Chapter Text
July 2009
Bellamy breathes in a lungful of cool, Minnesota air. The week at the steel mill seemed to drag on for years this time, but thankfully, it was over. He waves to Miller and Monty, who promise to meet up later at his place. Bellamy waits for a good few minutes, leaning against the mill’s outer wall and watching the sky grey above him. He hates the thought that he could be watching the seasons change from that very spot for the rest of his life.
He hears Octavia arrive before he sees her. “Hurry up! I’ve left the bar understaffed and it’s getting crowded,” she shouts out the passenger seat window at him.
Bellamy climbs in and laughs a little. “I told you buying The Dropship was a bad idea.”
“Well, we didn’t have a lot of options after Turin. You should be grateful we have the regular customers we do.” The truck angrily jerks forward, and Bellamy can tell that it’s reflecting Octavia’s mood. He glances to his left and finds her scowling at the road. They pull onto the highway and drive further and further away from built-up districts, and closer to the fringe of the city – closer to home.
“I’m going to need you to cover some shifts tonight,” Octavia says as they pull into the small lot in front of their restaurant. The ‘DROPSHIP’ sign hangs at an angle on the roof, decorated in green paint that chips away with each passing year.
Bellamy grabs his lunchbox and jacket from the bed of the truck and walks past Octavia on the way to the small shed that services as his room. “No can do, O,” he calls over his shoulder. “I got practice tonight.”
Octavia follows him. She obviously expected him to say something like that. “Right. Practice. With what team again? Oh, that’s right: The Grounders.” She scoffs. “Bell, it’s not exactly the NHL. I think you can miss one practice.”
“I have to keep my game up!” Bellamy insists, snatching up his bag, filled with his pads and skates. The phrase ‘Team USA’ is written in faded red, white and blue letters across the body of the duffel. “I gotta be ready in case any of these teams finally realize their mistake and take me on.”
“Bellamy,” Octavia starts, before pausing. She reaches into her jacket pocket and retrieves a slightly rumpled envelope. It’s been opened. “This is the last letter.”
She timidly hands it to him, and he takes it. He’s read the same letter twenty-two times, and yet it still shocks him.
Mr. Blake,
Thank you for offering your talent to this team. We regret to inform you that we are unable to take on new players at this time –
“Face it, Bellamy: nobody wants an injured player.”
His eyes snap up to meet hers. “I’m not crippled, O! I went to the goddamn Olympics!” He’s yelling now, taking the letter and throwing it with the stack of others. “I was good then and I’m good now! Why don’t these people see that?”
“You lost part of your eyesight, Bell – ” Octavia shouts back, “degrees of your peripheral vision at Turin! You think Olympic coaches want a player with a blind side?” Octavia’s eyes water, but she still shakes with anger. “Not to mention that you could’ve died.”
Bellamy softens. He remembers how hard it was for Octavia after his head injury. While he received x-rays and eye exams, she roasted Bellamy’s coach alive, calling him incompetent and threatening to sue him for negligence. His teammates who witnessed it attributed it to something in Blake DNA.
Carefully putting down his duffel, Bellamy moves to wrap his little sister in a hug. “I’m sorry, O.”
“Forget it,” Octavia mumbles into the hug. “Cover some shifts tonight and we’ll call it even.”
September 2009
“Mr. Blake?”
Bellamy barely registers the man standing at the foot of his ladder. Now that Bellamy is… mostly invested in The Dropship, Octavia insists that he help her fix it up. Every weekend for a month had been spent renovating the bar, updating the furniture, and mending the restrooms. Today’s task is adjusting the sign on the roof because it’s crooked and driving Octavia “up the fucking wall.”
“Bellamy Blake?”
“Who’s askin’?” Bellamy asks, holding several screws between his lips.
The man clears his throat. “I’ve seen footage of your games. You’re pretty good.”
At this, Bellamy looks down. Whoever he is, the stranger seems insignificant, and wearing an outfit that Bellamy assumed only stuffy old grandfathers would wear, complete with cardigan and brown loafers.
“I think you could be just the person for this job.”
“Job?” Bellamy holsters his screwdriver and climbs down the ladder. “I knew one of my letters had to be circulated! What team are you from?”
The man frowns. “Team? I don’t think you understand. Mr. Blake, my name is Marcus Kane. I’m here representing the Griffin family. They wish to audition your talents.”
“What?”
“Your talents. For ice skating.”
“Look,” Bellamy starts, “if you’re not from the NHL, why the hell do you want me?”
Kane pauses, as if searching for the right phrase. “I’m scouting for a skating partner for my good friend, Abby Griffin. Her daughter wishes to return to competitive skating, but can’t seem to find a partner that suits her. If you choose to fly out to New York to audition, the Griffin family will compensate for your airfare, room, and board – ”
Bellamy puts up a hand. “Hold on a second. When you say this lady needs a partner, you mean…”
“Figure skating, Mr. Blake. Competitive figure skating.”
It takes a few minutes for Bellamy to stop laughing.
Clarke enjoys being on the ice by herself. There was something freeing about it – the effortless, yet consistent battle with friction. Of course, she knows she could never compete by herself. She’s too short, or so said most of her trainers growing up; she’d be the perfect size for couples’ skating. So here she is, at the peak of her career, only trained to skate with a partner, with no partner. It isn’t her fault. Her mom and Marcus said she was being too picky, but that wasn’t it. No one compared to Wells. He was the only person who understood her, the way best friends from birth often do. They could read each other on the ice better than any group, and it showed. They were unstoppable.
That is, until Turin.
Clarke is hoping for her second chance, because that’s the only reason to skate anymore. When the door to her family’s private rink is opened, Clarke’s face falls. This is not what she thought her second chance would look like. A gruff-looking man, who couldn’t be more than a few years older than Clarke, stands at the entrance, his jaw slightly agape. He’s bundled in flannels and carries a well-worn duffel over his shoulder.
“Woah, you guys have your own rink?”
Kane nods. “We have ice all year round.”
Clarke skates over to them. “You said you were bringing Jasper.”
“No,” Kane replies. “You thought I was bringing Jasper. This is Bellamy Blake.”
Clarke searches Bellamy’s face for a recognizable feature. “Who?”
“Bellamy is an excellent skater,” says Kane. “One of the best in his field.”
Then Clarke makes the connection. “Oh. You’re that hockey player.”
Bellamy steps onto the ice, his hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you.” He’s smiling, and Clarke supposes that, in the right light, some women could find him attractive. He has a nice smile, and nice eyes, probably, if she could see them behind his unruly mess of black curls. On the whole, though, Clarke thinks that he’d probably be more attractive if he didn’t think so well of himself.
“Look, Marcus,” Clarke says, refusing Bellamy’s hand and crossing her arms, “I know you’re trying to please my mom here, but was there really no one else? The phrase ‘scraping the bottom of the barrel’ doesn’t even begin to cover… this.” Clarke gestures vaguely to Bellamy’s general appearance.
Bellamy snorts. “Tell me how you really feel, Princess.”
“You don’t want to know I really feel.”
“Hey, I didn’t fly all this way to be judged by you, alright? I just came to skate.”
“Don’t let us keep you,” Clarke laughs sarcastically. “I’m sure there’s a few frozen ponds that come around during the winter that will be much more your speed.”
Bellamy bristles and turns on Kane. “You said ‘headstrong,’ but now I’m starting to think there’s another word for it.”
“You told him I was headstrong?”
“Yeah, which was the understatement of the millennium, apparently,” Bellamy snaps. He quickly looks Clarke up and down, sizing her up with narrow eyes. “You know what? Screw this – I’m out of here. Have a nice life, Princess.”
Clarke smirks. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”
“That’s enough!” Kane yells, and his voice reverberates on the ice enough to stop Bellamy and Clarke in their tracks. “We’re done with pleasantries. I know this isn’t the most ideal situation, but neither of you are in a position to be judgmental. You have no partner,” he says to Clarke, “so good luck going to the National Championships – let alone the Olympics – without one. And you,” Kane turns to Bellamy. “Face facts: I’m the last person on earth coming to look for you. Now, let’s skate.”
The rink is silent. Slowly, Bellamy makes his way to where Kane stands, off the ice. Muttering something about regretting this decision later, he begins to take off his shoes.