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It was one thing when James was a dickhead.
Like, an unfortunate thing, a fucking annoying thing, but just a thing. Holden has dealt with his share of dickheads in his life, and one of the reasons is that he can be a bit of dickhead himself. He knows this about himself. And that’s now, with adult experience and — possibly debatable — maturity. He was a lot worse when he was a teenager.
Ever since James iced him out instead of welcoming him to the team, Holden’s wondered if he’d done something back then. Said something stupid, because he said a lot of stupid shit back in the day, shit he wouldn’t really blame someone for holding it against him. That pathetic act when he was a kid, trying so hard not to give anyone a reason to think he was any different from the rest of the group, always taking shit too far. A little like the difference between someone speaking with an accent versus mimicking an accent. One’s just the way someone talks. The latter’s a kind of approximation, but mostly an insult. And fuck did Holden land on insulting a lot of the time back then.
Holden’s a little too quick to laugh at some things, too slow to laugh at others. Too tightly wound, launching himself from place to place because otherwise he’ll fucking snap. He can’t hide that shit, though fuck knows he tried. Mostly he’s given up at this point, but at nineteen? Nineteen he stepped on a lot of toes, fucking up the dance. Him stepping on James’ toes would have been understandable. James holding a grudge almost a decade later would be a little intense, but intense seems right on brand for him, so it’d make sense.
But no. Holden didn’t say something, do something, jab somewhere a little to the left of where he meant to, didn’t even take a dumb call at the wrong time and mouth off about it after. Holden didn’t do shit that James is holding against him, because James doesn’t remember him at all.
The thing is, Holden’s been accused of being a lot of things. A dickhead, asswipe, cocksucker, asshole — let’s just say if dicks or asses are involved, he’s been called it. Every way you can accuse someone of being dirty he’s been called too, and in multiple senses of the word. Been accused of being lazy, then in the next breath been accused of never slowing down. Been called a smartass right after he’s been called a fucking idiot. Told to chill then told to wake the fuck up. He’s — whatever that poet they studied in high school that Fee told him after was gay as fuck says. Holden is vast, he contains multitudes.
But he has never once in his life been called forgettable. Yet either James is low-key the best actor Holden’s ever met, which seems unlikely, or Holden made zero impression on him during a stretch of weeks.
James’ hotel room had been across the hall from Holden’s during the round robin stage. They’d put them on a fucking line together during some of the scrimmages. They were great together, to the point where Holden was surprised when they never tried that line during a game, but everyone knows that coach knows best and you keep your mouth shut regardless of whether you disagree with his decisions. Even Holden learned that eventually. But nothing. No memory of Holden whatsoever. Holden would be impressed if he wasn’t so furious about it.
If James thinks Holden’s annoying now, he has no fucking clue just how annoying Holden is when he’s trying to be. That’s literally in his job description, right after ‘score goals’ and well above ‘make defensive plays’: goad the opponent into taking stupid penalties, preferably without taking one himself. Holden can jaw with the best of them: he’s weaponized his terrible fucking personality, takes that show on the road with him.
Holden is the fucking master of irritation.
*
“Babe,” Fiona says. “I know better than to tell you not to take it personally.”
“That’s good,” Holden says. “Since it’s hard not to take shots against your personality personally.”
“Is it even a shot against your personality when it’s that inaccurate?” Fiona says. “Forgettable is like, the opposite of you.”
“Except apparently not,” Holden says.
“Maybe the dude’s just got a shitty memory on top of the shitty attitude,” Fiona says. “Be the bigger man.”
“I genuinely don’t know—“
“Be the not literally bigger man, Holden,” Fiona says. “Be the better man.”
But he doesn’t want to.
*
Holden’s paid a lot of attention to what pisses people off over the years, put a lot of effort into turning that into ammo. It’s an innate talent of his, don’t get him wrong, he’s all-natural annoying, but it’s one thing to occasionally piss someone off and have no idea how you did it, and a whole other thing to know exactly what you did, then do it on purpose to win games. One makes him the annoying kid in class who got groans whenever he opened his mouth, even if he was saying something totally innocuous. The other makes him a dude who smiles and waves at his opponent while he’s getting held back by two linesman and threatening to fucking murder him.
He likes the second one better.
The first rule of pissing off an opponent without getting nailed to the wall by the refs is to find something that pisses them off excessively. Keyword: excessively. And the usual shit doesn’t work — calling someone a dick sucker would piss most dudes off, but if a ref feels like it, that can get you thrown out of the game for hate speech. Not that they usually give a shit, a few particular refs aside, but it’s not like Holden considers it a good insult anyway. He likes dick suckers. World would be a sadder place without them: for one, it would be a world without him.
The racist, homophobic, intolerant shit — that’s out. It’s against the rules, and Holden isn’t the kind of guy who’d say it even if that wasn’t the case. Anything that’s out of a dude’s control, he doesn’t touch. He won’t even mock a dude’s hair color: guy had nothing to do with shit he inherited. His stupid fucking haircut? That was a decision. Mock away.
Again, excessive’s the rule. All it takes is a quick skim of someone’s social media, and you’ll find something the dude’s abnormally protective of — if he’s a truck guy, you mock his truck. Country music guy, you mock his shitty taste in music. Dog person? Talk shit about his dog. Not threats or anything like that — Holden’s not a dog-threatening monster — just something that sounds completely innocuous when you’re trying to explain to a ref why you jumped a guy. ‘Golden retrievers are overrated as fuck, get a personality’, or ‘poodle was a bold choice’, hell, even ‘cats are better’. Dog people are super fucking weird about cats.
Thing is, when the adrenaline’s up, blood pumping, it matters less what an opponent says and more how he says it, whether his grin’s pissing you off, if he just snuck a sly elbow into your ribs right after his comment about how it must have hurt, getting traded for future considerations. Not even worth a bag of pucks, fuck.
‘It’s not what you say, it’s how you said it.’ People said that shit a lot to Holden, growing up, enough for him to know that it’s true, and that he’s fully capable of utilizing that for evil.
If he had to guess, judging by the way James talks, the shit he gets annoyed by, the thing he’s excessive about is professionalism. It is, at the very least, a good place to start.
*
“Morning James,” Holden says.
James grunts.
“Pretty unprofessional to ignore your linemate’s friendly morning greetings,” Holden says. “Especially considering you’re the captain of the team. Supposed to set an example and all.”
James stops, and Holden waits.
“I’m sure people would understand, considering the greeter,” James says, and then keeps going.
“Well fuck you too,” Holden mutters, and considers that one a partial victory.
*
When you’re surveying an opponent, filling your arsenal, it’s important to figure out who and what matters to them. That’s the easy shit, the low-hanging fruit. Call a dude’s girlfriend ugly or his sister hot and you’re golden. Hell, call his sister ugly and his girlfriend hot and you’re still probably golden. ‘Your mama’ is both a classic and a cliche for a reason. A full half the dudes in the league have daddy issues — you go to an elite level hockey game, any age group, you’re going to see men screaming at their kids from the stands, suddenly understand exactly why a bunch of grown ass men are touchy as shit if you so much mention their fathers.
In Holden’s case, he manages to brush off the obvious shit, parents included, but if someone said a word about Fee they’d probably regret it real quick.
In James’ case, well —
*
“Where’s your shadow at?” Holden asks.
James looks up from his phone with a distinctly unimpressed expression. Holden doesn’t know if it’s for the question or just in response to his existence.
“What,” James says flatly.
“Where’s your shadow?” Holden asks. “You know, enormous, unnervingly friendly, puts up with your sullen ass for some reason?”
“Finn’s currently with the athletic therapist,” James says, then, “Why? Did you need to ask him something?”
“No,” Holden mutters, and slinks away.
In hindsight, the majority of Holden’s comments about Finn were just weirdly repackaged compliments. Finn has no shortage of faults. He looms. He gets all squirrelly the second there’s tension. His laugh is hilariously high pitched for someone his size. He’s willingly friends with James. That says terrible things about him right there.
Holden can do better.
*
When all else fails, call ‘em names.
No, not insults.
Names.
*
“Jamie,” Holden says. “Jame-o. Jamester.”
James is doing a truly admirable job of ignoring him. It’s actively infuriating, makes Holden want to jump up and down, wave his arms, fucking anything to get rid of that placid look on James’ face. Because he’s not five years old, he restrains himself to more mature behavior. Holden uses third grade tactics at minimum. Mostly the junior high shit.
“J-Dawg,” Holden says. “Jimmy. Jimbo. Jiminy Cricket.”
James does not like that one, judging by the shoulders. Holden delightedly takes note and continues.
“Jameson,” Holden tries. He’s running dry, so he switches gears and heads into last name territory. “Sonny. Sunshine. Jerick.”
“Jerick isn’t a real name,” James says tightly.
Apparently that’s what it takes. Jerick is what it tasks.
So be it. Jerick it is.
“That’s kind of bigoted against Jericks, dude,” Holden says, and James, no exaggeration, snarls at him before storming out of the room.
It’s kind of scary, honestly. But mostly a sign of a job well done.
*
“He’s genuinely going to shank you,” Fiona says.
“Probably,” Holden says.
“He’s going to shank you in your sleep,” Fiona says.
“Nah,” Holden says. “He’s all about sportsmanship. He’d definitely make sure I saw it coming first. Maybe even give me a chance to say my last words. They’ll be ‘tell Fiona I regret nothing’, for the record.”
“Babe,” Fiona says. “Do you think this is going to improve your relationship with him?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Holden says.
“And the rest of your teammates?” Fiona asks.
Holden considers this. “I’m mostly saving it for when it’s just the two of us, if it helps. Keeping shit under my breath if it isn’t.”
“That does not help,” Fiona says.
Holden didn’t really think it would.
“Do you want me to come this weekend?” Fiona asks.
Holden does, desperately. But he knows Fiona’s been working overtime lately because her boss is obsessing about some performance metric shit, and that Sean’s birthday’s next week and Fiona is panicking about meeting his sister, who is apparently ‘a little picky about his girlfriends’, which sounds like code for ‘judgy as fuck’ to both him and Fee. She’s got enough on her plate without coddling his sorry ass.
“I’m okay,” he says.
“I’ll be there when the Bruins come to town for sure, okay?” Fiona says. “I already booked the next day off.”
“I love you, Fee,” Holden says.
“Was that a ‘thanks for doing that’ I love you, or a ‘I may be shanked by my captain by then’ I love you?” Fiona asks.
“Both,” Holden says.
“I love you too,” she says.
“I’ll regret nothing,” Holden says.
“Oh babe,” Fiona says. “Believe me, I know.”