Work Text:
Holden walks into the Whalers room with something dangerously close to excitement. A bit of trepidation too, sure — the Bruins and the Whalers have some recent history, and Holden doesn’t know how many of these guys he’s said or done shit to, but he imagines it’s not zero. And vice versa, but Holden’s a forgive and forget kind of guy.
But everyone here’s a professional, including him — allegedly — and the rivalries mean more to the fans than the players, most of the time. And it’s not all strangers here, thankfully. Holden’s played with Georgie and Grady and James in international shit. He got to know Lior when was bouncing between the Bruins and their baby bear AHL affiliate, though he’s probably going to be going down to the minors when all is said and done, so Holden doesn’t want to get too buddy-buddy, end up missing someone he doesn’t have to. He’s got enough of that on his hands until the move from Boston is a little less fresh.
Means Grady might be out too — not that the dude’s going down, but he’s practically a punchline when the trade deadline comes around, dude’s played so many places. James is C, and Georgie’s an A, so they’re probably safe enough. Not safe, no one’s really safe, but James is the face of the franchise and Georgie’s first pair D. Those are guys that don’t move unless they specifically requested it.
But whatever, plenty of new guys, plenty of people to meet, plenty of first impressions to make. Holden’s already tired of meeting people ten minutes in, frankly, but he can’t complain. He’s not Grady, packing his bags every time someone needs a depth piece, or Lior, bouncing up and down at management’s pleasure. Holden’s here to stay for awhile, and once things settle down a bit he can start holding onto names for more than the space of a breath, figure out who’s worth spending time with, getting to know better. In the meantime, he’s here to play.
Of course, the first damn thing his captain says is that Holden’s not going to play on the first line with him, face flat as he does, more matter of fact than insulting. Not that it isn’t an insult, obviously it’s a fucking insult, but he doesn’t say it like he’s trying to score a point, get a jab in, says it more like that’s the way he expects things to go, and he doesn’t give a shit if Holden knows it.
So that’s good. That’s a great start.
Outside of James, everyone’s friendly, everyone’s welcoming, all ‘great to have you here, Holden’ and ‘glad you’re on our side now instead of against us, Chase’, things you’re supposed to say to the new guy, because it doesn’t matter what shit you said or did before, team is team.
Holden tries to catch James at the end of the day, clear the air quick, because James is going to be his liney whether he likes it or not, but James looks at him the way like you might look at a fan who’s intruding, that mix of ‘can I help you’ but also ‘go away’.
Well, the way some of the guys look at fans, not Holden. Part of the whole thing, isn’t it? You play hockey well enough to make millions of dollars, you’re going to have fans, and least you can do is make meeting you a special experience for them, or at least make sure it isn’t a story they tell with the moral of ‘never meet your heroes’. Holden’s met a few of his by now. Doesn’t recommend it, frankly.
Whatever, it’s whatever. Holden’s got a reputation, maybe, and it’s not surprising someone who cosplays the clean cut Captain America schtick would be a bitch about it. And maybe it’s just tough love. You know, ‘tell someone they can’t do something just to make them try harder’. Reverse psychology shit.
Holden doesn’t remember James being a dick when they played together, but then, the U20 tourney lasted all of a couple weeks, years ago, and James didn’t say shit to anyone, stuck like glue to Greg the whole tourney. Holden thought he was shy, but shy doesn’t come up to someone on day one to tell them they’re not worth shit.
So who knows — maybe he isn’t shy, or maybe Holden took things the wrong way. He’s been told a time or two that he jumps to conclusions too quickly, takes shit at face value even if it wasn’t meant like that. Only one way to find out, really.
*
Or maybe James meant exactly what he said. Holden thinks it might be that one, considering James’ repeated insistence he meant exactly what he said, followed by the hunted looks whenever Holden got too close to him on the ice the rest of the day, like he was going to bolt like a gazelle. Kind of made Holden want to chase him around the ice, possibly while making threatening ghost noises, but he maturely resisted the urge.
“You know,” Fiona says. “He probably didn’t mean it the way you’re taking it.”
“O ho!” Holden says. “I knew you would say that, so I cornered him in the parking lot before training this morning.”
“Of course you did,” Fiona says. “By cornered do you literally—“
“He said it’s because I don’t deserve to,” Holden says.
“He said that?” Fiona says. “Like actually said that? Like not you doing that subtext thing you do that’s right occasionally and wildly wrong the rest of the time?”
Holden would dispute her usage of ‘wildly’, but whatever.
“Word for word,” Holden says. “No subtext needed.”
“What the fuck?” Fiona says. “What is wrong with this guy, he’s not that good.”
“That’s what I said!” Holden says, then, “Yeah can I get an iced coffee with skim milk? And a chocolate glazed. Wait. Two chocolate glazed.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting Dunkin’ after training camp,” Fiona says.
“Take a man out of Boston,” Holden says. “Plus I need this if I don’t want to pass out before dinner even arrives. Do you want me to die of exhaustion, Fee? You do not.”
He’s definitely coming back and chasing James around the rink if he does, though. Has to get his ghostly kicks somehow.
“Back to the subject,” Fiona says, as Holden’s munching his way through donut one. Donut two is for after dinner. That’s the plan, at least: its chances of surviving the drive really depend on how many red lights he hits, and if some jackass gets up his ass at any point.
“What subject?” Holden asks.
“Erickson,” Fiona says. “What’s his deal?”
“Fuck if I know,” Holden says. “I don’t think I ever fucked him up or anything, but maybe I did.”
“Or a buddy,” Fiona says. “You’ve definitely taken a few Whalers out of the lineup over the years.”
“God save me from fucking buddies,” Holden says, then groans as he gets trapped at the longest light in the whole damn state of Connecticut.
Both donuts are crumbs as Holden pulls in to the complex where the team set up temporary accommodations for him. He swears it’s a fucking retirement home in disguise. There are so many passive aggressive notes on the message board he half reads whenever he waits in the lobby to meet a delivery guy, getting judgmental looks from everyone who walks in the door, probably wondering whose long-haired grandson was loitering in — gasp — basketball shorts. Someone’s going to keel over from the shock of seeing his ankles one of these days.
“I’m good enough to play with him, right?” Holden says, interrupting Fiona’s update about her third worst co-worker.
“Obviously, babe,” Fiona says. “Complete no brainer.”
“Right?” Holden says, then, “Okay, so what was Marla’s excuse for stealing your shit this time?”
“Apparently she’s a big Whalers fan,” Fiona says. “And we must just have the same pen. What a funny coincidence, us both being fans of the Whalers! I told her we should catch a game together the next time you come to town and she agreed. The woman does not back down from her bullshit.”
“Maybe I should send her a care package,” Holden says. “You know, all sorts of Whalers shit for her office, since she’s such a huge fan.”
“That’s actually evil, please do it,” Fiona says, then, “I miss you.”
Holden swallows. “You too, Fee.”
“You home?” she asks, “Or — lodgings, or whatever.”
“Yeah,” Holden says.
“Call me when you’re done dinner?” Fiona asks. “If you’re still conscious at that point. We can watch something together.”
“For sure,” Holden says, brushing crumbs off his shorts as he opens the car door.
*
He feels better, walking into training camp the next day. Duly assured that he hasn’t read too much into it, and Fee’s biased, but she also doesn’t hesitate to tell him when he’s reading between lines that aren’t actually there. This isn’t Holden’s fuck up, these aren’t Holden’s hang ups, and clearly James has some issues that have nothing to do with him. Fiona was only half paying attention by that point on their respective drives to work, multitasking listening to Holden and swearing at some asshole tailgating her, but even so, she agreed.
Holden will be a professional, because that’s what he is. He doesn’t have to be friends with all his teammates. Fuck, he butted heads with a good half of the Bruins, that didn’t make them any less team. James doesn’t like him, that’s fine: they can still work together.
“Morning James,” Holden says in the most formal, ‘hello fellow professional’ voice he has, the one he uses for meeting important people he’s supposed to impress. Not that James is important, not that Holden wants to impress him, just — well, he is important to Holden’s career, and if they’re going to be linemates, it’s better if they get along or whatever. They had a rocky start for some reason, but they’re pros. Pros can work with anyone.
James sighs loudly and then, without a word, side skates over to where the goalies are congregating, awkwardly hovering outside the goalie gossip circle rather than stooping to acknowledge Holden’s existence.
It’s only then that Holden actually starts to get pissed.
*
Schneider finds him during the lunch break. He doesn’t raise his eyebrows at Holden’s beverage choices — Red Bull, both regular and sugar free, to keep things balanced, plus Diet Coke, because bubbles, also more caffeine, and water, because water — which nets him immediate points.
“Hey, Chaser,” Schneider says. As far as his nicknames go, it’s not Holden’s favorite, but it’s not his least favorite either. If he gets called Catcher in the Rye one more time — it’s not even short. The whole point of hockey nicknames is to be quick and easy to remember, which Catcher in the Rye is not, and then dudes are yelling ‘Catcher’ on the ice when ‘Chaser’ is literally right there, all because his parents were the only Americans of their generation to never read Catcher in the Rye in high school, and somehow had no idea his name already had some prior meanings that weren’t just his grandfather’s mom’s maiden name or whatever the fuck.
Anyway, he can deal if Chaser’s his Whalers handle.
“Schneider,” Holden says, after a belated pause. He’s heard about fifteen different nicknames used for the guy already, and he’s not sure which one’s the official one, or remember what his actual name is. First name, at least: dude was been enough of a pain in his ass opponent that Holden clocked the name and number long ago. When in doubt, use the last name. Nobody’s going ‘don’t call me that’ when it’s on the back of their damn jersey.
“Finn,” Schneider says, with the friendly steel of someone who expects you to abide by what they’re telling you. “Or Schneids. But my brother’s Schneids too, so that gets kind of confusing. Finn’s good. Can we talk?”
Holden’s tempted to say sure and not move a muscle, but Finn hasn’t done shit to him, so instead he chugs the rest of his Red Bull, grabs his sugar free one, and follows Finn out of practice facility’s conference room, which has been re-purposed to be a grab and go lunch spread. Holden hopes the spread’s better at XL, that’s all he’s going to say. Fucking tuna salad sandwiches? Come on.
“About James—“ Finn says, as soon as they’re out of earshot of half the team.
He pauses then, like he’s not sure what to say, and Holden’s suddenly dying to hear how he finishes the sentence. Will it be excuses, or will it be some convoluted apology, or will he talk about James the way people introduce particularly dickish pets: ‘that’s James. He’s not friendly, he doesn’t like children, and he bites, so keep your distance’.
“James,” Holden prompts.
“He takes awhile to warm up to people sometimes,” Finn says.
“That is an excellent quality to have in your team captain,” Holden says.
Finn frowns, and Holden reminds himself that he doesn’t want to actively antagonize team leadership. He can apparently do that without trying, so why bother putting in the effort?
“So the thing is, Schneider,” Holden says.
“Finn,” Finn says, completely interrupting Holden’s dramatic pause.
“Finn,” Holden allows. “The thing is, it kind of feels less like James is slow to warm up to people generally and more like he has something against me personally.”
“He is slow to warm up to people,” Finn says, which does not actually sound like a denial.
“Hm,” Holden says.
“I’m sure he’ll like you when he gets to know you a little better,” Finn says. He seems very much like the sort of person who believes saying things will manifest them. Think good things and good things will happen, believing in yourself is half the battle, winners don’t call themselves losers shit.
“Everyone does,” Holden says. “I have been assured that I am a delightfully charismatic person.”
Finn laughs. “I can see that.”
See, Holden can manifest too.
*
“So like, on the bright side,” Holden says, taking a sip of iced coffee at the longest red light in Connecticut. Again. “This afternoon I spent all the dead time between drills corrupting the prospects, and James had this sour lemon face, but obviously couldn’t say shit without sounding like a dickhead, so that was fun.”
“Sounds like it,” Fiona says.
“Also I sent a bunch of Whalers merch to your office,” Holden says. “So, you know, Whalers Number One Fan is about to be—“
“Babe!” Fiona says. “You love me.”
“I love you,” Holden says. “Did you know there are whole ass Whalers rugs? Because there are, and two are coming your way. Feel free to keep one for yourself or just give Marla both of them to really ruin her day.”
“You love me so much,” Fiona says.
“At least two rugs worth,” Holden agrees, and, still fucking stalled at the light, digs into his box of munchkins. He suspects they aren’t going to last the drive, but that’s why he bought a back up donut.
He wonders how his nutritionist is. She works for the Bruins, so that’s one more person he’s never going to see again. Which is a shame — he liked her. They had a good rapport, and she cut him some slack when he wasn’t perfect. He doesn’t have one in Hartford, and he doesn’t know if he just hasn’t met them yet, or if he’s going to have to arrange things himself, in which case, he guesses he’s never going to have a nutritionist again. Oh well.
Someone honks, and Holden blinks to a green light, does the rest of the drive on semi-autopilot while Fiona tells him about their new hire and the rest of the munchkins disappear. No Fiona when he walks in the door, but he has his phone cradled to his ear instead, Fiona telling him about a great sandwich place that opened up next to their second favorite dive bar.
“Do you think Hartford has two whole dive bars?” Holden asks.
“You picked it, babe,” Fiona says. “And these things have no-takebacksies all over them.”
Holden sighs. “I know.”
“Eat something other than sugar, hey?” Fiona says. “I worry about your teeth.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Holden says.
“I’ll come down next weekend,” Fiona says. “Watch your first game in green and gray. Well, I know it’s just preseason but — that sound good to you?”
Holden squeezes his eyes shut, exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, babe, that sounds good.”
“You got this,” Fiona says.
“Of course I do,” Holden says, and smiles, tight, even though she isn’t there to see it.