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Holden has a problem.
Well, Holden has a number of problems, ranging from his vendetta with the guy whose parking job makes getting out in the mornings a shitty puzzle he’s never awake enough to solve without a few close calls and a lot of swearing, to Fee’s visit only making him miss her more now that she’s gone, to the general state of living in Hartford, which is directly linked to his biggest current issue, which is that suddenly Hartford is just fucking fine, because he thinks James Erickson is adorable.
See, it was one thing when Holden simply had the bad luck and also taste to being attracted to someone who looks at him like he’s a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of a table, but finding him adorable is a whole other thing. A significantly less explicable thing.
Except it isn’t inexplicable, really. He knows exactly how it started and everything: with James marching up to him, huge scowl on his face, but instead of grumping at Holden this time, he announced that Finn Schneider would, in fact, kill a man to save all the puppies in the world. Which was knowledge he presumably had because he personally asked Finn, probably while wearing that exact same scowl because he couldn’t believe he was asking such a stupid fucking question.
And Holden’s first thought, besides ‘of course he would’, was ‘you are fucking adorable’.
And now Holden can’t unsee it. That furrow between his eyebrows as he intently listens to a reporter’s question like he hasn’t heard it a thousand times before? Adorable. The fact he always comes to practice with his hands full of drinks, all for him, because hydration is serious business? Adorable. The way he tilts his head to the side when Coach is talking, like he’s trying to convey he’s listening the hardest anyone has ever listened, like a giant suck up? Unfortunately adorable.
Like, also annoying, especially when he catches Holden looking at him and gives him a suspicious look, all ‘what do you want, interloper’, but now that Holden’s seen the adorable, he can’t unsee it.
This is bad. Holden’s always managed to keep hockey firmly separate from the guys he wants to fuck, barring that one scarring ‘do I know you from somewhere?’. And that was just a casual Bruins fan belatedly figuring out where exactly he knew Holden from, not — what, the captain of his fucking hockey team? A man who clearly thinks Holden is an affront to dignity and sportsmanship and hypothetical situations?
And this isn’t wanting to fuck someone. Or, okay, yes, it is, — Holden’s trying not to acknowledge that part too much but it absolutely is — but full on infatuation shit, and now Holden’s gone from accidentally hitting on him to smiling after him like he’s a cranky panda at the zoo. But like. Not. Because those metaphors get gross when they’re mixed together.
At least he’s unlikely to have a complete homophobic meltdown about it if he hasn’t already, Holden guesses. Also a gay brother. That’s probably the reason he didn’t lose his mind about the whole hitting on him thing. And legitimately seemed like he was more bothered that Holden had a girlfriend than that he came onto him, because coming onto someone when you have a girlfriend goes against his justice meter or something. Which is something they agree on for once, but like, he doesn’t know. Holden and Fiona could be in an open relationship. Maybe they’re polyamorous. Sean has to figure in somehow.
But the infatuation thing, that’s not a good sign. Holden used to get crushes bad. Didn’t even realize they were crushes at first, just found himself sticking to them like glue, laughing at all their jokes, even the half assed ones, asking his parents for the brands they wore, because he mistook wanting someone for wanting to be like them. It was only with hindsight Holden noticed they were all better than average looking, all fit into the same basic physical type, though it’s not like it was weird that Holden was hanging out with a bunch of jocks.
James gives him another suspicious look, presumably because Holden’s accidentally started mooning at him from across the table. It’s not like they’re not teammates. Being in proximity isn’t like — weird. Okay, it is, and Holden should be keeping his distance for his own good, and also because James would clearly prefer that, but every time he walks into practice or pregame he tells himself he’ll keep his distance, and then he doesn’t do that. Or if he does, he just gets distracted, and ends up watching James from across the room or the ice or whatever, and honestly being a little too close is probably better than staring at him from a distance like a creepy fan.
Holden doesn’t think he’s had it this bad since junior year, when he had the spectacularly bad luck of crushing on the poor senior stuck tutoring him in math. Holden went from almost failing math to completely failing math, but he did memorize the lyrics to every song by said tutor’s favorite band even though he kind of thought they sucked, so who won there? Nobody. Nobody at all.
He knows he’s annoying James. James saying, and Holden is directly quoting him here, ‘you are being extremely annoying’ three times in a single practice leaves no real doubt as to just how much he’s annoying James. And obviously he doesn’t want that, so he should keep his distance. Rein himself in.
It’s just that Holden’s very bad at things like self-discipline. And self-control. And self-restraint. Bang on with self-reflection, though, he thinks. Gold star for Holden.
“Did you want my lunch or something?” James asks.
“Yes,” Holden says, because it’s honestly less weird than ‘no, I’m just looking at your face because I like it’. “I want your lunch.”
“Well,” James says. “Too bad. Get your own.”
Holden is completely disgusted to discover he thinks ‘inability to share with others’ is adorable too.
*
“What ridiculous scenario do you have for me today,” James says. If you ignore the whole saying it completely flatly thing, he sounds downright intrigued. If Holden didn’t know better, he’d think James liked his ridiculous scenarios.
“Don’t have one,” Holden says. That isn’t really true; he could think of half a dozen in a second flat if he needed to, like whether he’d rather fight one bear sized rabbits or a hundred rabbit sized bears, but the fucker would probably just say ‘neither’ with a sneer, like he’s found the secret trick to hypothetical scenarios. “I dare say you look disappointed, Erickson.”
“I’m not,” James says. “I just foolishly assumed there would be a reason you were standing over me.”
“Just the whole linemate thing,” Holden says. And the lack of self-restraint thing. “Twizzler?”
James first eyes Holden suspiciously, then the bag he’s held out.
“Don’t tell me Twizzlers are too much for your delicate tastebuds,” Holden says.
“They’re thoroughly underwhelming,” James says, but Holden would like to note that doesn’t stop him from taking one.
“Twizzlers?” Beanie says, somehow scenting them like a bloodhound from halfway across the room, and then everybody’s standing around James’ stall, demanding Twizzlers.
Holden can’t exactly say ‘I’m only sharing with James because I like him best, go away’, though it’s honestly harder than it should be not to, so he sighs and distributes his stash.
By the time the team gets through with him, Holden has empty hands. No Twizzlers for Holden, and now James is sulking, probably because the entire team just raced over to his stall to loudly beg for treats. There is a literal pout on his face right now, and not the exaggerated kind Holden uses to make Fiona laugh and stop being mad at him — this is an unironic pout. It’s ridiculous. And adorable.
Holden hates everything.
“That’s the reason there’s a no junk food in the locker room rule,” Georgie tells him as Holden jerks his shirt over his head. “Not because we’re anti-junk food.”
“Didn’t stop you from taking a Twizzler, man,” Holden sulks, unbuckling his belt. He’s not pouting, because only one person’s allowed to be that ridiculous at a time, and James is still doing it. Holden’s checked once or twice or seven times, whatever, who’s counting, not him.
“Consider it your fine,” Georgie says. “You and Cap seem to be getting along better.”
Holden eyes Georgie, wondering if he somehow didn’t notice the pouting. But maybe he doesn’t know it’s Holden’s fault. “He’s finally given in to my irresistible charm,” Holden says, dropping his pants. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Georgie says.
“You trying to say something?” Holden asks. “Making more unsubtle hints about pigtails?”
No need to inform him that those hints were very much required, and also went entirely over his head right up until they smacked him in the mouth.
“Nope,” Georgie says. “Who the fuck did that to you, Chaser?”
“What?” Holden asks. Georgie points at his lower back. Holden can’t see it without a mirror, but it looked fucking brutal last time he did. Doesn’t hurt as bad as it looks, which is good, because if it did, he’d probably be dead. “Oh. Simcoe went a little heavy on the love taps.”
“That was last week,” Georgie says.
Holden shrugs.
“Damn,” Georgie says. “Finnster, come see the bruise on Chaser.”
Hockey players love gnarly looking bruises almost as much as they love free candy, so Holden gets pretty much the same crowd he did when he pulled out the Twizzlers. Minus James, back in his stall, but he’s not pouting anymore, and when the crowd disperses he comes over to examine it himself. Even James Erickson isn’t immune to gnarly bruises.
“The refs should have called that,” James says.
“Refs should call a lot of things against me that they don’t,” Holden says.
“You should have told me he was cross-checking you that hard,” James says.
“Why?” Holden says, feeling strangely warmed. “So you could call him a contemplibler cretin?”
He waits for James to tell him that’s not a word.
“That’s not a word,” James says, right on cue, and Holden feels even warmer. He’s probably got a dumbass smile right now, so he’s glad James is looking at his back instead of his face. “You weren’t kidding, were you?
“I kid about so many things, you’re going to have to be more specific here,” Holden says.
“That you hate his guts,” James says.
“Probably too strong a word,” Holden says. “But I’m not his biggest fan, no.”
“I guess that’s mutual,” James says.
“Nah,” Holden says. “The sad thing is I’m pretty sure Simmer likes me just fine.”
*
Holden’s running a quick hand through his hair to fix it after taking his shirt off — long hair’s a pain in the ass to keep from getting messy as shit, but the last time he cut his hair short someone online said he looked like a Mormon missionary, and maybe it had more to do with the whole ensemble he was wearing that day, but he ain’t risking it — when, right behind him, someone asks, “Does it hurt?”
“Jesus Christ,” Holden says, clutching his chest. “Could you wear a bell or something, fuck.”
James gives him a nonplussed look. Which is just his usual face, but with some bonus ‘why are you like this’. Which is — just his usual face, honestly, except when Holden succeeds at making him crack a smirk, or, even rarer, a smile. It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it. That person is usually Schneider, but he’s objectively not that funny, so Holden’s taking over the job.
“Does what hurt?” Holden asks. “When I fell from heaven?”
“That’s a response to ‘did it hurt’, past tense, otherwise it makes no sense,” James says. “And it’s not a particularly creative or funny response either.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of pedantic?” Holden asks.
“Yes,” James says. “Of course.”
Of course. He probably gets that on the daily, though maybe more ‘stick up your ass’ than ‘pedantic’, considering this crowd of guys. Stop, Holden. Not going there.
“Lucifer fell,” James says.
“What?” Holden asks, managing to leave ‘the fuck’ behind.
“From heaven,” James says. “I’ve never understood how comparing someone to the devil could be construed as flirtatious.”
Coach calls ‘Sonny’ then, and James walks off, leaving Holden blinking at his locker, adrift and sort wondering if James just compared him to the devil or if he called him flirtatious, or what. Is this what James feels like when Holden’s yapping away at him? No wonder he makes that face.
He’s halfway into his gear when he even thinks about James’ initial question, which is, in hindsight, the least baffling part of the conversation. The better Holden’s back feels, the worse it looks, going through a whole rainbow of bruising, and right now it’s absolutely spectacular. Fucking aurora borealis of contusions, Holden’s got going on, but all that’s left is a deep, distant ache.
“It’s fine now,” Holden says, when they line up at center ice for the anthem.
James looks over, face not nonplussed yet, but like it’s getting ready to be. He doesn’t like being talked to before games, Holden remembers, and he’s not trying to piss him off anymore. Effortless success, that’s Holden in a nutshell.
“My back,” Holden says. He’s already talked to him, and saying something cryptic then refusing to elaborate is probably even more annoying than he’s already being. “If that’s what you were asking about. All good.”
“Good,” James says, then smiles, and Holden coughs, facing the flag, and has almost managed to straighten his face by the time the Star Spangled Banner starts to play.