Chapter Text
For the next couple of weeks, Quinn thought, optimistically, that things had blown over. Brock was still around, all the time, but Quinn didn’t mind as much. Brock had promised not to push, and he didn’t. He was there, always, talking to Quinn in practice, sitting next to him on the bench, even making sure Quinn knew he was invited when groups went out after games or on days off. It wasn’t overbearing, though. Quinn didn’t find his hackles raising the way he did when dominants inserted themselves into his space and routine and just expected him to make room for them. With Brock, it felt more like an invitation, constantly extended, for whenever Quinn wanted to take it.
So Quinn talked to him, sat next to him, went to bars with him and the rest of the team. And it was nice, actually. It was nice to feel wanted. It was nice to feel like he didn’t have to guard himself quite so closely.
It helped that he wasn’t the only submissive on the team. In Vancouver, he’d always felt surrounded by dominant instincts to the point of choking on them. His teammates had gotten less pushy once he’d had the C on his jersey, but it hadn’t changed the pervasive atmosphere of dominance in the locker room.
Here, though, Quinn was never the only submissive. Whenever he went out with the team, Boldy and Kirill were both there, and usually at least one of the two rookie subs, Wally and Yurov. It was easier to relax when he could see other submissives being mouthy and competitive, chirping at the other guys and laughing, and never seeming stressed or worried about the doms’ reactions.
It meant that after a while, Quinn wasn't guarding himself as closely as he usually did. That was his first mistake. He was usually much more careful. He should have been paying closer attention to what he was doing after practice, when he was stripping off his pads in the locker room, but Kirill was teasing him, and Quinn didn't notice that when he carelessly tossed his skates into his stall, it made his backpack fall to the side and spill onto the floor. He didn't notice that his notebook had fallen to the floor, and fallen open, until he caught sight of Brock out of the corner of his eye. The dominant has gone still, staring at the notebook on the floor.
Quinn felt like he'd been plunged into cold water. He reached for his notebook, but Brock was already picking it up. Quinn feels frozen as Brock frowns down at the page.
“Brock,” he said, trying desperately to keep his voice quiet, so no one else would notice what was happening between them. “Give it to me, please.”
“What is this?” Brock asked, completely ignoring what Quinn had said. The line between his eyebrows had appeared again.
“Nothing,” Quinn said, too quickly. “It's not important. Please just give it back.”
Brock finally looked away from the notebook and met Quinn’s eyes. He looked confused, maybe heading towards angry. Quinn suddenly needed to get out of this situation, right now. “Who gave you this?” Brock asked.
“What? No one,” Quinn said. He reached for the notebook, but Brock pulled it away. “It's just a notebook.”
Brock’s expression started becoming stony. “The lines. This is a punishment. Who punished you?” Brock was speaking very quietly, but they were surrounded by teammates, and Quinn was starting to panic at the prospect of this conversation being overheard.
“Give it back, Brock,” he hissed, reaching for the notebook again. “No one gave it to me, it's just - Faber, give me the notebook.” He got a hand on the notebook and tugged, but Brock didn't let go.
“You told me you'd come to me,” Brock said, his voice uncomfortably flat. “You promised, if you needed something…”
Quinn leaned a shoulder in to shove Brock back while prying his fingers off the notebook with the other hand, and it finally came free.
“Quinn,” Brock said, reaching after him, but Quinn slapped his hand away.
“Fuck off, Faber!” Quinn snapped, forgetting, for a moment, to keep his voice down. He turned to shove the notebook in his backpack, but froze. The room had gone silent, and every pair of eyes was on him and Faber. For the space of a breath, Quinn felt like he couldn't move, pinned down by the collective attention of his teammates. Then the adrenaline kicked in, and grabbed his backpack and fled into the hall.
Quinn heard Brock’s voice behind him, but he didn't look back as he left. He had made it halfway down the long hallway when he heard the locker room door open behind him and someone called his name. If it had been Brock’s voice again, Quinn would have kept walking. He didn't think he could handle talking to him right now. But it wasn't, so Quinn forced himself to stop.
“Quinn, hey, wait up,” Spurgy called, jogging to catch up with him. Quinn turned, and though he couldn't make himself meet Jared’s eyes, he still saw the concern and confusion etched into the captain’s face. “Are you okay, Hughesy? What just happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Quinn said tiredly. He couldn’t explain to Spurgy that Brock had found the notebook he used to fake a punishment when he was itching for it. There was no way to explain any of it without Jared overreacting. “I’m fine. I’m just going to go back to my apartment.”
“Didn’t look like nothing,” Jared said, but his voice was so gentle, just calm concern, so far from the accusatory tone Quinn kept expecting. “I’ll talk to Faber. He’s not usually one to get pushy with subs, but I’ll make sure he backs off, if you need more space.”
Quinn shook his head. None of this was Brock’s fault. It was his own stupid fault for not being more careful. “It’s fine, Spurgy. You don’t need to talk to him. I overreacted.”
Jared looked doubtful. “Are you sure you’re okay, Quinn? If you need a dom…”
“No,” Quinn said, a little too quickly. He could tell the denial was too fast from the flash of concern in Jared’s eyes. “I’m okay.”
“Let me drive you back to your apartment, at least,” Jared said, and it wasn’t really a surprise that he didn’t want to leave Quinn alone. Jared saw a distressed submissive, and his instincts were telling him to protect and care. He probably would hate the idea of Quinn going home alone. But it was what Quinn needed. He didn’t think he could handle being trapped in a car with a dominant right now, even for a short drive.
“I’ll get an uber,” Quinn said. He took a breath and forced himself to meet Jared’s eyes. “I’m okay, Spurgy.” Should he be calling him sir? No, no, Spurgy didn’t seem like the kind of dom who needed a title to soothe his ego. “I swear, I’m okay. I just want to go home. Don’t… don’t yell at Brock, okay? Please? He didn’t really do anything wrong, I just… We’re okay. It won’t be a problem on the ice.”
“Is it going to be a problem off the ice?” Jared asked gently.
“No, s- No, it won’t,” Quinn said. “I’m sorry for… all of that. It won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Jared said, though he looked no less concerned. “Tell me if any of that changes. Text me any time. If you need a dom, or… anything else. Okay?”
Quinn nodded. “Yeah. Okay.” He paused, then added, “Thanks, Spurgy.” As much as Quinn didn’t want to deal with prying questions from dominants, he knew that Jared was just being a good captain and a good friend, right now. He was trying to, at least. It wasn’t Jared’s fault that Quinn was so fucked up any more than it was Brock’s fault. Quinn turned to go, and a moment later he heard Jared head back into the locker room.
-
“Quinn,” Brock called, reaching after him, but the submissive was already darting out of the locker room. It felt like a siren was going off in his head, screaming at him, wrong wrong bad wrong fixfixfix. He could feel his hands shaking with the need to grab something and squeeze until it stopped moving. Bile was rising in his throat. He felt a snarl rip its way out of his chest, loud and unmistakable. Brock took a step, starting to follow Quinn, as the siren in his head demanded he do, but suddenly there was a firm, solid body in front of him and a soft voice in his ear.
“Brock? Don't go, please, will you stay with me? Talk to me?” Matt had pressed himself into Brock's space, his head ducked low, his voice sweetly submissive.
Brock knew Matt was doing it on purpose to get him to calm down, but that didn't mean it wasn't working. His dominant instincts were on fire, but they redirected to Matt almost instantly. He grabbed Matt's wrist and pulled him back to Brock's stall, where he sat heavily. He didn't even have to pull on Matt's wrist again to get the submissive to kneel in front of him. Matt leaned solidly against Brock's knees, looking up at him.
“Okay?” Matt asked quietly. Brock noticed, in that moment, that the locker room was silent. He glanced around, shame curling in his stomach as he saw half the team staring and the other half deliberately not looking at him. Moose and Ekky were standing nearby, looking tense. Probably waiting to see if they needed to stop Brock from doing something stupid. He noticed Yurov sitting suspiciously close to Tarasenko, practically hiding behind him.
Brock slid his fingers into Matt's hair to try to ground himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd dropped so suddenly. He didn't think he'd ever dropped in front of people like this. “Sorry,” he said softly, to Matt, then forced himself to look up at the rest of the team. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what happened.”
Some of the tension bled out of the room, and the rest of the team started going back to their post-practice routines. Moose stayed nearby, and Brock was aware of Kirill watching him, frowning, but Brock was able to focus mostly on Matt, who was still kneeling between Brock's feet. “Thanks,” he said quietly, scratching Matt's scalp the way he knew Matt liked.
Matt was looking up at him, eyes full of concern, and opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped when the locker room door opened again. Spurgeon walked back in, heading straight for Brock, and Matt laid his head heavily on Brock’s knee. It was exactly the sort of move that would make Brock’s dominant instincts focus on caring for Matt, rather than getting his hackles up at another dominant. Matt was very good at this, and Brock had just enough presence of mind to be deeply grateful for Matt's friendship.
“Are you okay?” Jared asked, sitting down a stall away from Brock so he wasn't looming over him.
Brock nodded wearily. “Yeah. I'm really sorry about that. I didn't… That's never happened to me before.”
Jared didn't react, just watched him carefully. When he spoke, his voice was kinder than Brock thought he deserved. “Drops happen to the best of us. Not your fault.” He looked down at Matt and sent him a little smile. “Boldy had you handled, it looks like.”
Matt would normally preen at the praise. It was probably telling that he didn't.
“Do you want to tell me what happened with you and Hughesy?” Jared was still calm, and said it like it was a genuine question, not a demand. He was always soft-spoken, but Brock could tell that he was making a specific effort to keep his voice down. Brock appreciated it. He was already mortified about snarling in front of the whole team, he didn’t need the added humiliation of being dressed down by their captain. Thankfully, Jared had never been the kind of captain to do that.
“Did Quinn tell you?” Brock asked.
“Not really,” Jared admitted.
“Then no, I really don't,” Brock said, shaking his head slowly. He wasn't entirely sure how much of their conversation had been overheard, before Quinn had yelled at him and attracted the attention of the whole room. He didn't want to explain, though. As much as he trusted Jared, this felt like something private. He just kept thinking about that notebook, full of Quinn’s cramped handwriting, clearly some kind of punishment.
“...Okay,” Jared said after a minute. “Quinn said he was okay, and there wasn't going to be a problem between you two.” He gave Brock a serious look. “Was he right about that? Do I need to worry about this kind of thing happening in the room?”
Brock wasn't surprised that Jared was upset about that. He knew the captain worked really hard to keep the atmosphere supportive and amicable. And he knew that Jared would take particular exception to anything that made the team's submissives feel uncomfortable. He always made it clear at the beginning of the season that any old fashioned, possessive dominant attitudes wouldn't be welcome in the Wild.
“No,” Brock said firmly. “I was… I was just taken off guard. It won't happen again.”
“Okay,” Jared said. He looked down at Matt again. “You free this afternoon to take Fabes home with you?”
“I'm fine, Spurgy,” Brock started to insist, but Jared interrupted him.
“I wasn't asking you, I was asking Matt.”
“Yeah, I'm free,” Matt said, lifting his head to look up at Jared. “I’ll sit on him if he tries to do anything stupid.”
Jared smiled, just a little. “Good to hear.” He looked at Brock, using the captain voice that he almost never used. “You're going home with Boldy. I'm not asking.”
Brock just nodded. He knew better than to try to fight Jared on this. “Yeah, okay.”
-
“Do you need a real scene, or are you good?” Matt asked as they walked into his apartment.
Brock just waved Matt off towards the couch, then headed into Matt’s kitchen. He came back a couple minutes later, arms laden with snacks, and sat on the couch next to him. Matt had turned on a basketball game on the TV and sprawled out, feet up on the coffee table. Brock settled next to him, then spent the next twenty minutes alternating between feeding himself and handing bites to Matt, who dutifully ate them. It was a common routine when they hung out. It helped both of them settle their instincts, something that Brock very much needed right now.
Eventually Brock pushed the food aside and slumped back into the couch. His dominant instincts weren’t grating against him so much anymore, but that didn’t mean he had stopped thinking about Quinn and that goddamn notebook. He took his glasses off to rub his eyes tiredly.
“So,” Matt said, clearly trying for casual, though Brock didn’t buy it. “You good?”
“Ngh,” Brock grunted non-commitally.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Matt said. “Which means now you can tell me what the fuck all that was.”
Brock put his glasses back on so he could glare at Matt. “I don’t need a lecture,” he grumbled.
Matt put his hands up, a mollifying gesture. “I’m not lecturing. I’m asking. What is going on with you and Quinn? What was that notebook?” His tone softened a little. “I’ve never seen you drop like that. So fast. Usually you know it’s coming before something pushes you over the edge. It… I mean, it was sort of scary.”
“I’m sorry,” Brock said, feeling about two inches tall. He remembered the reaction in the dressing room, the tension, and the way Yurov had been practically hiding behind Tarasenko. Brock hated the idea that he’d scared the rookie, and he hated even more that he had scared Matt.
“No, I wasn’t scared of you,” Matt said, shrugging off Brock’s apology. “I was scared for you. You looked… I don’t know. Not okay.”
For the second time that day, Brock felt an intense wave of gratitude towards his closest friend. “I’m okay,” he said quietly. “And… thanks. For stepping in. So I didn’t do something worse.”
Matt shrugged again. “Nothing you haven’t done for me before.” He gave Brock a minute before speaking again. “So. Quinn. What happened?”
Brock took a slow breath. He hadn’t allowed himself, even in his own head, to put words to what he suspected. What he was fairly certain of, actually. “I think… I think Quinn is punishing himself.”
Matt had been watching the game on TV, but now his head snapped towards Brock. “He’s what? How do you know?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Brock hedged. “But the notebook… It was full of lines. Like, writing lines, like a punishment. I didn’t see much, some of it was hockey related, but… I saw my name. I won’t be an asshole to Brock was in there.”
“Jesus,” Matt said quietly.
“He wouldn’t say who punished him,” Brock said. “He kept saying ‘no one.’ If someone else had scened with him, or punished him, why wouldn’t he just say it? He told me, last time we talked about it, that he doesn’t scene very often. And he doesn’t like new doms, he told me that after - in Florida.” Brock sat up a little, turning towards Matt. “He’s punishing himself. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Scening with an actual dominant makes him drop, so he’s trying to do it himself.”
“No, he has to know that’s not really a viable option,” Matt said, shaking his head. “He’s not an idiot. He has to know how much that could hurt him. He could make himself drop, with no one there to help. He could do worse, long term.”
“I know it’s fucked up, you don’t have to convince me,” Brock said, slumping back into the couch again.
“Fucking hell,” Matt breathed.
“Yeah. That was my reaction, too,” Brock agreed.
“Okay.” Matt took a breath and then looked at Brock again. “So what are you going to do? Because the previous plan of ‘hang around until he needs help’ doesn’t seem like it’s going to pan out. At least not soon enough.”
“It wasn’t a great plan,” Brock agreed. “I just thought… I had no idea it was this bad.” He stared at the television for a moment, not really even noticing the commercial that was playing. “What am I supposed to even do, though? He doesn’t want my help.”
“Yes, he does,” Matt said.
“No, he’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention the last couple weeks,” Matt said, looking at him accusingly. “He’s been sitting next to you, talking to you, I think I saw him smile at you yesterday. Who else on the team is he talking to? Anyone?”
“He talks to Kirill-”
“Kirill doesn’t count,” Matt said firmly. “He’s a sub, and they live in the same building.”
Brock tried to think back. Sure, Quinn didn’t really talk to many people, but he was just a quiet guy. They’d all figured that out within a few days of Quinn’s trade.
“You’re the only one he talks to,” Matt said. “I only really noticed it when we got back from the road trip, but it started before that. You’re the only person on the team he’s comfortable with.”
“I’m his d-partner,” Brock said. “He has to talk to me.”
“You’re being stupid,” Matt said with a huff.
“What?” Brock felt his anger flare. He was doing his best, and he wasn’t in the mood to be insulted.
“He's being stupid, and you're letting him,” Matt accused, “which makes you stupid by proxy.”
“I’m not being stupid, I’m trying to be respectful,” Brock retorted. “I’m trying not to be the kind of pushy, asshole dominant who forces himself on a sub who doesn’t want him, just because I think that I know what’s best for him!”
“Okay, sure,” Matt said. “That was all true when you didn’t have reason to believe that he was endangering himself.”
Brock opened his mouth to answer, but Matt was building a head of steam, and bowled right over him. "When's the last time you let me go more than three days without going under, especially during the season? There's a reason Spurgy puts rookie subs on a schedule, until they are comfortable enough with the team to ask for scenes on their own. I was on one, back when I was a rookie. He probably should have put Quinn on a schedule, but, well, he isn't a rookie. Spurgy probably thought he had it handled. Clearly a flawed assumption.”
Matt had a point, of course. A hockey season was stressful, both physically and mentally, and submissives needed to find subspace regularly, or the stress would eat them alive. Subspace was the only way for their nervous system to equalize, especially after all the adrenaline of a game. Doms needed scenes for the same reason, but could usually go longer between than most submissives. During the season, unless Matt was seeing someone at the time, he usually came to Brock for scenes, and he was right, Brock made sure that Matt went under every two or three days.
“My point is,” Matt continued, “If he’s not coming to you for scenes, he’s sure as hell not going to anyone else. And it’s been, what, three weeks since Florida?”
Brock felt his stomach clench at the thought of going that long without a scene. How was Quinn still playing hockey like that?
“It explains why he’s so pale, always has those bags under his eyes,” Matt added. “Why he’s always staring off into space, like he’s dissociating. He’s not okay, Brock. I know he said he was, but he lied.”
“I can’t force him,” Brock said quietly. As much as he wanted to help Quinn, he wasn’t going to cross that line. He wasn’t a monster.
“I know, but…” Matt shook his head. “If he won’t let you help him, you should go to medical. Or to Coach Hynes.”
“He would hate me.”
“Yeah, maybe, but he’s putting himself in danger, and you know it,” Matt said. “What if he drops on the ice? Or just by himself, in his own apartment, where he refuses to let anyone come help him? I don't see how this is any different than finding out that he's playing hurt and won't let the doctor take a look at him. It's stupid, and it's reckless, and you have a responsibility to do something, as his teammate. Honestly, so do I, now that I know, too.”
“I just-” Brock started, frustrated enough that he was stumbling over his words. “I just don’t want to be the kind of dom who won’t listen to what a sub wants. Who can’t handle being told no.”
“No,” Matt agreed. “No, you’re going to be the type of dom who does something about it when his friend is hurting himself.”
Brock sat there quietly for a while, processing. That had hit home. What kind of dom would he be if he just let Quinn continue like this? A shitty one, that was certain. A shitty friend, too.
“Okay,” Brock said finally. “Okay. I’ll try.”