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It had been a disastrous match so far.
Not just bad.
Not just frustrating.
A full-blown disaster.
Every strategy they had spent the past week drilling into muscle memory had fallen apart almost immediately. Breakouts had collapsed. Defensive coverage had gotten sloppy. Passes that normally connected without thought were getting intercepted. Their power play had looked embarrassing. Even communication on the ice, one of their strongest points, had gone to hell, their players second-guessing each other in ways that only made everything worse.
They had known going in that tonight wouldn’t be easy.
The opposite team was solid, one of their toughest adversaries.
But nobody had expected this.
Nobody had expected to get absolutely swallowed alive.
By the time the whistle finally blew for intermission, the scoreboard was ugly enough that none of them wanted to look at it.
Garrett did anyway and immediately regretted it.
The second he hit the locker room, he ripped off his helmet and hurled it onto the bench hard enough to make everyone jump.
“Fuck.”
Logan dropped heavily onto the bench beside Dean, yanking his own helmet off and scrubbing a hand through sweat-soaked hair, chest still heaving from the period.
“What the hell is happening?”
Tucker peeled off one glove with his teeth.
“They’re in our heads.”
“They’re everywhere,” Garrett snapped, already pacing now, unable to sit still. “Every time we get possession there’s someone immediately on us.”
“Because we’re hesitating,” Tucker shot back.
“Because we’re getting our asses handed to us,” Garrett barked, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration.
Nobody argued with that.
Because, yeah.
Fair.
Garrett dragged both hands through his hair, the frustration practically radiating off him.
“This is humiliating. We look like a fucking joke out there.”
“We spent all week preparing for this,” Garrett continued, pacing faster now. “All fucking week. Film review, drills, strategy sessions—and for what? So they can embarrass us in our own rink?”
“That’s enough,” Logan warned.
“No, it’s not enough.”
Garrett rounded on them.
“We’re playing like we’ve never met each other.”
“Well yelling about it’s definitely fixing things,” Logan snapped back, raising his brow at him.
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Gladly.”
“Guys—”
“No,” Garrett said again, jabbing a hand toward the locker room door. “They are making us look pathetic out there.”
The arguing started building from there. A couple of the other guys chimed in, voicing their opinion, but Logan decided to ignore them for now.
Because something felt off.
Dean had been weirdly quiet this entire time.
That alone was enough to trigger alarm bells.
Dean Di Laurentis had opinions about everything, especially when the main subject was hockey. So the fact he hadn’t said a single word throughout the whole discussion was worrisome. Logan frowned and glanced sideways to look at his teammate.
The older boy was bent forward, elbows braced hard against his knees, head hanging slightly as he sucked air back into his lungs. His shoulders were rising and falling sharply beneath his pads.
Even for an ugly period, something about it didn’t sit right.
“Hey,” Logan said quietly, pitching his voice low enough not to draw attention from the ongoing argument. “You okay, bud?”
Dean didn’t answer immediately.
Then he gave a small nod.
Too quick.
“Fine.”
Logan studied him more carefully.
Dean still hadn’t looked up.
Sweat dripped down the side of his face.
His breathing sounded rough.
Not just winded.
Wrong.
“Dean.”
That got a tiny reaction.
Dean lifted his head just enough to glance sideways.
And Logan immediately didn’t like what he saw.
Dean looked pale.
Not winter Dean pale.
Actually pale.
Which made absolutely no sense after forty minutes of brutal hockey. Every single guy in that locker room looked the same kind of wrecked after that period: flushed red faces, sweat-soaked hair, the overheated aftermath of forty minutes of hard hockey.
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
The sarcasm landed weak.
Way weaker than it should have.
Logan was already standing before he fully thought it through, crossing toward the hydration station by the wall and grabbing one of the electrolyte bottles.
Behind him, Garrett was still halfway through an angry rant about defensive coverage while Palmer argued back.
Logan twisted the cap off and came back, crouching slightly in front of Dean.
“Drink.”
Dean blinked at the bottle.
“Don’t want to.”
“Too bad. Drink, asshole.”
Dean managed the tiniest ghost of a smirk but took the bottle anyway, taking a small sip.
Then another.
The second he lowered the bottle, Dean closed his eyes.
Letting the back of his head tip against the cold cinderblock wall behind the bench.
For a second he just stayed there like that.
Still.
Breathing through his mouth.
Logan frowned harder.
“Dean?”
Dean didn’t answer straight away.
Because honestly, the second he had sat down after coming off the ice, things had gone sideways.
At first he’d thought it was just adrenaline crashing.
The normal post-shift exhaustion after a brutal stretch.
But then the dizziness had hit.
Not a little head rush.
Not standing-up-too-fast dizziness.
The room had tilted unpleasantly for a second before settling into this gross floaty sensation that made focusing weirdly difficult. Like his brain was lagging half a second behind everything around him.
And then his stomach had decided to join the party.
That was what was really starting to freak him out.
Not enough to actually panic.
Yet.
But enough to make him sit very, very still because every sudden movement seemed to make the nausea creep higher. A sour, unpleasant roll in his stomach that he was trying very hard to ignore because the absolute last thing Dean Di Laurentis was doing was throwing up in the middle of intermission like some kind of pathetic rookie.
“I’m fine,” he muttered eventually.
Logan stared at him.
“Bullshit.”
Without asking permission, Logan reached for the straps on Dean’s shoulder pads.
Dean frowned immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting some of this crap off you.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you’re about to either pass out or puke.”
Dean made an offended sound.
“Rude.”
“I’m not joking.”
Logan worked quickly, loosening the straps and tugging the heavy pads forward enough to ease some of the heat trapped around Dean’s chest and shoulders.
The second the gear shifted, Dean actually exhaled.
“Yeah,” Logan muttered. “Thought so.”
Dean leaned his head back against the cold wall again, eyes still shut.
“I just need a few minutes.”
The words came quieter than usual.
Not dramatic.
Not Dean-style complaining.
Just tired.
Logan didn’t like that either.
Still, he sat back down beside him instead of immediately dragging him to the trainer, keeping himself angled slightly toward Dean while the chaos in the rest of the locker room kept going.
Across from them, Garrett had moved from furious pacing into captain mode.
Which somehow made him louder.
“Okay, enough,” Garrett snapped, clapping his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “We know exactly what they’re doing now. They’re collapsing the second we get possession because we keep trying to force clean plays through the middle.”
A couple guys nodded.
Garrett grabbed the whiteboard marker and started sketching rough formations.
“Stop giving them what they want. Wide entries. Faster passes. If they pressure high, we dump and recover. Defense—communicate for once.”
Normally Dean would have absolutely chirped that.
Instead—
Dean visibly winced and Logan saw it.
Garrett kept talking.
“We’re panicking every time they press. Stop thinking, just move the damn puck—”
The volume of Garrett’s voice seemed to slam straight into Dean’s skull.
Not metaphorically.
Actually.
The headache that had been hovering at annoying abruptly sharpened into something meaner, hotter, like a spike driven behind his eyes.
And with it, the nausea got worse.
Fast.
Dean swallowed hard.
Bad idea.
His mouth immediately started watering.
Oh, no.
Absolutely not.
No fucking way.
Not here.
Not in front of the entire team.
Not while Garrett was mid inspirational captain speech.
Dean pressed his lips together hard, breathing carefully through his nose.
Maybe it would pass.
Maybe if he sat still enough—
Nope.
Another ugly roll twisted through Dean’s stomach, worse than before—cold, immediate, deeply wrong.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles ached beneath the gloves. He kept his mouth firmly shut, breathing carefully through his nose, trying to force the nausea back down through sheer spite.
Not here.
Absolutely not here.
The room tilted again, just enough to make his stomach clench harder.
Garrett was still talking, marker tapping against the whiteboard as he barked instructions at the team.
“Defense needs to stop backing off and actually—”
Dean swallowed.
Massive mistake.
The nausea surged so hard his entire abdomen tightened.
“Logan,” Dean muttered.
He meant to keep going.
To say bathroom.
Or shit.
Or maybe just make some kind of universally understood I’m-about-to-be-sick noise.
But Logan must have read his face instantly.
Because before Dean even finished, Logan was moving.
Fast.
Without a word, he dropped into a crouch in front of Dean and yanked at his own skates first, fingers working at the laces with efficiency.
Dean blinked at him.
“What are you—”
“Lift your foot.”
The tone made argument feel pointless.
Dean obeyed automatically, brain moving half a step too slow to keep up.
Across the room Garrett’s voice cut off.
“What’s going on?”
Logan ignored him.
He was already tugging Dean’s first skate off, then the second, working quickly enough that Dean barely processed it. Then, Logan was already hauling him upward by the arm, and Dean didn’t have enough coordination—or dignity left—to resist properly.
The second he got fully upright, the entire room tipped violently.
Not a gentle sway.
Dean shut his eyes instinctively.
Huge mistake.
The dizziness got worse instantly, his stomach dropping so violently he made a horrible swallowing sound.
Dean would later have only fragmented memories of the trip to the restroom.
At the time, it felt like trying to cross a battlefield while drunk and concussed.
The floor moved.
That was the only way to describe it.
Every step felt uncertain, like his legs couldn’t quite agree with his brain about where the ground was supposed to be. His stomach rolled nastily with every shift of motion, the saliva in his mouth building faster than he could swallow around it.
Logan’s hand stayed firm between his shoulder blades, basically steering him because Dean definitely wasn’t managing a straight line under his own power.
“Breathe,” Logan muttered.
Dean tried.
Bad decision.
Dean was vaguely aware of footsteps behind them.
Or maybe imagined them.
Hard to tell.
The ringing in his ears had gotten louder now, a sharp whine underneath everything else.
The second the restroom door swung open, Logan pushed him in the direction of the sink.
And then he was puking.
Hard.
Logan grabbed him instantly, one arm braced hard across Dean’s chest to keep him from face-planting directly into the sink.
“Easy—”
At one point Logan had to physically keep him upright because Dean was pretty sure gravity had become optional.
“Shit,” someone muttered from the doorway.
Tucker.
Definitely Tucker this time.
Dean barely registered him.
He was too busy trying not to actually die in a public restroom.
Another miserable gag tore through him.
Then another.
By the time his stomach finally paused long enough to let him breathe, Dean was left hanging limply against Logan’s grip, breathing raggedly over the sink.
Sweat dripped down the side of his face.
His entire body shook.
And then… nothing.
One moment Dean was vaguely aware of the sink pressed against his forearms and Logan holding him upright.
The next—
He was somewhere else.
Sitting.
Cold tile against his back.
His legs awkwardly bent in front of him.
The world still tilted horribly every time he tried to process where he was.
Someone’s hands were guiding his head downward.
“Easy, easy.”
Dean let it happen because fighting sounded like way too much work.
His forehead ended up somewhere near his knees.
The position felt weird.
But better.
Marginally.
Blood still roared in his ears.
Everything sounded strangely far away.
He was just able to hear something yelling for the coach and medical staff, probably Logan, but there were lots of voices now. It was kinda hard to keep track of them all.
Dean tried lifting his head.
Huge mistake.
The room lurched violently.
Someone immediately pushed him gently back down.
“Nope.”
“Mmngh.”
“Head down.”
“Did he pass out?”
“Think so—”
“Dean?”
Too many questions.
Dean wanted everyone to be quiet.
His head hurt.
Really hurt.
The pounding had gone from bad to vicious, a deep relentless throb that seemed to pulse behind his eyes and down the back of his skull. Every sound made it worse. Every voice felt too loud, too sharp, too close.
Even with his head down, the dizziness hadn’t fully let up.
The bathroom door slammed open hard enough to make Dean flinch.
Immediate regret.
The sharp movement sent another vicious spike of pain through his skull.
“What happened?” Coach Jensen demanded immediately, seeing the situation.
Logan answered before anyone else could.
“He got weird during intermission,” Logan said quickly, still keeping one steady hand between Dean’s shoulder blades. “Pale, said he was dizzy, headache, nausea. Then he barely made it in here before puking his guts out.”
The medic was already moving while Logan talked, crouching beside Dean without wasting a second.
“Hey, kid.”
A hand gently found Dean’s wrist, fingers pressing against his pulse.
“How you feeling?”
Dean cracked his eyes open just enough to make out the medic’s shape.
He shut them again.
“Dizzy,” he mumbled.
The medic’s fingers stayed against his wrist for another second.
His expression changed slightly.
“Pulse is fast.”
Tachycardic.
Coach had crouched too now, closer than Dean expected.
The back of his hand pressed briefly to Dean’s forehead.
Dean flinched weakly.
Coach frowned immediately.
“He’s cold sweating.”
That got a different look from the medic.
“Dean,” Coach said, voice lower now. “Did you hit your head?”
Dean barely hesitated.
“No.”
The medic reached for the portable blood pressure cuff in his kit.
“Let’s get a pressure.”
He kept his eyes shut because opening them still felt like a terrible idea.
The cuff slowly released.
The medic looked at the reading.
“What?”
The medic glanced up.
“Eighty over sixty.”
Even Coach reacted to that.
“Jesus.”
“That bad?” Tucker asked.
“Low enough to explain why you passed out,” the medic replied.
Dean frowned weakly.
“I didn’t pass out.”
“Yes, you did,” Logan cut in immediately.
Dean turned a tired glare in his direction.
“No, I—”
“You absolutely did.”
“It was like—” Dean made a vague gesture with one hand. “A second.”
“That still counts,” Logan said flatly.
Tucker folded his arms.
“You went all limp on him.”
Dean looked horrified.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Tucker confirmed far too cheerfully.
The medic crouched closer again.
“Did you eat enough today, buddy?”
Dean cracked one eye open.
“Yeah. Same as everyone.”
The medic’s expression did not suggest he found that reassuring.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “Your blood pressure’s low enough that your brain isn’t getting enough blood flow when you sit up or stand quickly. That’s why the dizziness hit so hard. That’s probably why you passed out.”
The medic rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Need you sitting up slowly for me.”
Dean made a miserable sound.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Logan and Tucker immediately moved to help.
“Easy,” the medic warned.
Between them, they carefully helped Dean upright from where he’d been folded over, moving slowly enough to avoid immediately tipping him back into oblivion.
Dean kept his eyes shut until the medic gently tapped his arm.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Dean opened them.
The world tilted unpleasantly but stayed mostly upright this time.
And then he realized—
The bathroom was full.
Not just Logan.
Not just Garrett and Tucker.
Almost the whole damn team was crowded in or hovering near the doorway trying to see what was happening.
Fantastic.
Absolutely fantastic.
Dean felt heat crawl straight into his face despite the cold sweat still clinging to him.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
Garrett noticed immediately. One look at Dean’s expression and Garrett turned toward the room.
“Alright, out.”
Nobody moved fast enough.
“Seriously. Get the hell out.”
That got them moving.
Guys shuffled backward quickly, muttering awkwardly, suddenly remembering they did not, in fact, need front row seats to Dean nearly blacking out in a restroom.
Garrett crouched down in front of him again once everyone was mostly gone.
“Better?”
Dean glared weakly.
“Still humiliating.”
“And he’s coming back,” Tucker chuckled.
Dean let his head thunk lightly back against the wall.
“Tragic.”
Honestly, the fact that he was being sarcastic again seemed to reassure everyone more than it probably should have.
The medic stood and glanced between the three boys.
“Alright. Help me get some of this gear off him.”
Dean immediately frowned.
“Excuse me.”
“Nope,” Logan said.
“You already lost your dignity the moment you fainted, man.”
Garrett crouched at Dean’s side and reached for the straps on his shoulder pads while Logan carefully steadied him upright.
“Sit still.”
“I am literally sitting.”
“Then complain less.”
Dean muttered something deeply insulting under his breath while Garrett worked the loosened straps free. The second the bulky shoulder pads came off, Dean let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Tucker handled the elbow pads and gloves, peeling damp gear off with surprisingly efficient movements.
Logan carefully tugged it up over Dean’s head, slower this time so they didn’t immediately trigger another dizzy spell.
Even so, Dean winced.
“Easy,” the medic warned.
Once the jersey was off, Dean was left in the fitted compression shirt underneath, skin pale and clammy with sweat, blonde hair damp and sticking messily to his forehead.
Coach Jensen took one look at him and grimaced.
“Christ.”
Then he disappeared.
Dean frowned weakly.
“Where’s he going?”
“Probably replacing you,” Garrett said, smirking.
Dean flipped him off with significantly less strength than usual.
A minute later Coach returned carrying a fresh electrolyte bottle.
Cold condensation slick against the plastic.
He handed it directly to the medic.
“Here.”
The medic nodded once in thanks, twisted the cap off, then crouched back in front of Dean.
“Okay.”
Dean eyed the bottle suspiciously.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That made me puke.”
“That was before.”
The medic ignored him.
“Your blood pressure tanked because you’re dehydrated and probably pushed too hard while already not feeling great. We need fluid back in you.”
Dean sighed dramatically.
“No needles.”
“Not planning on it,” the medic replied. “Yet.”
That got Dean’s attention.
“Yet?”
The medic held up the bottle.
“Best case? You drink this slowly, your blood pressure comes back up, you stop looking like you’re about to pass out.”
“And worst case?”
“IV.”
The medic handed him the bottle.
“Small sips. The entire thing.”
Dean stared at it.
“Entire?”
“Yes.”
Coach folded his arms.
“Just drink, Di Laurentis.”
With the entire room apparently united against him, Dean took the bottle.
Very reluctantly.
Took one cautious sip.
Paused.
Waited.
His stomach rolled a little but didn’t immediately revolt.
The medic nodded.
“Good. Like that.”
Dean took another sip.
Then another.
Slow, miserable little swallows while approximately half the leadership structure of Briar hockey watched him like he might spontaneously collapse if they blinked.
By the fourth sip, Dean lowered the bottle and looked around the room.
“Don’t you guys have a game to play?”
That got the tiniest silence.
Then Garrett shook his head, dragging a hand over his face while trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“Motherfucker.”
Dean blinked at him innocently.
“What?”
Logan folded his arms.
“I literally saved your ass from a concussion.”
Dean shrruged, a small smile on his face.
“Allegedly.”
Tucker snorted.
“Wow. Gratitude really is dead.”
Dean lifted the bottle again.
“Still dying, actually.”
That got an involuntary laugh out of Garrett.
Which honestly eased some of the tension in the room.
Just a little.
Coach Jensen cleared his throat, then he pointed at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.
“You three. Back to the team.”
Garrett straightened immediately.
“What?”
“I’ll stay with him.”
“Coach—”
“That wasn’t a discussion.”
Garrett looked between Dean and the medic.
Still visibly reluctant.
Logan too.
Tucker less so, but only because Tucker seemed to trust literally everyone in a medical capacity.
Dean noticed.
And despite feeling like absolute garbage, some tiny part of him softened.
“Guys,” he muttered.
Three heads turned.
“I’m not actively dying.”
“Still not too sure,” Logan replied.
“Go, guys,” Coach Jensed waved them off.
Tucker gave Dean’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
“Feel better, buddy.”
Then finally, reluctantly, the three of them headed out.
Coach leaned back against the wall nearby while the medic checked Dean again.
“Well,” Dean muttered after a second, lifting the bottle.
“This is humiliating.”
Coach snorted.
“Drink.”
***
The boys came straight from the rink to the bus still sweaty, exhausted, and buzzing with the leftover adrenaline of the game.
Garrett was first up the steps.
And stopped immediately.
Dean was already there.
Curled sideways across one of the seats near the middle of the bus, hoodie pulled on now, arms folded loosely against his stomach, eyes closed.
He looked wiped.
Coach Jensen sat in the row beside him, one arm slung over the back of the seat, clearly keeping an eye on him.
The medic was nearby too, packing things away.
Garrett’s eyes immediately landed on Dean’s arm.
Specifically—
The bandage taped into the crook of his elbow.
He frowned.
“What happened?”
Dean cracked one eye open.
“Mind your business.”
Coach answered before Garrett could.
“Well,” he said dryly, “in true Di Laurentis style, he puked the electrolytes.”
Garrett stared.
“No.”
“Oh yes.”
The medic zipped his bag shut.
“IV it was.”
Tucker barked out a laugh from behind Garrett.
“Of course it was.”
Dean made a weak offended sound without opening his eyes.
“I hate everyone.”
“Still alive enough to complain,” Logan muttered, sitting down beside him.
Garrett dropped into the seat across from Dean, still eyeing him.
“How’re you feeling?”
Dean considered that.
“Like death’s less attractive cousin.”
“He’s better.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Blood pressure’s up. One hundred over eighty now.”
“Way better,” Tucker said.
Garrett visibly relaxed a little at that.
Then the medic kept going.
“Still not cleared.”
Garrett frowned.
“What?”
“Off matches for the rest of the week.”
Dean’s eyes opened fully at that.
“Excuse me?”
“No.”
“I feel fine.”
“Liar,” Logan said immediately.
Dean glared.
Coach Jensen didn’t even blink. “You’re resting.”
The medic looked over from where he was packing away the last of his supplies.
“We’re joking now because you’re upright and being annoying again,” he said, giving him a pointed look, “but your blood pressure was seriously low.”
He shifted slightly so he could address all of them, though his attention stayed mostly on Dean.
“Dehydration can hit athletes harder than people realize—especially after intense exertion, poor intake, vomiting, overheating. Once your blood pressure starts dropping, your body has trouble keeping enough blood flow going where it needs to when you change position. That’s why the dizziness got so bad.”
“The early warning signs are exactly what happened tonight.”
He ticked them off calmly.
“Lightheadedness. Feeling weird when standing up. Cold sweating. Nausea. Fast pulse. Weakness. Tunnel vision. Ringing in the ears.”
Dean went a little quieter.
Because, yeah.
That had all happened.
“If you ignore those signs and keep pushing,” the medic continued, “you get what happened in the bathroom.”
“Public humiliation,” Dean muttered.
“Syncope,” the medic corrected. “Or near enough.”
Logan smirked.
“Told you.”
“Shut up.”
The medic pointed lightly at Dean.
“And the vomiting made it worse, because now you’re losing fluids instead of replacing them.”
Coach Jensen chose that exact moment to pile on.
“So no parties. I mean it.”
“Hydrate properly. Eat actual meals. If you get dizzy again, nauseous for no reason, cold sweaty, weirdly weak—tell someone immediately instead of trying to tough it out.”
All eyes landed on Dean.
Dean sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
A beat passed.
Then Dean frowned slightly.
“…I never asked.”
Garrett looked over.
“Asked what?”
Dean shifted against the seat, still looking exhausted.
“How the game ended.”
That got a collective silence for about half a second.
Then Garrett rolled his eyes.
“We got our asses beat.”
Dean winced.
“Ouch.”
Garrett shrugged.
“But honestly? That’s okay.”
Dean blinked at him.
“Excuse me?”
Garrett pointed at him.
“Our heads were definitely not in the game.”
***
Once the entire team had piled onto the bus and they were finally pulling away from the arena, the adrenaline started wearing off and the exhaustion hit everyone hard.
The usual post-game energy—arguing over plays, bitching about refs, chirping each other—was there, but quieter around Dean.
Guys kept glancing over.
Checking.
One by one, players passing his row paused.
“You good?”
“Feeling better?”
“Still dizzy?”
“Need anything?”
Dean answered all of them with varying degrees of sarcasm.
“Thriving.”
“Living the dream.”
“Never better.”
That earned a few tired laughs, which seemed to reassure people.
Still, every single one checked.
Even the quieter guys.
Which… honestly?
Dean noticed.
Garrett eventually got dragged into some loud post-game argument three rows back about a missed defensive rotation, Tucker was half asleep against the window, and Coach Jensen had finally stopped actively monitoring Dean every five seconds.
The bus hummed steadily as they made their way back to campus.
Dean had ended up slouched beside Logan, hoodie pulled up now, looking significantly less corpse-like than earlier but still obviously wrung out.
For a while they sat in comfortable silence.
Then Dean spoke quietly enough that only Logan could hear.
“Thanks for today.”
Logan glanced sideways.
“Hey,” he said. “I got you, man.”
Dean gave him a small smile.
Logan let that sit for a second.
Then ruined the moment immediately.
“Besides,” he added, “you owe me big now.”
Dean let out a small chuckle.
“You wish.”