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A part of Silverr wants to be there to see the game. There's a louder part that says he's doing too much, showing up in person.
So instead of flipping through channels in the silence of his hotel room and wondering whether he should've been in sunny California, he takes himself over to Feinberg's place to watch game five through the safe distance of a screen with company that will keep him in check.
An evening chill hangs in the outside air. Passing cars whip up wind and the overcast sky threatens rain. He tugs his hood over his head and keeps walking.
Feinberg is grinning when he opens the door. "Should've been us, right?" he says, pulling Silverr over the threshold.
"Obviously," Silverr replies easily.
Feinberg's apartment is the open concept type without proper walls so much as dividers between spaces, and those floor-length windows that reveal the glimmering city sprawled beneath. A solitary light is switched on above the kitchen island where people are already gathered.
Silverr spots Couri pacing a room off to the side, caught in a phone call. Danny's voice carries from the group, in some heated discussion with Poundy and Emerald. And Reign is here, of course, perched on a barstool at the counter and watching them talk.
"You've got a crowd today," Silverr notes as he crosses the room. He settles on the couch and pulls one of the many throw pillows over his lap. All this matching decor is definitely more Couri's idea than Fein.
"Everyone wanted to come." Fein sits down next to him. "It's the last game of finals."
"Maybe not," Silverr says, just for the sake of it.
"Terriers are up three-one," Fein points out, like Silverr doesn't know, like he hasn't been following this playoff series obsessively. "And they're back on home ice. If they don't win I'll retire."
Silverr rolls his eyes and sinks further into the couch. "They better, then. Jersey can't lose their seventh best player."
"Asshole," Fein tells him, no heat behind it, and tosses a pillow at Silverr's head. Then he says, decisively, "Doogile will do it. He's gotta make up for last season."
"Right," Silverr mutters.
The last finals had come down to a brutal game seven that had drawn out further into an overtime that had gone over another full period without a goal. Dragging on until he—and the crowd, because he'd flown out from Vancouver for that one—were hardly breathing for the suspense.
Doogile's team had lost on a gamble. A risky play from their opponents, game-losing risky, but one that paid off and thwarted an LA two-peat. Silverr had stayed in his seat as the team filed off into the locker room. Watched Doogile as he waited by the exit and told them "Good job" one by one, the picture of grace despite the quiet frustration warring in his expression.
Now here comes the rematch a season later. It is all the press wants to talk, this supposed burgeoning rivalry between the two biggest names in the league.
East. A Calder for his rookie season and a growing stack of records under his belt and building a dynasty in New York: the face of their franchise, Lowkey.
West. Star centre of his team ever since he came home to Los Angeles with a maxed-out eight-year contract in hand, taking them for playoffs run after playoffs run: untouchable, beautiful, golden boy Doogile.
The two can't be rivals in the traditional sense, fighting for those coveted playoff spots, when they're not even in the same conference. But with generational talents like these, there's always a way to pit them against each other. And this post-season has offered up a storyline on a silver platter: these two teams that toss the Cup between them until the media can start murmuring that maybe no one will catch up.
Their friends start gathering around the TV once the pre-game starts, dropping onto the couch and piling together on the floor and squeezing together in armchairs. Reign takes his spot on Silverr's other side and leans close in his usual comforting way.
"Okay?" Reign mutters, because he always seems to know when Silverr gets too far in his own head.
"Okay," he replies quietly, knocking their shoulders together. "Good to see you. It's been too long."
Reign grins. "I'm almost glad you guys got knocked out round one."
"Fuck off." Silverr only shoves him lightly, but Reign goes sprawling across the couch like a ragdoll.
He props himself up on his elbows. "Just so we wouldn't have to wait 'til the summer!"
"Too fucking soon, man," Silverr says, although a frission of guilt works through him. Two seasons without his best friend on the road with him, sharing hotel rooms and morning runs, reviewing game tape with their heads bent together. In the pre-season training, though he's readjusted to Vancouver now, he'd still expect Reign at his blue line and startle when a different face met his gaze.
But Reign softens and puts himself right back next to Silverr with an easy arm around his shoulders, and Silverr melts into his steady presence. Reign is a balm on the simmering unease that's been needling at him all night.
He takes his attention back to the screen as the teams spill out from the locker rooms. The camera pans overhead and the Falcons' dark uniforms are inky smudges on their half of the rink; the Terriers bright against the ice in scarlet.
Silverr dreads meeting the Terriers on their home turf enough in the regular season—their fans are wild in their enthusiasm and brutal in their disappointment, a sea of noise and colour practically swelling over the boards.
And at the cusp of a playoffs win: Doogile skates out to applause so raucous the arena itself seems to shudder. As though it, too, lies in anticipation for its hometown superstar to step into its bounds, breathe life into its sloping stands and polished ice and catacombs.
Even through the TV, the intensity shivers through him. Silverr hears Reign mutter, "Jesus."
"Right?" Fein leans over from his other side.
"They're really excited, huh," Danny says from the floor. Then everyone starts talking.
"Yeah, no shit."
"You can't be the away team with a crowd like that."
Silverr tunes them out. On screen the camera dips close, following Doogile across the rink. The lens finds his face beneath his helmet and the plexiglass of his visor—his expression is held in its perfect, media-trained, inscrutable blank slate. He raises a hand in greeting, doesn't smile, and his city sings their approval.
They love you, Silverr thinks, leaning forwards; wishing, a little wildly, that Doogile would turn and look into the camera.
He doesn't, and joins his team for warmup.
Feinberg is right. The game is a blowout.
The Falcons manage a quick goal two minutes in. A few players off their guard, and some deft stickhandling from Lowkey takes the puck past the defence with embarassingly little effort before his textbook wrister sends it flying past the goalie in a blur.
On screen, a murmur goes through the audience. Someone to the right of Silverr lets out a low whistle.
"They're going to want that one back," a commentator says, sounding stunned.
And as though to prove their point, that's the last and only bit of grace Doogile lets his team give. They tie it one-all within the next minute. Then further.
By the time the last seconds of the third period tick down, it is five-one to the Terriers. Three from Doog, because of course almost shutting the other team out isn't enough and he has to score a hat-trick for a neat little fucking cherry on top.
Couri drops his head against the back of the couch in mock disappointment. "Who let this guy have another Cup?"
"He's catching up to Lowkey," Fein replies, eyes still on the screen.
The final horn sounds. The camera swoops in eagerly, drinking in the sight of the winning team piled together against the boards, net knocked over on the ice. Matching smiles gleaming beneath the stadium lights and reaching for their captain, crowding him in.
Fein makes an amused noise. "You'd think he would look happier winning the playoffs."
"The excitement wears off," Silverr says dryly.
Fein doesn't miss a beat. "I’m sure you know how that feels."
Silverr throws a pillow. It hits Fein square in the face. Retaliation. "How’s the golfing in Chicago?"
"Oh, you can fuckin' talk," Fein says. "How’s playing five extra games against LA every season? You gonna make it past round one next time?"
"Yeah. Maybe." Any other day he would've kept this back-and-forth going, exchanging good-natured jabs. Now, Silverr's gaze flicks back to the game.
It's second nature to search out Doogile in the mess of pads and tangled limbs.
Like this, he is the star people love to call him, in every sense of the word. Commanding attention like his presence itself has a gravitational pull. There's no spectacle in the way he holds himself, but in the masses he shines. His team and the crowd and the cameras only caught in his orbit.
Orbit, but never closer. Space stretches between Doogile and everyone who wants something of him, and that is so many Silverr is swept away in it. Trying to catch up—to interest him, understand him, play hockey like him—is Achilles and the fucking tortoise.
But some people get close.
The captain of the opposing team who'd been eye-to-eye to Doogile for that first face-off, unreadable through his reflective visor. All tension and potential, electric in the air. Doogile lost and there'd been a split-second of blindsided hesitation before he was off in a flash to fight back the puck.
The linemate who's now pushed his way into Doogile's space and gets an arm around Doogile's shoulders, nearly dragging him down into the fray. He'd assisted one of his captain's goals to tie up the score in the first. And Doogile is grinning at him in turn, so brightly his eyes turn upwards and his cheeks dimple.
Silverr has been in both of their places. Not anymore. No matter how much of himself he throws into drills or strategy or games.
He is struck by how much he—wants. A physical, hollow ache that drums in time with his heart.
Though he can't look away, the others start filtering off from the living room. There's an argument about what they should eat. Fein’s rant about some bullshit penalty call and Couri’s vaguely affirming interjections trail off as they leave. Reign taps his arm and tells him "I'll be in the kitchen."
Silverr mutters something in reply about watching the awards and stays on the couch.
There's a part of him that can't tear his eyes away from the tousled mess of Doogile's hair, damp curls around his face, flattened from the helmet's weight, or the way his whole face relaxes when he smiles.
That is the same part that almost took him to Los Angeles instead of Newark, that feels all vulnerable and awful and holds what he can't have. He shoves it down and keeps it small and tells himself he's shielding it from prying eyes with no right to know, but if he never thinks of it then maybe it will disappear. Just like how this—thing—with Doogile will start and end at hockey. The only thing he really needs.
Admiration is easy. Admiration is normal.
Silverr will analyse the game and diagram the plays like any self-respecting player. He'll wish it were him playing Doogile in the finals—even though he can't anymore, in Vancouver—for the prestige of the Cup and the team and not because he wants the full force of that attention turned on him again. Like he's worth the time.
Doogile shakes the hand of the Commissioner. His legacy, his first win, hanging from the rafters of the Staples Center already, but he lifts the Cup over his head again as if it were his god-given right and tips his face back and laughs.
Silverr knows it must be an indescribable feeling. Even once is luckier than some ever get, and here's his second with just a season between them.
A congratulations isn't unwarranted.
Slowly, he fishes his phone out, opens his messages, and scrolls until he finds Doogile's contact. Then, even slower, types into the message box: Good job today.
He watches his cursor flash once, twice, before he decides he doesn't like it and erases the whole thing. Then tries: Caught the game. You played well.
Too casual. It was the goddamn Stanley Cup. Of course he'd be watching. Backspaced.
Congrats. I'm coming for the win next season.
Too much. They haven't even seen each other in person since the Pacific first round when Doogile ended Silverr's playoffs run in a clincal five games.
One more for a hat-trick.
Trying too hard.
It wasn't always this difficult to talk to him, Silverr thinks. There are times he could've said anything. There are times he would've been there, in the stands or the rink.
Then:
I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching you play.
Silverr's first instinct is to hate it. It feels painfully earnest, like—well. Like he's baring his secrets, everything messy and wrong with how he feels barely kept at bay by the plain text.
Except he's only being honest.
Everyone saw those flashes of brilliance early in his career. Silverr especially had, when they'd shared a team, and a line. Doogile had the edge on him even then. But no one could have predicted the breakaway he had torn off on since those fleeting three years.
Doogile now is a vision to see in action, and Silverr knows he knows it. It doesn't have to mean anything more than admiration. And even if it did, Doogile isn't looking.
Silverr glances up at the TV. Commercial break. But after comes the Conn Smythe that Doogile will probably win as well, and the press will get their hands on him, and probably the fans, and that is a whole other ordeal. Then celebrations to burn the night away, and he'll be there just as a good captain should.
So between the outpourings of excitement that he's surely being flooded with, and the bleary, horrible, morning-after when he has to sort through it all, maybe this will slip quietly under his radar anyway.
Silverr hits send and shuts his phone.
He looks over to his friends. In the kitchen, there's pizza heating in the oven, and someone's broken out the alcohol now it's a respectable enough hour. Fein's got a couple people propped in front of his tablet, SportsCentre already up. He could join them. He can do hockey. He can always do hockey.
He needs a fucking drink.