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He should really have started getting himself together by now.
Look, a little bit of sulking on the couch after an exit interview is kind of expected, even good for you. Shake off the clawing disappointment that always permeates after an unsuccessful season and hit the post-season training running. But as his corgi, Cheddar, spreads himself out over the soft grey cushions, Jared McCann can’t find it in himself to get up. He should! He knows well that lingering on anything at this current time is an exercise in insanity. And yet…
A deep sigh leaves him as he puts his head in his hands, slender fingers running through his long, unraveling hair. The light of the evening sunset casts a warm orange glow over the room. The TV, currently on Sportsnet, fills the otherwise pressing quiet with a low buzz of conversation about...college football? Jared doesn't really care enough to listen, just happy having something break up the silence. There's a buzz in his body too, a few empty cans of beer sitting on the table in front of him. Nothing heavy, he's not gonna be the guy who drinks himself dumb while alone and pissy, that's too bleak even for him. Although considering the tightness in his chest hasn't abated since he crashed on the couch a few hours ago, maybe he should reconsider his patheticness levels.
He groans at the reminder of how long he's sat here, in the same black Kraken hoodie and pants he did the god-forsaken interview in. "Get up." a voice hisses at him. "Jesus christ McCann, I thought you'd be used to losing by now." It's a familiar voice, an old friend at this point. It's mostly his own, but not always. Sometimes it's someone else, sometimes it's a mix of many. It's always a fucking asshole, though. "Fuck off, it's not about that." Jared shoots back, ignoring the way Cheddar perks up at hearing him speak.
"Oh really? You've just glued your lazy ass to the couch for fun?"
"Of course not!" He doesn't say it out loud this time, just in his head.
"What is it, then?" It jeers at him, almost triumphantly.
Jared exhales deeply, his elbows resting on his thighs. He links his hands together and rests his chin on the ashy knuckles. Sickly frustration churns in his gut like a thunderstorm whipping up the sea in a frenzy. Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know why he hasn't moved, why he hasn't changed out of his interview clothes, why his chest is so tight. Which is deeply weird for him, considering how aware he usually is of all his fuck-ups. Now he's just sitting there like a dumbass, anxious and feeling icky, and has no idea why.
Cheddar's head flops back on the couch with a hmph when he realizes Jared isn't moving. Jared has to stop himself from apologizing for disappointing his dog, choosing instead to run his hand over Cheddar's soft head. Cheddar seems to accept this, his tongue rolling out as he basks in the sun and Jared's attention.
"Good boy." He tells Cheddar, a little bit of the tightness in his chest falling away like a loose splinter. But as he moves to get closer to the corgi, something in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns his head to the TV without thinking.
At first, he's confused. It's not a hockey segment; it's still college football. They've moved on from whatever general analysis they were doing before to an interview. Seems to be some kid who can't be older than twenty getting his few minutes in the spotlight. Jared scoffs at himself, finishes his scooching so he can scratch Cheddar behind the ear, and goes to grab the one can on the table that still has some juice in it. But his eyes travel back to the TV, to the kid.
"Y'know it's- it's a great opprotunity. I'm uh- I'm very thankful. Not every guy gets to do this, y'know?"
Jared takes a sip, studying the scene before him. The kid's nervous, a pale finger twirling a sandy blond lock of hair resting on his nape. The green in his eyes stands out in the interview lights, probably because his pupils are mere pinpricks. The muscles in his cheeks twitch every now and then, forcing themselves into a neutral, pleasant expression.
"What would you say is your biggest goal with this opprotunity? What would you like it to turn into?" The interviewer asks, her voice clear and concise.
"Oh god- uh-...ummm..." The kid stammers, Jared winces at the stalling attempt. He instinctively takes another, but slower, sip, the slight burn against his throat soothing as he swallows.
"I- I guess I mostly want to prove myself? There are a lot of guys here y'know who are- who have played more at this level than me and I kinda wanna show uh...show them that I belong, that I can help the team too." The kid eventually gets out. A small, shy smile breaks out on his face. His green eyes light up with the passion he was trying to keep under wraps just a moment ago.
Jared can't help but smile a little too. Not bad, he finds himself thinking. For someone with minimal media training, he managed to dig himself out pretty smoothly. He's clearly got the drive for the sport if he has to try and not sound TOO excited. It reminds Jared of...of Berkly. Of Shane. Of Wints and Melly and Oskar. Of Matty.
The interview fades in the background as his chest locks itself up tight. He almost wheezes as the sudden anxiety grips him like a vice. What the fuck? His brain adds as he clutches the can in his hand until his knuckles are dusted white. He takes a few deep breaths, like Ebs tells him to, and the tightness stops its rapid expansion. Not fading, but not spreading.
Jared looks away, catches Cheddar's eyes, who's looking at him weirdly. Jared focuses on resuming the petting, digging his fingers ever so slightly into Cheddar's fur.
"I hope the guys are y'know- I hope I can earn their respect. I'd feel pretty bad if they thought I was an anchor to the team, that I wasn't taking things seriously."
His eyes snap up to the TV, watches the kid thank the interviewer and head off, watches the studio fade back into view as the hosts start talking about the upcoming game. But he can't hear anything they're saying, he can't even make out their faces. He's too busy listening to his own voice in his own head. A replay of earlier today.
"It came down to, ok, maybe we need to start screaming at guys. I think younger guys need to take it more seriously when it comes to, you know, things change if you don’t win."
He takes another deep breath, really deep. Makes sure he can feel the flow of air into his nose....and out of his mouth. And again. And again. In through his nose...out of his mouth.
Eventually, everything's back to manageable levels. Instead of feeling like he just got slammed chest-first into the boards, utter bewilderment fills him. What the hell was that about?
"It came down to, ok, maybe we need to start screaming at guys. I think younger guys need to take it more seriously when it comes to, you know, things change if you don’t win."
Yeah, he remembers saying that. And he's- he's not wrong! That's still true. You can't just coddle your way to the playoffs; sometimes, you need a kick in the ass. That's normal, that's life. That's hockey.
He breathes again, chugs the last of the beer, and puts the empty can down on the table, another to his collection. The sun's light is fading, the room around him darkening with only the TV's bright, unnatural light remaining strong. It's kind of making him queasy, actually. He grabs the remote and turns it off. Too bright, too much like rink lights.
The silence that comes afterwards is as comforting as it is unsettling. Now it's just him. Him, his dog, and his thoughts. He lifts his legs up on the couch, lies down with his feet towards Cheddar. The couch is soothing under him, letting him burrow into it as he stares at the ceiling.
"I think younger guys need to take it more seriously when it comes to, you know, things change if you don’t win."
Why does his mind drift back there? It doesn't make any sense. It's not a "it is what it is", it's not him failing at expressing what he means. Or is it?
He rolls over, face towards the couch like he's trying to hide.
It's not- It's not a particularly graceful way to put it, but it's straight to the point, no bullshit. He does think their rookies and young guys maybe haven't thought about what happens to you when you lose. And it's his role as a vet to take care of them, to help them. He's doing just that. It's tough love. You need some tough love. Right?
Something ugly bubbles in his stomach.
He wouldn't have gotten here if it weren't for it. He wouldn't have been a top goal scorer for the Kraken if he hadn't had his undesirable edges sanded off early. He wouldn't have the drive if he wasn't told he had to EARN his place, that nothing in hockey is given to you for free. That's how it is.
He feels sick.
That is how it is.
He's in the Canucks locker room. It's 2015. Coach is tearing into him. It's fair, it makes sense. He's not been playing well. It's nothing personal. Jake, the other rookie in the room, is getting torn apart, too. The vets look at him with disappointment, if they even look at him at all. Most just seem annoyed. It's fair, it makes sense. Jared would be annoyed too if he had to play with some pigeon who turns over pucks like he's paid to do so and then waste time watching said pigeon get what he deserves. Fuck, he's not making the team, is he? His opportunity to achieve his dream, and he flubs it. Good fucking job, McCann. There's another clip, how many are there?! Did he really screw up this much? Oh god, he's gonna cry. No no no no no he can't! It's not personal! It's fair! It makes sense! Fuck, get yourself together! Coach leaves, finally. Now he can get out of here before anyone notices anything.
Someone speaks up. It's one of the vets; he can't make out who over the spike of fear running through him. Right, right, it isn't just coach who's gonna be pissed at his performance. That's fair. That makes sense. He forces himself to look at who's talking. It's polite, that's what his Mom taught him. He hopes to God that nobody notices he's shaking, even if he can feel everyone's eyes on him. They're not happy, they tell him they don’t want losers on their lines; they tell him to get his shit together. How long has he sat here? A wild part of him is screaming that he's trying really hard not to burst into tears at this very moment, so actually he's doing a fine job keeping his shit together. Finally, finally, the room goes quiet, although the tension is thick. Is he supposed to say something? Apologize? He wants to, but if he speaks, they're certainly gonna hear his voice crack-
Then suddenly, smiles break out. Laughter.
"Welcome to the team."
What? He made it? But-
He barely has time to process before the room erupts in celebration. He's being hugged, he hugs back on instinct. He smiles. He made it, he made it! Even when he's fucking awful at hockey, they've accepted him, they gave him a chance. He belongs! He...he belongs?
No, no he didn't. Because he didn't learn what they were trying to teach him. He didn't get his shit together despite it all. Stupid, stupid.
He's back on the couch. He's shaking. He's sweating. The hoodie is uncomfortably glued to his body, and his gut is tossing and turning like it's on a roller coaster. He sits up abruptly, and a wave of spit floods his mouth. Cheddar yelps at the sudden movement. He forces himself to swallow. His head aches, his throat aches, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
He can't- He can't let that happen to them. He promised himself to take care of the young guys. And that means making sure they don't repeat his mistakes. Nothing matters if you're playing like shit. Nothing matters if you're not putting up results. That's how it is. And they need to know that, they NEED to. If he has to scream at them, so be it! They need that tough love to grow. Otherwise, they'll just get traded like Jared did, considered failures.
He doesn't regret saying what he did.
His stomach sinks even further.
He doesn't regret saying what he did.
His breathing quickens.
He doesn't regret saying what he did.
The sun's gone. The darkness is all-consuming around him. He doesn't feel- it's not like he's being watched. It's more like he knows people are there and they're NOT watching him. Like a hundred backs turned toward him, forming a wall of bodies he just can't break through. He doesn't want to break through! He wants- he wants to be let IN! He wants- please he can- he can be good-
Cheddar's whine breaks through the silence like a battering ram. Jared gasps and then almost chokes on the air. His hands find Cheddar's fur again, petting and squeezing and running all over. He forces himself to be gentle, to be soft. He can't hurt Cheddar. Carefully, carefully, he pets his beloved corgi, feels his fur and ears and nose under his calloused fingertips. His heart is still racing, pounding in his ear, and every muscle in his body is pulled like tape around a stick. There's an energy buzzing through him that flashes and sparks and short-circuits, and it’s all pouring into petting Cheddar. Cheddar flops like a fish, showing his soft belly. Jared remembers to breathe suddenly, huffing in air like a man starved.
“Good boy, you’re such a good boy Cheds, what would I do without you?” He wheezes out.
Slowly, slowly, Jared starts coming back down again. His heart cools off, his body relaxes. Not entirely, but enough for him to compute how absolutely drenched in sweat he is. He can feel it running down his face like he just got bag-skated; it's that bad. The churning in his gut has also turned mild, so he won’t risk making himself dizzy if he gets up. Seems like that is enough for him to finally get off the couch and head to the bathroom. He's too tired to shower, but he can at least wash his face.
The cold water hits his hands like a blessing. The chill does an excellent job at clearing his mind. He takes note of the slight pounding in his head too, and it hits him how late it is. The rest of the house is coated in gloom, only the light from various electronics and the bathroom keeping him company. But that’s fine, he should head to bed anyway. Yep, he's gonna wash his face, change into sleepwear, and forget this entire episode ever happened. Tomorrow’s a new day, after all.
He's finishing up and thinking about what he wants to pack for his trip back to his farm in Canada when he finally looks in the mirror, and everything goes straight out the window. A chill rushes through his body. Because it's not him staring back. Or well…he supposes it is him. At 19 years old.
Jared's jaw drops, and the nausea comes roaring back as he looks at himself. His short, floppy haircut, the roundness of his face, the slight crook in his mouth.
The blue eyes. Misty, puffy, and red.
For a second, Jared just stares. Then he has to spit into the sink a few times to avoid throwing up. His entire body is shivering, his legs ache like someone just slashed them, and he has to grip the sink for support. He looks back up, and yep, his younger self is still there. Still silently watching. What the FUCK were in those beers?!
"What do you want?" He asks with a shaking voice, very thankful that he's home alone and that Cheddar can't report him to a mental asylum.
His younger reflection doesn't answer. He just stares, his teary eyes boring into Jared. He's in his base layers, just like in the locker room. Is this how he looked? Jared’s throat closes a bit at the thought, at the entire locker room having seen….this. He clears his throat, head going a million miles per hour. Is this real? Is he going crazy? What the fuck is he supposed to do now-
"It made you better." He finds himself saying. Which is weird because he kinda feels like he should be screaming bloody murder or something.
His reflection sniffles, and a pang of guilt strikes Jared. But he pushes it down and goes on. He doesn’t know why, but he has to tell him.
"It was all worth it, bud. It was worth it. It all happens for a reason, eh?"
His reflections expression doesn't change. He stares, still on the brink of tears, still miserable. He looks pathetic, Jared's own mind supplies.
"Kid, come on now. It was good for you. It was good. You needed it." His voice slips from comforting to stern. He doesn't realize it.
"Look at you now. Look at us now. We wouldn't have gotten this if it wasn't for them teaching us early. You were meant to be a Kraken. You turned out fine!"
His reflections face changes. He sneers, his soft face curled up into a mocking frown. Jared huffs in offense.
"What? That isn't good enough for you, bud?" He growls in response. God, his vets had all the reason to be pissed at him. He finally gets told that he's gonna get what he wants so bad, and he sneers?
Maybe he has a point, Jared's mind supplies. Maybe it isn't good enough considering he's gonna grow up to become an anxious fucking mess who needs his captain to play therapist for him and who talks to his own reflection. What a joy to look forward to, eh?
"But that's not- That's not their fault. They were trying to help." He says. And after he says that, he can't stop.
"It's yours. It's your fault. It's you who's playing like shit."
His voice rises. The rookie in the mirror looks confused, scared. Like he just said the wrong thing on national television and knows it.
"It's you who can't take the heat. It's you who won't learn your fucking lesson. It's YOU who got your ass traded after your rookie year and NOBODY else!"
His reflection flinches hard, his shoulders hitched up to his ears, trying to make himself look small. It's infuriating.
"Man up. Man the fuck up, scardy cat. You're playing in the NHL. Get yourself fucking together. No wonder they gave up on you early," He hisses. The frustration in him boils like an angry lake of tar. How fucking dare this kid be ungrateful?! He's about to continue when his reflection sobs. It stops him in his tracks.
What the fuck is he doing?
He watches his younger self cry, fat tears rolling down his round cheeks like snowmelt. Something in his chest aches fiercely, ripping at his ribs like a wounded animal trying to escape. Why did he do this? He's not...he hasn't seen any of his own rookies cry many times. Some of them he's never seen cry. He’s certainly never made them cry. And yet, seeing his rookie self like this...reminds him of them. Could he do this to them? Would he?
One of his hands leaves the sink to run through his hair, toying with a brown lock at his nape. A deep sigh leaves him.
"Kid, I....You know I'm doing this for you, right? So you'll get better?" He says carefully. His reflection sobs harder and shakes his head.
Before he can even process that, he meets his eyes again. And...his younger self is looking at him like Berkly would. Like Shane sometimes still does. Like Matty did.
Like he's a vet. Like he's someone to trust. Someone who protects. Someone who knows better.
"Maybe. Maybe they don't deserve to be screamed at. Maybe there are other ways." A small voice squeaks out. There's suddenly light in those puffy eyes. Is this what his vets saw all those years ago?
For a second, Jared doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Watches himself sob, nobody around to help, because he never let anybody see. Isolated himself. He knows it well, has lived it many times.
Other ways? Are there other ways? Hockey’s a brutal sport, a brutal culture, a brutal business. But maybe…
The second he entertains the idea, the hand buried in his hair flies back to the sink to support his wobbly legs. He feels like one of those statues tied to the fronts of ships, rocking back and forth and up and down before slamming into the salty sea. Desperation surges, like they’re down 2-1 during the last 30 seconds.
No.
“There is no other way,” He coughs out as if the words were crushed out of him.
“There has to be!” His reflection cries. The light in his eyes is bright, so bright, but Jared knows what it is now. Naivety. Childish naivety.
“There isn’t! There can’t be!” Is he being childish now, too? Yelling like this?
“Why the fuck not?!”
“Because- Because!-”
That would be the easy way out. That's just a fantasy. That's not how hockey works. If- If there is…was another way to get the point across then-!
“Because then it would all have been for fucking nothing, wouldn’t it?!”
His reflection doesn’t respond, only small hic-ups leaving his dry lips. He stares, and stares, and stares. Like he’s waiting for Jared to…
He can't deal with this shit anymore. Not now. He breaks eye contact with the mirror and carefully slides down onto the floor, his back against the cabinets under the sink. He buries his head in his hands and breathes and swallows. When that doesn’t work, he pulls a little at his hair. The pricks of pain keep his attention away from his pissed-off stomach. He’s never drinking this brand of beer again.
Cheddar is next to him. Must have heard him yelling.
"Fuck." He says. There are tears on his face. New ones join, and Cheddar tries to lick them up.
"Fuck."
When he comes back to himself, he's still sitting on his bathroom floor. His legs and back ache, and he's exhausted. Cheddar is lying on the bathmat next to him. He stands up and looks at himself in the mirror. His own haunted gaze meets him, no rookie in sight. He groans and moves almost on autopilot, heading for his bed. He needs to sleep like, now. Fuck everything else, his routine is ruined anyway. Cheddar seems to agree, trotting along behind him and jumping up on his bed.
As he strips off his stupid sweaty hoodie, he wonders if he should tell anybody about this. Maybe Ebs. Ebs has played long enough to probably also have been haunted by his rookie self at least once, he reasons. It's his best bet. He doesn’t think about what he’ll do if Ebs hasn’t, that’s a tomorrow McCann problem.
His head hits his pillow. If Ebs doesn’t, he’s probably gonna ask Jared about therapy. Again. Like Jared wants some fucking shrink to pick apart his pitiful self.
"It came down to, ok, maybe we need to start screaming at guys. I think younger guys need to take it more seriously when it comes to, you know, things change if you don’t win."
He's right. He knows he's right. He knows that it's what's best for his team. For the younglings. It'll make them stronger. It'll make them better. It'll keep them safe. His chest is so fucking tight. But the truth doesn’t care about his feelings or his problems.
As sleep takes him, he ignores the figure in the Canucks jersey leaning over him.