Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd was deafening. If it weren’t for him putting a hand to his chest, Robby wouldn’t know his heart still beat. But there it pounded, strong and steady despite the weight pressing down on him.
He rolled his neck. A chill slipped in through his gear, a minor but welcomed break to the heat trapped under his padding. Better than the heat coming in at him on all sides. He didn’t need to look to know Adamson’s eyes were on him; they burned the strongest, breaking through the haze of anxious spectators.
Black, white, and gold filled the stands, smearing against one another throughout the night of rigorous play. It was easier to block them all out when everything was moving. But now, as he waited for his turn, his last turn to take a shot on goal, the colors burned into his vision, strobing even when he closed his eyes to catch a break.
“You got this, Robby.”
“Give ‘em hell, Robby.”
“I got a beer waitin’ for me either way, Robinavitch. Just let me know if I need to give my liver a head’s up.”
Despite it all, Robby cracked a smile. Leave it to Jack to go a different route in his idea of support. Then again, Jack’s support was always specifically tailored to him. Going head-to-head for so long, their own special language couldn’t be curbed when they were placed on the same team. Robby wouldn’t want it any other way.
Tilting his head back, he breathed out long and slow, tightening his grip on his stick. American, Canadian, and Pittsburgh flags steamed overhead. Dotting around them in the arena were various banners screaming accomplishments and recognizing past players, immortalized with their season years on the bottom. Who would be added next?
He lowered his chin. A behemoth of a guard, the opposing team’s goalie stared him down. Robby could go for a shot in the five hole, drag him out, embarrass him on his own turf. But the high-low on his glove side could be a safer shot; he seemed to be weaker on that side if their early lead in the first period was anything to go by.
His sheer size made up for that weakness, as Adamson drilled into him the past couple weeks. Robby was sure Adamson got some sadistic joy in getting on the ice himself and knocking Robby around any time he tried to take a shot off him. To prove his point, of course. Adamson liked being a hands-on coach. It’s what got them this far. Now all that was left was for Robby to carry them home.
Bracing himself, Robby placed his stick on the ice.
Now or never.
The swell got louder. Jeers mixed in with the waves of hometown support crashing down on the ice. Palms pounded the plexiglass cage surrounding him. Horns bleated somewhere high up in the stands. Towels swung over heads in large arcs. Static crackled in the air, lit up his nerves, raised the hair on his arms.
Skrrtch. His blades carved into the ice. For a moment, it was just him and the puck, gliding over the smooth surface. His heart soared, much like it did when he was young, flying over the freshly frozen pond.
Little Robby had big dreams back then. If only he knew about the price to cash them in.
His stick tapped against the puck while he juggled, looking for the best place to take a shot. He still had time, but not much. Speed and strength were on his side; after all, those were the attributes that earned him the C emblazoned on his jersey.
“Ro-bby! Ro-bby! Ro-bby!”
The chants fell in line with the pounding thuds of his heart. He cradled the puck, shifting it from side to side. The familiar heaviness eased his shot nerves, if only just a little. He just needed to cling to that familiarity. He loved hockey. That’s all he had to remind himself, no matter what, he loved hockey. As long as he still loved it, he’d be alright.
“Robinavitch goes in for the shot. He crosses over, oh, wait! That was a fake! He’s drawing the goalie out...”
A muscle pulsed in his hand. The opposing goalie tracked his moves. A little shift to the right. A little shift to the left. Knees bending. Knees straightening. Arm reaching forward.
Robby held his breath. Gritted his teeth.
“He shoots...!”
Vibrations ran up the shaft of his stick, embedding into Robby’s hand.
The goalie dove. The puck soared.
The net pulled.
“AND HE DOES IT! MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH CLINCHES THE WIN FOR PITTSBURGH FOR THE NORTHEAST...”
Robby’s hand went back to his chest, gripping his jersey right at the heart. Sound faded out all at once, as if sucked into a vacuum. His chest heaved. His fingers twitched within his gloves. Robby licked his cracked dry lips. A moment later his helmet was yanked off his head and hands were everywhere. Rubbing his hair. Grabbing at his jersey. Slapping at any part of him they could reach.
Pulled into a traveling black hole, Robby became crushed within the celebratory grip of his teammates. Their faces, twisted into hoots and hollers of glee, became grotesque mimes of jubilation. His chest burned. His breaths came ragged. He lost feeling in his fingertips. Did he ever have it? Numbness became part and parcel with the game. It’s what made them stronger, play longer, push through the pain. But what if the pain came back to collect?
“Had to make us sweat there, eh Robinavitch?” Jack’s hand on his face. It dropped to his collar and gave him a shake. Robby supposed it was supposed to be playful, but his body wasn’t taking that information in. It wouldn’t even let him take in a full breath. “Whoa. Robby—you okay?”
Robby managed a nod. He was fine. He had to be fine. They just won. They were division champs. Of course he was okay. He was happy. This is what happy looked like.
He broke through his teammates, stumbled over the toys and hats and scarves littering the ice. Confetti twisted and tumbled through the air, stuck to his sweat slicked forehead. It disintegrated between his shaking fingers.
Adamson loomed in the middle of it all, a lone steady island in a hurricane of revelry surrounding him. His arms crossed tight over his chest, he stood tall despite the assistant coaches and training staff’s attempts at acknowledgement with handshakes and taps to his shoulders. His eyes trained on one thing: Robby.
Robby gulped, the swallowing effort much more difficult as he tried to get his breath back at the same time. Adamson’s eyes crinkled in the corners, just slightly, and he inclined his head. That familiar unreadable look settled in his eyes and all Robby wanted to do was skate over to him, grab his shoulders, and demand answer. What was that look? Why did he keep looking at him like that? What did he want?
The opposing team’s coach patted Adamson’s shoulder and held out his hand. That broke their staring contest; released Robby from his grip.
He skated away from it all, away from the noise, from his celebrating team. He dug in, put his head down, charged to the other end of the rink until he reached the open entrance. Dana, the new EMS on the team, called out to him, put a hand to his arm. He shrugged her off, moving past her in a hurried penguin waddle. He’d laugh at the name connection if he weren’t worried it’d make him choke.
“Fu—”
The curse barely left his mouth before he was surrounded by a wall of press. His thick gloves blocked most of the flashing lights; the remaining strobes blinded his vision in quick pops. Fuzzy microphones shoved in front of his mouth and he spat on one. At least, he thought it was the microphone. He hoped it was. The last thing he needed was another misconstrued headline. Not today.
“Robby, over here!”
“Robby—Robby, smile!”
“C’mon, you just won! You gave give us a smile.”
“Over here, Robinavitch.”
“Robby! Got a quote for us?”
“Robby!”
It burst out of him all at once, the low, guttural growl. It did what he wanted, to silence the storm around him, but came with the shame of being so raw. Heat crawled up his neck and he muttered an apology, pushing through the press.
He followed the hallway back to the locker room, hurrying past staff milling about, spectators waving at him from above, pacing well-dressed businessmen who spoke hurriedly into phones pressed to their ears.
The door sealed behind him and he whipped his helmet. It careened off a locker, the metallic clangs echoing around him as his gloves followed suit. His fingers scrambled to untie, loosen, and remove everything weighing him down, gasping and panting all the while. He needed it off, everything. He needed to breathe. If only he could catch a breath…
The tight grip around his neck loosened bit by bit as he shed himself of his gear. And when he was finally free, stripped down to his padded pants, laid bare beneath the dim fluorescent, he dropped to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and wept.