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James has never liked the adage ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Never enjoyed the stories about genies granting wishes that become regrets, never understood why someone wouldn’t consider the matter carefully, know exactly what they were asking for, what exactly their wishes would entail.
It always smacked of laziness to him, intellectual and otherwise. Of course if someone never considers the potential drawbacks of their aspirations they’ll be surprised to find out those exist. No one becomes famous without giving up their privacy, enters a relationship without giving up their independence, becomes a parent without giving up their time and energy. Of course work always takes effort, no matter how much of a dream come true that work may have been. Blood, sweat, and tears never implied an easy ride to him. Everything that he hopes for, strives for, works for, he knows there’s a price to it, and he doesn’t work toward it unless he knows it’s a price that he’s willing to pay.
James has been hoping for an improvement on his wing since he broke into the league. It’s been a top priority for the front office for years now. ‘Get you someone who can keep up,’ they would say to him, ‘and who knows what you’ll be capable of’.
Well, they know now.
James takes a steadying breath, another. Longer on the exhale, repeated until he feels emptied out, hollow, and something like calm. It’s only then he takes the key out of the ignition.
James has never dreaded practice before. Not when he’s tired and sore and every drill hurts. Not when he’s under the weather — he’s been told to go home more than a few times over the years, even though he only ever comes when he isn’t contagious; he’d never compromise the team with something communicable — or in a foul mood. Not even when the team’s doing particularly poorly and he knows that he’s potentially walking into a bag skate. James loves the game, but he needs the practice. Needs the repetition of them, the structure, the ritual, needs to do the drills over and over until he can do them with his eyes shut, sometimes even literally.
The car door slams behind him as he gets out, and James winces and gives the roof of his car an apologetic pat. He lingers there a moment, but he’s already cutting it close to late — he burnt his first attempt at breakfast, then couldn’t find his phone, or his wallet, or his car keys, like Chase had followed him home and sowed havoc there too.
He knows exactly how absurd that sounds, but at the same time it isn’t something he’d put past Chase. He picks and he picks and he picks, like his life’s goal is finding James’ limit, and failure only makes him more determined. James has had teammates he’s disliked before, even teammates he’s hated being in the same room with, but he’s never been so dimly furious with one all the time, particularly not a linemate.
Chase has graduated to making stick in ass jokes about James, smirking like he thinks he’s clever. It’s a chirp James has heard a number of times, unoriginal. It’s never bothered him before, and it doesn’t bother him now. Or, it wouldn’t, but Chase’s chirping is constant, and James has to do his job with someone by his side, mouth always moving, calling him sweetheart and darling and love because he can tell just how little James likes it.
This is the cycle, over and over: jokes that get a little too close to places James does not let intersect with his career — baby, honey, Jamie, always fucking Jamie, as if he has any right, and then, when James inevitably snaps at him, which is exactly Chase’s aim, for no reason James can ascertain, out come the stick in ass jokes.
Ryan huffs a laugh at the latest one, then shoots James an apologetic look. He’s always had a juvenile sense of humor, so James can’t really hold it against him, though he does wish he’d grow up already.
“Are you done now?” James asks. “Because this is growing tedious, Chase.”
“Tedious,” Chase repeats, and James doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice, but possibly it’s just an educated guess, since it seems like Chase is always smirking. And it is tedious, that relentless grate. It leaves James exhausted, composure frayed to tatters at the end of every day. And then he walks into practice and Chase starts all over again.
Perhaps tedious isn’t the word, but he’ll stand by it: anything else would please Chase too much, and James isn’t interested in doing that.
Chase huffs out a sound, a laugh, perhaps, or a sigh. Offense, though if it is, he has no right to be offended, not when every single altercation they’ve had, he’s the one who started it.
Or maybe it’s just exhalation, and the only reason James hears it is because Chase has closed what paltry distance there was between them, taken all the space James reserves for himself. James can’t even stand without disruption, lately.
“You’re so fucking transparent, Jamie,” Chase says right in his ear, so close James can feel the heat of his breath. James grits his teeth, wills himself not to react. He knows what Holden Chase does to opponents, and apparently that applies to teammates as well. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction of getting the response he’s looking for. Whatever he thinks he knows about James, he doesn’t.
“Just ask me to suck your dick already, sweetheart,” Chase murmurs.
Everything in James goes hot and blank and red. The fist he swings blindly just hits air, Chase’s reflexes quick enough to avoid the punch — he probably has plenty of fucking practice — and Finn’s over almost as quickly, wrapping an arm around James’ chest.
Awareness returns to James all at once — Finn’s restraining grip, Chase’s stunned face, the echoing silence of the rink around him. Every single one of his teammates is looking at him, not to mention the coaching staff. It was a closed practice, but if it hadn’t been the reporters would have seen it too, tweeting as fast as their fingers could move.
James skates right off the ice, and Doug isn’t far behind, following him down the tunnel.
“The fuck was that, Erickson?” Doug says. “The fuck he say to you?”
“Nothing,” James says. “Nothing.”
“You ever do that on my ice again I’ll fucking scratch you, do you fucking hear me,” Doug says, and then stalks back out to the rink, not bothering to wait for the ‘yes Coach’ he knows he’d receive.
“Nothing to fucking see here, get back to work!” Doug yells at the Whalers presumably still standing around.
James’ hands are shaking almost too hard to get his equipment off, but he does his best, tries to be as quick as he can. He needs to not be here when practice ends, when they all come streaming in, Chase included. Needs to be gone before Finn comes looking for answers, which he suspects will be soon.
James has trouble getting his key in the ignition, blows out his breath and tries again. He offers his customary wave at the parking attendant as he leaves the garage, carefully maintains nine and three on the drive home, hands clenched white where they’re not chapped pink from the dry rink air. He hits red at every light, it feels like, and doesn’t get home much earlier than he would if he’d left practice with everyone else. They’ve probably all headed out now, those who aren’t lingering, saying ‘what the fuck was that?’ to Chase, who’s saying who knows what in response. He could be saying absolutely anything; James isn’t there to stop him.
Whatever Chase thinks he knows about James, he doesn’t. But he better keep his fucking mouth shut all the same.
James heads inside long enough to get some water, pressing the cool glass against his forehead, his cheeks, before he gulps it down, refills it. Then he goes outside to wait. He swipes a few fallen leaves off the top step of his porch, sitting down. It’s a nice day, crisp and autumnal. His neighbors have all put up Halloween decorations — they’re playing on Halloween, thankfully, so James doesn’t have to worry about trick-or-treaters. It’s easiest when he can simply say ‘I have a game’. Nothing supersedes that, at least nothing he’s encountered yet.
He’s finished his second glass when Finn’s SUV pulls up, right on schedule, and parks behind his car. His hair’s damp, like he rushed. James imagines his phone is full of unanswered questions, what happened? and are you ok?, then can I come over?, and finally, I’m coming over. He didn’t look. He was trying not to think about it.
“I know,” James says, before Finn says a thing.
Finn stands over him, solid as an oak. “Never seen you throw a punch before, Sonny.”
For such a neutral statement, his disappointment comes across loud and clear. James still doesn’t know how Finn does it. He doesn’t ask, just in case Finn doesn’t know he’s doing it, the power he has. Not that Finn would use it against him, but even so.
“It wasn’t a punch,” James says. Which isn’t true – it was a punch, though he did not punch Chase. He amends it. “I didn’t punch him.”
Finn sighs.
“He baits me constantly,” James says. “And it’s not — he’s doing it on purpose, Finn. I know you said it’s just him, but — he’s doing it on purpose.”
“Probably,” Finn says. “Yeah.”
“You’ve punched people before,” James says.
“On the ice,” Finn says, then, “Don’t start, you know what I meant,” before James can point out that they were on the ice today. He means in a hockey context, and while James could argue that was the case today, it wouldn’t be true. James is fine being right on a technicality, but he doesn’t like to lie. And he never lies to Finn.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” James says.
It says a lot about Finn that he doesn’t retort to that — James wouldn’t have been able to resist in his place. He just sits down beside him on the stairs, shoulder brushing James’ as he wraps his arms around his knees.
“It can’t just be that he’s dirty,” Finn says. “We’ve had dirty teammates before, and you never reacted like this. I would’ve noticed.”
“Didn’t exactly befriend them either,” James says.
“There’s a big difference between not befriending someone and throwing a punch, Jamie,” Finn says.
James flinches.
“I lost my temper,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”
“What did he say to you?” Finn says.
James doesn’t say anything. He won’t repeat it, but he can’t say something generic like ‘something homophobic’ either. Technically it wasn’t. Technically it was a come on, and James is sure Chase is aware of that exact technicality, because everything he’s been saying has been more the sort of thing James might hear from some prick at a bar than an opponent during a game. Not that he goes to bars. Those bars. Not anymore.
“Does he remind you of someone?” Finn asks. “Someone who picked on you, or—“
“You know it wasn’t like that,” James says, because it wasn’t, though Finn never seems to believe him.
Finn was picked on, and badly, which James has a hard time with, though he knows his confusion’s because he can’t help picturing Finn now, rather than how Finn describes himself as a kid; a little chubby, a little awkward, very shy. As kind then as he is now, James is sure, but James doubts his being kind would have deterred bullies. It might have even provoked them.
No one’s ever called James kind. They never bullied him either, though. People started throwing words around when he was barely in elementary school — prodigy, phenom, future star. Everyone was very nice to him, though so often it came with expectations that James couldn’t figure out. They wanted him to keep playing hockey as well as he did, that’s about as far as he got. And he did that, put all of himself into it, but he wasn’t doing it for any of them. He wasn’t even doing it for himself. It wasn’t a choice he was making: it was the only thing he could do.
That kid would be elated to have a linemate as talented as Holden Chase, and he wouldn’t care about the rest. There are lines, and there are rules, and even if no one else ever seems to give a shit about them, James does. But that kid? That kid just wanted to be the best, and James is the best he’s ever been with Chase playing on his wing.
And he fucking hates it.
“What’d he say?” Finn asks again.
“Nothing worth throwing a punch,” James says.
“Well, yeah,” Finn says.
“I’ll apologize,” James says.
“James,” Finn says.
“I’ll apologize,” James repeats.
*
He apologizes to Chase, who takes it without the smirk James was expecting. He doesn’t even say anything snide in response, though possibly that’s because James apologizes to him in front of the team, before apologizing to them, and the coaching staff, for disrupting practice with his outburst. Leadership requires accountability. He understands that.
And he genuinely means the apology, the pledge to do better. Except then Chase comes sidling up to him during warm-ups, that ever-present smirk curling the corner of his mouth once again. James wonders if he knows how much it makes people want to punch him. Thinks he does, actually. Thinks that might be the entire point.
“So was that a no, or—“ Chase says.
It takes James a moment to process the question, and another, once he puts the pieces together, something hollow in his gut, to remind himself that there are hundreds, if not thousands of people in the stands right now, some reporters, almost all of them carrying digital recording devices. That he and Chase are being observed.
He stays very still, mouth hardly moving as he carefully enunciates, “Get the fuck away from me.”
He’d like to say it comes out even, controlled, but it doesn’t. It comes out frayed, edges tearing. Shaken.
“Pretty hot temper, for someone who doesn’t fight,” Chase says. “Anyone ever tell you that? Or is it just for me? Because if so, I’m flattered.”
James closes his eyes, but there’s no darkness to be found, the back of his lids illuminated orange under all the lights, like the echo after looking in the sun’s direction. There’s nowhere safe, not out here, and not back in the room, not if Chase is there.
“Get the fuck away from me,” he repeats, so quiet he can barely hear it himself over the the music, the pucks rattling against the boards, shot wide, the early crowds, waves of noise he forces out of his head, most of the time, that’s forcing itself back upon him now. So quiet he isn’t sure Chase hears him at all.
After a moment he feels a sudden absence, cold, empty space, but it isn’t until he hears a “Cap?”, said questioningly, a little concerned, that he can open his eyes.
It’s one of the rookies — James knows his name, swears he does, but right now he couldn’t begin to guess it. A star prospect, supposed to be a wunderkid, a little prodigy. Like James, they keep saying. Just like James. But James doesn’t see any of himself in him.
“You okay?” he asks.
James manages a smile, or close enough. Tight mouth, raised corners. He doesn’t like to lie, but he decided years ago that this doesn’t count, or he wouldn’t be able to get through his days.
“I’m fine,” he says, and when the kid hesitates, like he’s going to ask again, he says, a little too bluntly, “Get back to warm-ups,” and then he takes his own advice.