Chapter Text
‘Rioters-2, The Disciples-3’ was the score up at the jumbotron as the clock came to a stop. Yet another win for coach Origi’s Disciples team. A hard fought victory over the holding champions and for the first time in his successful coaching campaign, the always stoic man broke out into a loud roar, lifting his assistant coach up in a tight bear hug and embracing everyone around him in celebration after the ref blew the final whistle, sending them to the quarter-finals of the National High school Hockey Tournament(NHHT).
The longest standing youth tournament in the sport’s history and a well known scouting ground for universities all across the world keen to find the next big talents to help their teams compete in the professional leagues.
Numerous university representatives filled the stands, spoilt for choice in the amount of talent laid out in the game but all their eyes were on Eze and Palmer, the two star players from coach Origi’s Disciples team, who were, yet again, influential in their team’s victory and were top picks to join Rushford university, the leading hockey franchise, after high school, but had every scout from competing universities trying to lure them away to their schools.
Even this far into the competition it was their side that was being called lucky and they were mocked for showing up for the match as many were certain the 7× NHHT champions would wipe the floor with their team. But yet again, to the doubters’ surprise and the scouts watching on, it was the small town St. Andrews ‘Disciples’ high school hockey team, fitted in their yellow and purple kit, in cheer after the 60 minute mark while the all red Cola high school ‘Rioters’ hang their heads in defeat. Their adoring supporters all around the stands, some in tears, looking on in disbelief as the travelling team celebrated their victory over them, the sum of their ecstatic screams echoing throughout the arena as coach Origi, who was now in the rink, his black leather shoes skidding for traction against the smooth, white, ice, chased after his players in jubilation.
The team piled on top of him when he inevitably slipped and fell on the ice, burying him in their mass, and the network cameras arced around them as they lay on top of each other, broadcasting their joy all around the world, all the way to their small town in the hilly side of the country where their school had stood solid for the last century, their families and friends all watching, gathered around the TVs in their homes, at the pubs and at the town square where a large LED display screen popular for its bright showcase of advertisements had been converted to tune in to the game.
Never had a noise so loud been heard in the town than the roar when the third goal went in, completing their comeback from 2-0 down, and now, in the ecstasy of their victory, they all dared to dream, the coach, the players, their families and friends. Dreaming that maybe, just maybe, they could go all the way and clinch the trophy.
Their win meant they would go up against the Waterloo high school ‘Mist' in the quarter-finals, who in their qualifiers had blown their opponents out the park by 5-0. Though they were not as decorated as the Rioters, the ‘Mist’ had a reputation of being a headache in the tournament given the amount of times they had made it to the semi-finals in prior years, and they were just their most present threat to clinching the trophy. Not taking into account the other tough teams still in the pool who, if the ‘Disciples’ were to make it to the finals, they could face.
Like King Krule high school’s ‘Growlers' who had been the Rioter’s biggest rivals for the cup over the years with four trophies to their name who had also made it the quarter-finals and were now, according to many, favourites to go on and win it.
Or the 2× NHHT champions, Mount Kimbie high school’s ‘Strokes', or Bauhaus high school’s ‘Interpol’, ‘The Gorillas’ from Beacon high school, the Impalas, the Romeos. All teams who had more experience of playing at the highest level than them, all who would be gunning for the trophy with a greater thirst now that the dominant Rioters had been eliminated. But it was free to dream.
In the locker room, the Disciples team carried on with their celebrations.
Palmer's on fire, mind and senses purified
Palmer's on fire, mind and senses purified
Palmer's on fire, mind and senses purified
Palmer's on fire
Na-na-na-na-na, na-na, na-na-na, na-na-na
Na-na-na-na-na, na-na, na-na-na, na-na-na
Na-na-na-na-na, na-na, na-na-na, na-na-na
Na-na-na-na-na, na-na, na-na-na, na-na-na
The song reverberating in the room as Palmer, at the centre of the party circle, laughed and danced along.
Led by Eze, his close friend and wing partner, the team serenaded him for his exceptional performance in the game, fizzing soda onto him and mobbing him in embrace, shirtless, their bare skin clinging onto each other in the sugar of the drinks. The smell of sweat from their hard earned victory heavy in the room.
Palmer's goal in the dying moments of the game had been the decider. A wonderful solo effort from him, picking up the puck from his own half and taking it through a tight squeeze of Rioters’ defenders before launching it into the back of the net. His third goal of the game, completing his hat trick against the reigning champions and securing their place in the quarter-finals.
Their singing quietened in a sudden before they broke out into a loud cheer as Coach Origi and their assistant coach, Kyle, joined them in the locker room, and the boys turned their aim towards them, drowning them in soda which the two coaches both took in great spirits.
They were still their teachers after all, who taught them in one subject or another back in school, one would think they would have shunned such behaviour but more often than not they loosened their ties at their team's antics and would even engage in a bit of horseplay with the boys from time to time. A practise that seemed to inspire a strong sense of comradery within the team unlike any in the tournament.
Though coach Origi and Kyle were well respected, they were not feared, and for their kind and understanding coaching style, the boys had taken them in as one of their own, blurring the lines of authority. They were no seniors or juniors, they were all one. They talked as one, trained as one and played as one. A tight knit unit that other teams struggled to breakdown.
Coach Origi wiped away the soda flowing into his eyes as his team poured it on his bald head, and with a broad smile he raised his hand up in surrender and the boys stood down from their pour, giggling at their drenched coaches.
Their laughter subdued and the room quietened as coach Origi went to speak. This was his command. An always present air of authority around him. His old age and tall stature, pushed further by his nonchalance, demanded respect in every room he was in which was always accorded to him.
At 51 he was the oldest member of the school faculty and it showed on his wrinkled face; in his fashion sense, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst his youthful colleagues. A greying man stuck in the 60’s corporate fashion trends who rarely had a word to say.
So when he spoke up in protest against meal cards, arguing that food should be streamlined for all students and not a select few with money, they listened. Seeing a total reduction in food waste from the school's cafeteria.
When he spoke out against governing the school on Catholicism, the staunch catholic who had never missed a day of church, insisting they were in the service of education not ministry, they listened. Eradicating their biblical laws from the school rules and accepting pupils of different denominations and backgrounds into the institution, leading to an ever increase in enrolments with each new semester.
And when he spoke up nominating himself for the role of head coach for their school’s hockey team after their former coach’s unceremonious resignation to another school, they listened. Ushering the most successful years in their sports’ history. So when his mouth opened to speak it was deemed wise to shut up and listen.
“Hope you caught their faces coach Kyle, that's 20 laps when we’re back in training,” coach Origi teased to their cackles.
Continuing he said: “Gentlemen, mine is but a few words, a congratulations, not for the win but for how you played. When I'll speak of this day I'll not speak of the victory but of your fight, your passion, your inability to give up even when the odds were against you.”
He paused, looking around at the boys with pride, their gleeful eyes, illuminated under the harsh white light of the fluorescent bulbs in the room, aimed up at him, and his face wrinkled from a smile as he went on with his speech.
“And the odds were against you, you arrived as underdogs and now you're going home victors, the Disciples, quarter-finalists.”
“Fuck yeah!” screamed a player.
“Abel, language!” hissed assistant coach Kyle at their foulmouthed goalkeeper.
“Though the journey is far from over,” coach Origi added over their simmering cheers. “this is a great triumph, one that would be criminal not to celebrate, so rejoice, rejoice, scream to the heavens, this is your night.”
Whistles and roars rang through the room before coach Origi, taking notice of his much younger assistant struggling to speak, yelled over the noise, calming them back down.
“Coach Kyle, you have something you want to add?” he asked.
“Yes, dinner is in 15 minutes and the bus departs in 45!” coach Kyle announced. “if you're not there we will leave without you!”
“You heard him, hit the showers,” said coach Origi as they exited the room, leaving the boys in song, soda fizzing everywhere, the sound of their joyous voices reverberating throughout the backrooms.
Palmer's on fire, mind and senses purified,
Palmer's on fire, mind and senses purified,
Palmer's on fire, mind and senses purified.
Palmer was the last one to arrive for dinner, his hair still damp from the shower, much like the rest of the boys sectioned in little groups all across the mess hall, all in bright yellow tracksuits, stuffing their faces full of pizza, the sound of their loud chatter charging the hall full of noise.
He proceeded forward, laughing and mingling with the various groups as he passed by them, oblivious to his friend’s, Eze, piercing eyes following him across the room from his perch on top of a table a fair distance inside the mess hall. Abel, the goalkeeper and member of their tight knit friend group, sat beside him, cramming himself full of food.
“Hide it,” instructed Eze, and Abel, noticing Palmer make his way to the serving area, laughed with a mouthful before shoving a bottle of juice and the rest of the pizza under a pile of bags on the table.
Palmer searched an empty juice crate and peeked inside an empty pizza box left lying in the serving area and gave a panicked look around the hall for Eze and Abel, spotting them in the crowd, and made a beeline towards them.
“How long does it take you to masturbate in the shower?” Abel asked as he approached them.
“Depends on which photo of your mother I'm using,” replied Palmer. “You guys have my food?”
“Nope,” answered Eze, taking a sip from his bottle of apple juice.
“You didn't fetch me some?”
“You didn't say to.”
“I didn't have to say, I was in the shower, you guys left me in the shower.”
“Yeah and we thought you were going to be out in a minute, we didn't think you were going to start a life in there. Check the serving area, I'm sure there's some leftovers.”
“There's nothing there asshole, you greedy bastards took everything!”
Palmer was getting agitated over their lack of care for his grievances and Eze and Abel struggled to keep from laughing at his angered reaction.
“Are you guys having a laugh?” Palmer asked, annoyed.
“No, we're not having a laugh,” Eze said with a sly smile. “there's no food hidden up our asses, I don't know what you want us to say, sorry?”
“You'll eat when you get home,” Abel added, making a show of shoving the rest of his pizza up his mouth in the most enticing way he could think of as Palmer watched on hungry.
Looking at them with disgust Palmer said: “So you saw I wasn't around and didn't think maybe to save me some food, this how we're moving now?”
“Darling, if you can laugh without me you can live without me,” Eze replied. “Go ask Musk and Harry for your food, I saw you giggling with them on your way here, maybe they have it.”
“Fantastic, thanks for the tip,” said Palmer, sarcastic. “This is great actually, yeah, saves me a lot of time in my future. Next time you guys need anything from me I'll remember today, see if I give a shit.”
And with that he walked off. He was speaking to both of them but his anger seemed primarily on Eze.
A few steps into storming off he heard snickering coming from behind him and glanced back towards the table where his friends sat, their faces now folded in mischievous smiles. Unable to hold it in any longer they exploded into a rapturous laughter.
“Bastards,” Palmer sighed, walking back towards them. “Why do you guys always have to be a bunch of cunts?”
“Did you see that? He was almost about to cry,” Eze said.
“No, I wasn't,” Palmer argued.
“Wipe those tears away now, we can't have the man of the match crying,” Abel said, retrieving the food from under the bags. “Now what do we say?” he asked, fishing for gratitude as he withheld the food from him.
“Fuck you?” Palmer answered, snatching the food from his hands.
“And that's the kind of manners that will leave you starving next time. Seriously though, what takes you so long in the shower?”
“Hygiene, ever heard of it?”
“Polishing your knob doesn't count as hygiene.”
“I had to take long,” Palmer said, pushing passed Abel’s comment. “there was a lot of soda in my hair, it was like rinsing dye, just an endless stream of black. I'm actually surprised you guys were done so soon.”
“No, you always take long in the shower,” Eze said, stretching his hand towards Palmer, his, thick, long, hair tickling his fingers as he wiped off a bit of foam that was behind his ear. “Missed a spot,” he said, showing him his soapy finger and proceeded to study his face as Palmer went on engulfing his share of food, taking him in bit by bit, checking for more soapy areas.
He was a gorgeous boy, Palmer. Looking at his face, it was obvious he had taken after his mother, and it was obvious she was a beautiful woman. Her feminine features alive in his big brown eyes, his thick brows, plump lips, high cheekbones and chiselled jaw, pretty as she was, and though Eze had found no more soap on him, his eyes studied on.
“I was starving,” Palmer said, taking a breather from chewing.
“Better finish up cause it looks like you're out of time,” Abel said, spotting as Coach Origi and assistant coach Kyle charged into the room.
“Let's go, let's go!” assistant coach Kyle’s voice echoed around the hall as they made rounds, inspecting every tables cleanliness. “Wrap it up, tidy around your area, leave it better than you found it and proceed inside the bus. We are behind schedule!”
“Fuck me,” Palmer cursed, folding three slices of pizza into a makeshift sandwich as they hurried to leave.
“Got to be faster than that,” Eze said, picking his bag off the table.
“It's you guys fault in the first place, dicking around instead of just giving me my food.” Palmer complained.
Coach Kyle’s announcement rang on in the background as they argued.
“Remember don't throw away your juice bottle!” he yelled. “It can come in handy down the road, we can't stop every 30 minutes because you want to go to the bathroom, I'm looking at you Ziro, take that bottle with you to the bus.” Coach Kyle instructed a rather confused looking student.
Continuing he commanded: “Pick up the pace gentlemen, more celebrations await us back home, let's take this party on the road!”
The shifting sounds of movement filled the room as the boys hauled their bags away, the noise of their chatter slowly dying down in the room as they disappeared into the waiting bus outside, turning the mess hall to a ghost town in their exit.
After a quick head count the bus engine rumbled awake, sparking the headlights bright and spinning the tyres forward on their wheels, and they were off on their journey back home.