Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Take me, cure me, kill me, bring me home

Every way, every day, just another loop in the hangman’s noose

Tuomas Holopainen crooned as Ilmari rested his brow against the cold, fogged over window.

He sat alone at the back of the buss. Outside snow fell like bits of styrofoam, cloaking the Swedish landscape in a soft white glow, reflecting the full moon. The buss was a dull roar of conversation. Chirps between friends, laughter, game strategising and gossip about the latest puck bunny they’d fucked. It was always like this before a game: high spirits and camaraderie. Especially against such an easy team. The guys behind him made plans for some bar hopping after they won. It was an away game, and excuse to cut loose, be wild.

Ilmari ignored them and stared out at the snow.

Scent of the sea

Before the waking of the world

Bring me to thee

Into the blue memory

He turned up the volume, desperate to drown out the noise.

A siren form the deep came to me

Sang my name, my longing

Still I write my songs about that dream of mine

Worth everything I may ever be

They won.

Nobody was surprised, but everyone in the locker room was ecstatic. Shouted plans to get drunk, congratulations for some fancy play, ribbing the rookie who’d nearly tripped on the ice.

Nobody spoke to Ilmari. They all knew by then to leave the massive goalie alone. With his permanent scowl he stripped off his gear, showered, and retreated to the hotel room the team had booked for them. He wasn’t sharing, thankfully, so he could just collapse on his bed, throw his arm over his eyes, and let his tears flow. He could sob like he was dying, like the world was ending right there, and nobody could judge him.

He could cry for his mom, and he could cry because this was the first time he’d left Finland since she’s passed. It had been three months, he should be over it by now. He knew that. But his chest ached with the thought that there’d be nobody to leave flowers by her grave, no one to wipe away the snow that covered her name every night, nobody to remember her. He curled up in his bed too small bed, tucking his knees against his chest, and tried to muffle his sobs. Outside, he could hear his team mates laughing, the click of locked doors and thundering footsteps as they all went out.

Ilmari stayed curled in his bed.

“Äiti, kaipaan sinua,” he whispered softly. “Kaipaan sinua,”

He landed in America on his 18^th birthday.

His birthday celebration was a plate of salted salmon, eaten over the kitchen counter of the small apartment his team had provided for him, and some lemonade. Robotically, he chewed and swallowed every bite, while he read “Gardens of the Moon” on his kindle. It was good, a bit long and pretentious. He’d had to look up a word or two, but that was good, he needed to brush up on his English. He washed down the last bite with some lemonade, and got ready for bed.

Before switching off the lights, his phone lit up with a message: “Happy birthday! Hope it was a good one.”

Ilmari frowned, not recognising the number. He couldn’t think of anyone who would wish him happy birthday either. Confused, he tapped the profile picture, enlarging it.

“Ah,” he said softly, putting his phone away. He’d last seen his uncle at the funeral. They hadn’t really spoken. But then again, they never really have. But it felt good, he supposed, to have somebody remember.

He won his first Stanley Cup at 26, wearing a Boston Bruins jersey and missing a tooth. A memory that would haunt him forever. Although, perhaps haunt is the wrong word, because in the moment, he felt invincible, on top of the world. The audience roared in approval, slamming the plexiglass, hoisting banners over their yellow and black beanies. A sea of jerseys— he spotted his own number more than once among them. A little boy, hoisted up in his father’s arms with a grin, showing off his missing left incisor. They matched, him and that little boy, with their missing tooth, and number they both wore: 23. Except, Ilmari had never had a father to take him to games. He’d had a mother for a while, but then he’d lost her too.

But here, in this roar of hockey, hockey, hockey, He finally felt fulfilled. Whole.

His whole life had been for this, his body honed for this, made for this.

There was nothing other than this, more than this. Maybe that was why haunting was the only way he could describe it. It haunted him, because that was it, the pinnacle, the climax of his life. Its resolution. He’d spend the rest of his days chasing a fraction of this. His knees already gave a panful twinge when he moved wrong, his hip was in near constant pain. The team doctor had to shoot him up with pain killers so he could play through another goddam groin pull.

He’d be washed up by thirty, forced to retire and do…

After hockey didn’t— couldn’t exist for him. He had no degree, hell, he barely had a basic education. He'd dropped out of secondary school to do hockey full time. This was it, and he’d chase it as long as he could. It was all he could do, before his knees have out, before his pain overtook everything, before the blackhole of after swallowed him whole.

That night, he went out with his teammates to a bar.

It was loud, everyone was drunk, and lights kept flashing in his eyes, blinding him. Ilmari stood in the corner, awkward. He didn’t know his teammates, and had no interest to. All he wanted to do was play hockey and read. But now he stood alone, in the corner of a bar he didn’t want to be at, with music too loud for him to read, and nobody to talk to.

With a sigh, he walked over to bar and ordered a few shots. The unfamiliar burn nearly made him wretch. How did people drink this shit? Before he could order another, or just give up on his attempt at socialising, a woman sidled beside him.

“Hey, you’re a hockey player, right?”

Her voice was high, words slurred. Heavy lashed weighed down her eyes.

Ilmari grunted.

She seemed to take this as further invitation to speak.

“Wow, congratulations! I knew I recognised you. My friend is a hockey fan… Mars right?”

That wasn’t his name. But stupid Americans couldn’t say his name, so he became Mars. Better than the Bear. And he didn’t believe her for a second about not knowing who he when she walked up to him. She knew what she wanted, and she knew who he was.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

She slid closer, her elbow grazing his. Gloss covered lips whispered against the cup of his ear. “Wanna celebrate, Stanley cup champion?”

He closed his eyes, and let himself lean into her body. He didn’t want to go back to his too-small hotel room, to the bed his feet always awkwardly hung off of, because they were all made to the measurements of fucking children. To an another night alone, with his thoughts, his books. And usually he was okay with that, he really was. But for once, tonight, he’d like to not be alone.

He gave a stiff nod, and allowed the woman to take his hand, and pull him away.

Moonlight played across the white walls of the woman’s room. Everything inside was white. The sheets, the silk pillow case, the bedside Ikea tables and lamps. Under the moon, her sleeping form seemed to glow, her dark hair like a piece of midnight sky.

He was so cold. Deep in his chest, he felt howling tundra. A discarded condom lay pimp and used over the small white trashcan. Their clothes were strewn all across the floor. But even beside her, even inside her, soaking in her warmth, he felt cold. Alone still. Another hotel room with a too small bed.

Stiffly he got up, trying to be as quit as possible. Dull burning pain throbbed from his hip down his thigh, and his knees cracked like fire crackers when he bent down to pick up his boxers.

When he was fully dressed, he left.

He couldn’t to this again. He vowed to himself then and there, in the wake of his first Stanley cup win, walking to his hotel at three in the morning, that he wouldn’t hook up with some woman at a bar again. It always left him empty after. Scooped up and used. The next time he let himself be with someone, it would be someone worth it. Someone who wanted more than a one night stand, wanted more than a hockey star in their bed. He just didn’t know if he’d ever be lucky enough to get it.

Chapter Text

At thirty, Ilmari was traded to the Jacksonville Rays.

The Rays were a new team and Ilmari was a star goalie, a two time Stanley cup champion with the one of the highest shutout rates in the league. They needed someone like him, a star to pull it all together. All of which meant a nice big salary and fixed contract. No more trades, no more moving. He could live out the rest of his career in Jacksonville, Florida. And after… he didn’t need to think about after. Didn’t need to think about wasting away in the large concrete sauna they called a city. It was so hot, every surface in the city seemed to act as a hot pan under the angry Florida sun. Why anyone would want to play hockey in fucking Florida of all places, he’d never understand.

Ilmari’s house had AC, and he lived near the beach, where he swam whenever he wanted to cool off, but he missed his home. He missed snow, hot saunas, speaking his own language with friends, the few he had. Instead he was here, in a foreign land, speaking a foreign tongue, among permanent strangers. This was where his knees would give out, his hips would fail him. Where he would in a few short years hang up his jersey.

If the pain in his groin didn’t do him in first.

“Come in,” barked Doctor Avery.

Ilmari limped into the examination room. The head PT sat behind a desk, head bent over some files. He didn’t look up when Ilmari walked in, just waved for him to sit. Stiffly, he sat in the too-small chair and waited for Doctor Avery to acknowledge him. The facility was quiet in the off season. Soon it would be filled with overly loud professional athletes, equipment managers, PR people and fans. But for now, it was a ghost ship.

“So what seems to be the issue?”

Finally he looked up from whatever he was reading to look Ilmari over in that cold dissecting gaze of sports doctors everywhere. Every hockey player was a piece of expensive equipment bought for one goal: winning games. Winning games meant selling tickets, which made money. They were investments, expensive ones, and so their owners made sure the best technicians were available to make sure they functioned correctly. But their purpose was always to ensure the players were on the field as much as possible. Long-term health was always subservient to winning.

“Been having some pain in my left thigh and hip for a while—”

“Get a better stretching routine,” Doctor Avery cut in, moving his eyes back to the files in front of him.

“What?”

“I said, get a better stretching routine. This is not a medical issue so please try to not waste my time.”

“There is nothing wrong with my stretching—”

“Well then perhaps look into retiring,” he interrupted, bored. “You’re growing old, and I’m not a miracle worker. These types of pains are just par for the course for players at your age. And lucky you, Florida is a nice place to retire to.”

Ilmari left without another word.

His groin pain continued, but he played through it. He knew he was reaching the end of the line, but he couldn’t be done yet. He’d won his second Stanley cup two years ago, but there was one award he’d not yet won, one last hurrah before his life ended: the Olympics. Ilmari knew he was shortlisted for the Finnish team this year, he was so fucking close. All he had to do was make it through this season, impress the Olympic scouts, and he could represent his country in the olympics. He could end his career on a high note, and for moment, relive that contentment he’d felt all those years ago, with the Stanley cup hoisted above his head. The second time had been diminishing returns. He needed more, before it all ended. He needed his peak to be right in front of him, and not four years behind.

Well then perhaps look into retiring

This will not be the end. He would fight for this. It was all he had.

The team was okay. Some standouts, Jake Compton, for one. But they still hadn’t learned to be a team yet. It would take awhile before they played like one well-oiled machine, and not a bunch of loose canons aimed at different targets.

They were a loud rowdy bunch, but they’d quickly learned to leave him to himself. He rebuffed repeated invites to game dinners, parties, and drinks. People weren’t his thing, he’d never leaned how to talk to them. Mom had always teased him, called him her shy little bear when he hid behind his long lion’s mane. When Ilmari started growing a beard at fourteen his mom had laughed that one day she’d wake up to find a giant golden bear in the house, hidding under his bed because he heard the mailman drive by.

His social skills had never improved. School was difficult, Ilamri was never the most academically inclined, and he was teased. Because his dad left, because his mom worked as a cleaner at the vet, and part time at their local McDonalds. They teased him for his second hand clothes, his slow answers in class, and when he hit his growth spurt he became big slow Ilmari. Hockey was a bit better. He was good, everyone could see that early on. But goalies weren’t part of the team like other positions. They had different practice times, different coaches, and played different games. He stood apart, in skill, position and disposition. To his team he was the big silent broody goalie. People got the memo not to approach him pretty quick, and he liked it that way.

And so, each time Compton added him to the team group chat, he left, and every time a teammate scraped the courage to talk to invite him out, he said no. He preferred being alone.  Some people just weren’t made for companionship.

As their plane took off, Ilmari admitted to himself that he had a problem. A big one. And that problem came in the form of a too attractive doctor with eyes like a hawk. Every game he could feel her gaze, and every time he made a save and pulled on that perpetually burning cluster of muscles by his groin, he felt she could peer through the bars of his mask and see his wince. He was supernaturally aware of every limb, every muscle, desperate to not give away how much pain he was in. It was a difficult balance to hold, he needed to play well and impress the Olympic Scouts, but every goal that came his way became a weighing of options, was this goal worth saving for the further damage it could cause?

The new doctor was a complication he didn’t need. She was observant, she cared for her players and their health, wouldn’t hesitate to bench them for however long they needed to recover. If she had been present during the off season, he had no doubt he would have been in good hands, but now it was too late. He knew the damage must be bad, the pain was near constant, and he had enough groin pulls to know that it had become serious. If he went to her now, he’d be benched for weeks, if not the whole season, and he couldn’t afford that. He’d waited too long for his shot at the olympics, sacrificed too much, to lose it to a damn groin pull. This was his last chance, so he had to tough it out, just like he always did. And besides, the whole team was relying on him, he was the one who won games, sold tickets, filled stadium seats. If he got benched, he’d be fucking over everybody.

Alone at the same window seat he always sat in, he popped in his earphone and listened to some Tuomas Holopainen, desperate to silence the roar of fear that filled his head. This was his ritual before each game, he'd sit by the window seat on row 20, and listen to some Tuomas to get his blood pumping. He’d never had a dad to come to games, to cheer for him or comfort him after a loss, but he’d always had Tuomas. Before and after every game he was there, to rev him up, to drown out the world, to make him feel safe.

This is me for forever

One of the lost ones

The one without a name

Without an honest heart as compass

This is me for forever

One without a name

These lines, the last endeavor

To find the missing lifeline

Chapter Text

Ilmari had officially reached a new low. Hidden in a utility closet, he held his breath as he heard Rachel— Dr. Price walk by, asking if anybody had seen him. He should feel ashamed, but he wasn’t. All he felt was intense relief when he heard her footsteps echo in the distance. He banged his head against the wall behind him and groaned. This wasn’t sustainable, and he knew it. Before he could spiral into another pit of despair, the utility closet door was wrenched open, drenching the small dark space in sharp fluorescent light. 

“What the fuck?”

Ilmari’s heart nearly stopped in relief when he realised Dr. Price hadn’t actually found him, it was just the equipment manager, Caleb Sanford. Awkwardly, they stared at each other. Caleb carrying some equipment he had to put away, and Ilmari was hiding in a utility closet, like a crazy person. Ilmari opened his mouth, but didn’t know how to explain, or what to do. It made him slightly ashamed to say, but the team’s equipment manager made him uncomfortable. For one, he was attached to the hip with Compton, Domestic Life Partners as the team liked to tease, and some other less nice names. Which wasn’t why Ilmari was uncomfortable, to be clear, more so that Compton was a social butterfly and Ilmari didn’t want to get sucked up in his orbit.

But mostly, it was what Caleb represented.

Seven minutes into his first NHL game a dirty hit had taken the game away from him. Everyone had seen the video, Ilmari remembered the gossip the first time the limping equipment manager with the stutter and scarred temple had shown up to work, the stares, the whispers. The video someone had sent to the group-chat, one Compton wasn’t apart of. Limping Caleb Sanford was the realisation of his worst nightmare, all their worst nightmares. The video of him going down and not getting up had tattooed itself into his brain. And now, Caleb Sanford was looking at him like he was the one who took a serious hit to the head.

“Uhh, is t-t-this a g-goalie thing?”

Ilmari just nodded.

Caleb raised a brow. “Or are you h-hiding from Dr Price?”

“Goalie thing.”

“S-sure. Well if you’re d-done with that, I need that closet.”

“Is she…”

“I thought this was a goalie t-thing?”

Ilmari gave him his best death glare. At 6’5 he towered over most, and with his bulk he’d more than earned his moniker of the Bear. Caleb, on the other hand, was 6’2 with what could best be described as a dad bod, seemed unimpressed.

With a put out sigh Caleb said. “L-look, I just need to put these things away. Dr Price will be probably be looking for you for a while. S-she a very d-d-d-d—” he broke off, looking irritated with himself. “d-determined woman.”

“Shit.”

“B-but you can hang out in the laundry room if you let m-me use this c-closet.”

Ilmari raised a skeptical brow.

“S-she won’t check there, trust me.”

That’s how Imari found himself sat in the team’s laundry room, reading Dungeon Crawler Carl on his phone while Caleb Sanford ironed clothes. It was nice, peaceful even. A break from the noise and conversation. A nice book and some quiet. He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

“So why are you running from Dr. P-price?”

Ilmari just ignored him.

“I-I’ve never seen a man h-hide from such an attractive woman before. Is it because you’re intimidated by an attractive, intelligent, confident woman?”

Ilmari held up his middle finger.

“Or is that groin pull you’re trying to hide.”

Ilmari stilled, and slowly looked up from his phone. But Caleb wasn’t looking at him, head still bowed over the ironing board. Ilmari sat facing his scarred side, and his eye couldn’t help but catch on the shine with indent by his temple.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if I hear you spreading—”

“Y-you should trust her,” he interrupted, still not looking up from his laundry. “She’s good. Feisty, a bit clumsy at times. A real hurricane that one, but she’ll look after you if you let her.” His tone was wistful, longing. “And d-don’t worry. Nobody will hear anything from me.” 

“Not even Jake?” he challenged.

“D-despite what everybody seems to think, Jake and I aren’t a-actually one person. And I d-don’t spread around rumours.”

Ilmari just nodded, and got back to reading. He spent the rest of the evening in that laundry room, reading alongside Caleb Sanford as he ironed some clothes, in complete silence. It was the best evening he’d had in a while.

Everything was fucked now, all because of her. She’d sat in his seat on the plane, refused to move before its was too late, and they were stuck together the entire flight. That game, he got a goddam shutout. So when they boarded the plane for their next game he made sure she sat next to him.

“Are you serious,” Rachel, no— Dr. Price cried. “Last time you nearly bit my head off for sitting next to you, but now I have to sit next to you?”

“Yes, and it’s your fault. Now sit before they make us sit for takeoff.”

“How is it my fault?”

“You broke his pattern, Doc,” Langley explained from his seat in the back. “You broke his pattern by taking his seat and sitting in his row. No one sits with Mars. Not at meals, not on the bus. Definitely not on the plane. It’s his thing. Keeps him in the zone. You sat with him. You broke his pattern.”

“So what? I’m his lucky charm now?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Ridiculous.”

They got another shutout that game.

Slowly, after several flights together, he started relaxing with her. She really was a tornado like Caleb said, her mouth seemed to run a mile a minute. Every thought that popped into her head, soon flowed out of her mouth. But at the same time, she was comfortable to be around. He could sit in silence while she talked and it never felt uncomfortable. She didn’t draw him out of his shell as much as climb in with him. And so when she figured out about his groin injury, he wasn’t surprised when she tried to help. He realised he might be in love with her when she told him he was worth more than just hockey. It was the first time since his mom died that someone had looked at him as more than a goalie, a tool to win games. He knew he was in love with her when she flew with him to Seattle to get scans done of his hip off record. She made sure he could get help without having to bench him, risked her career for him. And all of a sudden he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t a lone goalie keeping everything out, for that brief moment he thought he’d found her, the person he’d been looking for.

And then she told him about Caleb and Jake, and he felt his world cave in.