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I
“Okay, listen up,” Shane calls, and that’s all it takes for the locker room to fall silent. No shouting, no claps, no taxi-cab whistles, no hollering from Coach to sit the fuck down. Shane barely even has to raise his voice. It still kind of gives Hayden the warm fuzzies, particularly when he remembers how nervous Shane had been about taking the C. Hollzy’s fucking good in the room, though.
Shane stands from his stall, looking around placidly. “We know how Boston plays at home. They’ll be physical, they’ll be aggressive, and they’ll take risks. They’re gonna try and get under our skin, and we are not going to let them.” His tone suggests that this is less of an instruction and more of a statement of fact. “We play hard, but we play clean, and we do not drop gloves. I wouldn’t count on calls being in our favour tonight, and I do not want us to hand Rozanov a power play. Am I clear?”
The room gives scattered noises of agreement, some clearly more reticent than others. The energy in the room’s always weird before a Boston game, charged and combative, and Hayden knows a lot of the guys are itching for a fight. Amidst the tension, Shane’s an island of calm. They like to joke that it’s because Hollzy knows he’s getting laid after the game, but privately, Hayden thinks it’s just Shane. In the minutes before they get on the ice, the guy always goes sort of still. Like all the little tics and worries and thoughts that are constantly chugging away between his ears at a mile a minute just go completely quiet for once. It’s almost calming by proxy, Hayden thinks.
Shane nods once, decisive. The corner of his mouth twitches with a smile. “Good. Now let’s go destroy them in their own barn.”
That gets a good cheer.
Hayden’s on the bench when the fight breaks out, so he doesn’t get a good view of who starts it, though he’d put money on Boston. Either way, it ends with a ref hauling Gagzy off of Sebbin by the back of his jersey, jamming his shoulder between them and shoving him back when it looks like Gagnon’s going to try and go back for more. Another ref gets their hands on Sebbin and drags him off, and Shane’s escorted Gagnon to the bench by the time everyone seems to be cooled off and Theriault’s given up arguing the call.
Shane exchanges quick, terse words with Gagnon, Theriault, and a ref before Gagnon gets sent out into the tunnel, then he steps off the ice so Theriault can tap J.J. in for the penalty kill and send Stedlund to the sin bin. Shane claps them both on the shoulder as they step out, then slumps onto the bench beside Hayden with a heavy sigh.
Hayden knocks their helmets together sympathetically. “Sebs was probably asking for it,” he offers.
Shane strips a glove off with his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose under his visor. “Boston’s always asking for it.”
Hayden opens his mouth to respond, but he’s abruptly drowned out by the sound of the crowd. The Boston home crowd is rowdy at the best of times, but when Rozanov steps onto the ice, they start screaming.
“Oh, good,” Shane observes dryly. “Rozanov’s on the power play.”
There’s eight minutes left in the third and the score’s 4-2 against. Hayden looks at Rozanov’s shit-eating grin, and sighs. “We’re not getting this one back, are we?”
“Unlikely,” Shane agrees serenely.
That is, it turns out, an understatement.
II
Halfway through his rookie season, Leon Ostrovsky’s proving to be a pretty good addition to the Metros’ defense, but he’s still fresh enough that he’s warming the bench more often than not. It’s sheer bad luck that he’s ended up on the ice at the start of the second tonight, with half of the team out on IR and their usual lines in shambles. J.J. had given the kid a reassuring smile and a thumbs up as he’d hopped the bench and skated out towards the blue line, had gotten a wobbly, nervous grin in return.
A remarkably short amount of time later, the kid’s giving J.J. that same grin, minus several of his front teeth, as he’s escorted off the ice to raucous applause from the home crowd. J.J. watches happily as Rozanov tries to negotiate with the ref, who seems to be having none of his shit. Roz gives up when they replay the hit on the jumbotron, showing fairly unambiguous evidence that Marleau had made some friendly introductions between Ostrovsky’s face and his stick.
Marleau’s a bold shithead; he waves and blows kisses to a crowd that blatantly wants him dead as he’s heading for the tunnel, and he’s grinning when he steps off the ice, half his team clapping him on the shoulders as he passes by. LeClaire’s got a sour look on his face as he sends out Varkov to serve the high-sticking penalty, and, to J.J.’s delight, about half of the Raiders visibly grimace when Hollzy steps out for the power play.
It's going to be a good night.
The mood in the room was already high, made better by the news that Ostrovsky, while desperately needing a few trips to the dentist, was otherwise pretty much fine. He’s waiting for them in the locker room, clearly drugged to the gills on painkillers and soaking up all the attention from the vets with a gummy grin.
The smile freezes on his face when Hollzy finally trails into the locker room, and his eyes take on a distinctly terrified shine.
J.J. snorts, reaches across his stall to nudge the kid. Shane’s definitely in a good mood, buoyed by the win and the promise of seeing his Lily later, but even if he wasn’t, he’s not the kind of captain to chew out a rookie, especially not in front of the whole team. He just heads straight to his stall, starts tugging his jersey over his head, and without any preamble, turns to Ostrovsky and says, “Rook, what was the one thing I told you not to do tonight?”
Guiltily, Ostrovsky lisps, “Get into shit with Rozanov and Marleau.”
Shane sighs, all put-upon weariness. “And what was the literal first thing you did?”
Ostrovsky’s face scrunches into a petulant scowl. He looks like he was stung by a hive of bees. “I had it,” he insists sullenly.
“No,” Shane replies flatly. “You didn’t. Listen to me, kid. Anyone else in the league, you’d probably have been able to take it coast-to-coast. Roz and Marley, though—no, you were doomed.”
Hollzy’s got a way of saying this shit that’s so matter-of-fact it’s hard to take it as an insult. J.J. thinks it might just be because it’s Shane Hollander. When he says something about your game, you know he’s not trying to talk himself up or put anyone down; the guy calls it like he sees it, and he knows his shit. Ostrovsky doesn’t protest any further, just huffs and leans back in his stall, his towel riding up around his shoulders.
Shane presses on, insistent. “Hey, listen to me. If you find yourself with the puck and Roz and Marley are on the ice, you find me, or you find Pike. We’ll go to you, find you an opening to pass it. If you can’t find either of us, just chip it deep and pray.” It’s a bleak strategy, but it’s kind of sweet, J.J. thinks, talking to the kid like there’s actually a chance he’ll be on the ice at the same time as Hollzy and Pike’s line this season outside of some kind of apocalyptic event. Still, hey, he showed some grit and get-up-and-go tonight. Odds are low, but not zero.
Ostrovsky nods sadly, looking down at his lap. It is so remarkably, adorably pathetic that even Shane’s not immune to it; he sighs again, walks over to drop a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Look, I’ll talk to Coach on Monday. Once you’re cleared for practice, we’ll run you through some drills, see how you do against an aggressive line like Roz’s.”
“Really?” Ostrovsky asks, looking up in childlike wonder. Shane shrugs, nods.
Over the kid’s head, J.J. shoots Shane a betrayed, despairing look. Perhaps the last thing in the universe he wants to do after a Boston game is run fucking Rozanov drills. Shane just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, and J.J. groans in silent defeat. Yes, he’s a vet, yes, he’s got the A and he needs to act like it, yes, he’ll help show this overeager child how to tussle with the big boys without getting his face broken.
Doesn’t mean he’s got to be happy about it.
|||
Johan likes Koskela just fine, but it’s plain as day that the kid’s not MLH material. Hollzy’s nice about it, when it comes up with the guys—his tape looked good, I think with a couple more seasons under his belt he’ll have potential—but it’s no secret that he’s going right back to Laval Rocket as soon as Morgenstern is cleared to play. As it is, Koskela’s on the makeshift fourth line with Johan and Laney, isn’t getting too much ice time, and seems kind of terrified whenever he does.
Doesn’t help that he’s got about five words of English and three of French, and the league’s actually managed to get an interpreter for him a grand total of once during the last seven games. Johan feels for him, really, he’s been there, but it’s kind of fucking frustrating. Kid seems like he might be a good player, and Hollzy’s right, his tape was fine, but Johan’s pretty sure he played better when he had lineys that actually understood what the fuck he was saying.
Tonight’s a shitshow; they’re down 2-1 to Boston in the middle of the second period, and every second on the ice has felt like pulling teeth. Boston’s playing aggressive and Montreal’s playing fast, so the puck’s been getting turned over all night, a brutal tug-of-war up the boards that’s been painful to watch and even worse to participate in. And to add to it, apparently Boston’s got a Finnish dude, Järvi, on the roster, and he’s been chirping Koskela for half the fucking game.
The guy skids by on his way to his bench for shift change, calls out something that makes Koskela scowl, hunching over like he’s trying to hide in his helmet. He doesn’t say anything back, hasn’t all night, but it’s clearly getting to him.
Laney drifts over to Johan, knocks into his shoulder. “Otter, what the fuck’s he saying now?”
Johan shrugs. “He starts speaking Dutch, I’ll let you know.”
Laney hums, clearly dissatisfied, and skates past to throw an arm around Koskela, apparently trying to communicate through friendly jostling and expansive pantomime that it’s all cool and that guy is a total douchebag. At least, Johan’s assuming. He’s been rooming with Laney for a while now, the guy’s predictable.
He’s back on the bench three minutes into the third, score tied at a scraped out 2-2, when Hollander and Rozanov skate by during a stoppage, heads bent low as they talk. They’ve got a ref orbiting them at a safe distance, shooting them the stink-eye, which Johan finds pretty funny given that for all the shittalking, he doesn’t think those two have ever actually dropped gloves on each other. They seem to chatter a lot whenever they’re near each other on the ice, which makes a certain sort of sense, given how long they’ve known each other.
“He’s all grown up, Hollander, can take care of himself,” Rozanov’s saying, as they drift into earshot of Johan.
“I know, that’s not what I’m saying,” Hollander replies evenly. “But if something’s going on there, we should handle it. I don’t know if what your guy is saying to Koskela is out of line, but he’s upset enough that the guys are gonna start assuming it is, and they’re ready to start shit over it.”
Rozanov shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “Then they start shit. Järvi is a big boy too, can get into fight if he wants to.”
Johan scowls, chewing on his mouthguard. Jesus, what a dick.
Hollander bumps Rozanov’s shoulder. The ref twitches, but doesn’t approach. “He’s having a tough enough time as it is,” Hollander insists. “I’m not trying to baby him, I’m not saying your guy can’t mouth off, that’s the fucking game, but you know it’s different with the kids that can’t speak English. You told me about the shit Andropov was saying to your rookie, it was way out of line, I took care of it. I told you when St-Simon was jawing at mine, you took care of it. The shit they were saying doesn’t belong on the ice, and we handled it. That’s all I’m asking for here.”
They’re heading to the faceoff dot before Rozanov gets a chance to answer, but frankly, Johan figures the guy would’ve probably just laughed in Hollzy’s face. Rozanov’s not exactly the poster child for sportsmanlike conduct. Johan glances at Koskela on his left, blinking in vague incomprehension out at the ice. He bumps their shoulders together, and the kid grins and bumps him back.
The puck drops, and Johan mostly forgets about it until he’s on the ice again, hunched over and trying to catch his breath because holy fuck this shift has lasted about three thousand years and they’re still tied up 2-2 with nothing to fucking show for it, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Rozanov leaning over to talk to Järvi on the bench. And that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, except Johan knows that look on Järvi’s face, knows the way he’s nodding, quick and stiff, the, yes cap sorry cap won’t happen again cap kind of one-sided conversation that absolutely sucks to be on the other end of.
Rozanov nods once and skates off.
Järvi doesn’t get in Koskela’s face for the rest of regulation time, doesn’t even look at him during OT.
Huh.
IV
Graves is all of nineteen years old and a grand total of four months into his ELC with Boston, but the guy seems to think he’s god’s gift to hockey on account of having gone ninth overall in the draft and catching a goal and a neat little assist during his first MLH game. Ben hates his fucking guts.
It’s not a new sentiment, but it had been more abstract before, just him and Priya watching preseason games on the sofa and heckling the kid on TV. Now, he’s had this little shit deking around him all night and shooting clappers that hit the crossbar hard enough to make Ben’s ears ring. He’s pretty sure Mitty’s had some near-death fucking experiences over in the crease; Ben had spotted him checking his glove for a hole earlier. Fucker seems to think whistles are a thing that only apply to other people, too, and the refs seem bizarrely inclined to agree with him.
When it happens, Ben feels like he’s watching it in slow motion. One of Boston’s d-men clears the puck off of a deflected shot from Pike, and it’s iced before Ben’s far enough down to catch it bouncing off the boards, Graves and Rozanov hot on his heels. They all slide to a stop at the whistle, Ben taking a lazy circle around the back of the net to catch his breath. Graves catches the puck on his stick, looks at the net, and Ben thinks, he’s not going to.
Of course, he does, because the guy’s got something up his ass tonight, and it’s another fucking slapshot that flies far wide of the net, slamming into the glass hard enough to shake it and send the poor fuckers in the front seats behind it diving for cover. The crowd explodes into an incredulous sort of outrage, and Ben looks back over his shoulder at Mitty, who seems like he’s doing his level best to murder Graves with the power of his mind.
Calmly, Ben decides he’s going to hit the kid the next chance he gets. He’s been very restrained. Priya would want him to. Coach will read him the riot act, and Hollzy will probably give him one of those agonizing I Expected Better From You speeches, but it’ll be worth it.
He’s so caught up in daydreaming about knocking Graves on his ass that he nearly misses it when Hollzy appears out of nowhere to do the neatest little drive-by Ben’s ever seen in his fucking life.
Hollander’s got insane control on the ice, which Ben thinks is easy to forget because he makes it look so effortless. He always knows exactly where he is and where he’s going, can turn on a dime, can check a guy halfway up the glass and still keep his feet under him. When he slams into Graves’ shoulder, it is with calculated force, just enough that it clearly hurts, but not enough to knock him off his feet or send him flying back into the boards. There’s two refs on Hollzy in about a second flat, hands on his chest and shoulders to walk him away. Another one grabs Graves, though the guy doesn’t seem to be trying to follow after Hollzy; he just allows himself to be pushed back, looking vaguely shellshocked, like he can’t quite figure out what just happened.
Ben watches in glee as Hollzy puts on his Captain Canada face, instantly agreeable and appropriately repentant as he talks to the refs, nodding earnestly as one of them gives him a friendly warning clap on the shoulder and skates off. A split second later, the moment he’s out from under official scrutiny, Hollander looks back over at Graves, his expression abruptly hard and cold. He shakes his head once, a silent but blatant knock that shit off, and turns to head for the bench.
Rozanov skates in for the faceoff, leans in to talk to Graves while they’re setting up. It seems friendly enough, from the smile on Roz’s face, but he’s got a hand on the back of the kid’s neck, and Ben knows from personal experience that when Rozanov grabs someone, they’re not moving until he’s good and ready for them to. Graves says something, spits onto the ice with a sour little frown. Rozanov cackles, slaps the kid on the back, and skates up to the dot to take the draw against Morgs.
Ben decides magnanimously not to break Graves’ nose. Not tonight, anyways. Rest of the season is fair game.
V
Mitty loves line brawls.
Not taking part in them, of course. That sucks. Whenever he’s involved, guys seem to take all the extra padding as an invitation to hit him harder.
Right now though, he’s sitting quite happily in the net, watching the chaos unfold outside of the crease. Play’s been stopped for a hot minute—he pats the puck fondly, where it’s nestled nice and cozy under his shin pad—so he’s just having fun with the dogfight happening right on his front lawn. He thinks it got started because Comeau had tripped Varkov on the breakaway, sending the guy sprawling onto the ice with a bloody nose, but he doesn’t think that particularly matters because now even Otter and baby Koska are throwing punches, and one of Boston’s grocery sticks inexplicably left the bench to try and get a piece of the action. It’s the funniest fucking shit Mitty’s ever seen.
Then, like the first ray of sun breaking through the clouds after a storm, Mitty sees it. Out in the empty Boston zone, Oregan’s leaving the crease.
Mitty watches in awe as the he glides, slow and unbothered, up to center ice, stopping right at the line. Through their helmets, their eyes meet. Like a knight, Oregan holds his stick straight in front of him, and nods.
In a dreamlike state, Mitty neatly sidesteps the line brawl and floats out towards the red line. He’s got a clear path, nobody tries to stop him, every ref on the ice too busy trying to stop Marleau and Gil from committing an actual homicide, and all Mitty can think is, yes, yes, yes, this is my destiny, this is my right, this is going to be the most beautiful thing ESPN’s ever seen in their fucking lives—
“Miitka.”
Mitty’s attention snaps towards the shout automatically. On the bench, Hollander gives him a long, hard look, and shakes his head.
He looks over at Oregan, still waiting patiently, a warrior at his chosen post, and back at Hollzy despairingly. Please, he tries to convey with his eyes. I’ve been summoned. You cannot deny me this duel. It will be noble and glorious and there will be highlights.
Hollander swings his stick out and taps the boards three times, a firm and unrelenting get the fuck over here. Mitty feels his shoulders slump in defeat, and begins an unenthusiastic, listless drift towards the bench. He looks over his shoulder at Oregan, who’s watching him with disappointed acceptance. He nods to Mitty once, waits for Mitty to nod back, and turns and skates away. Another day, brother, Mitty thinks grimly. Another day.
+ I
Ilya’s stretching at center ice when Hollander glides up to the red line, right on schedule.
Hollander squats, leaning in to murmur, “You got a mic?”
Ilya shakes his head. He doesn’t bother asking if Hollander’s mic’d up; every time he is, Ilya receives no less than several hundred texts warning, threatening, and reminding him that this will be so. He glances up at Hollander curiously; they’ve already made arrangements for meeting after the game, so Ilya can’t imagine what he’s got to say that has him worried about a microphone.
Hollander drops to all fours, knees spread as he stretches, and Ilya shoots him a sidelong, appreciative glance. Eventually, Hollander says, “Gil’s been talking shit since our last game. Wants to start something with you tonight, I think.”
Ilya hums neutrally, lifting up on his haunches to switch sides. This is not surprising news; it would be easier to count the games where Comeau didn’t end up involved in a fight, frankly.
“I’ve told him to back off,” Hollander continues, “But he’s not really listening to me at the moment.”
The sound out of Ilya’s mouth is a little bit less neutral, this time. This is one of those things which bothers him deeply for reasons he cannot articulate and has no desire to bring up to Hollander. His media presence, when Ilya can be bothered to trawl through it, is an archive of brand deals mixed in with a monument of dedication to his team. What very little free time the man deigns to allow himself seems to be consumed by barbeques, birthday parties, weddings, christenings, the kind of event that Ilya bothers with for maybe three guys on his team who he considers actual friends, but which Hollander seems to think comes as an obligation of his captaincy.
It’s not Ilya’s style of leadership, but he’d have to be willfully blind to deny the way Hollander’s team has thrived and blossomed under his careful dedication to them, rookies and call-ups and near-washed-out vets all rising to the occasion.
And yet, there is a small but dedicated core of the Metros roster that seem determined to throw this effort back in Hollander’s face, show him the barest minimum of respect and defy his authority at every turn.
Suffice to say, Ilya is not overly fond of Gilbert Comeau.
“Yeah,” Hollander agrees, to Ilya’s wordless discontent. He’s not looking in Ilya’s direction, eyes on the ice, and his tone is light enough that he might sound almost casual, if Ilya didn’t know him well enough to read the tight line of tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw. “So I’ve been thinking, he might need more of an object lesson, to really drive the point home.”
“Oh?” Ilya says, because he truly has no idea where this is going.
Hollander takes his time getting to his feet, rolling back his shoulders. Finally, finally, he meets Ilya’s eyes. “Break his face for me, yeah?”
Utterly powerless to do anything else, Ilya nods, mouth dry. Hollander skates away without looking back.
As he goes to stand himself, he realizes quite abruptly that he’s hard, and he shifts uncomfortably, trying to adjust his cup in a way that won’t be immediately obvious to anyone who happens to be watching. He skates over to Marley, leaning up to murmur in his ear. “Comeau’s mine.”
Marley pulls back, raises his eyebrows, but Ilya can feel the grin on his face, the one that Marley knows means let me go instead of hold me back. “Yeah?” he asks, a little bewildered.
“Yes,” Ilya confirms emphatically.
“Well, have fun with that,” Marley says gamely.
Ilya is already imagining Comeau’s nose breaking under his fist, is imagining what kind of reward he might earn later, if he does his job particularly well. It’s not exactly helpful vis-à-vis the current situation in his jock, but he can’t bring himself to care. Still grinning maniacally, he replies, “Oh, I plan to.”