Chapter Text
Adam forces himself to swing left, and the Penguins left defensemen nearly collides into him, shaking the man who’s no less than twice Adam’s size. The blades under his feet slide straight ahead over the ice, leaving an icy spray behind him as he yanks his stick around to place it between the puck that’s slipping along in front of him and the other center who tries to steal it out from under him.
The arena is cold, but underneath all of his gear, Adam is hotter than the state of Florida was last week when they played against the Lightning. Under the lining of his helmet, sweat builds and threatens to drop down his brow. Adam continues down the ice.
He loops around the goal, and the familiar shake of the goalie’s head reminds Adam who he’s fighting against. He repositions his stick in his hand, and as soon as he comes out the other side, takes the shot.
The puck bounces off of the side of the opposing goal as the buzzer chimes out across the arena. Noah rips his helmet off as he shoots to his feet, and he shrugs his shoulders in Adam’s direction.
“And the Pittsburgh Penguins have the game in a four-three win over the Washington Capitals.” Plays over the surround-sound speakers throughout the arena. Adam feels his shoulders fall, and his chest heaves. Around him, Penguins players crowd around Noah, while the rest of his own team fall back towards their bench.
He can already hear the sports announcers narrating over his doomed skate off the ice as he makes his way into the locker room. One of his teammates pity-punches his shoulder, but he shakes it off and continues back to his locker. A truly disappointing play from Adam Parrish prevents the Capitals from gaining a home-game advantage over their rivals, the Penguins. The Capitals have not been having a good season, at least not since Parrish took over as first line center defense since the departure of the team's previous center. One has to wonder if there may be a broken cog that's bringing the team to a stop this season.
Adam shakes his head, pulling his gloves off and flinging them down into his locker. On his right, Gansey pokes his head around the row of lockers, “You’ve gotta come up with that new swing, Adam. This one is too predictable for him.” He says, moving to fully emerge from the other side. He leans up against the lockers, a clipboard clutched in his crossed arms. Adam slams his towel down into his bag, “If I could come up with a new one, do you think I'd be using the same stupid swipe that I’ve been using for four seasons?”
Gansey slides down to sit down on the bench, “You doing anything tonight?” He asks, peering up at Adam through the thin-frame of his glasses. Adam shakes his head, “I was gonna go home and wallow in this loss, and then probably doomscroll Twitter and read about how such a horrible center I am and that I need to be traded off to the fucking Blue Jackets next season.” He pulls his jersey over his head, wrinkling his nose as the stench of sweat fills it, and then tosses it into the basket as the towel boy passes through with the cart. “But judging by the fact that you’re asking, I’m gonna assume you’re about to invite me somewhere.”
Gansey puts his pointer finger up in the air as if he’s checking off a box, “Ding ding ding. We’re doing dinner at mine tonight since Noah’s flight back to Pittsburgh isn’t until the morning.”
“Who’s all gonna be there?” Adam’s southern drawl attempts to make an escape and slip into the conversation, but he quickly corrects it. If Gansey notices it, he doesn’t point it out, “Usual suspects. Blue and Henry are already there.” “Blue cooking?” “Oh god no. I have pizza being delivered.” Gansey laughs quietly. Adam doesn’t think Blue has a single molecule of whatever gene makes someone a good cook in her.
The locker room door opens, “Where’s Dick?” The coach shouts, and Gansey scrambles to his feet. “Assistant coach duties call. Meet me in the parking lot. I’ll drive.”
As he rounds the lockers and heads towards the office, Adam calls after him, “We carpooled!”
“Parrish.” A thick Russian accent pulls Adam’s attention behind him, and when he turns, a large hand lands on his shoulder. “You played well out there, but maybe it is time to find a new strategy.” Ovi nods. Adam laughs once, and it sounds more like a couch than anything, “Thanks Ovi. I’m trying.”
Beside him, Wilson joins them, his bag slung over his shoulder and halfway to the door, “And don’t go on social media. It’s brutal right now.” He claps Adam on the back, and then both men depart the locker room.
Adam stays a little longer than anyone else, listening to the announcers on the TV berate his playing for thousands of people to enjoy.
In the parking lot, Adam drags his feet against the asphalt, kicking at the tiny stones that pop up under his shoes. One bounces underneath the tire of a car. Another rolls until it hits a sneaker.
Noah, in a hunter green hoodie, turns at the noise. “Took you long enough! Where’s Gansey? He said he was driving.” His hands are shoved into his hoodie pocket, but Adam doesn’t need to see that his pale skin is a result of the late Winter cold that still has a chokehold on the city. His face is the same pale as the rest of him, but his cheeks and nose are rosy, and he huffs hot air upwards towards his nose to warm it. Adam shrugs, “Last I saw, he was with Coach. I don’t know how long he’ll be though.”
“Oh.” Noah’s shoulders fall, and as much as Adam would sort of like to punch him in the stomach right now, he can’t stay mad at him. “Good game by the way.” Noah says, clapping a hand over Adam’s shoulder, and Adam masks his laugh with sarcasm, “Says the person who won it.” He rolls his eyes. Noah laughs through his nose, “Get better? I guess?”
Adam pushes at Noah’s shoulder at the same time as the side doors swing open and Gansey comes hurrying out, digging for his car keys in his backpack. Behind him, Coach follows, and he raises his hand in the air to say goodnight to the boys. Adam gives a half-salute with two fingers, but Noah waves back dutifully even though he’s on the opposing team.
They follow Gansey to where his car is parked. The headlights on the ugly orange Camaro that Gansey calls The Pig flash as he unlocks the doors manually, and Adam throws his things into the trunk before crawling into the back seat.
Blue and Gansey’s gorgeous Arlington home is an old brick building that Gansey bought at auction a few years back. It wasn’t originally a house, but after some extensive remodelings overseen by Blue, it’s taken the shape of something entirely new. None of them can figure out what Monmouth Manufacturing used to be, but now it serves as a home and a gathering place, and Blue always says that she’s okay with not knowing. The mystery eats away at Gansey every day, unfortunately.
When Gansey pushes open the unlocked door, Blue is carrying a large potted plant from the entryway into the living room. It looks bigger than her, but Henry is standing to the side and watching her, which means that he already offered to help and was rebuffed.
“Finally! You’re here!” Henry throws his hands up in the air, “I need to tell you about my game yesterday.” He says, abandoning his activity of watching Blue to make his way towards the group. To Adam’s left, Noah sarcastically-scoffs, “Wow. No hi Noah or welcome back Noah. Nice to see you Noah . I’ve only been gone for six months.” And he pushes past Gansey into the living room when Henry doesn’t acknowledge him.
From the living room, Blue loudly recites “Hi Noah. Welcome back Noah. Nice to see you Noah.”
Henry drags Gansey into the kitchen, presumably to rant about his game against the Blue Jays the day before. Henry and Adam aren’t necessarily close, but they’ve been friends for as long as Adam has known Gansey, which would be three years in the fall. On the outside, wearing a t-shirt with Madonna’s face spread across it and a pair of khakis, he doesn’t look like an MLB starting pitcher. But Adam has seen him in a baseball diamond, and he might be one of the best athletes Adam’s ever seen play live. And he’s seen a lot of live sports games.
When Adam makes his way into the living room, Blue is pushing the heavy plant into the corner behind the sofa. Her calves strain as it drags across the floor, but Adam doesn’t step in to help. He knows she wouldn’t allow him to anyway. On the floor next to the sofa is her patchy gym bag and grass-covered soccer cleats, which means that Blue probably just got back from training before deciding that she didn’t like where her plant was placed.
He falls down onto the couch beside Noah, letting his bruised and strained body relax against the plush white fabric. Every time he gets off the ice, his Virginia tan skin is battered with yellow and purple marks. The pads from his gear work well enough so that he doesn’t get too badly hurt, but it still leaves a massive strain on his body at the end of a long game. It doesn’t help that he got thrown up against the glass during the second period and let his anger get the best of him. He’d spent two minutes in the penalty box before being sent back onto the ice.
“Good game?” Blue asks, as she shoves the pot just a few more inches before deciding that it’s in the perfect spot. When she stands right side up, her hair falls into her face.
Adam scoffs and Noah laughs at the same time. Without another word from either boy, Blue nods, “How bad you beat him?” She asks Noah, who grins tiredly. “Four to three at the buzzer.”
Blue clicks her tongue inside her cheek, “Too bad. You’ll get him next time Adam.” She pats Adam’s collarbone, before falling back onto the couch and propping her socked feet up on Noah’s lap. Adam rolls his head to look over at her, “How ‘bout you? How’s the new goalie doing?”
She rolls her eyes, and then lays her head back against the arm of the couch, “Jordan’s fine. A lot better than the last few loans, I’ll give her that. She stopped half of my goals today.” She shrugs her shoulders upwards, and Adam nods and makes a noise of acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything. The three of them sit together, letting their muscles relax.
When Gansey and Henry finally reemerge from the kitchen, Gansey leans over the back of the couch to kiss Blue on the mouth. Adam watches as Gansey pushes Blue’s hair back and then kisses her forehead, before he goes to grab her bag and shoes and drags them into their bedroom. Then he shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the back of the couch.
Henry hops over the side of the couch and bounces down next to Adam. “I was just telling Gansey about this absolutely ridiculous call the umpire made yesterday.” He doesn’t wait for anyone to ask what happened, and dives into the story anyway, “Bottom of the fifth, I threw a strike. I know I threw a strike, because it was a perfect shot. I was practically handing the batter a hit, but he jumped out of the way! As if it was anywhere near him! And then the ump called it the fourth ball and he walked! It was unbelievable, but of course no one else thought it was as stupid as it actually was.” He crosses his surprisingly muscular arms across his chest in a pout. Blue lifts her foot and points her toe at him, “You should appeal to the board.” She wiggles her toe at him.
It looks like he might actually be contemplating it, but the doorbell rings before he has a chance to say anything else. Gansey comes careening through the living room, slipping across the floor in just his socks, yelling “I got it!”
With his eyes shut, Adam can hear the door open, and Gansey murmurs something about thanks for coming and then the door shuts. Two pairs of feet shuffle back down the hall towards the living room, and when they stop, Noah says “You’re not the pizza guy.”
Adam peeks his eyes open and turns his head across the back of the couch to see whoever it is that Gansey has invited over. On his left, Blue chuckles, “What the fuck are you doing back in town?” And she rolls herself up into a sitting position. The man standing beside Gansey grins, his tongue sticking up to trace over one of his canines. His hair is buzzed down to the scalp, and the all black ensemble he’s got on is in huge contrast to Gansey’s white polo and brown shorts. His eyes are what catch Adam’s attention: one a nice light blue, and the other one is split down the middle. Blue on one side, and a dark brown on the other.
Immediately, Adam is interested in this stranger. A heat curls in the bottom of his belly as the stranger sheds his jacket and drops it over the back of the couch. At his side, Gansey grins, “Ronan just moved back to DC. He just bought a house in the city. Actually, it’s pretty close to Adam’s house.”
When Ronan’s eyes drift over to Adam, Adam throws up his hand in a wave and says “Hey.” He doesn’t expect Ronan’s face to fall into a scow and say, “Who the fuck are you?”
Adam is taken off guard, so he does the thing he does best, and he furrows his brows deeply and tilts his head. “Adam Parrish. Washington Capitals. And who the fuck are you?” There’s spite in his voice, even he can hear it, and Henry’s eyes widen when he turns to look at Adam. Ronan hmph ’s, and then points toward the kitchen and looks to Gansey with a silent question that Gansey immediately knows how to answer and does so with a nod. The two of them disappear into the kitchen, and Adam turns to Blue, motioning behind him with his head “What’s his deal?”
Blue sighs, “Ronan Lynch. He’s like God’s gift to tennis. You don’t know him?” “I don’t follow tennis much. Never thought it was very interesting.” Adam has never watched a full tennis match in his life, and for the most part, he’s never understood it. He knows though that what he’s saying is mostly the bad taste in his mouth that Ronan Lynch has left within two minutes of meeting.
Adam takes back the feeling of interest, and replaces it with repulse.
He’s glad when the pizza finally arrives and they don’t have to talk at all.
🏆🏆🏆
The next time Adam meets Ronan Lynch, Noah is back in Pittsburgh and the Washington Spirit are playing a match against the Utah Royals. Adam isn’t unfamiliar with soccer, but he tends to enjoy it far less than other sports. It might be because so many people have referred to it as a grass version of hockey, and Adam has a tendency to take things that are meant to be off-handed compliments and absorb them negatively.
But Blue is his friend, one of his best friends, so he goes with Gansey to the game anyway, and sits in a players box above the rest of the fans. The crowd is filled, but not as tightly as the stands at Adam’s games are. One of Blue’s biggest pet peeves is that, if the genders were flipped– if she was a man and played for the D.C. United instead –then these seats would be full, and Adam finds that he has to agree with her.
Adam watches as Blue commands the pitch, taking control of the ball as Utah players follow her down the field. She passes it over to her teammate, who weaves around a Utah player, before it’s passed back. Blue takes her shot, and Adam watches as the ball soars past the goalkeeper and into the net. Gansey stands to his feet, and Adam doesn’t need to watch him to know that he should be doing the same. On the field, Blue celebrates with her team. In the stands, fan’s jump up and down and cheer. In the box, Adam and Gansey chant “Sargent Sargent Sargent!”
“Woo! Soccer! Go Blue!” A voice behind them weakly cheers, and Adam rolls his eyes. Admittedly, he recognizes it. Gansey turns around with a grin and throws his hands up into the air, “Ronan! You made it!”
To himself, Adam sighs and mimics “Yay, Ronan made it.” with his best annoyed voice. He does not bother to hide his incredulous feelings towards Ronan.
When he turns, Adam finds that he’s seeing double. Beside Ronan is a younger, curly haired version of him. They could be twins, if not for the fact that the young man accompanying Ronan looks cheerful, with an ugly neon windbreaker tugged around him and rosy cheeks that brighten his face into a pink hue as opposed to Ronan’s hollow cheeks and pale skin. Ronan’s twin-not-twin smiles wide at Ronan, and Adam immediately finds that he likes him. Beside him , Ronan rolls his eyes. “Matthew, don’t be so excitable.” He says.
Adam raises an eyebrow, “I think Matthew can do as he pleases.” And then he turns his attention back to Matthew and holds his hand out. “Adam Parrish, it’s very nice to meet you.” He allows his southern accent to slip through his teeth and he smiles politely. Matthew beams back, and he takes Adam’s hand to shake too, “Matthew Lynch. I know who you are- or I mean- I mean obviously I know who you are. Big fan. I think their decision to shift you up to the first line was one of the smartest moves the NHL could’ve made.”
Adam has to laugh, so he does, “You might be the first person to think that.”
“You guys are just having a rough season, I think. Season’s not over yet.” Matthew says quickly, as if he’s covering up some deeper meaning. Adam shakes his head, but he says “Thank you for that.” anyway. Matthew’s smile returns. Ronan takes the empty seat beside Gansey, and Adam is grateful for it. Matthew goes to sit beside Adam.
“You play hockey?” Adam asks him, but Matthew shakes his head, “Oh, no. I’m a striker for the Georgetown soccer team. I’ve been meaning to come out to one of the league games for a while now, but I’ve never had the time-” “When I told him I could get us into the players box, he practically did backflips. Isn’t that right, Matthew?” Ronan interrupts on the other side of Gansey, grinning like he’s winning an argument that isn’t happening.
Adam does not turn to look at him, and instead rolls his eyes and focuses on the game happening below them again.
Matthew rambles on periodically about the players and the game, but Adam doesn’t really understand when he stands up and shouts “Oh come on! That was totally an offside!”
On his right, Gansey chuckles, “Isn’t this great?” He says it with the same gleeful grin as a school boy. Adam nods slowly, “Charming family.”
After the game, with the Spirit winning six to Utah’s three, Blue meets them in the player alley. She’s drying her short hair with a towel and she still smells like the turf from the field even after a shower, but Adam hugs her and tells her she did great.
Behind him, Ronan shrugs, “You played like the devil, Maggot.” And then he hooks Matthew by the shoulder with his hand, “You remember my brother Matthew? He’s a fan of yours.”
With the same excitement that he’d shown Adam, Matthew thrusts his hand forward with puffy cheeks. He says, for the most part, exactly what he’d said to Adam. He’d be put off by it, if Blue wasn’t laughing and shaking his hand with a ferocity that means she finds it just as endearing as Adam did.
“Henry couldn’t make it?” She asks, and slots herself under Gansey’s waiting arm. Gansey shakes his head, “Had practice. He said we could all meet at his house tonight for dinner though.”
Adam wrinkles his nose. As much as he likes Henry as a friend, Henry’s penthouse is a space that feels sacred to everyone except Adam. It’s impeccably clean, and decorated with more baseball memorabilia than Adam has ever seen. Adam finds it just a bit too themed for his taste, but he’ll never say that to Henry’s face.
Gansey turns to Ronan, “Can you make it?” He asks. Ronan laughs, the kind where his sharp canines peek through his lips, “Only if Matty here can.”
Matthew looks up at his brother in surprise, and then over to Gansey in expectance. Gansey nods once, “Of course! More the merrier. That’s what I say, isn’t that right Jane?” “I have never once heard you say that.” “I say it all the time!” The two continue to bicker on their way out.
Adam trails behind Ronan and Matthew, who follow Blue and Gansey through the facility towards the parking lot. Halfway through, Ronan turns over his shoulder, “Comin’ Parrish?” He asks. It’s the most genuine sounding question they’ve said between each other, and Adam doesn’t feel venom on his tongue.
“Uh, yeah. I just gotta run home first and throw some laundry over. I drove separately, so I’ll be behind the rest of you.”
In the parking lot Gansey hands his keys over to Blue, the only other person allowed to drive The Pig, and Adam watches as Ronan and Matthew load into the backseat of a tinted black town car without another word towards him.
Adam’s own car is parked on the other side of the lot. With as much money as he makes now, sometimes Adam feels stuck in the past, which may account for the fact that he’s never upgraded the car he got in high school for anything nicer. His teammates, and his friends, make fun of him for it, but the golden colored combination honda-toyota that he bought with his own money and fixed up with his own two hands is a good car. Sure, it can’t make it up steep hills, but there aren’t many of those in DC and he doesn’t drive it very far out of the city anyway.
His rookie year in the NHL, after signing his contract and agreeing on a salary way bigger than anyone in his tiny town had ever seen, Adam had just assumed that he was at the top. He’d worked harder than anyone else on his college team, and he’d left behind the comfortable Captains position he’d earned by his Sophomore year to become the youngest player on the Washington Capitals.
It had taken a handful of weeks before Adam saw any actual action on the ice in a game, but the first game he ever played was the one he met Noah during. Noah had only been playing professionally for two years, but he already had a Stanley Cup win under his belt.
Adam had taken a shot that the announcers called impossible as the puck glided across the ice and past Noah into the goal. His first goal in his first game had cemented him as a fan favorite amongst Capitals fans. A legacy that, until recently, had gone untainted.
The Hondayota, as Gansey so pleasurably calls it, sputters to life with an embarrassing cough. The radio barely plays music, and when it does, it’s shrouded by static. Adam drives in silence through the city, waiting out the midday Saturday traffic with the windows cracked to let the cool air flow through the car. At a red light, the person sitting beside him waves their hand until he takes notice of them. When he does turn to look at them, a phone camera is shoved against their closed window, and he waves politely and goes back to staring straight ahead at the light.
Adam likes his house. It’s not huge, not like Monmouth Manufacturing or Henry’s penthouse is, but it’s spacious.
Spacious and empty.
Adam drops his keys on the table by the front door and kicks his shoes off, leaving them pushed against the wall in a neat pile, the right half stacked atop the left. There’s art on the walls, not that Adam knows what any of it means, and photos in frames that depict his career, his friends, and his time in college. If anyone were to really pay attention, they’d notice a distinct lack of family photos. But no one who isn’t Noah ever really pays attention. Noah has never asked why, but Adam can tell that he has his suspicions. Or at least, he has several guesses. He’ll never ask about it.
The dark gray walls make it seem smaller than the house actually is, and Adam supposes it could remind him of home if he really wanted to. Instead, he allows it to remind him of his college dorm room and his annoying roommate that insisted on being given free tickets to every hockey game because he was Adam’s roommate. There’s a familiarity there, of freedom that he didn’t have in high school. A freedom he only really started to understand last year, when he bought the house.
“Honey, I’m home.” He mutters to the empty house. It echoes back at him, and he drops his gaze to the floor.
Adam wasn’t lying to Ronan when he said he needed to change the laundry over, so he does that first. When the sound of the dryer is tumbling rhythmically throughout the house, he drops himself face first down onto the couch. There’s a hot headache brewing behind his eyes, so he pinches his eyes shut tight and focuses on the nothingness of the rest of the house. The hum of the fan in his bedroom as it whirs. The smell of the freshly washed linens still laid on the back of the couch from when he washed the towels and blankets this morning before leaving for the game. The click of the air as it turns on, and then the rush of air that pushes through the vent.
He forces himself to get up and shut it off. It’s cold enough outside that the house could be cooled down by an open window. The shining sun warms one spot on the couch in particular through the glass doors that lead to the backyard.
There was a time when he was younger, less than a decade ago even though time between then and now has moved as fast as Adam feels on the ice, when this was what he wanted. A big house, and a bank account that has more money in it than his father has ever seen even after a life full of paychecks, and a good career where people wish they were him. That dream had included a wife, or a husband, and maybe a dog.
Adam Parrish sits alone in his living room, listening to the noises of his new life, and he doesn’t feel complete. There’s an empty room down the hall from his bedroom, and a similar sized emptiness in his chest.
🏆🏆🏆
For three weeks, Adam and Ronan dance around each other like there's fire under their feet.
Hanging out at Gansey and Blue’s house becomes a chore, and Adam tries to avoid whatever room Ronan happens to be in if they’re there at the same time. Ronan tends to put on any and every tennis match that's playing that day, and if he leaves the room, Adam picks up the remote and turns on literally anything else. Sometimes, when Ronan isn’t even physically there, someone else will turn on the televised match that he’s currently playing. The announcers praising him makes Adam’s head hurt, so he turns that off too.
On social media, Adam is tagged in hundreds of posts a day. One that does stick out to him while he’s laying in bed is an interview with Ronan about his new permanent residence in DC after three years of traveling the world and going back and forth between Boston and family property in Ireland. Adam, despite his better judgment, clicks on the link.
Q: You’ve been spotted hanging out with a pretty interesting group of athletes in DC. Blue Sargent from the Spirit, Henry Cheng with the Nationals, and Adam Parrish of the Capitals. Would I be correct in assuming we’ll be seeing the four of you at each others games a lot more?
A: Sargent and Cheng? Yeah probably. I’m not really a hockey fan though.
And that makes Adam’s blood boil. Not a hockey fan, he thinks as he shuts his phone off and throws it across his bed, I don’t like fucking tennis either. Fucking douchebag. Adam shoves a pillow over his own face and groans into it.
At Henry’s house the next week, Adam makes an excuse about leaving early for a meeting with his PR manager before Ronan even gets there. Of course, he opens the front door and is met with Ronan’s scowl.
“Waiting for me to show, Parrish?” He asks, hands in his pockets as he pushes past Adam and into the penthouse. He gets close enough for Adam to be reminded of the unique split in his eyes, but Adam feels his own left eye twitch involuntarily, as they trade places, “No. Was just leaving.”
Ronan laughs once, tilting his head back to the ceiling, “If I was vain, I’d say you’re avoiding me.” He says, a stupid smirk on his mouth. Adam wants to punch it off of him, but instead he shoves his fists deep into the pockets of his jeans and squares his shoulders. “You are vain, but I have a meeting. Don’t flatter yourself. Not like we’re friends anyway.”
For a moment, Ronan’s shit-eating grin falls, but Adam turns to leave before it turns into a frown in front of his eyes.
The next time they see each other, the Capitals have just won a landslide five to one game against the Kings. Adam can still feel the relief in his bones after landing two of his own goals against their opposition. Hearing the chant of his name as his stats are projected across the arena. The sound of the buzzer and the cheering of the fans rings in his ears.
Adam had found himself, instinctively, looking up into the family boxes. Blue and Henry wave down at him, but he’s surprised when he spots Ronan standing beside them.
In the box later, after a much needed locker room shower, Blue wraps her arms tightly around his neck and Henry doesn’t reach out to touch him but he nods approvingly. When Adam’s eyes meet Ronan, he feels unfair anger begin to boil in his belly. He pushes it away to be dissolved by the joy he’s still feeling.
“You came?” He asks, once Blue has hugged him tightly and for long enough. Ronan scratches at the back of his neck, and looks away like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to. He shrugs, “Gansey promised me free beer.” He says, but then he tacks on, “Nice win.” As if it’s supposed to make Adam feel any type of way about him.
Gansey saves them from any more awkward congratulations by appearing in the doorway with the biggest grin across his face. He slings his arm around Adam’s shoulder and jumps up, putting most of his weight onto Adam’s back.
Adam winces, “Woah, hey! Watch out! I did get slammed into the glass earlier. I’m still sore from that, you know.” Gansey unwraps himself dutifully, but he leans around and presses his lips to Adam’s cheek in a sloppy kiss. Adam ducks away with an “ugh” while Blue pretends to be shocked. He pushes away from Adam and goes to Blue, but she pushes him off, so he wraps his arm across Henry’s shoulders instead. Gansey is the only one allowed to hang off of Henry without any kind of repercussions.
Ronan raises his hands into the air and then claps loudly, “Fuck it, I’m buying tonight. Parrish, where we going?” He says, as if it’s not the most absurd thing that Adam has ever heard him ask. Adam shakes his head, “Oh not me. Ya’ll go out and have fun. I’m going home and getting into an ice bath.”
Under Gansey’s arm, Henry cocks his head, “I’ll never understand that. You just spent all that time on the ice, and now you’re going to go spend more time in more ice.” Adam huffs his shoulders in a laugh, “I don’t get it either, but it helps. My back hurts too much to be hunched over on a bar stool.” His eyes cut to Ronan, “No offense, but I’m pretty sure tennis is one of the few sports where slamming into people with your body isn’t practiced.”
He says it with full offense, and Ronan catches it anyway. He grunts, “Whatever. Have fun freezing your balls off. The rest of us are going out.”
Adam goes out to his car alone, as the others file into their cars and go wherever Ronan has decided on. He’ll hear about it tomorrow, but for now, Adam goes home.
He fills his bathtub with ice and sinks down into it, his clothing soaking all the way through immediately, and lets the cold water flush over his face. If he stayed here long enough, perhaps he’d figure out how to change his shooting strategy. It’s eating at him, of everything that could be bothering him, that the game he knows as well as breathing is giving him a run for his money.
On the floor beside the bathtub, his phone buzzes.
Noah: Wicked win tonight! Congrats man. Don’t let the others talk you into getting too turnt after that. It’ll only go to your big head lol
Adam scoffs a laugh and texts back;
Everyone else already went out with Ronan. I’m taking a well deserved ice bath and thinking about how I’m going to beat you next time we’re on the same ice rink.
Noah: Ronan went to the game? Wait, does this mean you’re texting me from the bathtub? Awesome. Send nudes
Instead, Adam sends back a selfie of his face and his middle finger, and then puts his phone back down on the ground and sinks back down into the ice.
When he does eventually crawl into bed, well after midnight, he gravitates to social media. It isn’t often that Adam uses his social media pages for anything other than seeing what people are saying about him or checking Taylor Swift’s instagram page, but this time he types in a new username.
Ronan Lynch’s last instragram post is from seven months ago, with a pro-shot photo from his win over France at Wimbledon, which won him the whole thing and two million dollars. The post below it is from a little less than a year ago and is a poorly lit photo of Ronan with two other men on either side of him. Adam can easily tell the one on the right is a younger Matthew, if only by the unruly golden hair and the ugly jacket he’s wearing. The other one is almost an exact carbon copy of Ronan, and Adam can tell that it must be another brother he hasn’t met yet. The caption reads like it was written out by a social media manager:
Great night out with my brothers @matty.lynch and @DeclanTLynchOfficial at the Stanley Cup Finals supporting the Boston Bruins! Let’s go Bruins!
Adam laughs loudly, because there's no one else here to judge him for it.
When he scrolls up to the top of the page, the blue follow button says Follow Back. Adam scoffs, and then he follows Ronan back and turns off his phone for the night.
🏆🏆🏆
Adam Parrish hates Ronan Lynch. He hates him with the same passion that he hates tax season with. He hates him with every burning cell in his body. He hates him so much he wants to punch him in his stupidly attractive, straight-jawed face.
He says as much to Gansey the next time they’re in the locker room alone. It’s well past practice end, and everyone else has gone home for the day, except for Adam– who’s pacing back and forth across the length of the locker room –and Gansey– who’s sitting on the floor against the wall with his knees pressed to his chest –as Adam gesticulates wildly with his hands. There hasn’t been anything in particular that he’s done, except for being the apple of every media outlet's eye right now.
“He’s just- he’s like- ugh! You know! He makes me so angry with those stupid eyes and skin and mouth! I want to hit him!” Adam pinches the spot between his nose and his eyes, rubbing his thumbs in circles to self-soothe as he paces. Against the wall, Gansey wraps his arms around his knees and hugs them closer to himself, “Hit him… with your mouth?”
Adam circles on Gansey quickly, barking out a shocked “What?”
Gansey half-shrugs, “I mean… you did just call him stupidly attractive, and then you brought up his eyes, and his skin, and his mouth. I feel like there might be more happening here than you realize.”
The words get stuck in the back of Adam’s throat, like a lodged loogie. He stands there, in shock, gasping for anything but coming up with nothing else to say. The best he can come up with is “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Besides, I can say that he’s attractive, because he is! I’m bisexual, not blind.” And then he goes back to pacing.
Adam has known Gansey for a long time, if three years counts as that long. It’s longer than he’s known most people besides Noah. When they met, Gansey was a fresh faced intern running coffee orders for the team’s owner. Adam had just started his second season in the big leagues, and on top of that he was freshly twenty-one, so the fame had gone to his head a bit. Slowly, Adam had come back to his senses, and Gansey had forced his way through the ranks of intern, towel boy, and now Assistant Coach. There is a small part of Adam that questions how he reached his spot so quickly. It’s something they don’t talk about much, but Adam knows Gansey is rich. Rich as in his mother is a sitting member of Congress. Rich as in his job is only one small part of his fortune.
Against the wall, Gansey digs his cellphone from his shorts pocket. He checks it, sends a single text, and then places it on the floor beside him. He rolls his head backwards, and looks up at Adam, “Changing the subject, because I can hear the gears in your head coming to a stop, have you figured out a new shooting strategy yet or are you going to use the same one forever?”
At his sides, Adam clenches and unclenches his fists, cracking his knuckles in the process. He shakes his head, “Every time I think I have something, it’s a useless fucking attempt at something I already know how to do. That everyone already knows how to block. I’m goin’ in circles, Gansey.”
It’s frustrating. Adam is frustrated. And he’s angry. Adam is angry.
He just wants to figure it all out and skip the actual figuring it out part.
“Do you want help?” Gansey asks, giving Adam pause. Gansey has already tried. Noah has already tried. Hell, Henry has even tried. What could Gansey offer up now that could possibly help.
Regardless, Adam nods hesitantly. Gansey stands, taking his phone with his and then cracking his back, “I already texted you the address. Go there on Tuesday, I’ve got a friend that can help you sort it out. He’s a god at underhanded swings.” Adam holds out his hand, “Hold on, you’ve had this mysterious answer to all my problems all along and you’ve been holding out on me the entire time ? Some friend you are.” He tries to say it with an air of sarcasm, but judging by the way Gansey’s mouth quirks down into a semi-frown, Adam may have genuinely hurt his feelings.
Gansey shifts backwards towards the door, “Tuesday. He’ll be there waiting for you.”
As he goes, Adam crinkles his brows, “Wait you know another hockey player that’s not me? Am I being cheated on?” He yells after Gansey, but his friend is already gone, leaving Adam alone in the locker room.
🏆🏆🏆
Tuesday comes, and with it comes one of the hottest days of the spring so far. Adam is sweating and all he’s doing is standing still in the parking lot. He looks back and forth between the address on his phone and the court in front of him, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder.
He must have the wrong address. That, or Gansey sent him the wrong address. This isn’t an ice rink, or even an empty field like some of his teammates prefer to use to practice trick shots. It’s a tennis court.
There’s someone on one of the single player courts, rushing back and forth to slam their racket into a neon green ball. Adam watches it fly over the net, bounce off of the wall on the other side, and then bounce back towards the person playing. They swing again, and the motions repeat. Adam figures he might as well ask.
“Hey! 'Scuse me!” He says through the fence, fingers grabbing at the links. The person stops, and turns, racket clenched in their fist, “Parrish?” Ronan turns to meet Adam’s eyes, and Adam lets his head fall against the fence as he mutters, “Oh, fuck me.”
This doesn’t deter Ronan though, he approaches the fence with the same tenacity as a farm dog, “What the fuck are you doing here?” He asks. Adam supposes it doesn’t matter if he tells him, “Gansey told me to meet a friend of his here to practice some new underhand swing technique. What’re you doing here?”
Ronan’s eyebrow raises, and scans Adam with his eyes, and then looks down at himself. He’s got on a white cut-off t-shirt that’s drenched through in sweat, and white shorts that fit him perfectly around the thighs, with a brimmed baseball hat with the Nationals logo on the front on top of his head, “I play tennis here?” He says timidly, the first time Adam’s ever heard that tone from him, “Besides, Gansey told me to meet someone here for…” he trails off, nodding as he understands. At the same time, Adam comes to the same conclusion.
It’s Ronan who speaks first, “I brought an extra racket.” He says.
Adam sighs, and then unlocks the gate. He’s here, he’s already stretched, so he may as well entertain Gansey’s schemes. He denies Ronan’s offer to explain the game. It seems easy enough.
“I’ll take it easy on you, newcomer.” Ronan says from across the court. Adam can’t see his face very well under his hat, but what he can see makes him hungry to win. Ronan’s cut off shirt is stuck to his body with sweat, and the sun shines through it enough that Adam can see just how muscular he actually is. The snake-skin tattoo that’s wrapped up around his arm, another surprising detail that adds to the mysteriousness that is Ronan Lynch, flexes as he prepares to serve.
Adam misses his turn because he’s busy watching Ronan’s arms. It isn’t until the ball goes whizzing past him that he truly swallows Ronan’s words, and he curls his eyebrows, “No! We play fair! I want everything you got.”
Even though they’re separated by the net, he can see Ronan’s snake-bite, toothy grin.
Adam serves this time, and he sends the ball flying way past Ronan’s head and into the chain fence behind him. He laughs as Ronan turns to go retrieve it from the mulch at the bottom of the fence, but quickly stops when Ronan bends over, pulling his shirt with him. Along his back is a large, ornate tattoo. To anyone else, it might look like scribbles. To Adam, it looks like some kind of entity he may have seen in his dreams. It’s only visible for a second, but it may as well be burned into Adam’s eyelids.
When Ronan returns, at a slow pace as he shakes his head, he laughs again. “Point to me!” He shouts.
Adam feels his face twitch, “What! You didn’t hit it!” ”You hit out of bounds! I would’ve explained the rules to you if you’d wanted me to! But you said no so I’m holding you to that.” Ronan shrugs his shoulders, his racket falling limply in his hand. Adam starts to feel anger in his chest again, but he stamps it down with the back of his foot. Ronan is right. He hadn’t wanted to hear the rules, so he’ll have to learn on the fly.
Adam grips his racket with two hands, “Like I said, don’t go easy on me.” He shouts back. Ronan points with one finger, “Well first of all, rackets are one-handed, so lose the second.”
He lets his other hand fall away to his side, clenching it as he shakes out his shoulders.
Ronan serves, and he serves hard. Adam flinches and jumps out of the way of the ball, and he can hear the rubber crack against the court. “What the fuck!” He shouts. If anyone else were here, he’d be getting dirty looks.
On the other side of the court, Ronan just shrugs, “You told me not to hold back, so I’m not holding back.”
“Okay maybe… hold back a little. I’m new to this.”
Ronan, for what it’s worth, doesn’t gloat. Instead he nods, but there's still a smile on his face.
It takes a few more serves, and a practice round where Ronan just hits the ball as hard as he can and sends Adam running harder than he’s ever ran before to get to it before it bounces out of bounds, before Adam starts to get the hang of it. Ronan serves again, normally this time, and it doesn’t take long for Adam to get into the groove of swinging his racket through the air and slinging the ball back towards him. He’s probably still breaking a few rules, but Ronan doesn’t say anything.
Eventually, Ronan catches Adam’s next serve in his hand, bringing the game to a halt. Without a word, he makes his way around the net, but Adam barely notices as he rubs at his shoulder.
Ronan comes to stop in front of him, “You’re doing good, but you’re swinging too high and it’s why you keep sending the ball out of bounds. This isn’t baseball, you’re not Henry Cheng.” And then he reaches out for Adam’s racket, “May I?”
When Adam offers the racket, Ronan instead covers Adam’s hand with his own, putting his other hand on Adam’s bicep. Adam stills under the touch, but Ronan doesn’t seem to notice. He swings the racket back, and then forward at the supposedly right height, bringing the racket back over Adam’s opposite shoulder. The one that Ronan’s head is nearly perched on. They do that a couple more times, and Adam can barely concentrate when he turns his head a smidge to his left and feels Ronan’s heavy breath on his cheek. Pressed back to chest, Adam pretends he’s not struggling to breathe.
After the third or fourth swing– Adam really isn’t paying attention –he pulls himself out of Ronan’s grip. “I think I got it. Thanks.” His skin is hot, his face is hot, and it’s not just the beating down sun.
Ronan nods, a half-smile on his face, and returns to his side of the court. “Your serve.” he says, rolling back on the heels of his feet. Inside his shorts pocket is the tennis ball they’ve been using. He hadn’t even noticed Ronan slip it into his pocket. Adam palms the ball, the fuzz pressing into his skin, and then tosses it into the air, slamming his racket into it.
It lands perfectly in front of Ronan with a bounce, and is sent back just as quickly. Adam swings the way Ronan has just finished teaching him, and his racket vibrates in his hand as the ball bounces back.
Adam scores his first point after a half-dozen more serves, and Ronan calls a time-out to chug down half a bottle of water. “Oh come on! I’m just getting in the groove of this!” He yells as Ronan heads towards the bench in the middle of the court. He stands for a minute, watching Adam with hooded eyes, and then he shakes his head, “Parrish, I’ve been at forty for like fifteen minutes. You just hit fifteen. Plus, your crazy ass uncontrolled swings have got me sprinting around this court in a way that I have never done before, so I think I am allowed a quick timeout.” And then he brings the bottle to his mouth, but he never breaks eye contact.
“I thought I only had one point.” Adam says. Ronan hangs his head, “It’s a- nevermind, fuck. I’ve had three points for fifteen minutes and you’ve got one. I think I deserve a quick break.” He sits down on the bench, using a black hand towel to wipe away the sweat on his neck.
Adam doesn’t really understand, but he’s willing to give it a try. He goes to join Ronan on the bench.
🏆🏆🏆
The first time Adam has the “privilege” of meeting Ronan’s older brother Declan, they’ve been playing tennis every Tuesday for three weeks. Fortunately, it’s opening up his horizons in terms of intercepting pucks the way Gansey had intended. Unfortunately, Adam’s starting to like it.
It’s not only the sport he likes, even if he still doesn’t totally understand it. Adam likes the thud of his sneakers on the court, and the race of his heart as he jogs up and down his side of the net. He likes the ache in his back after a match. He likes spending time getting to know Ronan, who turns out to be far less of a douchebag than Adam himself tends to be and thought Ronan was more of.
Noah’s birthday is on a Wednesday, and he’s in DC for a self-proclaimed vacation. Really, he’s in town for a gala that he’s required to go to as part of a brand contract, but he uses one of his free nights to sneak away and have dinner with his friends. It’s nice to see Noah off the ice, and not through his tiny phone screen, but when Adam and Ronan don’t immediately begin to antagonize each other, he pulls Adam to the side and asks if they’re sleeping together. Adam nearly chokes on his beer, but he coughs it away and shakes his head violently. “We’re playing tennis together. That’s it.”
Noah raises an eyebrow curiously, “You? You’re playing tennis? Like actually… playing it? And enjoying it? Blink twice if you need help.”
Adam can’t help his laugh, but he shoves Noah’s shoulder, “Oh fuck off. It’s kinda fun. Gansey set it up and we’re just… having fun with it. It’s helping with my performance on the ice a lot, actually.” “I’ll say. Three game winning streak. You guys are cutting it close. Keep playing like you’ve been touched by God, and you’re gonna surpass us in points.” Noah leans up against the wall. Adam rolls his eyes, “Watch your back. I’ll have the puck in the net before you can even see it flying towards you.”
When the doorbell rings, Adam glances around at the guests that have already gathered for the night. Blue and Ronan are in the living room, bickering over what to put on the TV. Blue’s teammate Jordan, the new goalie, has been pulled into a conversation with Henry that seems to be getting too in depth about one of Henry’s many special interests if the way she keeps glancing over for anyone else to help her out means anything. Gansey is in the kitchen, a striped blue and white apron tied around his waist as he taste tests a pot of a red sauce.
Adam grabs the door, because no one else moves to. Golden haired Matthew smiles on the other side, a wide toothy grin that Adam recognizes from his weekly tennis matches with Matthew’s brother. Beside him, dark haired Declan is holding a bottle of wine and is wearing a suit that makes him look much more proper than his eye bags do. He tries to smile like Matthew, but it falls flatly into what resembles a tired smirk.
Adam opens the door wider for them to come in, and then turns his head inside and shouts “Ronan! It’s for you!”
When Ronan emerges from around the corner a moment later, he smiles and shoves Matthew under his arm in an excited noogie. When Declan approaches, with the intent on staying, Ronan’s smile falls. “What’re you doing here?” He asks, his voice falling into a harsh whisper that means he’s not really trying to hide what he’s saying. Declan hums, “I was invited, Ronan. And what are you wearing? This is a dinner party, not a motorcycle showroom.”
Adam looks down at his own wardrobe; a red henley and blue jeans. If anything, Ronan is the better dressed one of anyone here. Besides Declan.
Matthew wanders into the living room, and he’s met with a chorus of greetings from the remaining four guests that aren’t already in the hallway. Around the corner, Gansey pops his head in, “Declan! You made it! It’s good to have you here.”
Declan nods, “Thanks for inviting me. It’s been a while.” And dammit, Declan might be even more charming than Ronan and Matthew combined. His gelled back hair and pressed suit make him stand out in a group full of athletes clad in sweatpants-hoodie combos and large, bright puffy jackets. He offers up the wine bottle, “I brought a gift, as a thank you. I hope you guys like Reisling.” His voice is nothing like Gansey’s naturally poignant enunciation or Adam’s forcedly repressed southern accent. His vowels round off with a hint of what sounds like some kind of European accent, but the rest of his words are as proper as could be taught in whatever rich Sunday school the Lynch brothers came up in.
Beside him, Ronan rolls his eyes and wanders back to the rest of their friends. Gansey accepts the gift, “Oh. Thank you. You didn’t have to but- but that’s very nice of you.”
Gansey does not drink Reisling. Adam knows this because every time they’re at a Capitals charity gala or dinner, he openly voices his dislike of white wines, but he takes it anyway and shows Declan into the house, leaving Adam behind.
Over dinner, Declan and Jordan are sat next to each other. As the two newest people to join them, it makes a bit of sense. Adam is crammed between Ronan and Noah, but he doesn’t complain. On his right, Noah chatters about Pittsburgh, and a potential move to Philadelphia at the end of his contract. On his left, Ronan stays quiet. Not even Matthew can get a rise out of him. He polishes off his third beer and retires to the living room before anyone else has finished.
By the end of the night, after Matthew and Declan have gone home- with the latter pocketing a folded piece of paper given to him by Jordan on his way out –Ronan asks Adam for a ride. “It’s too late to call a driver, and we live close by to each other.” His breath smells like hops and the mint gum he’s been chewing on for an hour, but Adam just nods and collects his keys.
Ronan has never driven anywhere, at least not that Adam is aware of. He has drivers that escort him places, and if he’s not in the backseat of a blacked-out town car, he’s in the passenger seat of anyone else's car. Last week, Ronan had showed up at Adam’s door with his tennis bag, and asked Adam for a ride to their weekly practice. How he’d gotten Adam’s address, Adam doesn’t know, but as Ronan had squeezed his long legs into the hondayota, he hadn’t said anything negative about the car.
(Adam suspects that Gansey had instructed him, in no words short of a command, that Adam’s car was not to be made fun.)
Instead, Ronan had reclined his seat back and said, “Thanks. Declan doesn’t let me drive anywhere.” Adam hadn’t asked what he meant by that, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
Ronan’s house is big, and Adam would look more towards calling it a mansion than anything. Even in the dimly lit nighttime, he can see that there’s at least two stories past the tall gate surrounding it. When he pulls through the gate after punching in a code that Ronan relays through whispering it directly into Adam’s ear, Ronan excitedly looks up at the house. “It’s nice, right? Wanna see inside?” He’s no longer drunk, and Adam isn’t sure if he ever was, but he stumbles out of the car before it’s even fully stopped. Adam parks and follows Ronan up the driveway to the front door.
Inside is just as nice and spacious as it looks on the outside. There’s white walls, not so dissimilar to the decoration decisions that Henry has made in his penthouse, but Ronan’s tennis memorabilia and wins are kept separate to one wall in the living room. There’s tasteful paintings hung up everywhere else. Above the fireplace in the living room is a portrait of a smiling blonde woman in front of an ocean. Adam feels a wave of seasickness just from looking at it.
On another wall is an abstract rendition of what Adam recognizes as an already popular portrait, but he can’t recall the name. The subject, a pale woman in a black, floor-length gown, is covered in sleeves of tattoos. Her twisted orange updo is being pulled apart by a black raven, but her face remains neutral, shifted away from the viewer. At her feet, scattered whiskey bottles litter the floor.
Ronan comes from the kitchen to stand next to Adam, and he holds out one of the beer bottles in his hand. Adam shakes his head, so Ronan takes both for himself. “It’s cool, right? I had a friend make it for me.” Adam shrugs, “It’s… something.”
Ronan takes a swig from his open beer bottle, and then hums, “Let me give you the grand tour.” He holds out his arms, “This is the living room, obviously.”
He turns on his heels, and Adam is slow to follow, but he does follow Ronan into the kitchen. The appliances are new and shiny, but they’re older models that Adam knows for certain have newer versions on the market. The stove is gas, something that Adam has never used before. They didn’t have an oven in the doublewide trailer that Adam Parrish called his childhood home. It was too big to fit, and too much money to install, so all of their meals had come from a microwave or a box. Adam hadn’t had a home cooked meal until he met Gansey, who’d grown up with a nanny that made sure he knew the basics to life. Including cooking.
Out back, Ronan does a tiny hop across a path of garden stones until he’s standing on a small, private, single-player tennis court. Adam twists his face, “So you have a tennis court here, but you practice at a public court?” Ronan cackles, “Less distractions there. This ones for when I’m just trying to work out. Why? You don’t have an ice rink in your basement?”
Adam doesn’t have a basement, but if he did, he wouldn’t have an ice rink in it. He says as much out loud. Ronan shrugs again and chugs down more of his beer, before disposing of the bottle in a trashcan and popping the lid off of the second one with his sharp teeth.
Inside, Ronan avoids the hallway to what Adam can only assume is his bedroom with the excuse that “Sorry, that one's pretty messy right now.” He leads them upstairs to a second living room, similarly decorated with classy art, abstract art, and photographs from his childhood. Adam can’t help but think that, after watching Ronan and his brother argue in the hallway of Monmouth Manufacturing, there's a reason Ronan keeps these photos upstairs, away from anyone else.
They don’t explore past any of the closed doors, but Adam does step out onto the patio connected to the main sitting room to look out over the property. They’re far enough away from the middle of DC that Adam can’t see the dome of the Capitol building, but he can see the lights of the city the same way that he can see them from his own house.
“It’s nice.” Adam admits, leaning against the railing, “Why’d you pick this one?”
Ronan doesn’t say anything at first, until he turns to lean back against the same railing, “I didn’t. Declan did.” Adam laughs, more to himself than anything, but it’s loud enough that Ronan hears it. “What’s so funny?” He asks.
“It’s just- it doesn’t seem like you two have a very good relationship. I’m surprised you’d let him pick out what house to buy.”
“Ah,” Ronan hisses, “It’s… complicated. You know… brothers and stuff.”
Adam looks at his feet, “No I- I don’t know.” “What? No brothers or sisters?” “Nope. Just me. Noah might be the closest thing I got to a brother but… I don’t think it really counts since we didn’t grow up together.”
Ronan hums again, “Well… it’s like… Declan’s an asshole eighty-nine percent of the time, but he’s still my brother. So I put up with it. For Matthew.” “Not your parents? I’d love to be a fly on the wall during a Lynch family holiday.” Adam laughs. Ronan goes quiet, until he whispers, “Me too.”
Adam looks over at him, and Ronan clears his throat, “My parents died when I was sixteen. Dad was murdered by a business rival, and then Mom died in her sleep a few weeks later. The doctor said it was an aneurysm, but I always thought it was the heartbreak that did it.” Adam feels horrible, so he reaches out, placing his hand on Ronan’s bicep gently. He lets his fingers drag along the lining of Ronan’s shirt sleeve, “I’m so sorry.” He says. Ronan just shrugs, and then goes back to his beer. After a sip, he replies, “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
The conversation dies there, and it suddenly becomes too awkward to stay. Adam dismisses himself as politely as he can, and on his way out, he tells Ronan to text him if he ever needs someone.
On the way out the door, Ronan says “Goodnight Adam.” And it’s the first time he’s ever called Adam by his first name. Adam smiles back, “Goodnight Ronan.”
Adam drives home in complete silence.
🏆🏆🏆
The sound of his coaches whistle is the only thing in Adam’s life that he really, truly, dreads. Sometimes he thinks he hears it in his sleep.
The whistle blows again, and Adam gets ready for his turn on the ice. Shooting drills are going about as well as they can, but Adam hasn’t missed a shot yet. With the semi-finals coming up in a week, he feels like he hasn’t seen the outside of this arena in days. That’s not necessarily true, but Gansey did have to drive him home last night because he was too tired to drive himself, and the last thing he saw before passing out in the passenger's seat was the front gates of Capital One Arena.
The whistle blows again, and Adam skates forward to take his shot. He curls the stick between himself and the puck as they glide over the ice, testing the longevity of it’s friction over the ice. When he hits it, he follows through completely, and watches as it shoots straight to the side of the goal, passing the goalie completely and ricocheting around the netting. From the bench, Gansey loudly yells “Yes!”
On Adam’s shoulder, Joseph Kavinsky knocks into him, “Fuck man. Beginning of the season you were shooting blanks and now you're like a god. What the fuck happened?”
Adam shrugs, “I’ve got a friend who’s been helping me out.”
Kavinsky cackles, like an ugly hyena hidden behind layers of Tom Ford cologne, “Is this friend able to show me some tricks? I’m feelin’ kinda left out.” There's an innuendo there that Adam catches, but he just rolls his eyes and turns to skate back towards Gansey, “Get a fucking life Kavinsky.” He says over his shoulder.
When Adam reaches the bench, Gansey hands him his water bottle dutifully, even if he’s no longer a water boy. He leans across the wall separating them, “You’ve got a guest.” He says into Adam’s ear. Adam wrinkles his brows together. No guests are usually allowed at closed practices, especially during semi-final practice. Gansey nods his head towards the stands, just near the player tunnel. Ronan has his hands clasped between his knees and his usual leather jacket on, sitting patiently as he waits for Adam to notice him. Adam finds himself grinning when Ronan smiles and waves his way.
“Thought you were a Bruins fan.” Adam says through the glass. Ronan shrugs, “They’re already knocked out of the playoffs. Capitals are my second favorite.”
Adam snorts a laugh, “Yeah. Sure. You're just in time. We’re about to play a practice game.” This time, Gansey is the one who wrinkles his brows and looks down at his clipboard, flipping through it, “We are?”
Both Adam and Ronan ignore him. Ronan leans forward, so that he’s closer to the glass than he previously was, “I hope your team loses.” “My team is gonna win so hard you're gonna be embarrassed for not supporting us.” “Loser buys drinks.” “Deal.”
Behind him, mats are being rolled away and the teams selected, “Parrish! Quit flirting and get over here!” Kavinsky shouts. There’s a round of laughter from his teammates, and Ronan sinks back onto his seat. Adam can feel his face getting hot, so he turns away from Ronan and ducks his head.
“Who’s that?” Kavinsky asks when they’re side by side on the ice. Adam says quietly, “Just a friend.”
Their practice game doesn’t last long, on account of the fact that Kavinsky plays hard and dirty. He checks one of their opposing teammates, who’s been on first line for longer than most of their teammates, into the glass, and then shrugs when the coach blows his whistle and breaks up the fight. Adam watches nervously from beside the goal as the others help John to his feet. Kavinsky won’t see any kind of penalty for it, and that’s what worries Adam. He’s unpredictable and spontaneous. There’s a reason he doesn’t play first line.
Adam doesn’t want to know what could happen when he loses what little control he has on the ice.
When practice finishes, Adam forgoes the locker room shower and tries to get out of there as quickly as he can. Ronan meets him in the hallway between the locker rooms and the exit. “How’d you get down here?” Adam asks as he repositions his bag on his shoulder, trying to find a place where it doesn’t bother his sore muscles. Ronan laughs, “Gansey. How else?”
It must seem like Adam is having a hard time, because Ronan furrows his brow, “Are you okay?” He asks. It seems sincere, at the very least, so Adam drops his bag onto the floor at his feet and uses his hand to try and massage out the knot. “This fucking- my shoulder has been killing me for like three days and it’s not going away. The massage therapist doesn’t massage heavy enough, and she like… barely ever works out my shoulders.”
Ronan leans down and picks up Adam’s bag, slinging it over his own shoulder. Together, they start down the hallway towards the exit, “Y’know, I’ve got a massage therapist. I could give you her number.” “Seriously?” “Yeah. She’s like… one of the best in DC-”
“Hey, Parrish!” Comes from behind them. Adam slows to a stop as he turns, and Ronan does the same. Kavinsky pushes in between them, “Leaving so soon?” He asks, trying to sling an arm across Adam’s shoulders. Adam very quickly moves out of his grasp, “Yeah. Practice is over. I’m going home and going to sleep.”
Kavinsky grins in a way that anyone who isn't Adam would find charming, “Well a couple of us were gonna go out for drinks. You should come.”
Adam rolls his eyes, “No. No, I’m good, Kavinsky. You guys enjoy yourselves though.” He goes to turn, but Kavinsky’s hand lands on his shoulder, “Oh, c’mon Parrish! You never hang out with us. I feel like you’re avoiding us.”
In his head, Adam thinks, I am. He doesn’t say it aloud though, so he raises a hand towards Ronan, “Ronan likes to party. Take him if you want. I’m going home though.” Across from him, Ronan raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t protest.
Kavinsky turns to Ronan, and it’s now that Adam recognizes that Kavinsky’s grin is the same as the one Ronan proudly displays on the tennis court. Kavinsky holds out his hand, “Joseph Kavinsky. Whadda ya say? Wanna come hang with the big leagues, and ditch lame-o Parrish here?”
Ronan, to his credit, looks a tiny bit disgusted. He wrinkles his brows, looks down at Kavinsky’s hand, and then looks to Adam before he says “No thanks. Adam’s driving me home, so I better stick with him.” And then he moves to Adam’s side, his hand gripping Adam’s hockey bag tightly. Adam notices, but he doesn’t say anything. Not in front of Kavinsky at least, who’s face falls into a sour twist. And then he grunts, “Whatever. You two have fun doing… whatever you’re gonna be doing. See you on Wednesday, Parrish.” And then he turns and disappears back into the locker room.
Adam and Ronan don’t speak the entire way out to the car. Adam finds this Ronan, sullen and with nothing to say, slightly worrying.
“You could’ve gone out with them. I wouldn’t have like… been upset about it or anything.” Adam says once they’re in the hondayota, turning to face Ronan. In the passenger seat, Ronan looks over at him with sad eyes, “I didn’t want to go out with him.” He says quietly, and then returns to looking forward through the windshield. It’s here, and now, in Adam’s shitty car outside of the arena, when Adam realizes what he wants. He’s hungry for something. That Ronan in the seat beside him, when he could be on his way to a bar with a dozen other people who want to go out, wouldn’t want to go out with Adam’s teammates. Because they’re not Adam.
There are a million things that Adam could say, starting with come home with me , but he couldn’t possibly say that aloud.
In his belly, the dreaded feeling of want unfolds. He could reach over, grab Ronan’s hand, and drag him to him. He could hold his shirt in his hands and crawl into his lap and kiss him until theirs is the only car left in the parking lot.
Adam reaches over and shifts the car into reverse. He pulls out of the parking lot instead.
🏆🏆🏆
Adam meets Noah on the ice when he’s twenty and Noah is twenty-two. It’s Adam’s rookie year, and his very first NHL game, and the Pittsburgh Penguins are the reigning Stanley Cup champions. When Adam swipes the winning goal right before the buzzer, he’s on top of the world.
Adam meets Noah on the ice again when they’re twenty-four and twenty-six, except this time they’re both gunning for the coveted East Conference Champion title. Whoever wins this goes to the finals.
Before the game, Noah texts Adam.
Noah: Good luck. Rooting for you.
Adam knows he means it. He doesn’t respond. He isn’t rooting for the Penguins, which may sound selfish, but there’s few things that Adam Parrish covets enough to want for himself. One of those things is hockey. The second is Ronan Lynch.
It’s been one week since the night in the car, desperation hanging off of both of their lips, and neither of them doing anything about it. Adam has been drowning ever since.
The first thing Adam sees when he skates onto the ice for the National Anthem is a sign held against the glass. It’s bright pink, so it’s hard to miss, but in big bubble letters, the words Go #21! We Love Adam Parrish! stare back at him. He has to force himself not to smile wide. In a VIP booth above them, Adam knows his friends are watching him. Ronan is watching him. Beside his coach, Gansey stands with the team, and he grins over at Adam as they line up for the first puck drop.
There are nerves in his belly. He doesn’t know what for.
The first period ends with a one point advantage for the Capitals. Adam is jittery. There’s a good chance the Penguins raise to tie in the second, and a similar chance that they score again to overtake the game before the third.
When they go back onto the ice for the second period, Adam finds that the air is different. The crowd cheers the same, and the pianist that plays out the interactive songs plays the same things as he does every game, but the arena moves slowly.
At the puck drop, Adam gains control of the puck. He passes it to Kavinsky, who passes it to Ovi, who sends it flying past the Penguins defensemen and straight into Adam’s stick. He can feel someone on his back, inching closer and closer as Adam gets closer to the Penguins net. He sends it, a lucky shot that could be considered a miracle if it goes in. Noah doesn’t even see it coming, and the puck flies past him into the net.
And then Adam goes down.
Once, as a teenager in the trailer park where he’d grown up, there had been a thunderstorm so bad that his father hadn’t beaten him half-to-death for not finishing the lawn mowing. The rain came down so heavily that it had shaken the trailer, and Adam had stood in the pouring rain with his father to anchor the trailer down into the Earth. They had done it quickly, and then ran back inside, and for a moment his father had laughed and told him he did good. For a moment, Adam had forgotten that his father had threatened to kill him three weeks ago.
The next day, he’d received a red mark across the face because he hadn’t finished mowing the lawn.
That’s how he feels now, as the glass slams into the side of his helmet and his head explodes with pain. As the hard acrylic wall separating him from the little boy on the other side of the glass bounces him back into the person behind him. As whoever it was that had checked him falls on top of him. As the rest of the players in Adam’s path fumble over themselves. The world around him shakes, and Adam feels nauseous at the bottom of a pile of bodies and pain. A whistle blows, and the people on top of him begin to clear away, but when Adam tries to right himself, he finds that he can’t stand. He falls back onto his back, and his helmet makes a cracking noise against the ice. He can’t hear it.
The last thing Adam Parrish sees before he’s taken off of the ice by a paramedic is Joseph Kavinsky being ejected from the game.
🏆🏆🏆
The Capitals don't win. After Adam is taken off of the ice and to the hospital, the Penguins score three more times. After the game, Noah texts him asking if he’s okay. The text goes unanswered, because Adam doesn't see it for another two days.
Adam has a broken tibia, and on top of that, a broken stapes. The hearing in his left ear is gone entirely, and the doctor had looked at him sadly when he said that the chances of it ever coming back were slim to none. In its place is nothingness, and at Adam’s side is Gansey and Ronan. Ronan, because he’d insisted on staying at Adam’s side until he was discharged. Gansey, because the coach had sent him to ride with Adam in the ambulance.
The first day, as they’d casted his leg and monitored the concussion, the ER doctor had called him lucky. Gansey had shown him his helmet, the plastic cracked all the way down the side to expose half of his head. Gansey had refused to show him any videos of the incident, so Adam had turned to Ronan. Ronan had reluctantly done so, and Adam had watched it eight times over before handing it back to Ronan as nausea built in his throat.
Kavinsky, his own teammate, had checked him so hard that he’d lost his hearing. The other players had broken his leg, a tangle of bodies and sticks and heavy gear and skates. Ronan had said that he was lucky he hadn’t gotten cut by anyone's skates.
The second day, with the pain mostly gone and the concussion beginning to dull, Blue and Henry had come to visit. Blue brought a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers. She said they were in the Capitals team colors. Adam recognized them as leftovers from the grocery store's Memorial Day themed flower set up, but appreciated them as a gift anyway. Noah had come then too, to fill up his hospital room with bodies and distract him from the pain in his leg.
“I’m so sorry, man. You didn’t deserve that.” He’d hunched over Adam’s bedside. Adam had clicked his tongue against his cheek, “Why are you apologizing? I scored a goal against you literally right before it happened. You and your team should probably be celebrating.”
Noah furrowed his eyebrows, “Watching my best friend get pummeled by his own teammate, and then having to be pulled off the ice by paramedics isn’t exactly the celebration I had in mind. I’d much rather have lost to you than won the game because you got hurt.”
Adam had felt dread in his stomach then. He found out later, through Gansey, that Kavinsky is out. The coach had pulled him into the office after the game and ripped him a new one, and Kavinsky hasn’t been back to the arena since. Adam hopes, in his own chest, that it’s for good.
On the third day, Gansey goes home to shower and grab Adam some actual clothes before he’s discharged. Ronan stays behind with Adam.
On the couch next to his bed, Ronan bites at the tip of his thumb as he watches Adam click through TV channels. Adam turns to look at him, thoroughly distracted, “What’s happening over there?” He asks.
Ronan stops, worry in his eyes, “You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”
Adam rolls his eyes, “I did get seriously hurt.” And motions down to his casted leg, resting on a pillow, unable to move it to even reposition himself. Ronan sighs, “No I mean like… Adam it could’ve been so much worse.”
“It’s not my fault Kavinsky decided to act like a dick to me because you rejected him.” Adam can feel heat behind his nose, in between his eyes, threatening to turn his face a bright red. Ronan looks taken aback, “I didn’t reject him.”
“Oh please. He was all over you at practice last week. You turned down his offer for drinks, which, if we’re being honest was the biggest fucking bullshit excuse to try and get in your pants that I’ve ever heard.” and then he gestures to his deaf ear, “And I can’t even hear anymore.”
“I- you think I was paying any attention to Joseph fucking Kavinsky? He’s a fucking nobody with zero goals and an abismal amount of playing time. I’m not fucking interested in him.” Ronan stands to his feet. He looks mean, the same way he looked when Adam first met him, and Adam can already feel his own chest aching. But he can’t help what he says next, because it’s who he is, so he throws his own hands up and then crosses them across his chest. He says, “Yeah, cause all you care about is yourself.”
It’s mean. Adam doesn’t mean anything he says, most of the time, but he’ll never take it back. What’s a boy like Ronan Lynch doing hanging around with Adam Parrish anyway?
Ronan huffs and steps closer, “Do you really think that I’d be here, waiting with you in a hospital room, because I only cared about myself?” “We’re not even friends, Ronan. I don’t even know why you’re here.” Adam looks away. He can’t look Ronan in the eyes. Ronan looks away too.
He stamps his foot against the ground and pinches his nose bridge, “Christ. I wish Kavinsky had broken your jaw instead of your ear. Maybe then you’d shut up and actually hear what I’m trying to say.” “I can hear you just fine. It’s the other ear that doesn’t work. Besides, you’re not saying anything except being an ass-”
Ronan bends down and kisses Adam on the mouth, his large hands on either side of Adam’s face. It’s the type of kiss that shocks Adam into silence, if only because it’s the only thing that’s capable of making him quiet. It’s a simple first kiss, not fueled by hunger like Adam wants it to be. When Ronan pulls back, Adam wants to follow, but finds he’s confined to where he is. Ronan doesn’t go far though. He sits down on Adam’s bedside, hands still on Adam’s face, and looks him in the eyes. No words are spoken between them, Adam couldn’t find any in him even if he wanted to speak, but there’s an understanding here. Ronan is saying Do you hear what I’m telling you? and Adam is screaming Yes. Yes, I do now.
When their mouths collide again, this time with the same type of hunger in their mouths, the feeling in Adam’s belly is filled with every bite of his teeth against Ronan’s bottom lip. With the feeling of Ronan’s hand falling down onto Adam’s side, sliding back until his fingers are pressed against Adam’s bare skin. With Ronan moving closer and closer until he’s almost on top of Adam.
Adam could stay here forever, broken leg and broken hearing be damned. He’d forfeit the playoffs for this moment right here any day.