about the state of the housing market, or the fucking uselessness of the TTC, or also the general existence of the Gardiner Expressway – but it’s never this still. It’s never felt empty. 

At the back of his mind, something nags at him that maybe it’s not Vancouver that’s empty, or that empty has never been a problem before, and maybe it’s just him that’s creating flaws where there have never been any, but he shuts them down. 

He stares at the sky, sitting aimlessly by his window, until he sees the sun. 

At some point he must have passed out, right there on his little chair, because the next thing he’s aware of is far too much light when he opens his eyes, an uncomfortable ache at the nape of his neck, and the rapid, incessant tapping at his door. When he looks at the little digital alarm clock on the nightstand it indicates that it’s just past 9, which means that he must have gotten less than an hour and a half of sleep. 

For a moment, he considers letting the knocking go unacknowledged. Stevie can leave him alone for one day. 

When he goes to pull the curtains shut the knocking’s still ongoing – whoever’s out there is persistent as hell, and definitely not Stevie. She’d have been banging the door down by now. 

His body feels weird, compact and stiff in places it shouldn’t be, and he’s not quite able to stretch out properly by the time he reaches the door, his footsteps heavy, his eyes barely open, a yawn at his lips even as the door swings open. 

On the other side, David Rose looks at him wide-eyed in a moment all too familiar that Patrick would definitely make fun of if he were more lucid. 

“What the fuck,” David whispers at the sight of him, rudely. “Did you even sleep?” 

The fuzziness at the edge of his conscience is clearing bit by bit, his senses rushing back to him as he takes in the vision that is David Rose at his door before shaking his head. 

“An hour?” he says, uncertain. “Maybe two.” 

David shakes his head. “You need to sleep. This is a bad time. Is this a bad time?” He winces. “You go to bed. I’ll uh – I’ll come back.” 

“David,” Patrick calls out before he can help himself, reaching a hand out to put on David’s arm, and then, eyes widening, immediately removing it. “I – um, you’re here now. Did you…” he takes a deep breath, “did you want to come in?” 

David nods, and Patrick gestures for him to walk in, the door shutting behind him with a loud thud that surprises them both. 

They’re both standing quietly, now, neither daring to speak, and for the first time since he’s come to Vancouver Patrick is deeply aware of the silence that befalls them, of how uneasy it is. After a long moment, when he finally musters up the strength to look David in the eye, he’s staring right back. 

“Congrats,” David says with a little shrug, breaking the silence. “I should’ve seen it coming, honestly. Your – that’s a great team you have.” 

Patrick nods. “You too.” 

“Coach isn’t bad, either.” 

It’s quiet again, and it extends past the point of strict comfort, maybe five seconds, and then ten. Patrick opens his mouth, unsure of what’ll come out, but thankfully doesn’t have to find out when David speaks first. “Um, so I was a bit of a dick?” 

Patrick shakes his head. “Do you – do you wanna sit?” 

“No, I’m good, thank you.” 

“Okay.” 

David stares at him a moment longer, and then bursts out laughing. A humourless chuckle, most accurately, but a laugh of some sort nonetheless. “Really?” 

“What?” 

“You’re not gonna answer what I said?” 

“About what?”

David rubs his hand over his face, and Patrick can’t quite tell if he’s frustrated or angry or just plain tired. 

“I was a dick to you, Patrick.” 

Patrick shakes his head again, just as he did before. More vehemently, even. “No.”

“Of course I was!” David exclaims, taking a few steps forward, and then turning around and taking a couple steps again. “I was – I freaked out when Stevie… you know, when she said what she said, and I was always like, distant, or whatever, and then after the game –” 

“I’d be upset, too,” Patrick reassures him, because David did nothing wrong. Patrick was the one who was in over his head. “If I’d lost, I probably would have been a dick too. I was, actually, the first time. Remember?” 

David shakes his head, and he’s still pacing across Patrick’s floor. “That’s not the same. That was after one kiss.” 

Patrick shrugs. “This was after only a week.” 

“It didn’t feel like a week!” David shrieks, and then he stops pacing, wide-eyed. “I mean, it did. It just…” he walks forward, until his hands are on Patrick’s arms, and Patrick’s doing his best, his very best not to buckle under the weight of what the simple touch makes him feel, after these past few days. “Just admit that I was a dick.” 

“You were a dick,” Patrick repeats dutifully, finally, because David seems to want to hear it for some reason. 

“And I was – I was one foot out the door since the second you showed up behind me the other day. I was convincing myself that this,” he taps at Patrick’s bicep with his index, “was either not going to happen, or when it did it’d last a week and we’d both go home none the worse for it.” 

“Right,” Patrick swallows, because he’d – he’d started figuring that out, to some extent, but to hear it put so plainly, when Patrick had been convincing himself right from the beginning that this wasn’t what they had together… it stings. “And we messed that up a little. Should’ve talked more. I have to go back, and so do you, and you never wanted a relationship anyway, so it’s–”

“No, listen.” David interrupts him, firmly. “Sorry, that came out harsher than I expected.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hands still on either side of Patrick, firmly planted on his arms. “What I’m saying is I was a dick for all of that, too. To you and – and also to me.” 

Patrick frowns, but for the first time, something like hope flutters in his chest. “I don’t... What do you mean?” 

David breathes out. “It means I like you. A lot.” 

“I like you a lot, too,” he replies immediately, because that part was never a secret.

“And I was talking to Alexis, and New York isn’t all that far from Toronto, and my parents are there for the… you know, during offseason.” 

“What are you talking about, David?” 

David sighs.

“I’m saying that maybe I want to keep both feet inside the door with you.” He shrugs. “Just to try.” 

And Patrick still might be fighting off the effects of fatigue that threaten to flood in, but the way he sways a little on his feet just then has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the flicker of joy that ignites somewhere in him, yellow and bright and beautiful, because David – because trying is all he wants. 

“I’d like that.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”  

“And you’re – for even after we leave here?” 

Patrick frowns. “I mean, I was hoping that was what was being implied, yes.” 

Instead of answering, David leans forward then, sliding his hands up from Patrick’s upper arms to grab at his head, his fingers right behind his ear. He goes slow enough that Patrick sees it coming, that he could have stepped away if he were feeling hesitant at all, but of course he doesn’t. Hesitant is the one thing David Rose doesn’t make him feel. The kiss starts sweet and soft, just a firm press of lips together, but David’s holding Patrick tight against him and moving his mouth so incredibly against his that Patrick can’t help but sigh into it, leaving David with space to inexplicably press closer, like he might inhale Patrick whole. Patrick lets him. Patrick would let him do anything, just as long as he stayed right here right now.

They’re both smiling when they pull apart, still pressed against one another, and David’s eyes shine with glee when Patrick’s own finally flutter open. 

“Patrick,” he says as Patrick’s vision goes back into focus. 

“Yeah?” 

“You need to sleep.” 

“Yeah I do,” Patrick laughs, and kisses him again. 

David does insist on going back to his room while Patrick naps, despite Patrick’s very powerful persuasion tactics, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and the promise to be at his doorstep the moment that Patrick next wants him there. 

He’s sure to make good on it a couple of hours later, right outside Patrick’s door after receiving his text. Patrick’s far more coherent now, his mind a little more centered when he opens the door this time around. 

Unlike the last couple of times, David doesn’t look surprised when Patrick’s eyes lock on his, Instead, his shoulders sort of sag, just a little, and he smiles a soft, beautiful smile that feels like it could knock the breath right out of Patrick’s lungs. 

“Hi,” David says, like he does. He’s changed into this white and black sweater that Patrick can’t identify and he looks cozy and content, and so, so beautiful that Patrick can’t bear to wait long enough to reply before he’s leaning forward and kissing him. 

David makes this sort of yelping sound at the back of his mouth, surprised only for a second before he’s giving as good as he’s getting and Patrick can’t get over it, Patrick never wants this to end, Patrick could live in this moment forever. 

When they pull away they’re both smiling, still at the threshold to Patrick’s room. 

“Hi,” Patrick says, finally. “Glad to know I didn’t dream all that up, you know… earlier.” 

“No,” David replies, just as soft. “Although I was sort of concerned you’d forget it? You were…” he makes this ridiculous face and wiggles his hand in front of Patrick’s face a little, likely meaning to gesture some kinder way to convey the fact that Patrick was a second away from dropping to the floor the last time he was at this door, and Patrick laughs as he steps closer to him, into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him. 

“Didn’t forget,” he confirms. 

“Mm, lucky me.” 

They head down to the atrium hand in hand, touching and talking through the smoothies David gets them both. After a fair bit, it almost begins to feel like the last few days had been nothing more than a cruel concoction of Patrick’s mind. It’s not everything for them to be back here, Patrick knows – there’s still a whole lot of real life to figure out once they get out, but it feels like the first returning flicker of what he’d felt that night in the lounge, telling David about his career with the city of Vancouver as witness. 

It feels like the bone deep certainty that he has something worth trying to keep in his hands. 

And boy, is he gonna try. 

They stick together for the rest of the day, first down at the atrium and then outside and then at the dining hall. David keeps talking the whole time. He promises Patrick tea-flavoured ice cream from a New York City parlour and tells him of his favourite spot for cherry blossoms in Toronto. He tells Patrick of his intention to extend his contract with the Riveters and about the house his parents want to host him in once he gets back from the games. 

He keeps repeating that a flight from NYC to Toronto is less than two hours in length. He looks Patrick in the eye and says that he wants to learn to come home more. 

Patrick kisses him again after that one.

When they meet Stevie, Alexis, Rachel, and Twyla for dinner in the evening, none of them look particularly surprised to see the two of them walk up to the table holding hands. They spend the evening joking and laughing and eating and talking. At some point, Alexis’s eye catches his across the round table and she winks at him, smiling wide. He smiles back. Tightening his hold on David’s hand, he thinks that she might be the second most wonderful thing he’s gained during these games. 

And no, he hasn’t forgotten about the gold medals. 

He walks David to his room when they all part ways, heart tugging at the thought of letting him go even just for the night. David must sense it in him, because he places a hand on Patrick’s cheek, gentle, and asks him how he’d feel about the both of them heading to Toronto together so that David can spend a week at home before returning to the States. He kisses Patrick’s resulting smile with fervour. 

He’s back in his room and changed for the night when his door sounds again. Unsurprised at this point by Stevie’s impromptu requests to share his bed every couple of nights, he barely glances up from the handle when he lets her in, stopping in his tracks when he’s met with Rachel’s smiling face. 

“Mind if I come in?” she shrugs, still smiling, still amused, and he furrows his brows but lets her, because of course he lets her, he always does. She drops onto his bed and crosses her pyjama-clad legs over his comforter like it’s nothing, and though he’s still confused he joins her until they’re both under covers, side by side in bed in a position so familiar it makes his bones ache.

“Stevie kicked me out,” Rachel whispers, laughing, despite Patrick not having asked for an explanation. “Said it was about time I returned the favour and gave her the room for once.” 

“Ah,” he answers, understanding. “Glad to be of service, then.” 

She turns over so that she’s on his side and places a hand on his shoulder. “I mean, maybe it’s for the better,” she says. “When’s the last time you and I had a sleepover, just us?” 

Too long, he thinks. In recent years, sleepovers have always included Stevie or Twyla, and more often than not both. Time alone with Rachel has been scarce, and even then they mostly just take the opportunity to go out or do something together. This, just lying in bed, talking to one another… he doesn’t think they’ve done that, just the two of them, since they’d broken up. 

He’ll have to fix that. 

She smiles when he tells her as such, and they whisper and giggle into the tiny space between them that they’d carved only for each other practically a lifetime ago until sleep takes them over. It’s Rachel that drops first, her breaths slowing and evening out with her hand still in Patrick’s. He brushes her hair off her face and presses a kiss to the top of her head before letting go of her hand, twisting over to his other side to fall asleep as well. 

It’s just another in a long list of moments to cherish that Vancouver’s offered him.  

The next morning is spent cleaning and packing. Alexis heads to L. A. tonight, after the closing ceremony, just for a couple of days before she joins them in Toronto sometime next week. She’s considering her options, she says, for after her degree. Stevie, Rachel, Twyla, and Patrick leave tomorrow – heading home to rest before the inevitable gold medal tour they’re about to be roped into. David’s coming with. He’s decided to spend a couple of days at his parents’ before he has to return to the States for his contract negotiations, recuperating and refamiliarizing himself, he makes sure to tell Patrick, with a hometown he counts on spending a lot more time in coming forward. 

The closing ceremony is every bit the spectacle Patrick expects it to be and more, with an orchestral rendition of the anthem and a ceremonial performance by a local choir and a parade procession full of lights and colour to end all parades. The music is so loud Patrick can feel it in his ribcage, and the late February chill is settling on every inch of his exposed skin mercilessly, but he never once stops smiling. Not as the parade procession ends, not as the music stops, not as the crowd thins and they have to escort Alexis and her luggage out of the village and over to the airport. He watches Stevie embrace her before she walks through the gates, and he can’t help but feel emotional himself, laughing and poking at her nose the way she loves to do with him before letting her go. The five of them stick around as her flight boards, and in a surprising move, Stevie asks if they’d be willing to wait for her plane to take to sky. They do, and an hour and a half later, as Alexis’s plane speeds down the runway and begins its ascent, he’s got one hand in Stevie’s and the other in David’s as they silently watch her go. 

Fucking Vancouver, he thinks. 

Changed his goddamn life.