Chapter Text
“You did what.”
Okay, so Dex is mad. Jack should have expected that, probably. It wasn’t that it was an impulsive decision, because Jack doesn’t make impulsive decisions. Or, he doesn’t anymore. It was well thought out, he weighed the pros and cons, he pondered, he --
“What made you say yes,” Dex says. He crosses his arms.
“Uh. I don’t know.” Jack says. “I thought it would be fun.”
Dex sighs and sits with a thump at his desk, his elbows scattering the loose pages on it.
“You should get a paperweight,” Jack says lightly.
The early morning sun filters in through the office’s windows, illuminating the cracks in the old walls that enclose the space. The sound system is playing Abba in the background, and when Jack looks out at the rink below, he sees the Sunday crew of figure skaters doing their drills. Dex exhales again and rubs the heels of his palm in his eyes. “Jack, you have never done anything for fun in your life,” he says. “Why the fuck are you starting now.”
“Um.”
“Right, of course. Um. Have you thought this through like, logistically? I mean, have you seen this place? It’s falling apart.”
Jack shifts from foot to foot. He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t feel this intimidated by Dex, or by anyone at all. Right. “I thought we could maybe ask Faber to help out?”
“That weekend they’re hosting Frozen On Ice. And anyway, who the fuck would pay for that?”
“But all ice is frozen,” Jack says, mostly to himself. Dex continues.
“I’m only one guy here, Jack. Why couldn’t Portland take it again this year?”
“Um, they’re--”
“Who’s going to fund this? The zamboni needs gas, you know. I know you’re Mister Money Bags over here but this rink isn’t exactly flooded with money.”
Jack grins weakly. “Ha, flooded. Good one.”
“And how many teams are we talking? Do you have a committee in place to organize this? Are you going to tell the figure skaters they can’t use the ice that weekend? Those moms are scary, man. What about our hospitality suite? I don’t think the liquor license has been renewed in five years. Is there enough parking? I think there’s a leak in the ceiling by the canteen. And our score board’s number sixes look like fives. Did you think of all this, Jack? Huh?”
Dex finally stops talking, his hands stopping their wild gesturing, and Jack doesn’t know what to say.
“I’ll help,” he settles on. “And Shitty--”
“Is this your mid-life crisis? Is that what this is?” Dex says. “Because I’m too young to have a second-hand crisis.”
“You’re thirty-eight. And it’s not a crisis, it’s a hockey tournament. Anyway, I think I’ve already had enough crises in my life. I’ve reached my quota.”
Dex pulls out a calendar from underneath a stack of what are probably bills. “I don’t think crises care whether or not you’ve had them before. I think that’s like, the definition of a crisis.”
“Crisis, crisis, crisis,” Jack says. “Anyway, I’ll help, I will. Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay. Fuck, okay. Fine. First, we need a team.”
Shit, right. That’s like, an important part of the plan Jack hadn’t considered.
“Will you play?” Jack asks. Dex rolls his eyes.
“Guess I have to.”
Take A Chance On Me begins to play and Dex taps his fingers to the beat. The calendar, with a pin-up girl in a witch’s hat and not much else sitting on a motorcycle smiling up at Jack, has an X marked off on each day up until October 10th. The New England Gentlemen’s Hockey Tournament is scheduled, whether Dex likes it or not, for March 20th at the Samwell Regional Arena.
“Yes,” Jack says. “Alright. A team. I’m going to find us a team.”
_X_
There’s something to be said about sleeping in on a Sunday when you’ve got kids, Adam thinks, and it’s this: it’s fucking impossible. The twins have been up since seven -- or actually, Gaby has, and she woke Jacob about five minutes after deciding she couldn’t keep still, if he knows her well. His alarm clock says it’s just about eight, and after waiting around doing God knows what, Gaby seems to have decided Adam needs to be up now.
She runs into his room with all her nine-year-old enthusiasm, already fully dressed in an outfit that would appall her mother and scandalize her Uncle R: her favourite Bruins jersey, a purple polka-dotted skirt and yellow knee-high socks to complete it. Jacob trails behind in respectable blue pyjamas.
“Daddy, get up,” she says imperiously, jumping onto the bed. He pretends to snore loudly, which makes Jacob giggle. “Come on. Move your carcass.”
He can’t help the laugh that bursts through his mouth as he sits up and kisses her curls. “Please don’t ever tell Mommy that, Gabrielle,” he says. “Or anyone else but me, actually.”
“Course not. Now get a move on. We made breakfast for you.”
“Eggos in the toaster?” he asks. Jake nods solemnly. “Thank you. Don’t forget it’s your turn to choose what we do today, Jake.”
Gaby hops off the bed and readjusts her jersey. “He wants to go to the library.”
“Let him speak for himself.”
She frowns, but Jake just shrugs. “I do,” he says. “Can I -- can you call Fatou, please?”
Once Adam’s up, dressed, shaved, and has tripped over a miniature hockey net, some balls and a neon pink stick surrounded by boards made of stacks of books and building blocks which must have been set up in the hallway sometime between Gaby’s waking and now, he makes his way to the kitchen for breakfast.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” he says, sitting down at the table where one of them have set up a plate for him with the waffles and some syrup and a glass of orange juice on the side. “Jacob Birkholtz, you make a darn good Eggo.”
Gaby and Jake smile the same smile from where they sit across from him. Once he’s done, he holds out his hand, and Gaby presses his phone in his hand, because he knows she’s been waiting to do just that, and punches in his number one on speed-dial.
The phone rings twice before Ransom picks up.
“Hello Uncle R,” Adam says, “you’re on speaker.”
“Hey Uncle H, I’m glad I caught you.” Ransom sounds stressed.
“I called you. Is everything alright?”
Gaby, from where’s she standing next to him, rolls her eyes. “Uncle R,” she says. “Please don’t.”
“Yeah, yeah. I had to go into the hospital though,” Ransom says. “Everything’s fine, just had an appointment for some stomach ulcers this morning.”
“Daddy,” Jacob says, a warning evident in his tone.
“Hope you’re okay, man.” Adam grins. “Oh, did I tell you I’m going to be on the news tomorrow?”
“That’s so cool! What time?”
Gaby grabs the phone and pulls it closer to her. “That’s enough,” she says. “We get it. You’re a doctor, Daddy’s a news anchor. It’s not going to get any funnier the more you make that joke.”
Ransom gasps on the other end. “You wound me.”
“Good thing you’re at a hospital then,” she says. Not for the first time, Adam wonders where she came from. Then he remembers. Right, him. And Kelly too, come to think of it, has an altogether too firm grasp of the dramatic. “Can Fatou come to the library with us?
“I’m sure she’d love to. She’s at home with Auntie M,” Ransom says. “Stop by on your way. Hey, Holster, I actually just got a call from Jack.”
“Jack? Haven’t heard from him in nearly a year. Not since our last scrimmage, anyway.”
The twins run off, presumably so Jacob can get dressed and Gaby can shoot some more foam pucks into her net, and Adam takes the phone off speaker and brings it up to his ear.
“Yeah, that’s what it was about. He wants to get a team together again. Apparently agreed to host a tournament in March.”
“Ha, March. You gonna play?” Adam asks. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer.
“Only if you wanna.”
“Definitely. Gonna be so awesome.”
“Sw’awesome,” Ransom repeats. Adam laughs. It sounds good.
_X_
Shitty Knight is having a good morning.
He rose with the sun, fully naked, next to Lardo, also fully naked. After his customary breakfast of an extra-large mug of his fair-trade organic coffee and a bowl of fruit loops, best enjoyed while unclothed, he joined Lardo in their meditation room for their daily morning Tai Chi in the nude. Bare as the day he was born, he drank his second cup of coffee while reading the Globe and doing the crossword at the kitchen table, a pillow placed under his ass so he wouldn’t stick to the wood of the chair while Lardo went back to bed.
The only blight in his day so far happened a minute ago, when someone knocked on his door and he had to get up and pull on the bathrobe he keeps in the kitchen for such an occasion. Really, if he had known who it was, he wouldn’t have bothered.
“Jack!” he cries once he opens the door and sees his very favourite Canadian. Well, second favourite, after Jack’s father, probably. Actually, third. He’s been reading a lot of Margaret Atwood recently. Shit, and there’s David Suzuki. And he wouldn’t say no to Ryan Reynolds or Tatiana Maslany if they asked. Oh, Alex Trebek, he seems like a solid dude. And --
“Uh, Shitty?”
He shakes himself. “Jacky, my boy. What can I do for you on this fine morning? Not that I’m not happy just to chat with you, but it is nine am on a Sunday and I’ve got a standing appointment with with my domestic-partner-love-of-my-life for sex in half an hour and while Lardo and I have already agreed on this and you’re very welcome to join, don’t you have papers to correct? Oh, speaking of, what’s a nine-letter word for ‘narrating the lives of saints’?”
Jack blinks. “Hagiology. Look -- ”
“Oh, thanks dude. You know I try to avoid using the internet for those when I can. Gotta keep my brain muscles exercised, you know?”
“Right. Uh. Listen, man --”
“Shit, sorry, Jack. Do you want to come in? I’ve got a pot of coffee made. It’s like half an hour old but it’s still hot.”
“Shitty!” Jack’s eyes are wide as he puts his hands up. Shitty shuts his mouth with an audible snap. “Do you want to play hockey? There’s this tournament and I’ve--”
“Brah.” Shitty opens his arms wide and his bathrobe falls open. “Stop right there. I would be delighted.”
Shitty Knight is having a great fucking morning.
_X_
The classroom is almost too small for twenty-five nine-year-olds and an enthusiastic teacher, but it’s colourful and homey and welcoming, and Chris is proud of it. Really darn proud, actually, and he’s pretty sure it shows as he gives the new school nutritionist, Eric Bittle, the grand tour of the school. Caitlin’s got the gym, which makes her automatically popular with the kids, and her office too, made as comfortable as possible, but Chris has bookshelves and puppets and a hammock for reading in one corner and tiny little desks and toys and cubbies and… He just really loves his classroom.
“And this is where I sit!” he says, gesturing to the desk at the side of the room, piled high with papers and covered in crayons and mugs and tape and paperclips and sharpeners.
“I see that,” Eric says with a laugh. Chris likes him a lot too, so far. He smiles all the time and has a southern accent and seems genuinely interested in Chris’ teacher gossip and stories about kids and methods of teaching. Of course, Eric won’t be teaching, but Chris thinks maybe he could ask him to do a few workshops on measuring amounts and following directions… They could make play-dough, maybe. Or cookies. Oatmeal cookies, to be a bit healthier.
“Do kids eat raisins?” Chris asks. Eric laughs again. “Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about cookies.”
“If I made them, the kids would eat them,” he says. Chris smiles. He likes it when he doesn’t have to explain himself to people. Sometimes his brain goes too fast and people can’t keep up. It’s fine though, because he’s got Caitlin who understands him and the kids who think like that too. They tell him he’s a good teacher, and he’s happy about that, because he got a late start, only completing his Bachelor of Education four years ago, after a decade of working in IT and hearing Caitlin talk about her job like it was the best thing in the world. Teaching’s difficult and exhausting and often frustrating, but rewarding and fun, he decides.
He beams at Eric. What were they talking about? Right, cookies. Raisins.
“So where did you work before this?” he asks. Then, “Oh!”
He pulls out his phone from where it’s vibrating in his pocket. It’s a text from Adam Birkholtz, the father of two of his students. Chris usually makes it a policy not to give out his personal information to parents, but Adam had been going through a divorce just when Chris and Caitlin had moved to Samwell, and they’d gotten to talking. Nice guy, even if his daughter’s a bit of a handful. Caitlin and Chris got drinks a few times with Adam and his friend Justin and Justin’s wife March, watched a couple games together during the winter, and they chat every time they see each other around town.
Hey Mr C. You up for doing some sweet tending this year? We’re looking to get a team together, the text reads.
He types out a quick yes!!!! then looks up to see Eric looking at him uncertainly. Oh. That was probably pretty rude of him, to just break off his thought like that. He’s supposed to be welcoming Eric, here. The administration chose him specifically because he’s meant to be friendly, and he’s not doing a very good job.
“Do you like hockey, Eric?” he asks. That’s a good question, Chris thinks.
“Oh my God!” Eric says. He laughs, again. Chris really likes him. “Do I ever!”
_X_
The Haus is usually a quiet spot to get some work done on Sunday night. It’s the not the most common of places to go for filling out project proposals and grant applications, and it’s definitely seen better days, but it’s got good craft beer and actually decent espresso and cool art on the walls that the owner, Lardo, does herself. Derek’s bought a few pieces for himself and his mother, actually. Lardo’s got a good eye for colour. He likes it here; it’s pretty chill. A few of the more familiar faces dotting the booths and tables smile or nod at him as he takes his regular spot at the bar.
“Hey Derek,” Lardo calls from where she’s wiping down the back counter. “What can I get ya?”
He’s pretty sure she’s got a step installed the length of the bar for her to see across it properly, because she’s tiny. Definitely a foot shorter than he is, and at least a hundred pounds less.
“You still got that good imported stuff I had last week?” he asks. She gives him a thumbs up, pulls open the fridge and uncaps the bottle on her belt buckle in one smooth move.
“We got a group coming in tonight,” she says, “so you might wanna put some headphones in or something. My partner and some friends.”
“Are they gonna be loud?” he asks, taking a drink from his beer. Canadian stuff is so much stronger than American.
She laughs. “Oh yeah. They’re --”
“WELL, WELL, WELL. WHO DO WE HAVE HERE,” comes a loud and vaguely familiar voice behind him, and he startles enough that his beer goes up his nose, which is incredibly unpleasant.
“Please, your inside voice,” Lardo says, wincing apologetically at Derek. He turns, and grins when he sees who it is.
“Shitty Knight, is that you?” Derek asks, standing to shake Shitty’s hand. Shitty, of course, goes in for a hug instead.
“Derek fucking Nurse, what are you doing here?”
Shitty’s got short hair and a mustache now, but his eyes are as bright and his smile as wide and warm as it was back when he was Derek’s captain at Andover -- God -- nearly twenty-five years ago.
“This is weird,” Lardo says, squinting up at them.
“I live here, man,” Derek says.
“At the Haus? I mean, upstairs?” Shitty asks. There’s an apartment, Lardo’s said, but as far as Derek knows, one of the bartenders lives there. Weird dude, but good to bounce story ideas off of when Derek’s in a writing kick. Jackson, or Jamieson, or something.
“Nah, closer to the university. I mean, I moved here a few years ago so my mom wouldn’t be alone after my mom died. They retired here a decade or so ago.”
Shitty takes the bar stool next to Derek’s. “Shit, sorry about your mom, dude. Hope your mom’s doing alright, though. Can’t believe I’ve never seen you around town.”
Derek shrugs. “I don’t know, I pretty much keep to myself. Work a lot, write some, you know. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, man! Actually, this is perfect! I can’t believe this. Wait, wait. Have you met Lardo? My better half? Actually, more like my better five eighths and a bit. Lardo, Nursey. Nursey, Lardo. Great. Glad we’re all acquainted. This is the best night of my motherfucking life.”
“Jesus. You still talk too much, then. I come in here every other week,” Derek says, laughing. “I didn’t know you were her partner.”
Lardo’s still looking at them with an eyebrow raised and her arms crossed.
“We went to Andover together in the 90s,” Derek says. “Shits here was my captain his senior year, when I was just a freshman.”
The door opens and two men walk in -- one tall and Asian and the other shorter and dirty blond, both talking quickly and gesturing with their hands.
“Hey! We’re here for the meeting tonight,” says the taller one to Lardo. She points to Shitty with a wink.
“Welcome men, to the humble, hallowed halls of the Haus,” says Shitty, standing once more to shake their hands solemnly. “Glad and grateful to have you among us. The rest should be getting here any -- ah! Our dynamic defence duo, the daring and delicious Holster and Ransom!”
“Might want to cool it with the alliterations,” Lardo says, then turns to take the someone’s beer order.
Two others have just walked in -- one of them is, oddly enough, the man he sees every evening on the six o’clock news, though he is much taller than expected. Derek’s only ever seen him sitting down. Something Blinkhorn? Definitely not whatever it was Shitty just called him.
“Good evening, gentlemen and gentlewomen,” booms the face of SBS Channel Five, who really is incredibly large and shockingly blond. The other patrons in the bar turn to stare.
“You were right,” Derek says absently to Lardo. With one hand he traces the ring of water droplets his bottle makes when he lifts it to his mouth to take a drink. Lardo had just laughed when he’d first mentioned coasters all those months ago, gesturing to the old beat-up, water-stained bar in guise of answer.
“Headphones,” she says as she pours a red ale from the taps.
“What!” Shitty says. “No way. You still play, man? We could use you!”
Derek’s eyes snap to Shitty. “I haven’t in a few years, but I’ve still got my gear. Played in a pick-up league when I was living in --”
“Shitty, why the fuck are you drinking Keith’s,” says a new voice, deep and kind of raspy and wow, the dude is tall and well-built and ginger. Derek’s eyes go wide.
“It’s mine,” Derek says. “What’s wrong with it?” He takes a drink from the bottle and clutches it to his chest almost defensively but can’t bring himself to frown.
The redhead blinks. “Oh. Nothing, I guess. I just think it’s funny that hipsters think it’s like, good shit.”
“I think I’m too old to be one of those,” Derek says.
“I don’t even know you, man,” the guy says. He nods at Lardo and points to one of the taps.
Derek holds out his hand, and the guy shakes it cautiously. His is calloused and large, unlike Derek’s, which is thin and graceful like an artist’s hand, Lardo says. “Derek Nurse.”
“Billy Poindexter, but call me Dex. You here for the meeting?”
More guys are streaming in, settling in some tables in the back of the bar. There’s at least a dozen now, plus the two who had walked in earlier -- Holsom and Ranster? Whatever. He’ll get their names later. Or tomorrow night, when he watches the news.
He catches Shitty’s eye. “Guess so,” he says, shrugging. Shitty beams and claps him on the back so hard he jerks, nearly hitting his teeth on the bottle of beer.
“I think we’re just waiting on Jack, now,” Dex says, then sighs like he’s hauling air up from the depths of his soul. “He better not be late, I’ve got to be up early tomorrow. I’ve got some curlers coming in at eight and I need to be awake at least two hours before that to be able to deal with them.”
“Jack’s never late,” Shitty says.
“Are you a hairdresser?” Derek asks.
“What,” Dex says.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” says a man behind them. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Jack’s Canadian,” Shitty says. Derek turns to see a man, tall and wide and vaguely familiar, grey at the edge of his hair and lines creasing his forehead in a frown. He’s dressed like an old man in ill-fitting khakis and a brown sweater, and has a leather messenger bag swung over his shoulder, but he can’t be any more than a decade older than Derek. Pretty in shape, too. More so than most of the rest of them, that’s for sure. Whatever. Derek’s not so bad yet, he doesn’t think, even if he does have a bit more pudge around his middle than he did in college.
“Hey Shits, Dex,” the man, Jack, says. His voice is quiet for a man his size. “I guess we can get started.”
Derek stands and follows them to the group of tables someone’s pushed together in the back, and finds a seat behind the short blond at the back.
“Hi, I’m Eric Bittle,” the blond says, turning and beaming sunnily at Derek.
“Derek Nurse. Did you say Bitty?”
If possible, Eric smiles even wider. “Did you know Jack used to play for the Bruins?”
“The Bruins?”
Jack clears his throat at the front. “Um, hi. Thank you all for coming. This won’t take long, I know you have, uh, families to get home to. If you’re interested in playing -- wait. No. So there’s a tournament in March that I’m helping to organize--” the redhead Dex snorts “--and we need a team to host it. I was thinking we could practice maybe three times a week?”
“Jesus, Jack,” someone says from the front, “no way.”
“Oh. Twice?”
There’s some grumbling.
“Once? We have to practice at least once. Dex says -- oh that’s Dex, there, he manages the Samwell Arena -- Dex says we can have the ice Sunday nights at eight pm, Mondays at six or Thursdays at seven. In the morning. Six and seven in the morning. So, your pick.”
Shitty raises his hand. “I think I speak for everyone when I say Sunday night is good. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“For sure. I gotta work, man.”
“I don’t, but I’m lazy.”
Shitty stands. “Mind if I take it from here, Jacky?” Jack smiles gratefully and steps back. “Right! So I’ve got a sign-up sheet here, and after this I’ll pass it around and you can all put in your names, positions on the ice, phone numbers, and email addresses, and we’ll send you all the info for the tournament later. Sound good?”
“I’ll make a spreadsheet,” says the same man who had protested Jack’s three-practice idea earlier.
“Excellent. Thank you, Doc. Now.” Shitty rubs his hands together not unlike a fly when it lands on a piece of peanut butter toast. “Fine men. On this day, October 10th, in the year of our Lards 2016, I say unto you, welcome to Samwell Gentlemen’s Hockey.”