Chapter Text
30 on the clock. Scrapes of ice scream across the room.
28 on the clock. A big slam, followed by a bigger slam
15 on the clock. Shudders from a camera… huge rioting screams from near off
0 on the clock. Buzzer blaring, thunderous roaring from the stands, banging of helmets
What the actual fuck is he supposed to write about? He is more overstimulated and focused on the stands than what he is
If you told Mike Wheeler that he would attend his first hockey game at the ripe age of 21, he would've scoffed in your face. He only sometimes attends Lucas’ basketball games… not the worst torture for the favors held from being friends and roommates. Max, however, has not been too keen on his exposé on cult classic films. To put it in her own words, “Mike, literally no one gives a shit”. So to reclaim his fame as a star studded writer (clearly the credentials he gave himself), he reluctantly grabbed the camera and read her emailed assignment more than he would like to admit. Putting it simply, he was fucking baffled. What about his goddamn existence made her believe that he could write the cover page about Boston College’s champion hockey team’s game tonight. He has never even read the sports column.
After the bitching and moaning he insisted on ceased, he grabbed his beat up notebook (if you can believe, he’s only had it for two weeks), and the newspaper team’s trusty ole Canon camera, and took his sorry ass and his oversized tote bag over to the stadium. Rink? Fuck him.
The game is halfway through it’s second period. Mike has managed to get about 7, actually pretty decent, action shots. He is the only one not dressed in a jersey or school colors. And he has the overwhelming privilege of being able to stand in the pit (he knows thats not fucking right… maybe box?). He has three notes written down so far, and they are as follows:
- It felt like -30 degrees on the ice tonight
- Our team is going into the second period with seemingly 8 points ahead of the opposing team
- The opposing team are from Miami. Why would you go to Miami for hockey?
“The RedHawks are in a foul due to hooking, so we’re entering a powerplay after this time out… see, one of their guys are heading off the rink”, Mike turns his head to the left slightly, and Jane Hopper is leaning over the glass above him pointing at the ice and rambling. “Hey...uh Jane, what’re you doing here?”, he asks while craning his neck up at her. What he meant by "here" was being literally 2 feet away from him, less at the game. Though that is shocking in itself. Jane Hopper is a theatre major, and she has her own feature section in the newspaper weekly. She writes about local theatre around Boston, so Jane and Mike, both being juniors, have had various conversations this past year. He sometimes has to edit her stuff. What he did not know, however, is that she was a whiz at hockey. Or that she would be here. Or that they have talked enough for her to find him in the box (that has got to be right) and chatter away at him. “Can you repeat all of that again?”, he holds up his finger at her signaling to wait, and then holds out his phone to record her. There is no way he’d be able to write that right now.
“So, this is Jane… hi! Oh, and the RedHawks are in a foul due to hooking, so we’re entering a powerplay after this time out… see, one of their guys are heading off the rink”, she practically yells into his phone. Mike gives her a nod and a small smile, she returns a huge smile. Buzz…Mike grabs his ears, fuck he hates loud noises. He watches Jane enthusiastically wave at one of the players skating up to the box. Assumingly, her boyfriend, she is wearing the same number that he has on. The number twelve. The player gives her a thumbs up followed by a thumbs down, she responds silently and giddy with a thumbs up. He waves quickly, skates back to the center, and places his stick right by the puck. The ref raised his hands and whistled in time with the buzzer starting, “SEE! This is the powerplay, this could be totally game changing”, Jane exclaims. Mike nods and jots the word “GAME CHANGING” down, he is helpless if he can’t remember that, but hey, there is a lot going on. Number 12 almost single handedly shot the puck right into the goal, the fucking goalie ate total shit.
Finally, the game is on its last legs at the final few minutes of the third inning, fuck that can’t be right either. PERIOD. The third period. Needless to say, Mike is not invested. In fact, he has zoned out, been doodling, and has also just been recording Jane’s rambles nonstop. He will give her credit, and decipher it all into a legible article later. He is antsy to get the fuck out of here. BAM! The whole goddamn box rattles, Mike bangs his head on the glass and falls straight to the ground. The buzzer sounds for a timeout. “BYERS, you’re benched, that shit outta taken you out!”, the college’s coach blisteringly screams. “Coach c’mon, let me in, I can shake it off”, a whiney medium deep voice arises from the helmet on the ground. Mike collects himself, and stands up holding his head, attempts to look up at Jane, but she is gone. “WILL! Get the fuck in the BOX. YOU KNOW THE GODDAMN RULES. Dad isn’t gonna make an exception for your whiney ass”, Jane screams at the gate. Mike is watching in awe as she rattles at the hockey player who is like twice her fucking size. Number twelves groans (really dramatically), and skates into the box sitting down. Jane throws him a towel and a gatorade, the bottle slamming into his head as he rips off the helmet.
Mike is staring. This guy is fucking gorgeous. Well. He’s sweaty, and his hair is matted, and that was a huge, nasty string of spit that came out with his mount guard, but fuck he was pretty. “Fucking apologize to Mike asshole. You literally slammed into him”, if Mike believed in a God, he would be praying to please shut Jane up. Pretty Number Twelve finally graces Mike by noticing his existence, and he is staring at Mike’s hands. Mike, is fucking flustered, “Hey man… nice game. Really great skating out there. It is crazy, this game huh? Wow, that is a cool mouth guard, I didn’t know that they came in yellow”, Mike gestures at Twelve’s slimy hand holding the sunshine yellow object. The player is still staring… then “This is your first game, isn’t it? You’ve never watched hockey before?”, Mike shakes his head slowly, staring down at his hands now too. “No big deal, I can see you’re our lucky reporter. They got Vickie locked up somewhere? She’s fucking great and knows her shit. But you look like you know what you’re doing…?”, Twelve then reaches out his gloved hand. Mike clears his throat, “Mike, Mike Wheeler”. The player’s face drops. Jane, now involved, looks at Mr. Number Twelve (with hazel eyes, was that mentioned before?), “Yeah, he is who you think he is Will”. Will, the now named hot hockey player nods, “Well Wheeler, tell your sister that my brother Jonathan remembers very fondly”, Mike’s eyes are wide. Will laughs rings beyond the game over to the right of them. Wow, that was a good laugh. And a contagious one, now Mike is laughing…but more nervous.
They have been talking for a while. It is now 9:30, the game ended at least 30 minutes ago, but this guy is a talker… Mike is not really, so as a self-proclaimed "good listener”, he is having a great time.
Here are some fun facts about handsome Mr. Will Byers the sweaty hockey player that Mike has learned:
- Jane is his step sister, the coach is his step dad (Jim?)
- He has been playing hockey since he was 9, he is on scholarship
- He is a studio art major, his preferred mediums are watercolor and charcoal (that's fucking cool)
- He is the junior team captain of Boston College’s hockey team (he's Mike's age... that's also fucking cool)
- His big life dreams are to be Bob Ross during the day and then a fucking pro hockey star at night (is it weird to find the "double life" trope lowkey hot)
- He is going out after the game, to the bar right around the corner (Mike could not tell if this was an invite, but Mike wants to go scream in a pillow after this anyway)
Clearly, “after the game” is a blanket statement because they’re still talking. Well, one is talking the other is listening. And right on cue, Mike’s phone is ringing. He sends Max’s caller ID to voicemail, fuck off right now please. Will Byers clears his throat, Mike zeros in on his adams apple bobbing, “I should head out before the team starts bitching at me”, Will grinds out. “Right right, I’m sorry for holding you up, thanks for your info, I’ll see if we can do a ‘featured player’ report on you, thank you again” Mike chokes out, way too quickly.
Will is scanning him with soft eyes, Mike is dreaming of using his cardigan as a literal shell and hiding away like a hermit crab. “Wheeler, don’t go through all that trouble. I would rather you just remember it all and I quiz you the next time we see each other”, Mike’s face on fire, Will on the other hand has the dickest smirk on his face. “I’ll get going, but uh, nice shirt. I’m a big fan of The Cure, too. And uh… glad I slammed into you, or the wall really, wait no. Let’s keep it at ‘glad I slammed into you”, and with that Will saluted Mike (what the fuck does that mean) and left. Mike is on fire, by the way.