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Chase is looking at him again.
Perhaps ‘looking at him’ isn’t the best way to put it, but James can’t find a better one. ‘Watching him’ sounds like surveillance, ‘observing him’ a implies sense of detachment, ‘eyeing him’ suspicion. All descriptions of how James had looked at Chase when he came to the team, though mostly he tried not to look at him at all, as if Chase would disappear if James pretended hard enough that he didn’t exist. Obviously that didn’t work, but he’s less bothered by that than he expected to be, particularly now that Chase has replaced antagonizing him with, well —
James is aware that he isn’t the most socially observant person, that he misses things that seem obvious to other people, that certain things he considers subtleties are blaring signs to other people. But it’s impossible to miss that whenever they’re in the same place, Chase’s eyes are, more often than not, on James. The only thing that’s difficult is the why.
A few weeks ago James might have figured Chase had simply changed tack in his quest to annoy James. Now he has no idea what it is. Or — maybe he has some idea, but every time he thinks about it, even glancing it, he finds himself snapping at Chase, asking why he’s looking, what he wants, telling him he’s annoying him, and if Chase doesn’t push back, he ends up feeling guilty and observed.
Chase usually does push back, at least, but that’s morphed too — before, Chase was trying to aggravate him. Or, if he wasn’t, he certainly gave off the impression. But now it’s more — playful, James supposes. Chase always seems to be smiling now, like rebutting James amuses him, but it seems more — affectionate makes James sound conceited, but he can’t think of an alternative.
James isn’t an innocent. He knows what flirting looks like, even if it’s not something he’s practiced much himself, certainly doesn’t find intuitive, like everyone else seems to. The subtleties of it likely go over his head, but James doesn’t think anyone has ever accused Holden Chase of being subtle before. He’s flirting with James, and James knows it and —
James can’t deal with this. He needs Finn. But asking Finn for guidance would mean James would have to tell him — maybe not all of it, but enough to provide context, and James can’t do that. So he can’t have Finn, even though Finn’s tonelessly humming to himself as he fashions his omelet and toast into a breakfast sandwich.
“That’s absolutely disgusting,” James says. He has nothing against breakfast sandwiches in general, but in Finn’s hands it’s more ketchup than egg. His sandwich is dripping.
Finn just takes a big bite of his ketchup and egg sandwich in response, wordlessly nudging James’ coffee closer to him.
It’ll still be disgusting when James is caffeinated, but he takes a sip of coffee anyway, resenting that it looks like Finn’s idea now, rather than what James was inclined to do in the first place.
“You have ketchup on your face,” James says vengefully.
“No I don’t,” Finn says.
He doesn’t. His face is somehow ketchup-free. James has no idea how, when his plate looks like a crime scene.
“Drink your coffee,” Finn says.
James takes another sip, wonders what Finn’s expression would look like if he asked him what he wanted to. Surprised, obviously. Unless he isn’t. James doesn’t want to know if he isn’t.
It’s a moot point regardless; James doesn’t plan on asking him.
“Are you less cranky now?” Finn asks, after James finishes his coffee, considering the dregs and weighing the pros and cons of another cup.
“I wasn’t cranky,” James mutters.
“So no, then,” Finn says. “What’s up, Chaser?”
“Nothing,” Chase says, from his spot behind James. “Just. Loitering. In this area. Because I am debating having more coffee. And you’re near the coffee. So. I’m here.”
He makes a face when James turns to look at him. James genuinely can’t tell if it’s apologetic or the exact opposite.
“Could you get me one?” James asks.
“Yeah, for sure,” Chase says. “What do you take in it?”
“Just black,” James says.
“That’s sick and wrong,” Chase says, but he takes James’ cup and wanders away with it before James can ask what he takes in it. Judging by the way Chase goes through Red Bulls, James would hazard a significant amount of sugar and possibly a shot of espresso.
“Chase seem weird to you?” Finn says.
“Chase is always weird,” James says.
Finn raises an eyebrow at him.
“Don’t say it,” James says.
“Okay,” Finn says, and then takes another bite of his disgusting sandwich.
*
They take three of six points on the road — not the best, but they were hard opponents, so James doesn’t allow himself to feel dissatisfied, at least longer than it takes for him to unpack his suitcase.
The next day, they practice, and Chase sticks close to him during their ice time. Which makes sense, of course. They’re running the same drills together. There’s nowhere else for Chase to be, really.
Chase keeps looking at him, a prickle of awareness at the back of James’ neck, the side of his face. Always looking, unless James looks at him, and then he’s looking down, or away, caught. Every practice now, every game. It’s like if Groundhog Day was encapsulated in a person. It should bother James, he thinks.
“Chaser giving you a hard time, Cap?” Georgie asks, before their first game back. James would ask what gave Georgie that impression, but he imagines it was probably the looking.
“He’s fine,” James says.
“Notice he’s been hanging around you a bit lately,” Georgie says.
Ah, the lingering rather than the looking. James supposes that’s valid.
“It’s fine,” James says, then, when Georgie frowns, “Do you have a problem with him?”
“No,” Georgie says. “I like Chaser. But I wasn’t the one throwing a punch at him in practice not too long ago.”
James scratches the back of his neck. “There was — a miscommunication.”
“Yeah?” Georgie asks.
“It’s been resolved,” James says. “Okay?”
“As long as you’re good I’m good,” Georgie says.
“I’m fine,” James says. “How’s the family?”
“That’s completely transparent, you know that, right?” Georgie asks, but James is then given a not so brief summary of his daughter’s adjustment to preschool — she’s struggling with being around other children, apparently, and James frankly cannot blame her — so transparent subject change or not, it’s effective.
*
Chase is quiet before the games now, which James appreciates. The looking is much less disruptive than the talking, something James is able to tune out as he slowly works his way into game-mode. The only thing he says to James is ‘fucking beauty’, after a pass that leads to the opening goal. It was a nice pass, James thinks. Certainly one he’ll be watching again.
He’s quiet after that, as is the rest of the Whalers bench, as the Predators answer back in the second, pull ahead less than a minute later. The momentum’s shifting under them, James can feel it, the edge of a demoralized team. There’s no point saying anything, trying to rally the troops, though during the next commercial break, Coach tries. James has always found that to be a waste of time; he jumps onto the ice after the speech, exchanges a nod with Chase, then Ryan. The coaching staff can’t swing the momentum back their way: that’s on them. That’s his job.
The worst hits are the hits James doesn’t see coming. That’s obvious, he supposes. No chance to brace himself, though sometimes bracing for impact just makes the situation worse, changes how the hit lands, or increases the likelihood of muscle tears, though no amount of knowing that logically stops James from doing it.
But he didn’t brace himself, because he didn’t see it coming — one moment he’s skating through the neutral zone with the puck on his stick, Chase streaking ahead, poised for a breakaway, and then it feels like he hits a wall. And not metaphorically.
If the impact didn’t knock the breath out of him, hitting the ice does the job. No matter how many times it happens to him, his body never gets used to it, the panic of not being able to breathe.
He’s managed to suck in air by the time the trainer starts to make his way over, waves him away, everything off-kilter and wrong as he makes his way off, ignoring Ryan’s offered hand and shaking his head tightly when Chase asks if he needs help getting back to the bench. Damien, their backup goalie, opens the door for him, which he’s thankful for. James can’t manage more than than sitting down at the edge of the bench, so he suspects scrambling over the boards would currently be beyond him.
“You good?” Finn asks, materializing beside him.
James nods, tight.
“Winded?” Finn asks.
James starts to nod, then shakes his head.
“Not anymore?” Finn asks.
James nods again.
“Okay,” Finn says. “Down the tunnel?”
James shakes his head again, has to fight the urge to jerk away from the hand landing between his shoulders, because he knows it’s the trainer just doing his job. He asks James the same questions, but the tunnel is an order rather than a suggestion, and he follows close behind James, steering him to the medical room, like James doesn’t know the way.
James doesn’t clear the concussion protocol, even though he isn’t concussed, just wrong, off balance. They leave him in the quiet room for the remainder of the second, let him know they’ll test him again before the third if he wants them to, but he isn’t returning if he doesn’t pass.
The ‘quiet room’ doesn’t deserve the name. It’s quiet in comparison to the arena, maybe, the bench, even the room, but the fluorescent lights above him buzz, the crowd roars at what he hopes is an equalizing goal, and sound filters in from the locker room, distant chatter as the players return at the end of the second. He considers going out — he knows Finn at least is probably worried — but if he goes out when he feels like this, he won’t be returning to the game, and they need him on the ice more than they need him in the room, they always have. So he stays put.
It takes the second intermission to gather himself, get back into his head - he’s gone back into games with his head still on the hit, and found himself flinching at every hit, always checking if someone was coming, worse for the team than playing a man short.
He passes the second test perfectly, walks down the tunnel just in time to catch Chase dropping the gloves with one of the Wilson brothers. James can never keep them straight — there are four of them, all of them big, even for hockey players, and all of them mean. Not dirty, or cheap — they hit hard, but they hit clean, so James has always had a wary respect for them. He’s also been very aware of when they were on the ice, but clearly he was distracted today. It’s no excuse.
He sits down. “Is that who hit me?” he asks Damien, who’s leaning forward, watching the fight with a grin. He hadn’t bothered to ask the trainer — it was a clean hit, he figured. It being a Wilson only reinforces that initial impression.
“Yup,” Damien says, then, “Fuck him up, Chaser!”
“It was a clean hit, right?” James asks.
“Oh yeah, textbook,” Damien says. “All good now, Cap?”
“I’m fine,” James says.
Chase didn’t know James was coming back — they would have been short two-thirds of the first line if he hadn’t. In a tie game. After a clean hit. He’s not even winning the fight. Which is unsurprising, considering that’s one of the largest Wilsons, which is saying something. James is impressed he’s still standing.
Chase, as eager to contradict him as usual, goes down right then, Wilson landing on top of him, and the linesmen intervene.
“Good try, Chaser!” Damien says.
“That’s overstating it,” James says.
Damien elbows him playfully, and James has to fight not to snap at him. He means well. They all mean well.
Finn notices James then, skating over as Chase gets escorted to the box. “Okay?” he asks, climbing onto the bench, nudging Saunders aside so he can sit beside James.
“It was a clean hit,” James says. “And he didn’t know I was coming back; we could have been short two forwards. I’d say I can’t believe he’s so irresponsible, but that would be untrue.”
Finn smiles. “You’re okay.”
Thankfully, Chase doesn’t get extra for instigating, though judging by the replay, he deserves it. James watches the Jumbotron, wincing when he sees Chase catch a hard right to the cheekbone, then looking away. Chase, across the ice, isn’t watching the replay at all. He’s looking at James. It’s obvious the moment he notices James looking back — that’s when he waves.
James works very hard to keep his face neutral, and he doesn’t let himself look at the penalty box again.
It’s Chase that doesn’t come back to the game, escorted down the tunnel by the trainer as soon as he’s out of the box. At first James thinks it’s just to change into a clean jersey, but time winds down, and he doesn’t emerge. James pulls the Whalers ahead after a broken play, scoring the game winner, and has to wait in the hallway after the game to step back out again as the first star of the game.
James skates out, raises his stick to the crowd, then heads back into the room, fending off questions on his wellbeing with ‘I’m fine’ and comments about the fight with ‘I saw’. He lingers in the shower, where everyone leaves him alone, and the room’s started to empty out when he returns, down to half-full by the time he finishes getting dressed. No Chase that he can see. And he imagines if he was there, he’d notice. Chase is noticeable.
“Chase left?” he asks.
Georgie glances over at him. “Think he’s still in the medical room.”
“Okay,” James says, standing.
“Go easy on him, Cap,” Georgie says. “His heart was in the right place.”
James waves the comment away, and heads to the medical room for the second time that night, the trainer sticking his head out and then opening the door for him when he knocks.
“You good?” he asks. “Head bothering you?”
“I’m fine,” James says, stepping into the room.
Chase is in shorts and the Whalers t-shirt he was wearing before the game, sitting on the exam table. His eye’s shading dark in a way that tells James he’s going to have a black eye, and there’s a cut on his cheek, neatly stitched. That would be why he didn’t return, James assumes. They don’t let you back on the ice if you’re bleeding.
“Could I speak to Chase privately for a moment?” James asks.
“Sure thing,” the trainer says. “You’re good to go, honestly, Chaser, just don’t forget to ice the eye.”
Chase salutes him loosely, and James drops his eyes, keeps them on the floor until the trainer shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.
“You’re about to yell at me, aren’t you,” Chase says, and James looks back up.
“I don’t yell,” James says.
“Oh, we both know that’s not true,” Chase says, hopping down from the examination table. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?” James asks. “It wasn’t even a dirty hit.”
“Yeah, I uh, saw that,” Chase says, scratching his neck. There are stitches above his eye too, James belatedly notices. “Along with the internet all saying I got my ass kicked, which seems like an unfair assessment. Insult to injury, you know?”
He laughs, but it trails off when James doesn’t join in.
“You did get your ass kicked,” James says.
“The dude’s got like four inches on me, and he’s built like a linebacker,” Chase says. “Of course I got my ass kicked.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have fought him then,” James says.
“Thanks so much for sticking up for me, Holden,” Chase says, stepping into James in a way that would feel like a threat in any other scenario. In a way that was a threat, earlier, though not for him. James is abruptly sure that Chase doesn’t mean him harm, a level of certainty that surprises him.
“I didn’t ask you to stick up for me—“
“Oh, no problem, Cap, it was no skin off my nose,” Chase says, then laughs again. “Okay, maybe a bit. Mostly off my cheek, actually —”
“I haven’t thanked you,” James interrupts.
“I know, that’s kind of rude, huh?” Chase says. “And after I got punched for your honor and everything.”
He’s grinning wide enough that James can tell he still has all his teeth. He also clearly retained his smugness.
“You’re so…” James says. He goes blank, unable to think of something strong enough to encapsulate just what exactly Chase is, and all that comes out of his mouth is wordless frustration.
“I can’t believe you just growled at me,” Chase says. Infuriatingly, he’s still grinning. There’s a chip in his tooth, and James wants to know if he had it before tonight, but certainly not enough to ask anything of someone accusing him of behaving like an animal.
“I did not growl.”
“Like I’m so annoying you can’t even make words,” Chase says. “It’s flattering, honestly. Maybe not the best way to leave someone speechless, but I’ll still take it.”
“You are so fucking irritating,” James says. “I don’t even know why I like you—“
Chase isn’t smiling anymore; that’s all James processes before Chase’s hand lands heavily on his jaw. His eyes are very dark when James meets them, startled. James hadn’t thought they were that dark, though he doesn’t know what he did think. Not this.
“If you don’t tell me to fuck off in the next three seconds, I’m going to kiss you,” Chase says.
Chase only gives him one second, but he supposes that’s irrelevant. James kept his mouth shut tight.