Work Text:
Fabian had hated hockey for as long as he could remember. He despised the alpha male mentality of its players. He abhorred how it was allergic to inclusivity. He spent his life avoiding the arenas, the locker rooms, the very ice itself.
Then he met Ryan Price, and through him learned about the hockey camps Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov founded. Their hockey camps rejected the alpha male mentality. They thrived on inclusivity. Equally as important: they were where his boyfriend volunteered for two weeks every summer.
By the second summer they were together, Fabian was intrigued. By the third, he’d become good friends with Harris Drover, chaos enthusiast.
“Trust me,” Harris whispered as he tugged Fabian through the hallways of the arena towards the locker room. “This is a fantastic idea. Literally one of the best makeover ideas you’ve ever had.”
“This idea would have sent teenage me into a tailspin.”
Harris turned on his heel, facing Fabian with a grin, and waved his hands into the air between them, making the shape of a rainbow while saying, “That, my friend, is what we call owning our narrative.”
Fabian raised an eyebrow. “Ooor, that is what we call you being an absolute menace and encouraging my ridiculous impulses.”
“Maybe.” Harris grinned, wide and excited, before pushing open the locker room door. “But it’s going to be amazing.”
Thirty minutes later, Fabian shuffled back down the hallway, hand gripping Harris’ hand. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
Harris’ jaw dropped. “This was your idea!”
Fixing the helmet more securely on his head, Fabian was seriously doubting his past self. The pads shifted on his slim form. The too-large jersey engulfed him despite all the gear underneath. It fell to the edges of his lower thighs, brushing against the tight leggings that cushioned the shin guards. Harris had managed to find sizes that fit him and Fabian didn’t even ask how. The man worked miracles.
It was Fabian who had found the Ryan Price jersey.
The ice had cleared, the camp ending for the day. Only Ryan and Troy remained on the ice, gathering the last of the equipment. It was quiet enough that they both looked towards him when Harris pushed open the boards to let Fabian onto the ice.
Troy grabbed the last cones out of Ryan’s hands and skated towards them, sending him a quick, “Looking good, Salah,” before exiting the rink with Harris, who shot him a very obvious thumbs up before snuggling into Troy’s padded side.
Ryan stood in center ice, completely still. His hand curled around a now-missing cone and his jaw had dropped slightly, even as his cheeks pinkened above his beard.
That look on Ryan’s face, how his gaze didn’t seem to know where to land and his lip caught between his teeth like he didn’t know what to do with the sight in front of him but he surely wanted to do something - this was why Fabian had thought up this delicious scheme.
Fabian knew how to skate. He grew up in a hockey family, after all. So he pushed onto the ice, glided over to Ryan with a grace that only seemed to darken the desire in his eyes.
He came to a stop in front of him, tilted his head so he could look at him from under the visor of the helmet and winked. “Bet I can get that puck over there in the net before you.”
Ryan snapped his mouth closed, his throat working as he swallowed. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to touch Fabian but didn’t know where to begin. “Fabian,” he whispered. “Is that my jersey?”
“You bet.” Fabian spun on his skates so Price could read the large print of his last name spanning his shoulder blades. “Now come and get me.”
He took off toward the puck. One beat passed, then another, and Ryan finally seemed to shake that stunned look right off of him and push off after him.
The chase was on.