Chapter Text
“Alright, we enter the ice in fifteen! Make any last minute preparations, team.”
Classy gritted his teeth as he tightened the shoelace on his hockey skate. If there was any time in the world Classy needed the extra ankle support that came with tight laces, it would be now.
His hockey team, the Moscow Phantoms, were playing against the Albanian Strikers. Both teams were among the most known in the world, hell, one would even say they were the top two internationally.
Which was simply fantastic, because they hated each other’s guts.
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The locker room was filled with mutters, shuffling, and the whisper of cloth against skin.
Everyone was nervous for the game, and it showed. The room was devoid of its usual barter and arguing. Froste’s hands were tense in his gloves, holding his hockey stick in a deathgrip. His teammate, Deny, was putting on his helmet, fumbling with the buckle.
Froste could relate, he thought as his grip on his stick slipped momentarily.
He was terrified.
This was the game that would truly decide which of the two teams would come out on top. Froste hoped, prayed, with all his heart that it would be the Albanian Strikers. Fuck, their opponent were dirty players, and Froste might commit an unspeakable crime if they ended up winning. He could already imagine their taunting jabs.
Deny adjusted his shin pad with a grumble. He was their goaltender, and therefore had the bulkiest gear, something that Froste was completely fine with not having.
“Alright, onto the ice. Good luck on their, kick their asses!” Their coach crowed, trying his best to sound encouraging, but the attempt fell flat. Froste could sense the apprehension from his voice, and it didn’t do much to help him feel better about what was ahead.
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The chill bit into Classy’s face as he, along with his other teammates, took their places on the ice. Classy exchanged a glance with his friend, George, positioned at the face-off circle on Classy’s left. George smiled, but it was weak. He was as nervous as Classy, that was obvious enough.
We got this, Classy mouthed, before turning his gaze forward. Bracing his stance, he trained his eyes on the puck in the referee’s hand. He was centre, so he had a lot of pressure on him to start the game off well.
Across from him was a chestnut-haired man, who looked to be on the younger side. That wasn’t the best for Classy, since that meant he’d be as mobile or possibly more than him. It was whatever, though — pure skill couldn’t be beaten, and Classy had quite enough of that.
Call him arrogant, he didn’t care.
Both players placed their sticks on the ice, bodies taut, and then the puck dropped.
Clack.
The ice exploded with chaos as both men positioned in the center fought for power, sticks hitting each other with enough force to break bones. Classy bit down on his mouthguard as he smacked the puck away to the side, quickly collected by a teammate.
Two players from the opposing team quickly got onto his ass, and Classy skated briskly to the side, tapping the ice with his stick to signalize that he was free. His teammate shot it his way, but it was redirected as an enemy player swooped in and took it, much to Classy’s chagrin. He took chase, adrenaline fueling his every step.
The guy was fast, for fuck’s sake. Classy wouldn’t achieve anything just by chasing him — he’d have to do something else. So he changed his route to approach him from the side, and as he sped towards the other player, Classy saw brown eyes widen in surprise before he slammed into the other man, both of them hitting the wall harshly.
It was the same player that’d played him in the center.
Dark eyes locked on intense ones, and Classy realized his body was pressed against the other’s, quickly backing off. Tension was obvious in their shared gaze, hatred woven in between.
“Penalty!”
Shooting a dirty look at the referee, Classy skated to the penalty box and sat down, fuming. He observed the game with sharp eyes, watching every move, taking note of the way each person of the opposing team played. He paid special attention to the brown-eyed brown-haired man. His jersey read Puka, so that was his last name, huh?
Two minutes passed by way too slowly, and once he was allowed back onto the ice, Classy immediately went on defense. He intercepted the incoming puck after overtaking another player, pumping his legs hard to gain as much speed as possible before shooting the puck into the goal.
“The Moscow Phantoms make a goal, scored by Classy Shalomov!” The referee’s voice boomed, and Classy basked in the approving glances of his teammates as well as the loathing ones of his rivals.
Everyone took positions again, and this time, the puck immediately went into the hands (or, well, the sticks) of the Strikers. In his peripheral, Classy saw that George was going on defense, and followed a ways behind in case he needed support.
When he saw an opening, he dived into the bray, sticks fighting sticks. Classy maneuvered the puck out of the small crowd, preparing to head for the opposite goal, when suddenly, a force rammed into him, and he was slammed against the boards.
The man to blame was fucking Puka, who sneered and sing-songed, “Payback!” skating off once the penalty was announced. Classy was almost stunned at the audacity of the little bitch. “Fucker,” he said, word tinged with a laugh. He knew that the other heard it when Puka tossed a middle finger over his shoulder.
And there started the next round.
Nothing eventful happened the next few rounds; George scored once, Puka scored twice (annoyingly enough), and a few other randoms scored as well. The Strikers’ goalie was irritatingly skilled, but there were still some made despite it.
One period passed, and once the break arrived, Classy made his way over to the bench. George joined him, water in hand. As Classy brushed ice off his skate blades, George nudged him.
“You were messing ‘round a bit out there with that guy, man.”
Classy immediately felt defensive, shooting the other an indignant look. “It was him, not me.”
George just chuckled, and Classy grumbled under his breath. “He doesn’t matter, anyways. We’re gonna win.”
“Ain’t that right!” George crowed, and Classy smacked the back of his helmet for being so loud.
Their coach announced that the next period was to start in two minutes, and they stood up quickly, more lively now than they’d been earlier. New energy rushing through their bodies.
The puck dropped. One team took control, the other fought them for it. They scored, the others scored on them. It was like a constant back and forth.
Classy’s head was empty of all thoughts except to win.