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Game one of the playoffs is always the worst, nerves wise, at least for Robbie. Game sevens are shit, facing elimination is shit, hell, being up 3-1 is shit, because then you’re shit scared you won’t be able to wrap things up. There’s no game that doesn’t eat away at you, but game one is the worst, because you have no fucking clue what’s coming, and the adrenaline’s overwhelming because it’s not cut by exhaustion, not yet.
“I’ve never been to the playoffs before,” Georgie says, in that lull between warm ups and the start of the game. They’ve had their fire up speech, which goes the same every time, and now there’s just the quiet expectation. The nerves.
Obviously Georgie means in the NHL. Robbie guesses tourneys don’t count, the Frozen Four, but he doubts Georgie played for shit teams all the way up to the big leagues. You don’t play for shit teams if you play like him. Not that he was so good once he hit the Barons. Cleveland practically gave him to Washington for free — they got a sixth round pick and a prospect for him and another prospect. Like, Cleveland basically said ‘fuck, you see if you can make him work, because this isn’t the shit we drafted’. What a waste of a first round pick.
He’s playing really fucking well now, though, back on Robbie’s left, both on the ice and in the room. They put Georgie beside him when they got him, and Robbie wasn’t sure how to ask them not to, so before, during, after every game, there Georgie fucking is.
There’s something kind of comforting about the fact that Georgie played like shit without him while Robbie did just fine with other partners. Petty as shit, probably, but comforting. Of course, it was a shitload more comforting when Georgie was hundreds of miles away instead of half a foot.
“Here we go, boys,” Captain Q says, when it’s time, stays in the door and hands out fistbumps and ass slaps to the guys going out before him. Gooses half the coaching staff too, so the roster’s giggling like teenage girls when they get on the bench. It’s Kurmazov’s line and the Not Mikes on the ice for the anthem. Robbie thinks him and Georgie will be standing there next year, they keep it up, especially because Mikko’s thirty-five, Michel a pending UFA. Robbie and Georgie always played off one another like they’d done that shit their whole lives, and it clicked right back into place when Georgie came to Washington. Doesn’t matter which jersey they’re wearing. Doesn’t matter that off the ice Robbie can’t even look at Georgie without feeling sick, half the time. Doesn’t matter that Robbie doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone more. They still play beautiful hockey together.
“Holy fuck,” Georgie murmurs, right before puck drop. Sounds kind of like he’s going to be sick.
Robbie gets hit with a wave of fondness so hard it hurts, can’t look at him.
Those are the worst moments.
“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Holy fuck.”
Kurmazov wins the faceoff. Quincy, on Georgie’s other side, says “here we go, boys,” half under his breath.
“Here we fucking go,” Robbie agrees.
*
Robbie knew Georgie Dineen’s name before he met him. You don’t get drafted first round without people getting excited as hell that you’re coming, that you’ll make a difference for the year or two you kick around before your team crooks a finger, tells you to come on up, you’re ready.
Robbie’s parents want him to get a degree, not just play, and since he doesn’t have that finger crook coming, he figures there’s no harm it in. BU’s a good school, not just a good hockey school, which is a bonus for him and probably the whole point for them. Robbie just wants to play hockey four more years before they tell him to grow up and be realistic. Not his parents, necessarily, they support him, just. Life.
There was a point where Robbie was pegged to go in the draft, not first round or anything, but maybe fourth, for sure by seventh. Of course, that was dependent on Robbie being a little taller than 5’8”, which he wasn’t when everyone was getting their ducks in a row. You might take a chance on a 5’8” forward if he’s good enough, but you’re sure as shit not doing it for D. He’s 5’10” now, still got some growing left to do, maybe, and 5’10” might’ve squeaked him in on that draft, but instead his body decided to wait until he was passed over, because that’s just the way shit goes.
BU was supposed to be the backup option in case he wasn’t drafted. Robbie’s mom kept prodding him to apply places, said to be realistic, and he rolled his eyes at the time, waited for his body to catch the fuck up to his ambitions, but he applied to schools with good teams, just in case.
Just in case came in pretty handy.
The thing is, Robbie’s really fucking good, and he knows it. Scouts seemed to realize it too, when he met them — he talked to a few of them in the years running up to the draft, and they all said the same words: ‘potential’ and ‘height’. Potential was usually the first word, height usually followed a ‘but’. He gets it — he’s up against someone with six inches on him, he’s probably not going to win that board battle. A few of them asked if he’d ever thought of switching to forward, but he was good at defense, he was fucking great at defense, and it didn’t seem to hurt him when he was playing guys his age, some who were huge, so he figured they would realize he could hack it in the NHL too. Obviously that didn’t happen, so.
Just because Robbie wasn’t in the top couple hundred of hockey players in the world in that given year — or like, wasn’t tall enough, ‘you must be this tall to get drafted’, doesn’t mean he’s not really fucking good. He got offered athletic scholarships basically across the board, but BU offers room and board and has the bonus of being his hometown, so he can go home on Sundays and eat home cooked food, do his laundry. He’d still be around all his friends, at least the ones who stuck around. There really isn’t anything North Dakota can do to top that, especially because he’d be in fucking North Dakota.
There’s a training camp sort of thing before school starts, before the frosh week, even. The dorms aren’t open yet, which makes Robbie extra grateful he’s still in Boston, because it means he isn’t fucking around in some hotel room, and he can drink coffee, half asleep, while his dad drives him to campus on the way to work. It’s not completely empty, on campus, but it’s close. College without people is fucking creepy, and Agganis Arena is fucking creepy too, especially since Robbie’s seen his fair share of Terriers games, is used to it bustling during a game.
The ice smell as he gets closer to the locker rooms is comforting, though, and so is the noise that filters out of the open door. Robbie doesn’t know anyone, but a room’s a room wherever you are.
A lot of guys know each other, obviously, and they’re the ones exchanging hugs and back slaps, talking about their summers. You can tell who’s new by the way they’re hanging back, looking awkward, except like — first year guys are this: Georgie Dineen, high first round pick, big fucking deal, a couple other drafted guys, and then guys like Robbie, who’ll be good or not, who cares, they’re the chaff to the wheat. Georgie Dineen’s got enough guys surrounding him that you’d think he’d been on the team for years.
There’s pretty much no doubt that Dineen’s going to be first pairing D, even before he steps on the ice, doesn’t matter that he’s new. You get a D man that good, you stick him where you need him. Dineen’s not the only D man on the team who’s been drafted. Hearst may have gone fifth round, not first, but that’s still miles better than undrafted, especially because he’s got four inches on Robbie. Presumably they mean to hem and haw and do the Dineen-Hearst thing when they’re through.
That still means they do the song and dance, that morning, put Dineen with everyone, see how it works. Robbie was meant to be third pairing, if not seventh D, he’s not stupid, but he’s sure as shit not going to settle for that. He knows the most attention they’ll pay to him is when they pair him with Dineen, that if he wants to show them his shit then he’s got to do it in whatever limited window he has, go big or go home.
For some reason, Robbie isn’t really worried about it. Self-confidence, he guesses. Cockiness, his mom would say, but it’s not cocky if you aren’t saying it out loud.
Dineen is really fucking good. Like, obviously, GMs aren’t amateurs, no one was going to drop a first round pick on someone who isn’t really fucking good, but holy shit is he good. Robbie’s watched him play before, international stuff, and like, he was good, but he was also surrounded by the best USA had to offer, so he was just one of the roster. On this ice, around these guys? Even just doing drills you can tell Dineen’s like —
He’s really fucking good. Robbie can’t even be jealous, because like. Hockey crushes are a thing, and he just got one. Hard.
As good as he is, he doesn’t seem to have chemistry with Hearst, and if Robbie noticed that, coaching staff definitely did. You know who has chemistry with Dineen? Fucking Robbie does.
They really didn’t seem to expect Robbie. Or, like, they did, but they didn’t expect him to be good. Robbie does some drills with Dineen, simple ones, passes up the neutral zone, holding the line in a power play scenario, mirroring, the whole shebang, and they look like they’ve been doing this half the fucking season, not for the first time.
Robbie looks at the coaches after, and he can’t really read their expressions, but they’re looking back.
D get dismissed earlier than the forwards, the ‘tenders, probably because they have more to cut in the forward group, so they’re getting started early on that. “You’re Roberto?” Dineen asks him, once they’re back in the locker room.
“Robbie, not Roberto,” Robbie says. “Yeah.”
“Georgie, not George, I feel you man,” Georgie says. “I don’t remember you from Terriers stuff.”
Robbie shrugs. “My first day.”
“Really?” Georgie asks, then, “who’re you with?”
“With?” Robbie asks.
“Drafted by,” Georgie says.
“I wasn’t drafted,” Robbie says, and Georgie’s incredulous expression is the capper of a pretty fucking good day.
*
They play a scrimmage toward the end of the training camp, like a reward for good behavior or something, because there are only so many drills you can do without wanting to die, but hockey’s always hockey. They pair Robbie with Georgie for it, and even though that might just be because Hearst is playing for the other side, Robbie takes it as a good omen.
Robbie’s never played with someone as good as Georgie. Robbie’s never played with anyone who reads him that well, and he doesn’t think that’s talent, or not just talent. That’s something talent can’t get you, the chemistry the best D pairs have, the ability to just know where the other’s planning on going, what he’s planning on doing. Robbie’s played entire seasons with guys who didn’t know him as well as Georgie seems to right off the bat.
“Holy fuck,” Georgie shouts in his face when he’s put a third in the net. Robbie’s got a primary assist on every single goal in that hattie. “Where have you been all my life?”
“It’s a scrimmage, not the fucking Olympics,” Edmunds yells from the net. That goal made it 5-1. He appears to be sulking about it, and Robbie gets it — he didn’t have a fucking chance on any of Georgie’s. He’s got a shot as accurate as it is hard, the kind you get out of the way of, instead of block, if you’re the other team. He’s going to be fucking terrifying on the power play, and it’s looking increasingly likely that Robbie’s going to be fucking terrifying right with him.
Robbie’s got a really good feeling about this.