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George stared at the box in his hands, bubbling with joy as he opened it. His mom was standing in front of him, a huge grin on her face. He practically squealed with joy when he saw what was inside. A brand new pair of ice skates. He jumped up to hug his mom, happy tears in his eyes.
Once all of the gift giving was done and the party was over, he pushed his mom out the door, forcing her to buy out the rink so he could try his new skates. The minute he stepped onto the ice, he felt a wave of excitement and relief rush through him. Then he fell, got up, and laughed. It wasn’t right away that he fell, he got a good skate in, but his pick got caught and he fell face first on the ice. He got up, brushing off his clothes, and started laughing–despite how much it hurt–about it. He started skating around the rink, going faster and faster, until he crashed into his mom, who was standing by the door. He got back onto the ice, spinning around. He tucked his arms into himself, crossing them over his chest, so he wouldn’t lose his balance or get dizzy.
By the end of the summer, he had been to the ice rink more than anyone else. He knew all of the workers there, and had so much fun learning from them. They would greet him the minute he stepped in the building and say their byes the minute he left.
Once school started, everything changed. He told his friends he was into ice skating and within a week, most of the school knew. He thought people would be supportive, just like his friends were, but they weren’t. Instead they would push him around, beat him up, and tell him vile things. They always told him that he couldn’t be a skater, that he wasn’t fit for it. He never remembered afterwards, zoning out so he could hurt less. Later, he learned it was dissociation, a common response to trauma. He would drag himself to the nurse after every beating, giving excuses such as “I tripped on the field” or “I fell out of a tree” and the nurse would give him an ice pack, a pink slip to take to his mom to sign, which he never did, and send him back to class.
He would get home from school, letting himself in the house, and see a note on the counter.
Sorry honey, got called into work late.
There’s food in the fridge for dinner.
Love,
Mom.
She was rarely home. It’s not that she didn’t care, in fact she cared a lot, and George knew that, it’s just that working at the hospital was never predictable. She got called to the night shift almost every day of the week.
He would heat up his own food, and head to his room, grabbing the shoe box from under his bed. The box, overflowing with pink slips, is what housed his bullying slips. He never told his mom, there was never time, and she never found out. He fell into that routine of getting bullied, making up some excuse, getting a pink slip, and shoving it in the box when he got home.
~~
On one of his moms rare off days, she took him to a hockey game. To say he was excited would be an understatement. His mom had never taken him to a game before, and the last time they had hung out was months ago. George watched the game, trying to focus on what was going on. It was moving so fast, and it excited him. He had no idea why, but the whole thing intrigued him. He wanted to do that. He wanted to play on that rink.
Then, a fight broke out. George watched as the two players threw punches, back and forth until someone broke them apart.
His brain started going a mile a minute, until it decided on one thing.
I wanna fight back like that.
He made a promise to himself. He would never let anyone push him around. Not anymore.
That very night, he raided their bookshelves. His mom had tons of medical books from when she was studying so he spent the night reading through them. Learning how to fight. He learned the correct way to make a fist. Tuck your fingers into your palm. Don’t tuck your thumb. How to break someone’s nose. Hit in an upwards motion with the bottom of your palm. How to dislocate someone’s shoulder. Bend the arm behind the back, applying pressure downwards.
When he got to school the next day, a few familiar faces were standing there, ready to do what they usually do. He didn’t have anyone to defend him, everyone had left him pretty quickly. They started throwing punches, one of them getting dangerously close to breaking his nose. Another hit his lip and his teeth brushed the inside of his bottom lip. Blood started flowing into his mouth, the taste all too familiar to him. Then he got up. Before they registered what had happened he broke one of their noses and was getting and was getting close to breaking one’s arm. They ran off in fear and no one bothered him again. Those who did, got hurt. He learned that the only way to live was to only think of yourself.
Then he joined hockey. He started off rough. Picking fights with those who defied him, ending up in the penalty box every match. They said he was ruining his career, his image. That he would end up crashing down before he could rise.
Until he got picked up by SMP. They helped him. Helped him learn to be less aggressive. He had fewer fights. He started being less aggressive. He relearned what he was taught about life. But that box of pink slips still sits under his bed, a reminder of what he went through before he got where he was now. And that promise to himself still stands. He still doesn’t let anyone push him around. But now, he has people to defend him. He couldn’t ask for more.
~~~
“Remember, we don’t hit back.” Phil said to the team. The previous night they had decided to watch one of Hypixal’s matches, to see what they were up against. They made sure to note how they played dirty and scrappy. Which is why they were there right then, getting lectured by Phil for the 3rd time since they arrived at the rink.
When they stepped onto the ice, they quickly realized that they were underestimating how dirty Hypixal played. George got shoved many times, but refused to hit back. Because no matter how much it hurts, that’s not how they play. Until they got to a break. George could see how disheveled Schlatt was, and knew that it was only a matter of time until he completely forgot everything Phil had said to them.
And he was right, because not even 2 minutes after they got back on, Schlatt rammed into one of Hypixal’s players. George noticed how the kid shrunk back, and could see–even if it was just for a split second–the pain on his face. Then the kid got up and shoved Schlatt, who’s anger just built. The world seemed to go in slow motion as George watched Schlatt pull back, ready to hit the boy. He only got one hit in before Techno pulled him back.
When George didn’t see anyone go to help him up, he went over, Quackity having the same idea, and helped pick up the kid, who just went off to his penalty box, completely unfazed by what happened. The fact that it was the opposing team who helped the kid up really hit George. Why isn’t this kid’s team helping him? The game finished with nothing more eventful happening. Afterwards, however, SMP all got together in the locker room, arguing about what Schlatt had done on the ice. It ended with Phil telling Schlatt and Techno to go apologize to the kid.
That kid isn’t okay. Someone needs to help.
George stepped out, excusing himself for a drink of water. He leaned on the fountain, memories flashing through his head. The way the kid just took the punches, let the pain just come, sickened George. The kid didn’t seem to know how to fight back. He seemed to only know how to get beat. He stepped back with the group, noticing Techno and Schlatt were on their way back. The duo didn’t say anything when they came back. Techno sat down, very tense, and Schlatt leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly on his chest. He had a frown on his face, and if you weren’t part of the team, you would’ve thought he was going to fight someone. And even then, George seemed to be the only one who noticed the touch of sorrow in Schlatt’s eyes. He realized that what he thought was right. This kid wasn’t okay. He pulled Schlatt to the side, away from the others.
“What happened in there?” George asked.
“Nothing.” Schlatt huffed.
“Schlatt.”
“George.”
Sighing, George walked away, knowing he wasn’t gonna get anything out of Schlatt. He may be frightening, but he would never pressure anyone into talking. He sat back down in the room, starting to try talking about it. Until Sapnap interrupted with, “So who wants to get pizza? Y’know, for our win.” The others mumbled in agreement and George silently thanked him for the interruption. He was too tired to unpack that conversation.
~~~
“We’ll be right back, just saying hi to someone.” Techno said, dragging Schlatt behind him. George noticed them walking towards a kid with brown fluffy hair and recognized him immediately as the kid from that match. He got up, following behind the two boys. He made sure to make his presence obvious, and the two, very hesitantly, took him to meet the kid.
“Wil, this is George, one of our teammates, George, this is Wilbur, a kid we met at one of our matches.” The kid, Wilbur, waved politely, George returning the action. He sat down next to the kid, looking ahead at the rink. “Hi.” The small voice next to him said. “Uhm…I’m Wilbur, a-as Techno said.” George let out a small laugh.
“I’m George, as Techno said.”
“Well nice to meet you.”
“You as well.”
They sat there like that for a few minutes, one of them making a small comment or a question. It wasn’t boring though. It was nice. Having company as he stared off at the ice, lost in thought. The other kid seemed lost in thought as well. He seemed to notice something in the distance, and got up suddenly, startling George.
“I gotta go, sorry, see you later!” Wilbur said, running off towards a group of people, probably his team.
“Well that was boring to watch.”
“Oh shut up Schlatt, it’s not my fault you can't simply enjoy company.”
“You guys just sat there!”
“And? You got a problem with that?”
“Nope, none at all.”
“Good. Now let’s go back to the others.”
George glanced back at where Wilbur was sitting next to him. He could tell this kid wasn’t okay. He knew this would be a battle he can’t fight with his fists, no matter how hard he tried.
~~~
The next time he saw the kid, it was after a game. He was there, watching them. He seemed to have just gotten out of practice, evident by the bruise forming on his forearm. He limped over to them, ready to congratulate them on their win, but George stopped him, making him sit down. Wilbur flinched when George grabbed his ankle, tensing up as he normally does. However, when he saw George was just checking it out, he relaxed a bit. George got up, running off only to come back a minute later with wrap for Wilbur’s ankle. The man carefully and precisely wrapped his ankle, making sure it was tight enough to help, but not too tight to hurt. Afterwards, Wilbur stared at him in stunned silence. Then, George stood up, helping the kid to his feet, and walked back to SMP, staying next to Wilbur the entire time, making sure he didn’t fall.
~~~
George sat on the bleachers, eyes focused on the game in front of him, carefully watching Wilbur and his team. So far, nothing eventful was happening, which was good for Wilbur, but not good for them trying to convince Phil something was wrong with this kid and his team. The others are talking, in a conversation he’s only half following. Until Schlatt speaks up, “No one gives you a second glance when you hit the deck 'cause you're supposed to be picking yourself back up." That point is when George decided to add his input. "Some of the things Wilbur's said to me about his team are weird too. I mean, he isn't five, but – they don't include him. They don't listen to him."
"Yeah! He gets really shocked whenever we hear him out about stuff," Quackity cuts in. "But he's so interesting? He knows a lot about a lot. Like – do you know how our actual Hockey skates are made?" Phil shakes his head. "He does . It's so cool!"
"Cool until I'm wrapping his ankle because he's too scared to go to the trainer on his own," George says, eyes hard.
~~~
The one thing that George noticed was during halftime, when Wilbur’s coach whispered something in his ear, pointing towards the biggest guy on the team. The game started and within a few minutes, Wilbur started fighting the guy his coach pointed to. It was just back and forth punching, which George silently hoped it stayed as. Right as he thought that, however, the big guy remembered his size and slammed Wilbur against the side wall, making George physically flinch.
After the game, the team all ran to the locker room, where they assumed Wilbur was, and they were right. George watched as Phil paled, seeing the state the boy was in. Georges fists curled tightly, forming into a fist.
Phil says he needs to get to the trainer, but everyone stops. Because they can’t. They explain that and Phil just gets angrier. So he goes over to make the trainer help.
"No concussion. It seems though, that he's slightly…out of it. Not the result of any injury, but– "
“He’s disassociating.” George says, stepping forward.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.” George kneels down, grabbing Wilbur’s hand. “Wil? Are you with me? Every time I squeeze your hands, I’m gonna count – can you count with me?” George says, and starts counting. After a moment, Wilbur joins in, his voice growing with every squeeze. “Thank you.” the kid whispers, making a smile form on his for a brief moment.
~~~
George knows that Techno is distracted, everyone is, but it’s the worst for Techno, and everyone notices. No one speaks up though, not until George pulls him aside during a water break.
He has a brief conversation with the man, talking about how worried they are for Wilbur, especially Techno. He reaches a hand out to squeeze Techno’s shoulder. “You worry. Be distracted. I’ll stay here until you come back to us, alright?”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.” George says. “Just tell me when you need me.”
"What if I don't say?"
George tilts his head slightly. He studies Techno. "Then I'll know. That's my job."