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Holden has fucked up.
Except that’s an understatement, isn’t it? He has massively fucked up. Enormously. Gigantically, hugely, greatly fucked the fuck up, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do about it except maybe like, fake his death. Take Fiona and move across the world. Buy a house on some beautiful beach, and hope it isn’t underwater in twenty years. Never speak the word ‘hockey’ again. It sounds pretty nice, honestly. He’s sick of New England winters anyway.
It’s not his fault. Okay, it’s undeniably his fault, but it’s just that James kept staring at him with this little furrow in his brow, like he was trying to figure out what the fuck Holden was saying to him, and Holden kept trying to explain it better, except the furrow only got deeper and deeper in a way Holden wanted to smooth out with his thumb, and then he wondered why the fuck he was thinking that, which was answered with a bolt of clarity that barely landed in his brain before it was leaving his mouth.
Holden hates retrospect in the first place, but retrospect happening while he’s standing in front of the object of said retrospect? Retrospect that he fucking narrates as it happens to him? Intolerable. Holden’s intolerable, even to himself.
He’d like to think that the fact James looked confused for the entire conversation means that James didn’t understand what the hell Holden was saying, but considering he kept interjecting with questions on shit Holden had said like, a minute before, he probably did hear it, just hadn’t processed it by the time Finn got back. And Holden genuinely doesn’t know if he wants to punch or kiss the dude for that, because at least he stopped Holden from making shit worse, but at the same time, he has no idea how James did take it, once it sunk in, if it was disgust, or horror, or ‘that’s what all the boys tell me, I am clearly irresistible’. Probably not the last one, but who knows? Not Holden, who didn’t even realize he was pulling pigtails until ten minutes ago, despite the fact Georgie straight up called him out on it already, which means — which means it is noticeable, fucking hell.
Holden sits in his stall, head in his hands, jumping at every noise, like it’s James coming back to talk to him instead of equipment managers doing equipment shit, maybe the coaching staff back in one of the offices. Jittery hope that makes no sense.
He needs Fee’s advice, but he can’t tell her shit, because to tell her about this he’d have to tell her all the shit he didn’t tell her because she’d be mad, and then she’ll be mad about that shit and that he didn’t tell her, and it’ll be a whole layer cake of Mad at Babe. And she’s coming up in less than 72 hours for his first game versus the Bruins, and he doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her coming. Not that she’s petty like that, but she can stay mad for days, and hundreds of miles away, he can’t wear her down with his charm and magnetism and sad faces until she forgives him. He’s useless from afar.
Holden stays in the locker room until he’s sure it’s safe, that James won’t be waiting for him, except — why would he be? James has been avoiding him since Holden got here, and Holden imagines that avoidance is going to intensify now that Holden’s like, sexually harassing him on top of everything else.
Fuck, he didn’t mean to. He thought he was being righteous, fucking with the homophobe, but he accidentally circled the whole way back around so that he came off homophobic somehow, when he wasn’t being skeevy as fuck.
Holden makes an abrupt left, waving off the driver honking behind him. He needs to make a pit stop.
He’s finished eating his pain in the form of chicken tenders and moved on to eating his pain in the form of Ben and Jerry’s when he finally realizes that James thinking he was making homophobic jokes and his brother being gay were probably connected. Like ‘I should let him know my brother’s gay and I don’t take kindly to his bigoted comments’, even if it was at a weird ass time, unless there’s some homophobic connotation to chips Holden doesn’t know about. That James was doing fucking — ally shit, or whatever. Sticking up for his physically inferior but better dressed brother who may or may not have an earring.
Holden is way too vertical for this wallowing. Lying down makes eating Half Baked harder, but that’s fine. It’s what he deserves. He spoons another mouthful in, disconsolately chewing on cookie dough. He bets Ben and Jerry’s is too much for James. He bets it’s Häagen-Dazs all the way, and only like, the plain kind, no mix-ins allowed. Chocolate. Vanilla. Maybe coffee if he’s feeling really risky that day, but not too close to bed because James wouldn’t want to fuck with his sleep. How Pringles fit into that, Holden doesn’t know, but frankly he doesn’t understand most things about James Erickson.
The next mouthful is less a mouthful than a chinful. He tips his head back, to try to aim shit mouthwards, but it mostly just goes up his nose.
“Shit,” Holden says, then sits up, wiping his face with his shirt. He’s not looking forward to their next game. And not just because it’s against the Bruins. The Bruins, who Holden still hasn’t heard a word from, Simmer excepted, like maybe they’d all been happy to see the back of him.
“Shit,” Holden says louder, then rolls over to bury his face in the couch cushions.
*
“Babe!”
Holden holds his arms out, bracing himself, but she still almost manages to bowl him over. Fiona hugs hard, puts all of herself in it, and there’s a whole lot of her in a small package.
“Babe,” Fiona says, this time muffled into his chest. He buries his face in her hair, holding on tight, and Fiona holds him back without complaint, even though he’s pretty sure she’s on her tiptoes, and he hangs on so long her calves must be burning by the time he finally lets her go.
“Good workout,” she says, when he says as much. “Can’t skip leg day, right? A wise man told me that.”
She gets a kiss on the head for that, and then he laces their fingers, goes to show her around now that he actually knows the place well enough to give her a proper tour.
“You ready for tonight?” Fiona asks, after she gets the boring public parts, and the security guard who ‘has to check’ consults with his superior on whether Fee’s allowed back in the team area. People who take their one iota of authority on a power trip — Holden’s favorite thing. Add some zebra stripes and his day will be made.
“Sure,” Holden says, tries to muster up a smile, one she’s not buying, from the look of it. He forgot how much harder it’d be to lie, including by omission, with her right in front of him. She can read him better than anyone, and he doesn’t think he’s a particularly dense read in the first place. Well, in some ways maybe he’s very dense indeed. What kind of guy doesn’t even figure out —
Holden desperately tries to think something else, just in case it shows up on his face. Power Tripper comes back with a sulky expression and mutters that she’s allowed — which, no shit, even if she’s not on the list, the fact she’s with Holden should have automatically vetted her — and Fiona thanks him for his thoroughness, so sunnily Holden doesn’t even think the guy realizes she’s making fun of him. Looks kind of chagrined now, actually, which pleases Holden.
“I want to meet that speedy little rookie of yours,” Fiona says.
“He’s a little young for you, isn’t he?” Holden says, and gets an elbow in the ribs for it.
“He’s adorable,” Fiona says. “Reminds me of Rookie Holden.”
Holden doesn’t see it at all, in appearance or play style, but then, he’s been told he lacks self-awareness before, including by Fiona. He always argues the opposite, but considering the last few days, maybe he should switch sides, turn that debate into a consensus.
“Oh, trading me in for a newer model,” Holden says. “That’s the play.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Fiona says.
He shows her the locker room, after double-checking she won’t get an eyeful, introduces her to the Europeans kicking the ball around. Georgie’s with them — he’s the only American they’ll play with without making longsuffering faces at each other the whole time — and he gives their laced fingers a look that Holden’s probably going to have to sort out later. It’s not like Fee doesn’t know what it looks like. And not like she could make it look different if she wanted to, starting by letting go of his hand.
They’re all bunched together, clogging up the hall, and Holden hears the irritated scoff first, is already making room before he connects it to James, wearing a pissy expression to match. James hasn’t acknowledged his existence since Holden firehosed him with words, and he doesn’t start now, cutting around him and Fee without looking his way. Holden watches his retreating back, then abruptly looks away as soon as he realizes that might look a little, well —
“And that’s James,” Holden says.
“Well, he’s just as charming as you said he was,” Fiona says, low, so no Whalers will overhear. Holden’s embarrassed to find himself bristling, though thankfully she doesn’t notice, still craning her head around everywhere, taking it all in.
He swears, if he mentions something happening around here months down the line, a ball getting stuck, or someone breaking shit with it, she’ll know exactly what he’s talking about, see the scene even more clearly than he witnessed it. Hell, she remembers what some of his one night stands look like better than he does, even if she only met them at the bar for few minutes, or offered them a cup of coffee the next morning.
Fee takes off after she gets her rookie intro, and he hands over his car keys, gets one last crushing hug, a murmured, “Fuck the Bs, you got this.” Honestly, he was expecting to feel more anxious about this game than he does. That’s the nice thing about fucking up spectacularly — hard to worry about other things when his brain’s been replaying his conversation — monologue? — with James more times than refs watch the footage during a goaltender interference review.
Fee being there helps too — there’s no room for could-have-beens or hurt feelings or whatever the fuck when he’s already contending with abject embarrassment but also feeling like a piece of home just walked in the door. Too many things for one Holden to feel at once.
Apparently annoyance isn’t, though, or even the weird twist of gratitude, when Simmer skates over to center at warm-ups, shouting, “Chaser!” until Holden figures it’s more awkward to ignore the dude than talk to him.
“Chaser, my man,” Simmer says. “How’s Hartford?”
From literally anyone else that’d be a dig, but if Simmer meant it as one he’d probably just say ‘hey man, Hartford’s boring as shit, huh?’. Brandon Simcoe doesn’t truck in catty subtext. If you told him to read between the lines he’d start looking for tiny words there, then probably punch you for leading him to think there’d be tiny words. It’d be so much easier for Holden to hate him if Simmer was actually aware of that hate.
But here he is, all ‘hey bro, what’s good?’ when the whole reason Holden’s in Hartford is because Simmer does everything he does but more expensively. Well, not everything. Simmer’s idea of chirping is ‘fuck your mom’ and then taking his stick to the back of your knees when the ref’s looking the other way. Holden’s a shiv; Simmer’s a sledgehammer.
“You know,” Holden says.
“Not really,” Simmer says. “Pretty much every time we play here we don’t bother to leave the hotel.”
For someone who doesn’t actually try to get digs in, he’s really good at it.
“Like I said,” Holden says. “You know.”
“Your captain’s like, trying to murder me with his eyes right now,” Simmer says, and when Holden twists to look, there is definitely a little eye murder happening before James looks away.
Holden’s torn between offense and a stupid little flutter that James is acknowledging his existence for once, if by acknowledging Holden means ‘glaring at Holden from center’. Which is definitely a form of acknowledgement. Though maybe it is Simmer he’s glaring at — if James thinks Holden’s a dirty player, Holden would love to know what he thinks of Simmer’s play.
“He’s such a funny little dude,” Simmer says, possibly the only guy on the ice who’d call a 6’2” dude little. “Last time we played he called me a contemptible cretin. You know what that means?”
“Yep,” Holden says, pressing his lips together. The insults are much funnier when they’re not aimed at him.
“I had to look it up after, fucking savage,” Simmer says, shaking his head almost admiringly. “Wouldn’t even fight me after.”
“You tried to fight him when you didn’t even know what he called you?” Holden asks. James was clearly on point with his insult: that’s contemptible cretin behavior for sure.
“Well I knew it wasn’t a compliment,” Simmer says.
“Chase,” James barks, and Holden’s very tempted to pretend he doesn’t realize James is calling him, though it’s not as fun when it’s undeniably him James is calling.
“I gotta—“ Holden says.
“Yeah, no, for sure,” Simmer says. “Hope you lose tonight!”
Holden shoots him the bird as he skates away, and Simmer laughs, but it’s probably fifty-fifty that he’ll board Holden for it later.
James is definitely glaring at him, not Simmer. Or him and Simmer. There is Holden involvement. For some reason it makes it easier to approach him. If James is pissed, then James isn’t awkwardly pretending he’s never heard of Holden Chase, let alone had him babble horrible nothings in his ear.
“What’s up?” Holden asks.
“That’s not your team anymore,” James says.
“Are you fucking—“ Holden says. “Of course you’re not. You say this to all the dudes who chat with their old teammates before a game, or just me?”
James looks away, flustered. Back to horrible nothings, this time with bonus horrible.
“I didn’t mean it like—“
“No, I didn’t assume you did,” James says, still looking away, his face a little flushed in a way Holden is trying not fixate on. Holden guesses that’s confirmation James did, in fact, hear what he said. Not that he really expected otherwise, especially considering James’ continued avoidance of him, but it’s still a slug in the gut to have it confirmed. “Simcoe’s a — he’s contemptible.”
“He is,” Holden says. “Cretinous, even.”
James looks genuinely shocked for a second, before he seems to catch up. “He told you,” he says, then,“It didn’t look like he even understood me.”
“He didn’t,” Holden says. “He looked it up after the game.”
He swears he sees the edge of a smirk before James smothers it. “You shouldn’t be talking to him,” he says. “It looks — you shouldn’t talk to him.”
“I gave him the finger at the end, does that make it better?” Holden asks.
Another flicker at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not sportsmanlike behavior,” James says.
Holden’s decided he’s taking that as a yes.