Work Text:
Holden stares at the ceiling, and, for the eleventh time in eleven minutes, he sighs.
He adds it to the mental tally, then closes his eyes, but a minute later he sighs again, and this time, he rolls out of bed, hitting the bedside lamp. It’s one, which is too late to start watching something — chances are he gets super into it instead of it lulling him to sleep — and he’s already tried all those exercises they get taught for stress management. He breathed like a Navy SEAL, he tensed and relaxed every single muscle in his body, probably spraining his brain in the process, he counted down from a hundred and ten. He did that six times, in fact.
And here he is, still awake. And now he’s thinking about James, which is what he keeps thinking about when he isn’t desperately thinking about box breathing, or bottles on the wall, or whether the brain counts as a muscle and if so how the fuck he untenses it. And he doesn’t want to think about James, because when he thinks about James he feels shitty, and feeling shitty is not conducive to sleeping.
It’s not like he’s been keeping Holden up at night or anything. The random bouts of insomnia happen regardless of what’s banging around his head. But if he isn’t going to sleep, he’d rather not be thinking about how James visibly tenses whenever Holden gets near him, like he’s doing the damn exercise himself, minus the relaxing part — or maybe the relaxing part happens when Holden leaves — and how he’s surgically attached to Finn even more than usual, probably because he knows Holden won’t say anything in front of him, and —
Maybe he should do push ups or something. Burpees. Sure as shit isn’t going to make it to 660 of those, and anything’s better than lying here stewing.
Fuck. Holden’s hungry.
If it’s too late to watch something, it’s definitely too late to shove junk food in his face, but sleep on an empty stomach isn’t going to happen. The gnaw of guilt is one thing, but an empty stomach is a whole other one, and he can try to sleep through one of those, but not the other.
Holden grabs a pair of basketball shorts, pulls on yesterday’s shirt, remembers his key card just before his hotel door shuts behind him, thank fuck. He’s internally debating what kind of Doritos to get — the vending machine’s limited selection will decide things for him, which is probably a good thing, because he’s completely torn — and he gets all the way down the hall before he notices the nook’s already occupied. Occupied by James, who Holden didn’t really peg as a vending machine user, especially at one in the morning, but then, Jamie’s been full of surprises, hasn’t he?
This wasn’t the moment Holden would have picked for clearing the air, but it’s not actually a bad one — better to do it privately, and yet Holden figures James would book it if Holden approached him alone. Not that Holden’s seen him alone anyway, with the way he’s shadowed by Finn. Even when he is alone, he’s solitary in a crowd, teammates all around while he has his nose in his phone or works out wearing chunky headphones that look like they should be attached to a discman or some shit. Hard to talk to him with a built-in audience.
But it’s late, the halls deserted, everybody tucked all snug in their beds except Holden and James. Now he’s trapped. Well, not literally, but Holden’s between the vending machine nook and freedom, and James would have to shove Holden aside if he wanted to get away. Not that Holden doubts a guy who threw a punch at him is capable of it, but he guesses he’s willing to take that chance. He leans against the wall, waits for James to notice him.
“I’ll be just a moment,” James says, pecking in his choice.
“No hurry,” Holden says.
It isn’t surprising that James can identify Holden solely by his voice — they’re calling out to one another on the ice every other day — but it’s fascinating to see the way James immediately tenses as soon as he realizes it’s Holden. Also depressing as fuck, but Holden decides to focus on the fascination rather than the ‘oh no, my feelings’ part. Always the best way to go.
“Hey,” Holden says, watching a can of Pringles drop from the top row. “Pringles. I would have pegged you more as a plain Lays guy.”
Oh good, Holden’s called him boring. Not that plain Pringles are super edgy or anything, but Holden basically went ‘I’m surprised you’re picking something only moderately boring, I thought you’d pick the most boring option, because you are the most boring’. Which, as ways to start building bridges goes, seems like problematic engineering.
James ignores his comment anyway. He mutely bends down to get his Pringles, but not before giving him a deeply suspicious look, like he expects Holden to jump him while his back’s exposed, which is kind of offensive. Holden only jumps people from behind in scrums. One on one it’s cheap.
“Look,” Holden says, as James straightens up. “James. I’m—“
“My brother’s gay,” James says.
Before the word ‘what’ has entirely left Holden’s mouth, James pushes past him, shoulder knocking hard against his, and disappears around a corner, clutching his Pringles to his chest like he’s afraid Holden will steal them.
“—the fuck?” Holden says to the now empty hallway.
He waits a minute, in case James comes back to clarify what the fuck, but he doesn’t, so Holden buys himself Doritos. He came here for a purpose, after all. Now he’s achieved it. Holden wasn’t expecting a bonus mystery, but that’s okay. He’ll take it.
Holden considers possible interpretations back in his room, alternating Cool Ranch and Nacho Doritos while gazing thoughtfully at the blank TV screen. ‘My brother is gay’. All words that Holden understands, both individually and together, but what does it actually mean? Is it code? Some inside joke Holden’s not aware of?
Interpretation one: James’ brother is gay. That makes the most sense, though it’d still leave the mystery of why he said it, especially in the middle of the night during a snack run. Does James even have a brother?
Google says yes to the brother, but it won’t provide any photos, so Holden can’t examine him. He probably looks like James. But possibly gay? Which could also potentially just look like James? Obviously Holden wouldn’t be able to tell shit from a photo, unless the dude’s wearing a shirt like ‘ask me about my sexuality (it’s gay af, btw)’, but even so, Holden’s a little annoyed he can’t find even one picture, let alone any additional information about the guy.
But then, Holden’s aware this could have nothing to do with James’ apparently not fictional brother, and Holden’s just being obtuse. It could be a turn of phrase Holden doesn’t know. Is this the new friend of Dorothy? Would James even know what that means? Why does Holden even know what that means? Probably from Fee — she’s done a lot of research into queer history since he came out to her, the most supportive ex-girlfriend a man could have, especially considering breaking up with her and coming out to her happened in the same conversation. She knows all sorts of gay culture shit Holden doesn’t. Hell, she’s the one who cultures him half the time, if that’s the word. He suspects it isn’t. She probably knows that too.
is ‘my brother’s gay’ some kind of lingo i’ve never heard of? Holden texts, though he knows at best he’ll receive a text like ??? timestamped at seven in the morning, because Fiona’s a responsible adult with a proper sleep schedule.
He asks the internet instead, finds a lot of people asking about their gay brothers, often with bonus bigotry, all ‘is gayness hereditary?’ or ‘what if people find out and stop being friends with me?’. A bunch of gay dudes with shitty fucking siblings airing their private business online, that’s all Holden gets.
Holden always wanted a sibling or two, but better none than a shit one, maybe. And the way kids are supposed to take after their parents, he’d almost certainly have a shit one. That, or an ally. Would have been nice, a gay brother. Or, he guesses he’d be the gay brother.
Is that what it means? That James has clocked him? Georgie did, but he’s queer enough to have had a serious boyfriend, and he comes off pretty aware of what’s going on with team, maybe because he has to make up for his captain. James doesn’t strike Holden as a particularly perceptive person. Could be a matter of takes one to know one, but for some reason Holden finds himself backing away from that one like it’s a stove giving off heat, can’t even get close to it, let alone touch it.
He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up with the lights still on and his mouth tasting like two kinds of Doritos died in it. He checks the time, reads a text from Fiona, ??? timestamped 8:03, which he hopes doesn’t mean she slept through her alarm, but probably does. He steps on an empty bag of Doritos when he gets out of bed, slams his knee into the corner of the bedframe while he tries to shake it off his foot, and then slips on the other one while he’s hopping around, swearing through the pain.
“Well,” Holden says to the ceiling. His knee’s screaming at him, but in a ‘hit my funny bone’ kind of way, pain overwhelming but ultimately harmless. His ankle’s less noisy, but possibly more of a problem.
He refuses to have injured himself. He cannot say ‘I slipped on my midnight snack’ to his coach, and he is not good enough a liar to make up a story and stand by it.
Holden limps his way into the bathroom, and by the time he’s out of the shower his knee’s shut up, and his ankle’s taking his weight okay, even if it’s not happy about it.
“Join the fucking club,” Holden mumbles, and gingerly makes his way down to team breakfast. James isn’t there. Probably already came and went; fell straight asleep after his semi-boring snack and slept the sleep of the fucking confusing.
Holden bolts down enough too strong hotel coffee to give himself heartburn, sitting at a table of Swedes, who reluctantly switched to English before Holden waved them off and went back to communing with thoughts. Even if James had been at breakfast, what was Holden going to do? He feels like asking publicly breaks a rule or ten, and not the kind of rules he delights in breaking. And he suspects that unless he starts staking out vending machines and blind corners, public’s the only way he’s going to be talking to James — in the tight quarters of a visitors’ locker room or a chartered plane, shouted across the ice, muttered after a replay in video review. Not exactly ideal spaces.
And he’s right. Any idea of asking James what the fuck he meant — a plan so simple it could not possibly work — indeed proves as unworkable as Holden anticipated. James is extremely good at making himself scarce. Like, if Holden thought James was avoiding him before? Well, he was, but he has gotten way better at it, like maybe he’s putting a lot of effort into it. He’s always precisely on time for everything, never shows up early or late, smack in the middle of the pack. And Finn’s always with him, even more than usual, like some sort of chaperone-bodyguard-lackey. Holden wonders if it bothers him, and not for the first time, but Finn always looks so damn cheerful.
Holden shows up early to shit only to find out James isn’t there yet. Waits outside after, but James leaves in the middle of a crowd, or lingers, talking to the coaching staff, or equipment guys, or trainers, people Holden doesn’t want to interrupt, because they’re just doing their jobs. Not that Holden isn’t, James isn’t, but Holden thinks there’s a difference between a seven figure salary for playing a game, and the long hours, constant travel, endless list of shit to do that the team staff have to deal with. And they’re not paid nearly well enough to have to put up with any of his bullshit, that’s for sure.
They get back to Hartford before Holden’s had a single opportunity to ask James about it. He sits beside him on the bench, takes his passes, assists on his goals — thankfully the on-ice chemistry’s back on track, even if nothing else is — and yet the opportunity’s never arrived, unless Holden’s willing to yell it right beside some mic’ed up color commentator between the benches. Which, honestly, he’s considering at this point.
James’ ability to avoid him is impressive as it is infuriating. Holden imagines James surveilling all the entrances and exits, making the rookies take turns taking watch or some shit, and it makes things borderline funny on top of frustrating, so at least there’s that.
He finally gets his chance, James’ sensible sedan passing his car as Holden roots through his glove compartment, trying to find his sunglasses case. He parks right by building entrance, and Holden probably wouldn’t have caught up with him if he hadn’t flat out sprinted after him, almost running straight into a pole, but like. That’s between Holden and whoever reviews the lot’s security footage. Which is hopefully nobody.
“Um,” James says, looking freaked out. Holden’s not sure if that’s because it’s him, or because he’s breathing like, well, he just sprinted across a parking lot with a little Doritos limp. Which has to be a bit of a murderer chasing you vibe, doesn’t it. Whatever, too late to do anything about it now, and if he doesn’t ask now, who knows when he’ll get a chance again.
“What does that mean?” Holden demands.
“What?” James repeats.
“You know what,” Holden says.
James isn’t looking at him. Scoping out all the exit routes, maybe. Hoping Finn lumbers his way up to intervene.
“My brother’s gay,” Holden says. “What does that mean?”
“Um,” James says. “What I said? My brother’s gay.”
“But why tell me after Pringles?” Holden says.
“What does this have to do with Pringles?” James asks.
“Exactly!” Holden says, throwing his hands up, and James flinches, so small Holden would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching him so closely.
“Jesus Christ, seriously?” Holden asks. “I’m not going to hit you, fuck. That’s your thing, not mine.”
“I—“ James says, then, “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, my reflexes are better than your slow ass mitts,” Holden says.
“No, I—“ James says. “Regardless of the outcome of my actions, it was unacceptable.”
“Who among us hasn’t wanted to punch me?” Holden asks. “And I include myself in this. Harder to swing, though. Literally.”
James stares at him.
“That was a joke,” Holden says. “Not the wanting to punch myself, I mean, it was, but not really, but — the swing? Because when you punch someone you swing — you’re not getting it, huh? Well, you’re still a novice to the throwing punches game, so I guess I can let it slide.”
He genuinely has no idea how someone’s face can somehow go both blank and infuriated, but he just watched it happen, so clearly it’s possible.
“I’m trying to apologize, will you just let me!” James says. “You’re so — do you do this on purpose? You have to be doing this on purpose.”
“Uh,” Holden says. “Was that the apology or—“
James throws his hands up like a silent film character or a really intense mime and starts walking away, so Holden guesses that was, indeed, the apology.
“That’s a really shitty apology, Jamie!” Holden says. Never mind that Holden wasn’t expecting an apology at all — now that he’s been given the impression that he’s getting one, he thinks he’s entitled to better than ‘you have to be doing this on purpose’. Which is an accusation, actually, not an apology at all.
James is less walking away than stomping away now. Dramatic Charlie Chaplin ass. Fucking mime bullshit.
“Has anyone told you you have quite a flair for the dramatic for someone who eats Pringles?” Holden calls after him, but once again James has disappeared from view, and either he doesn’t hear him, or he’s too busy communing with his sense of drama to reply.
“Wait,” Holden says. “Fuck.”
He cannot believe he got so off track he didn’t even notice James never answered the question.