Chapter Text
If Bruce hadn’t bought the fucking hockey team in the first place, Tim thought in exasperation as he tilted the empty milk carton into his bowl, only for 3 – 3 – drops to pitifully drip onto his cereal.
“Jason drank all the milk,” he said unhappily.
“There’s another carton,” Dick pointed out.
“That’s not the point. He drank all the milk and put the empty carton back into the fridge. Who does that?” He shut the fridge door a bit louder than necessary, causing his older brother to roll his eyes.
“Where are they, anyway?” Tim asked. “Duke, and the other one?”
“Early hockey practice. Bruce went along with them.” Dick sipped his coffee, oblivious to the horrible turn Tim’s morning had already taken all thanks to Jason.
“Since when has B ever cared about hockey?” he asked.
“Since his team got into the Justice League, and has to go up against the national champions.”
“Oh. Right.” Tim paid little to no attention to whatever was going on in the Hockey League – or, as little attention as he could given that his dad owned the Gotham Blades and three of his siblings were avid players. Maybe he was stereotyping, but he couldn’t help but think of all hockey players as airheaded jocks. They were all creatine and questionable warmups — two things he preferred to steer clear of.
“Morning,” Cass said pleasantly as she came into the kitchen. “Damian is still asleep,” which was her way of inviting someone else to wake the youngest Wayne.
“Not it,” Tim all but yelled. His sister giggled.
Dick groaned into his coffee cup. “Give me five.”
“Playoffs next week,” Cass said, giving Tim a look. “Coming?”
“Of course he is,” Dick interjected, just as Tim was about to say, ”Absolutely not.”
Dick gave him a reproachful look. “Of course he is. Even Alfred’s going. It won’t hurt you to support Jason and Duke.”
“Okay, we’ll see!” Tim shrugged. “Y’know what will hurt, though? Waking up Dami when he doesn’t want to be woken.”
Dick sighed like a man accepting his fate. “Fine,” he said. “But if he throws something at me again, that’s on you.”
Tim didn’t stick around to hear the rest. He quickly finished his cereal and escaped to barricade himself in his room. From the hallway came the faint sound of Dick knocking on Damian’s door and the unmistakable start of a threat veiled in encouragement from his older brother.
Tim sat at his desk and opened his laptop, intending to work. He really did. There was a competition in three weeks and his step sequence still wasn’t clean enough. He pulled up his notes, then his music, then — without quite remembering making the decision — a tab with skating analytics and biomechanics.
And then, somehow, a sports headline.
GOTHAM BLADES CLINCH JUSTICE LEAGUE SPOT
Tim stared at it for a moment, annoyed with himself, and clicked.
He skimmed through the article quickly, eyes catching on words he didn’t care about. Powerplays. Line changes. Aggression. Then a photo loaded.
Jason was front and center, helmet off, grin sharp and unapologetic. His knuckles were tapped. There was dried blood on his lips, like he'd earned it and was proud.
Tim snorted and closed the tab.
Ten seconds later, he opened it again.
Jason was chaos on ice, even Tim could see that. His skating was powerful but ugly, all force and very little restraint. He plowed through people instead of around them, relied heavily on momentum where better players relied on control. It worked, apparently. The comments section certainly thought so.
Tim shut the laptop down harder than necessary.
Hockey was stupid.
Still, the image lingered. Not Jason, but the ice beneath him. The way the surface looked torn up, scarred by blades cutting too deep at bad angles. It was wasteful. Sloppy.
He shook the thought away and stood, grabbing his jacket.
The rink was quieter than usual that afternoon. Public skate had ended, and most people had cleared out, leaving behind only the hum of the lights and the soft scrape of someone resurfacing the ice on the far side. Tim liked it like this. Empty. Predictable.
He laced up and stepped onto the ice, letting himself glide once around the rink before starting his warm-ups. Crossovers. Edges. Turns so tight they burned. This was where things made sense. Where every movement had a reason.
Half an hour passed. Then another.
He was halfway into a run-through when the doors banged open.
Tim stopped, irritation flaring, and turned toward the sound.
A group of people spilled in, loud and laughing, hockey bags slung over their shoulders. Gotham Blades colors. Tim recognized Duke immediately, easy grin and all. Jason followed a second later, helmet dangling from one hand. Tim’s jaw tightened.
Jason stepped onto the ice like he owned it. His skates bit in deep, carving grooves where Tim had just smoothed the surface. He shoved off, fast and reckless, nearly clipping Tim as he passed.
“Watch it,” Tim snapped.
Jason skidded to a stop, spraying ice. “Relax, Timmy. It’s a rink.”
Tim’s fingers curled around his gloves. “Exactly. It’s not a demolition site.”
Duke winced. “Okay. Maybe we give him ten minutes?”
Jason laughed. “Nah. Practice starts now.”
Bruce appeared behind the glass a moment later, talking to Jim Gordon. He didn’t look at Tim. Not once.
That settled it.
Tim stepped off the ice without another word, unlaced his skates, and left before he could say something that would make things worse.
As he walked home, phone buzzing with a dozen group chat notifications he ignored, one thought kept circling, unwanted and persistent.
Playoffs next week.