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James has been a giant bitch since Holden took that boarding call. Every single tactic Holden’s used since the start of the season? Completely useless. Holden takes one call for a borderline hit? James loses his fucking mind. In public, full on bawling him out on the bench as if cameras don’t exist and the media isn’t downright horny for drama.
They’re fucking lucky that it was on a TV timeout and, as far as Holden’s aware, nobody saw it, or at least nobody who makes their career out of slinging shit. There may be fewer journalists covering hockey in Hartford than in Boston, but he doubts they’re less eager to sink their teeth in wherever they sense weakness. Well, maybe a bit. There were some real dickheads covering the Bs, and some of them seemed to have a hate boner for him. But still, James is captain, and allegedly big on professionalism, and that does not jibe with tantrums on the bench.
It might jibe with pretending he doesn’t exist in practice, Holden doesn’t know. What he does know is he’s getting really fucking sick of James acting like Holden killed a dude. Like full on cold shoulder, Holden is the shit scraped off the bottom of his shoe, thousand yard stare if Holden dares to speak to him. If Holden thought James was ignoring him before, well — he was, but this is a whole other level.
Typically James will drop the ‘Who’s Holden Chase? Oh, this guy?’ act as soon as they’re on the ice, it’s just the rest of the time he’s icing Holden out. That, or if something Holden says lands right, getting all huffy. But today? Today he has such a hard time acknowledging Holden that it’s interfering with practice.
Maybe that would be fine if he was just fucking himself over, but this is Holden’s job too. And poor Beanie’s, though the third time a drill fizzled out into failure he put his hands up, said, ‘work this shit out, guys’, and now he’s hanging around the bench, signing shit for fans. Holden’s pretty sure the only reason James hasn’t yelled at him again is because it’s an open practice. He’s absolutely positive that’s the only reason neither of them have gotten yelled at by the coaching staff: ol’ Dougie’s got the dagger eyes out, and he’s using them for all he’s worth, not that James seems to give a shit.
“Can we just do a few drills before you pretend I’m a speck of dirt again?” Holden asks. “You can yell at me all you want in the locker room, I’ll only tune ninety percent of it out.”
“I have no interest cooperating with you,” James says. There’s absolutely no inflection, but Holden swears the words are dripping with disdain nonetheless.
“For Beanie’s sake?” Holden wheedles. “So he doesn’t get yelled at by the coaching staff for shit he has nothing to do with?”
“Considering this line was working just fine before you arrived, I assume they’ll correctly surmise that you are the problem in this situation, and hopefully they’ll get me and Ryan a linemate that doesn’t consider it a badge of honor to inflict traumatic brain injuries on unsuspecting opponents.”
That might be the longest thing James has ever said to him, and every single word of it lights Holden up in the worst way. He can’t think of a proper retort — instead what comes out is an acidic, entirely heartfelt, “Suck my fucking dick, Erickson.”
He’s cussing himself out hard enough after that he almost doesn’t notice that every single part of James goes bow-tight, before he’s abruptly skating away. Even his stride is sharp and furious, body language radiating fury in a way nothing Holden’s done before accomplished, unless you count the boarding. Not even Jerick. Not even close.
Which is such a cliche, for real, uptight heterosexual dude absolutely petrified with homophobia would be fucking boring if it wasn’t so dangerous. Like, an entire political party made it a massive part of their identity and it helps get them elected.
Holden’s so fucking tired at this point. Absolutely exhausted.
Doesn’t mean he won’t take advantage of it, though. Doesn’t mean that at all.
*
He doesn’t tell Fiona about his new plan, because Fiona won’t approve.
Not that he doesn’t tell Fiona things that she may disapprove of, because they’re honest with each other. He does a lot of things that don’t earn the Fiona Seal of Approval, and he usually tells her about them eventually.
But he’s learned over the years it’s better if he doesn’t tell her beforehand, because if Fee doesn’t approve, she’ll try to talk him out of it, all ‘are you trying to die’ and ‘babe I just worry about you’. And what’s worse is that she inevitably follows that up with some totally valid, completely logical statements that make Holden reconsider. He’d say she’s like the angel on his shoulder but she’s more like the brain in his head.
That and the part of him that turns to limp deadweight when he gets collared by an opponent, because it’s better to be called a pussy with his face intact than take a punch for the sake of ‘being a man’ or ‘the code’ or some shit. Better to be called a soft bitch than getting stitched. He fights a hell of a lot more than the keyboard warriors who call him a pussy, and he’s smart enough not to fight the kind of players who say it to his face. Whatever James says about ‘goon shit’, Holden is, in fact, the talent, and it’s not worth risking his face or his hands to fight if he can avoid it.
Holden wonders where James stands on that sort of thing. The distaste he’s made no attempt to hide no doubt warring with wanting to play the game ‘the right way’ or some other traditionalist bullshit, which means answering for yourself sometimes. Maybe he only fights players who slap him with their glove first.
Now Holden’s curious about how he does fight. He bets it’s either sad as fuck or straight up unhinged, and either way, that’s some ammunition he can add to his arsenal.
“What the actual fuck,” Holden says.
He’s never fought. Not a single goddamn time. Holden goes through Hockey Fights twice, the entire damn Whalers fight card the second time, in case something got mislabelled. Not a single punch thrown.
He checks Youtube, just in case, but the only thing under ‘james erickson fight’ is some after the whistle pushing and shoving before a couple fights break out, and James isn’t involved, just standing there, hand loosely fisted in his dance partner’s jersey, watching their teammates go at it. Georgie’s got a nasty right hook in him. Holden’s glad he never pissed him off when they were still opponents.
And that’s it. There’s nothing else.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Holden says to the ceiling.
What kind of monster doesn’t fight?
*
“Did you know James has never fought?” Holden asks.
“Babe,” Fiona says. “I think this thing with James is getting kind of—“
“Never,” Holden says. “Not once in his entire NHL career.”
“Like…never?” Fiona asks. “Not Holden for ‘less than me’?”
“Never like the actual meaning of never,” Holden says.
“That’s impressive as hell,” Fiona says.
“Don’t be on his side!” Holden says.
“I’m not on his side, that is objectively impressive as hell,” Fiona says. “He’s been in the league almost as long as you have, and what are you at?”
Seventeen, but who’s counting.
(Hockey Fights, that’s who, though some are a stretch in Holden’s opinion, maybe a jab or two but nothing that got called for more than roughing. Also, according to them Holden only won 41% of them, so fuck them. And yes he knows they’re not the ones deciding the winner, it’s just random fans. Fuck them anyway. Also fuck the fans. He won at least half those fights. Georgie’s not the only one with a mean right hook.)
“Like maybe eleven,” Holden says. “But people have to exaggerate.”
“That site still won’t take the other ones down, huh,” Fiona says.
“They don’t believe I’m me!” Holden says. Who the fuck else would care that much? Well, maybe the dude in Boston who has all those Chase jerseys. Or — had all those Chase jerseys. Holden’s still feeling bad about that guy.
“I voted you the winner every time,” Fiona says loyally. “Except the fight with Marcus.”
“Hey!” Holden says. She’s told him the first part before, but this is the first he’s heard of her not standing by the Holden Chase is Bomb at Fights party line. “That was at least a draw, Fee.”
“Yeah, but he only punched you after you talked shit about his husband,” Fiona says. “Which wasn’t bros. I’m still mad at you about that.”
“I told you,” Holden says. “There is no homo bros in hockey. I’m an equal opportunity shit talker. That’s equality, Fee.”
And anyway, it wasn’t even talking shit: it was a compliment, really. But he knows Fiona will be madder if he tells her what he did say. She likes the chirpy shit, a fine chirper herself, but some of the stuff that’s a little less borderline, more landing hard on the other side of the line, they’ve learned it’s easier if they don’t talk about it, because that means yelling and then stewing for a day or two until they both forget it ever happened. Maybe it’d be better now, with them not living together. Probably not, though. Days without talking to Fee would get real fucking lonely right about now.
She hasn’t mentioned the Rangers hit, and he genuinely doesn’t know if she hasn’t seen it, thought it was fine, or didn’t but has chosen not to talk about it, and he doesn’t really want to ask. He’ll stay on safer ground, like his refusal to provide preferential treatment based on sexuality, which, again, is equality. He’s just being fair.
“Well maybe there should be homo bros,” Fiona says. “I think it’d be nice if you’d show a little solidarity, Holden.”
“Ugh,” Holden says. He’s definitely not telling her about his idea now. She’d turn it into a whole thing. Solidarity, fuck. Already it’s team first, always fucking team first, this isn’t about you Chase it’s team first, no way he’s got the energy for playing nice with certain opponents because what, they both spend their extracurricular time sucking dick? No thank you. Holden’s got enough rattling around his head without adding that particular wrinkle.
“Did you call just to tell me James hasn’t fought before?” Fiona says.
“You did find it a genuinely impressive fact,” Holden says. “Also I’m waiting for dinner to get here, and you know how that goes if I don’t distract myself.”
She has literally wrestled his phone from his hands before, after maybe the fiftieth time he checked the app and loudly sighed. The only thing worse than waiting for food to arrive is having to go get it. Or going to get it. Or making it himself. Or grocery shopping.
“No other reason?” Fiona asks.
“Shit,” Holden says. It’s not her birthday — that’s Halloween, so even he can’t forget it — and it’s not his birthday, and he doesn’t think he promised to do anything lately.
He’s mentally scrolling through her family members — she has so many of them, he doesn’t know how she keeps track, fuck knows he doesn’t — when Fiona interrupts with, “You didn’t forget anything important, babe.”
“Did I forget something unimportant?” Holden asks.
“I’m just wondering if there are any plans ticking away in that head of yours that you wanted to share,” Fiona says. “Some schemes, perhaps?”
“Pft, Fee,” Holden says. “You know me, I’m too mature for schemes.”
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” Fiona says.
“Plans are for losers,” Holden says.
“Sounds more like you,” Fiona says. “But I don’t buy it.”
“Anyway, I have to go,” Holden says.
“You do not,” Fiona says.
“Dinner’s here,” Holden says.
“It is not,” Fiona says. “I bet you called me as soon as you finished ordering, no way it came that fast.”
“Bye Fee, love you,” Holden says.
what plan is so bad you can’t tell me? Fiona texts him. He’d ignore it, but he’s just been staring at the little car in his Uber Eats app, willing his driver to leave the fucking parking lot already, so instead he replies with, your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system
coward Fiona says, but Uber Eats is on the move, so Holden can go back to his show now that he knows food’s coming. Nothing to do with cowardice, just perfect timing.
*
“Morning sweet cheeks,” Holden says. He watches the shoulders, because everybody has a tell, and that’s James’. They get tense and creep right on up. It was more intimidating before Holden knew James has never thrown a punch. Well, maybe he has off the ice, but even guys who’d never dream of actually hitting someone outside the rink have dropped the mitts. Someone who doesn’t fight at all? That’s full on conscientious objector shit, no way the guy knows how to throw a punch.
After a moment, James’ shoulders slump back down, presumably because Holden didn’t follow up with anything.
“You ever heard of conscientious objectors, Jamie?” Holden asks.
“Yes, Chase, I also attended high school,” James says, that dismissive son of a bitch.
Holden gets rage dressed — a very inefficient way of going about things, since everything gets slammed against something else before he puts it on — while Beanie yammers in his ear about how he and his wife had a big fight over the couch they were going to buy. That it was their first real fight as a married couple, and even though it got blown way out of proportion, they got past it, and now they’re stronger than ever.
“What’s the moral of this story, Ryan?” Holden asks finally, because they’ve reached the end — they bought both couches and stuck them in different rooms, which is the kind of decision only a dude living in a huge ass house making bank could make. ‘Just buy a second couch’ is not real person advice.
“Sometimes you have to compromise,” Beanie says. Holden assumes he’s offering this nugget of wisdom in relation to Holden and James, but it’s not even remotely applicable to the situation, even if Holden squints and gets creative. It isn’t even applicable to his damn story.
“But you didn’t compromise,” Holden says. “You bought both of them.”
“That was the compromise,” Beanie says, nodding his head all sagely.
“Yeah, sure, cool,” Holden says. “Quick question: whose couch is the one guests sit on?”
*
Neither of Holden’s linemates are talking to him after warm-ups, which is fucking ridiculous. Holden wasn’t even the one with a secret couch scheme. He bets Beanie’s wife isn’t going to be his biggest fan either, now that he’s revealed her nefarious plan. Kudos to her, though, swinging the couch stalemate in her favor without Beanie even knowing.
Holden half listens to Doug’s pregame speech, knee bouncing. Guy’s a good coach overall, but he sucks at the public speaking part — the only words Holden can hear through his mumble are the fucks and the shits, though to be fair, that’s half of the speech.
“—fuck ‘em up, boys,” Doug ends with, and the team barks agreement.
They don’t fuck them up, but they soften them up a bit, falling behind by two and then catching up with a one-two punch, a shortie and then a beauty finish from James on the momentum swing, tic-tac-toe, Holden, Ryan, James. Holden guesses he doesn’t have to be talking to his lineys to work with them.
The grin cracks James’ face wide open, makes him look younger, almost boyish. The way it crumples when Holden joins him and Beanie in the celly, the perfunctory fist bump he gets, the mumbled ‘nice pass’ from Beanie, it all leaves a sour taste in his mouth as he’s following them on the fly-by past the bench, suddenly wondering how many of the guys offering up their fists would prefer it wasn’t him they were congratulating. He doesn’t say a word on the bench for the rest of the period, and if he was back on the Bruins someone would be asking what the hell was the matter with him, but he isn’t, and nobody’s saying shit.
Holden bounces his knee through the speech capping off first intermission. He swears, even if he still doesn’t understand half the shit Doug’s saying, it’s word for word what he was saying an hour ago.
“—fuck ‘em up, boys,” Doug says, and over the sounds of agreement from the team, Holden can hear James, low and tight, “Would you fucking stop already?”
Technically he could be talking to anyone. Hell, he could even be talking to Doug, wanting a little more variety in his speechifying. But Holden doubts it.
“Maybe if you ask me nicely, babycakes,” Holden says, and bounces his knee harder when James doesn’t reply.