Chapter Text
The ice is a cruel and unforgiving mistress.
Whether you kiss it tenderly with a triple axel or slam it with curved blades in a frantic rush to the net, it is a known fact across all skating sports that falling fucking sucks. The crack of bone hitting the ground, the rush of cold piercing exposed skin. The gymnasts had their mats, the footballers the soft give of turf, but for figure skaters and hockey players alike the only thing that awaited them when they fell (or were pushed to the ground) was the cold slam of the ice.
It was only day 3 of training camp at Lake Placid and Dunk had already been knocked on his ass more times than he could count. He was the biggest guy on team USA by at least a few inches, with a thick frame and linebacker shoulders to complement; still that didn't stop his fellow players from slamming him into the boards whenever the chance presented. He took it all in stride. Violence, pain, it was an inherent part of hockey. And while Dunk would, to the surprise of everyone who met him, largely consider himself a more gentle person, he let himself give in to the aggressive nature of the game once his blades hit the ice. Hockey had been his lifeline, hockey was what kept him going when he was a young boy bouncing from foster homes unsure of his place in the world. He was only ten, already too tall for his age, loitering around the public school gym after hours to avoid going home to a particularly nasty set of foster parents, when he first met coach Arlan. A scraggly old man in his late fifties with a face like a well loved leather handbag, Mistaking him for a boy much older due to his size, coach Arlan, asked him if he was there for the middle school boys hockey team tryouts. Dunk didn’t like lying, even back then, but he was sent into such a panic at the sight of the old man he stuttered out a frantic “yes”
It took them 3 weeks of practice before Arlan or any of the other boys realized Dunk was still only in the 4th grade, but by that point he had made such an impression on both the ice and the coach, a special exception was made to allow him to compete with the older boys. It became Arlan’s personal mission to mentor the little Gretzky. He was a tough coach, but a fair one, and the closest thing Dunk ever had to a real father. He’d watch the boy grow from a local prodigy to a state champion to a national star all the way to the first pick of the 2024 NHL draft. It was a shame Arlan wasn’t going to be there to see his star pupil represent Team USA at the Olympics. But life is cruel in that way. 3 months into Dunk’s rookie season a heart attack claimed the life of his mentor. It was Christmas morning when Dunk got the news, it was the first time he let himself cry in at least ten years.
“I know a lot of you never got the chance to know him very well,” Dunk said at the funeral, to a room full of men and women who only came to know Arlan through his association with Dunk, the pews having been mostly taken up by Dunk’s fellow teammates on the New York Rangers, coaches and staff. “But Coach Arlan was a good man. He was stubborn, and he drank too much. But he looked after the things he loved. He loved hockey, he loved the winter… and he never said it, but I think he loved me. I hope I can honor his memory, and do good by my team. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
A lot had changed in the year since Arlan had passed. Dunk had gone from promising rookie to a nationally beloved celebrity. And though they had narrowly missed the Stanley Cup in a nail-biting conference final against Boston, Dunk’s prowess on the ice had earned him a spot on Team USA to compete in the Olympics. Well, his prowess on the ice and his well beloved persona off it. Dunk never fancied himself a particularly charismatic man. Growing up he was teased often for being slow on the draw. He wasn’t the wittiest or the sharpest, but he had a kindness about him that seemed to resonate well with America from his first press conference. He was being hailed as a true small town success story, a boy who came from nothing, who pulled himself up through sheer hard work and grit; and through all of it, still remained humble. Each week it seemed a new clip of him doing a good deed was going viral. Signing caps for his young fans, picking up litter on the street, defending a female reporter being spoken over in press conferences. It had gotten to such a point that, despite being one of the youngest members of Team USA, he was being pushed as the face of the team in advertising and brand deals. He didn’t mind. Part of him even liked the attention. Besides, when you spend most of your waking moments on a rink for the first 20 years of your life, a few photoshoots and cheesy interview games are a refreshing break.
Plus Dunk had been told that Team USA needed all the good press they could get. He had heard whispers about scandals among other sports, that ski jumper with the drug problem, and some kid on figure skating that was in hot water over an accident. Dunk didn’t pay much attention to it. What time he did spend away from the rink, he was rarely on his phone, and when he was his Instagram feed was all videos of horses, camping, and soup recipes anyway. However, the past few days at training camp had forced him to become all too acquainted with the scandals within his own sport. The boys back on the Rangers with their controversial tweets and late night after-parties were already bad enough… but Team USA… they took things to a new level. Their captain Lyonel Baratheon, 3 time Stanley cup winner, was famous for three things: girls, coke and yachts. Well four if you counted hockey, but in truth that seemed to play second fiddle to his one true love for partying. The rest of the guys were just as bad too. Even Raymun, the sweetest kid Dunk ever met, was making headlines for getting some Instagram model pregnant after only a few days of dating. Dunk, with his family values and flawless reputation, was their first, last, and only hope to clean up their image enough to secure some family friendly sponsorships ahead of the big games.
Dunk loved his teammates, both the ones back in New York and the new guys on Team USA, but they were loud, and boisterous, and sometimes it was nice to just get some time on the ice alone. He made a habit of always arriving to the rink before everyone. At the Olympic training camp, he felt it even more imperative he show up early enough to have some time to warm up and ensure he was his best self once team practice started. Plus he liked to be there to thank the cleaning crew for all they did, the janitor and the zamboni driver. He wanted them to feel appreciated.
It was just past 4am when he arrived that Tuesday. He shuffled in, large frame clad in an old and somewhat frayed grey hoodie, snow gathering on his broad shoulders. He dropped his gear bag in the locker room and was about to change when he heard the echoes of music coming from deep within the building. It was classical, intense and harsh. Ditching the gear, Dunk wandered out towards the sounds to investigate.
The music was coming from the speaker system over the rink. As Dunk approached he saw a figure on the ice, a man skating gracefully, clad in a black compression shirt and equally form fitted pants. He moved with a fluidity unlike any Dunk had ever seen, gracefully executing turns and spins Dunk knew would knock him on his ass to even attempt. Dunk watched, mesmerized as he glided across the ice, slowly gaining speed and momentum before launching himself into a daring leap and spin. An axel, Dunk thought. At least, that’s what he thought it was called. Whatever it was, it was beautiful.
It wasn’t Dunk’s first time seeing someone figure skate. Growing up he shared the ice with plenty of skaters, his first date was actually with a girl he met waiting for the bus home after practice one day. She was an amateur figure skater he had seen practice on the rink during weekend open skates. He got so nervous trying to ask her out he panicked and suggested they get ice cream… ice cream in New York in February.
Between her and the many other skaters he shared ice with he was pretty familiar with at least the basics of figure skating and what it was supposed to look like. But this, what he was watching this man do, was unlike anything Dunk had ever seen. The movements were precise, sharp and exact. Dunk was far from understanding the technicalities of the sport, what a judge would be looking for, but what he saw amazed him. It was harsh, almost brutal the way the man snapped his body into position, slamming back down on the ice with each jump, the crack of the blade against the ice echoing over even the music. And yet, it was magnificent. Graceful. Romantic, even.
On top of it, the man himself was of a striking appearance. His hair was so blond it looked white, almost silver. Cropped with just enough length to form small spikes behind his head when the wind pushed it back, like scales on a dragon’s neck. He had a prominent low brow that shaded deep set sharp feline eyes. His jaw and nose were masculine, strong, and his lips a bright red, not particularly thick but full and pushed out in a permanent pout from large teeth, that he would occasionally bare in a huff of concentration as he wound up for a large jump.
There was something haunting about his appearance, his skin and hair so pale against the stark black of his clothes. He moved more like an animal than a man, his neck curving and coiling with each turn like a predator stalking its prey. He was incredible, Dunk thought.
Dunk felt something twist in his stomach, a pull, almost like attraction, like that spark you feel when you meet a beautiful woman, but this couldn’t be that. This was something more refined, Dunk told himself. It was more akin to that feeling you get when you watch a really incredible movie or hear the crescendo of a beautiful song for the first time. It was an appreciation, he told himself, for what he was seeing. He was an enjoyer of great art.
The man launched into one final spin, lifting his leg behind him so high it was almost perfectly parallel to his back. He whipped around at a speed Dunk had never before seen, finally coming to a dramatic stop, posing with one arm to the sky, his stance spread and powerful.
Dunk didn’t even think before he started applauding.
“Bravo!” Dunk yelled, beaming a cheeky and wide toothed grin.
The man’s sharp gaze snapped in Dunk’s direction. “Finally,” he spat and skated swiftly towards Dunk, who suddenly froze his fervent cheering. His cheeks involuntarily flushed at the sudden attention, “you’re late. Isn’t your crew supposed to get here at 4?”
“My what?” Dunk stuttered as the man exited the ice and approached him.
“The rink is in shit shape. It’s practically sludge. It needs surfacing now,” he stared up at Dunk with a ferocity. He was a good foot shorter than Dunk, even on the skates, but he held himself with such boldness, eyeing Dunk from head to toe with his hip jutted to the side like a petulant prince.
“Oh no. Pardon, I’m not a janitor. I’m a.. Well.. I’m here because. I’m a-” Dunk stuttered.
“A?” the skater eyed him impatiently, “use your words. Or do you not know how to speak?” he sneered.
“I’m an athlete,” Dunk finally managed, feeling his embarrassed blush deepen.
“Oh,” said the man, assessing him further, “not a skater surely?”
“No… Well, yes,” Dunk said eagerly, “Hockey.”
“Ah,” A wicked smirk formed on the small man’s red lips, “Well, I suppose it is a sport for big dumb brutes.”
It took Dunk a second to process the jab and by the time he had, the smaller man had already turned away dramatically. He capped his skates and marched off down the hall, leaving Dunk dumbfounded and alone.
Across the rink Dunk spotted one of the janitors he had met at an earlier practice, bent over an audience seat, attempting to remove the gum stuck to its bottom. Dunk made his way over. The janitor, an older man with salt and pepper hair and weathered pale skin, smiled up at Dunk.
“Do you know who that was?” Dunk asked him.
“The white haired prick?” The janitor said.
Dunk hesitated a moment at the harsh description and then nodded.
“That’d be Aerion Targaryen, national champion figure skater. He give you a hard time?”
“He called me dumb,” Dunk said, trying to laugh so it wouldn’t seem like he was wounded by the dig.
“Ah, don’t mind him boy. The pretty ones are always temperamental,” He joked, returning to his work at the gum.
Dunk laughed and turned away quickly so the man wouldn’t see him blush.