Archive of Our Own

The Toronto Knights sucked. Not at hockey--they usually made it to the playoffs and, last season, all the way to the Stanley Cup--but as a team. A lot of the sucked as people. As far as Ryan Price could tell, there were two factions: the mean, entitled brutes that hung around Dallas Kent like fleas, and the resentful mouses scurrying around them, trying to avoid their wrath. Ryan was in the second group.

Sometimes, he dreamed about spearheading a third group. One that would stand up to Kent's incessant bullshit.

Like right now. Kent was out on the ice, close enough to the bench that Ryan could see and hear him make exaggerated effeminate gestures to make fun of Voyageur winger Dylan Xie, one of the few openly queer hockey players in the MLH. The others were Xie's teammate, Jeremy McAllister, and. . . well, Ryan. Though "openly" might be an overstatement for him. Ryan wasn't closeted, but nobody cared enough about him to notice. Not his new teammates or hockey fans at large.

Ryan preferred it that way, most of the time. Despite his large size and fiery ginger coloring, he was shy and awkward. He preferred keeping to himself and avoiding confrontations as much as possible, which tended to surprise people. Ryan was an MLH enforcer, after all, sent out to the ice to retaliate when his team's real players were victims of foul plays.

"Ooooh, I tripped over my skates next to another player," Kent was saying, in some kind of weird accent. It couldn't be Chinese. First of all, Xie was American and a native English speaker, and second of all, newer Chinese immigrants didn't sound like that. "Babikov, save me! I'll suck your dick after."

Kent's sycophants, Barrett included, all laughed and clapped his back. They couldn't think that was funny. Objectively, it was the kind of shit that the lamest bully in the playground would come up with. Ryan regarded them with disgust. What would be better? That they were so stupid they found that shit funny, or that they were all dumbly playing along with their team's best player? Kent wasn't even that good, just a high mid-tier forward who delivered a decent game once a month, at best.

"His asshole must be so lose from taking all the Voyageurs!" said another Knight. "Must be why he's always nosediving!"

"That's not true!" shouted Nathan Gowler, the only draftee that had survived the Knight's preseason camp. "What do you guys have against Dylan, anyway? You'd think he fucked all your moms." The kid paused. "Or dads."

There was moment of shocked silence while the team tried to recalibrate. Their bumbling rookie was talking back to their captain, like a lone weed sticking out through the cracks in concrete. Kent himself seemed frozen, at least for a couple of seconds, then he bristled and started skating towards Nathan.

Ryan stood up at the same time as Troy Barrett, Kent's second in command, skated in between them.

"You little shit," said Kent, face twisted into an ugly smirk. "Are you a faggot too?"

"Dallas, come on," Barrett was saying, as Ryan got in front of Nathan. "He just didn't get the joke."

"I got your shitty little joke," said Nathan, from behind Ryan. Other players were swarming around them, most of them looking confused. "It just wasn't funny."

"Are you queer too, Gowler?" sneered Kent, determined to get an answer. Or maybe too stupid to come up with another line of attack.

"Fuck you," said Nathan.

"I'm queer," Ryan announced.

Everyone froze, Nathan included. All the color drained from Kent's face. Barrett let him go.

"I'm gay," clarified Ryan, though there was zero chance that these brutes knew the first thing about the most basic nuances of queer identity. "Just so you know, next time you decide to run your mouth."

A pair of coaches interrupted them, probably summoned by one of the less stupid Knights, forcing Kent to settle for an ugly sneer. Ryan stood his ground.

And continued to do so for the rest of the week, responding to Kent's sneers and chirps with a stony face. Coach Cooper pulled him aside to needle him about the importance of team cohesion, and not taking things to seriously, but Ryan played dumb. He might be shy, but he knew that Cooper wouldn't want to risk some PR storm. If he got traded in the middle of the season, then good riddance.

Comments about Xie dwindled, at least around Ryan, because every time someone tried to say something, Ryan would look at them and calmly ask "what do you mean?" It turned out, no one wanted to explain themselves to him. Ryan didn't doubt that the homophobia continued when he wasn't around, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He tried to stick close to Nathan as well. The kid hadn't exactly made friends by standing up to Kent on behalf of a player from an opposing team. And a Voyageur, no less, the very team that had beat the Knights for the Cup last season.

"You okay?" Ryan tried in the locker room one afternoon.

Nathan shrugged. He'd been playing center against Kent all day, and the fucker had delighted in winning every face off, skating faster than him, and even checking him a couple of times when the drill hadn't called for it. He couldn't do much actual damage in front of the coaches, but that didn't account for how shitty it must be feel for a rookie to be targeted by his captain.

"Hey, maybe you want to watch a movie or something?" asked Ryan.

Nathan's hazel eyes widened and he shrunk in on himself. He took a step back, though they weren't standing that close to each other, and his thin lips seemed to trembled. Ryan felt himself going red before the kid opened his mouth.

"Look, I'm not g-gay," said Nathan, bracing himself.

"I didn't mean it like that," said Ryan, wishing he could turn invisible at will. "You're not my--I just. . . I mean. Never mind."

Ryan spared a second to be grateful he'd already gathered his things and fled the locker room. He didn't slow down until he was out in Toronto's cloudy street and pulled his hoodie over his head to decrease the chances that anyone would recognize him. That rarely happened, but when it did, it was almost always near the rink.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking. No, he did. He'd been trying to pay it forward, so to speak. Nathan was the only real rookie in the Knights and the only teenager. The other two younger players were entering their fourth year in the league, a few were in their early thirties, and the majority were in their mid-to-late twenties.

Though Ryan hadn't noticed at the time, the Bears' veteran players had been really nice to him during his rookie years. He'd felt like the odd-one-out in the team (not an unusual experience for him), but the Bears hadn't tried to force them to join in their annoying chirp-offs once they realized that Ryan was a naturally quiet guy. Most of their insults to other teams were focused on their flaws and mistakes on the ice, with only the occasional assault on their masculinity, sexual prowess, sexuality, and looks sprinkled in for variety.

What passed for variety among hockey meatheads, anyway.

A lot of that probably had to do with Ilya Rozanov, or simply Roz to the Bears. He was widely considered the best (or second best) forward in the league, locked in a perpetual rivalry with Montreal's Shane Hollander. And he was the quintessential hockey bad boy: irreverent, handsome, confident, and taking a different puck bunny to bed every weekend.

When he was drafted to the Bears four years ago, Ryan had dreaded meeting him. From what he'd seen on TV, he'd braced himself for Rozanov to be the ultimate douchebag bully, an amalgamation of every asshole he'd ever had to face on an ice rink. He'd been sure he'd have to endure taunting in a Russian accent the first time he panicked during a flight.

It hadn't played out like that. Roz had noticed that Ryan was terrified of flying to an unreasonable degree, but instead of making fun of him for it, he'd told the other Bears to give him some space on the plane.

I need my D-man rested good for next game, assholes. Let him sleep.

Hockey players were basically lemmings, deep down. They did as their chosen leader commanded with little, if any, questions. They liked clear instructions and the praise they got when they completed simple tasks. So, the Bears had left him alone, for the most part.

The routine changed a little bit last season, when Jake Merrell had been traded for Kalle Wynn from the Voyageurs. Another rising MLH superstar, always ranked in the top five forwards in the Eastern Conference and top ten for the entire league. Handsome too, with natural, thick red hair that had only a slight wave to it rather than the stringy mop on Ryan's head and face. Wynn also had a sharp jawline, a pair of faint freckles on his left cheekbone to spare his skin from complete flawlessness, and intense green eyes.

It was a good thing that he wasn't Ryan's type, or his presence on the plane would have made his panic worse. Wynn was also weirdly off putting sometimes, inflexible and always staring at people with an intense, but somehow blank, expression. He'd seated next to Ryan during their first flight together. While they were taking off, he'd looked at Ryan and said, quite matter-of-factly, "you're having a panic attack."

With much effort, Ryan had stuttered an explanation about his phobia of planes and flying.

"Ah."

"Please, don't explain how safe modern planes are," Ryan had snapped. "I know, okay? I fucking know."

"I understand the definition of the word phobia," Wynn had snapped.

His annoyed, impatient tone had pulled Ryan out of the worst of it. He didn't sound uncomfortable, scared, or embarrassed, as most people were when they noticed Ryan having an inappropriate reaction on a plane.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he'd asked, in the same tone.

"Uh, can you talk?" Ryan had said. "About anything."

"Yes, I can talk." And then Wynn had gone on to recite a play-by-play summary of the 1985 Stanley Cup series. Something about it--his monotonous voice, the dryness of the subject, the sheer absurdity of the situation--had kept Ryan's heartbeat somewhat under control.

They hadn't talked about panic attacks, phobias, or any other subject during the season, but Wynn always sat with Ryan on the Bears' plane and started talking about a random hockey game during take-off, landing, and any time there was turbulence. Whenever another Bear noticed, they did little but shrug and go about their business. Once in a while, there was a chirp about their "weird" teammates. When Ryan came out, there were a few questions about the nature of their relationship that Wynn didn't even bother to respond to.

Ryan didn't even know if Wynn considered him a friend, but Ryan certainly appreciated him. He was dreading getting on a plane without him.

By the time he made it back to his apartment in the Village, Ryan was calmer. When he rented the place, he told himself that he would take advantage of Toronto's significant queer population to. . . well, something. Get out more. Colleen, his sister, was always complaining that it was impossible to date in their tiny Nova Scotia hometown of Ross Harbor without risking some degree of incest with a second or third cousin. And she was straight. If Ryan ever made it back, he better do so with a husband.

So far, Ryan had not managed to make any headway there. Not in finding a husband--he wasn't looking for that at twenty-one--but in dating. He hadn't even bothered to furnish his nice apartment yet, though he'd been in Toronto for more than a month and had more than enough money. What would be the point? It wasn't like he spent much time at home. Colleen insisted that that shouldn't matter. He should be in a comfortable environment, if only so that he had some place to bring potential dates.

He could hook up without issue. A picture of his abs together with his height went a long way on Grindr if all he wanted was a horny bottom who liked eyeliner and wearing thongs, but it was less helpful for meaningful conversations. Or casual conversations.

Ryan remained cripplingly shy with other gay guys. He was shy in general, but it was definitely worse with guys he was attracted to. And the more attracted to them he was, the more tongue-tied he became. Being a successful pro hockey player didn't help either. The few times he'd met queer guys who enjoyed a more feminine presentation and also liked hockey, they'd been fans of forwards. More classically attractive ones who embodied the archetype of a hockey douchebag, to be specific. Roz, obviously. Troy Barrett. Even Shane Hollander, though he hardly swaggered like the other two.

He was making excuses, he knew. If Ryan had an actual personality, then it wouldn't matter that his type of guy usually wasn't into hockey. Ryan would be able to hold a conversation with them about any subject. Maybe if he managed to get one of them to like him for something besides a quick fuck, they might get into hockey a little bit for his sake.

And now he was shitting on himself. Like his teammates weren't doing that enough. He needed a distraction.

It was too early to call Colleen so he went to check the Bears legacy group chat, which included traded players. He didn't have anything to say, but it was nice to see old Bears sharing the occasional pictures of their pets or kids, memes, or random rambling about women, movies, their training/nutrition plans, and videogames.

He didn't bother to check the Knights' group chat. It wasn't as active, thank God. All they did was complain and put down players from other teams. And sometimes, each other. As far as Ryan could tell, they were obsessed with Voyageurs, way more than the Bears had been.

Better to stay with the Bears, at least on the group chat. The guys were currently arguing about the latest Rose Landry movie and whether or not her boobs were suspiciously bigger. Ryan was trying to think of something to add when his sister messaged him.

How are things going?

Ryan didn't have much to say other than "okay", which wasn't even a lie. There had been no fighting, chirping had been less annoying than usual, and Kent seemed to have decided that the best way to deal with Ryan was to ignore him.

He redirected the conversation to Colleen even though she complained that her life was much more boring than his. Ryan thoroughly disagreed; he found stories about the antics of literal three-year-olds way more interesting than recounting how shitty his fellow hockey bros had been on any given day. His sister was in the middle of getting her Masters in education with a focus on early childhood development. It sounded like she loved it. Ryan was very proud of her.

He was rarely proud of himself.

It took three days for Nathan to work up the courage to talk to Ryan again. Maybe he would have tried sooner, but Ryan kept ditching the rink the moment the coaches dismissed them for the day. That evening, he and Nathan were the last ones to leave.

"Hey," Nathan said, standing at least five paces away from Ryan. "Can I, uh, talk to you for a sec?"

"Okay," sighed Ryan.

"I wanted to apologize about the other day," said Nathan, much to Ryan's surprise. "I'm not like, homophobic or anything. Just, I didn't want you to think I'm a f--I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that!" He stopped talking and stared at Ryan miserably.

"I got you," said Ryan. He had to grade these dudes on a curve sometimes. "And don't worry; you're not my type."

"Hey, why not!"

Ryan chuckled. This was a surprisingly common reaction among the guys. A lot of the Bears had reacted similarly when Ryan's sexuality became obvious in the middle of last season. Dismay, defensiveness, followed by disappointment when Ryan declared that he wasn't carrying a torch for any of them. Cliff freaking Marlow had reacted like this. To his credit, he'd recovered quickly and helped to calm down the other Bears.

"I mean, that's good," said Nathan, nodding vigorously. "We're on the same page. We should go and see that movie. Did you have one in mind?"

"Ah, not really," admitted Ryan.

"Not a problem," said Nathan. "We'll go and watch whatever. Have you seen the new Rose Landry movie? I mean, I bet there's also a hot guy in it." Then, there was the over-correction to prove how cool they were about Ryan's sexuality. At least it looked like Nathan might be trying to speed through all of it.

There weren't any convenient movie times on a random Wednesday, so they decided to go and have dinner together. It was bordering on date-like behavior, but Nathan either didn't realize it or didn't care. Ryan suggested his favorite barbecue place before remembering that it was in the Village, but again. Nathan either did not notice or was forcing himself not to care. He did pause when he noticed a rainbow pin on the waiter that led them to their table, but other than a brief tense moment, offered no reaction.

Ordering food went smoothly thanks to the well-worn social script, but they sat in awkward silence when the waiter left them. For the first time in his life, Ryan actually wished to be recognized by someone--anyone--if only to ease the tension. No such luck. They were both new to Toronto. Nathan was new to the MLH as a whole.

"So," said Nathan, drawing out the 'o' sound. "Where are you from originally?"

"Nova Scotia," said Ryan, certain that 'Ross Harbor' would not be recognized.

"Oh, is that in Europe?"

". . . No," said Ryan. "It's one of the Canadian provinces."

"Oh." Nathan blushed. Then, he chuckled. "Well, you know what they say about Americans."

Ryan looked at him.

"That we're stupid," added Nathan.

"Uh." Well, people did say that.

"I'm from Florida," said Nathan. "I bet you know where that is but, no offense, it's a super famous state, so not really impressive."

"I don't think it's impressive I know where Florida is," Ryan felt the need to point out, for some reason.

The waiter saved them from that exchange by returning with their sodas. Ryan took the opportunity to try and make himself chill out. This wasn't a guy he was wining and dining, he reminded himself. This was some stupid straight hockey player rookie who was probably so lonely that he was willing to associate with the team queer. It should be a low stakes conversation. Good practice.

"So, I don't know if you know this," Nathan said, after the waiter left, "but the reason I got so mad the other day is I actually know Dylan Xie."

"You do?"

"Yeah," said Nathan, nodding. "We were on the same junior team back home. He's actually a really good guy!"

"Yeah?"

"Yes!" Nathan's voice rose a few decibels. "I know he's--not that there's anything wrong with that--but he's a really nice person. These assholes don't know him. And it's not anyone's business anyway, who he dates."

"I agree," said Ryan. How to ask for more details about Xie? Would it be too weird?

He didn't need to ask. Nathan had a lot of say, it turned out. Some of it, Ryan knew from following the Voyageurs' social media promotional stuff late at night, in an incognito window. Dylan Xie had declared for the MLH draft on a whim. He'd been planning to study mechanical engineering at college--Harvard, probably. He was a second generation Chinese immigrant and his father had died in an accident when he was eight years old. He was the second of three children; his sister was studying to be a surgeon at Harvard and his little brother was still in middle school.

Well, Nathan said maybe half of all that. Ryan might know a little too much.

"And he's nice, okay?" Nathan continued ranting. "He used to help us all with our homework; it must have been so annoying for him. Imagine him trying to explain graphs to us hockey dumbasses. He used to get this look in his face, roll his eyes like--" He demonstrated, probably in an exaggerated fashion. "--and then he'd go like 'never mind guys, just memorize this equation and plug in the numbers'." He didn't put on a shitty, stereotypical Chinese accent, only adopted a long-suffering tone. "It was so funny. We were trying to get through, like, geometry. And he was taking Calculus 10 or some shit."

"Yeah?" Ryan prompted him.

"Some of the guys were mad when he declared," said Nathan. "We all knew he was the best of us even though his family barely let him train. Some dudes kept saying that he should be at NASA fixing the climate or something, but that wasn't it. They all just wanted his spot. I mean, come on. Bros don't care about the climate. Half of them don't even believe it's real."

"Yeah?" He had a feeling that Nathan would keep rambling forever with just that one word.

Eventually, Nathan moved on from Xie and started talking about himself. He was an only child to a pediatric nurse and certified public accountant who always got Cs in school by the skin of his teeth. The only thing he was "mildly good" at was hockey.

"That's not true," said Ryan.

"What?" Nathan looked surprised to hear more than a single word, as though he'd forgotten he was actually talking to another person.

"You're not just 'mildly good' at hockey," said Ryan. "You made it to the MLH."

"Oh." Nathan paused, looked off into the distance. Then, he grinned. "That's true, I guess. That's definitely true. I could get fired tomorrow, and I'd still have made it to the MLH!"

"Right," said Ryan, relieved that he'd gotten it.

"You're not so bad, Ryan," said Nathan, with a small smile. "I mean! I didn't mean you were bad or anything. I meant. . . Forget it." He shook his head. "How about you call me Nate from now on? That's what my friends call me."

Ryan found made it home feeling a little lighter. He hadn't said much, but he was still counting that as a successful conversation that resulted in an actual social connection, if not a romantic one. A lot of the videos he'd watched online about social anxiety claimed that making casual friends at work was one of the better ways to ease into social situations.

Colleen agreed that it was a positive development when he told her about it during their evening call, though Ryan did have to clarify that Nate was straight.

"And even if turns out he isn't," Ryan added, "he isn't my type."

"His MLH headshot is a little unfortunate," said Colleen.

"Everyone looks crappy on those," said Ryan. In the privacy of his own mind, he admitted that Nate's face, with its thin lips and narrow chin, was not his best feature. Thankfully for him, straight women tended to be more forgiving about looks. Especially the looks of pro athletes in a lucrative league.

"Not Rozanov!" said Colleen. "He looks great."

Or Xie, Ryan didn't add. The last thing he needed was his sister encouraging him to hit on a guy who was so far out of his league that he might as well be in another planet. Ryan might have to admit that he had already tried and Xie seemed to not have noticed. Or maybe let Ryan down gently. By ignoring him.

Training intensified as the preseason approached. Coach Cooper assigned Ryan a boxing instructor, which took him off the ice for two hours every day and reminded him that he wasn't a real hockey player. Real hockey defensemen were supposed to be agile on the ice, if not exactly fast. Their supposed job was to block forwards, steer them towards the boards and away from the house, block their shots, steal the puck when possible, check them without landing themselves in the penalty box and awarding the opposing team a power play. That sort of thing.

But Ryan wasn't a real hockey player. His job was to beat the shit out of opponents who were too aggressive with the real hockey players on his team. To call him an enforcer might be overstating it, if his on-ice time was anything to go by. He went out only when the coach wanted him to intimidate someone in particular.

Last season had given him a little hope. He'd been sent out to the ice more often, and to defend Roz's line. He'd gotten in a decent number of clean checks and chased off forwards without devolving into stupid brawls. Ryan had started almost believing that he could actually play seriously. And then he'd been traded.

He whaled on the punching bag, enjoying the rush he felt every time his gloved fist made contact.

"Great job, Ryan!" his instructor said at the end of the hour. "Maybe you should've gone for boxing instead of hockey."

"Thanks," said Ryan, telling himself that the man probably meant it as a compliment. "Uh, my dad used to box."

"Really?"

They spent a few minutes chatting and Ryan made himself talk about his life back home a little bit--how his dad had noticed right away that Ryan liked the punching bags well enough, but balked when it was time to have matches with other kids. How he'd seemed much more "engaged" when he was skating, so he'd steered his son towards hockey instead.

"I thought I wanted to be a forward when I was younger," said Ryan. He cringed almost immediately, thinking of what assholes like Kent and Barrett would say if they heard that. Or his fellow defensemen, who loved their positions and thought they were some of the luckiest guys on Earth.

Ryan was one of the luckiest guys on Earth. He knew that. This season, he was being paid over a million Canadian dollars to play a game. It was embarrassing that he couldn't appreciate it.

"Yeah, most kids are focused on the forwards," said the instructor. Most likely, he hadn't found anything weird about Ryan's comment. Or he was noticing how weird Ryan was and wanted to end the interaction.

Ryan mumbled something generic and lame before hurrying to the locker room to gather his stuff and retreat for the evening.

"Hey man, how did today go?" Nate asked him as he gathered his own stuff.

"Fine," mumbled Ryan.

"Great, awesome!" Nate was grinning, so he'd probably had a good day. "I--"

"Check this out, guys!" said another defenseman, gesturing at his phone screen. "More Voyageur shit."

Ryan went over to stare at the dude's phone screen over everyone's head, apprehensive. With the Voyageurs, it could be anything. Literally anything. He shuddered at a memory of the circus surrounding the murder-suicide from last season.

It was nothing like that this time. On the screen, Jonas Carmichael was arguing with Jeremy McAllister, who was cradling the most enormous tabby cat Ryan had ever laid eyes on. It looked almost like a lion.

"Jer, don't be stupid," Carmichael was saying, "you can't take that thing home. We'll be on a roadie in like a week"

"She's a Maine coon!" said McAllister. "I love her."

"We've been in here half an hour!"

"And she come up to me," said McAllister, nuzzling the cat. "She loves me too, don't you baby? Don't you?"

Carmichael scoffed and looked to McAllister's side. "Dylan, do something."

The camera moved to a different couch, where Dylan Xie was using one of those sticks with a string and feather tied at the end to play with some other regular-sized cats. Gleaming bright, cherry-red stripes were running through his long hair. Some kind of dye?

"He loves her, Jonas," Xie said, grinning as a pair of cats tried to capture the blue feather he was shaking in front of them. "What do you want me to say?"

"Oh my God," sighed Carmichael, turning away from them.

The camera followed him until he passed by two other Voyageurs, Nikolai Babikov and Jamie Wagner, as they laid still next to each other, letting a bunch of cats climb and settle all over them.

It was some kind of outreach for a non-profit cat cafe in Montreal. A pretty blond girl explained the idea while the Voyageur rookies played with cats in the background. Even Carmichael paused his exasperated sighs to pick up a fat orange cat.

"We serve tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and pastries donated by our delicious local bakeries," the girl explained in French. Ryan had to read the English subtitles because he hadn't bothered to keep up his language skills. "Come and spend time as you like playing with our furry friends. All proceeds go towards helping all our local strays find a forever home. We also help fund the neighborhood's Catch-Spay-and-Release program to help control the--"

"Fags," said someone.

"Fellas, is it gay to like cats?" said Wyatt Hayes, their backup goaltender.

"McAllister is a confirmed fag!"

"It's one of the requirements," said Ryan. "We don't let you through the door at the fag council meetings unless you kiss a photo of a ragdoll cat."

A few guys chuckled until they noticed that Ryan wasn't laughing.

That night, Ryan spent some time catching up on the Voyageurs' social media stuff. He'd cut himself off earlier in the summer when he realized that it was creepy to be stalking a coworker online. Especially when he would be seeing Dylan Xie every time their teams played against each other and the guy had already rejected him. Ryan might be a loser, but he wasn't a creep.

He was curious about the new hairdo, though.

Dylan Xie red highlights he typed on his search bar.

The first hit after some annoying ads was a reel from the official Voyageurs account. Ryan looked to see if Xie had set up any personal accounts anywhere, but it didn't look like it. All he found was stan and hater accounts. Ryan went back to the Voyageurs' video.

"Why did you decide to get highlights?" asked a feminine voice off screen.

"Not one single reason," said Xie. "I think some of the fans? Like, the ones who kept wondering about my sense of 'style', which I don't have, I'm sorry to say. It was my school uniform, hockey uniform, and shorts and t-shirts from Walmart. Or Academy, if I was feeling fancy."

"Do you like the dye job?"

"It's not dye; it's hair extension things," said Xie. "I was going to dye it, but the girls at the salon said my hair's too dark and the amount of bleaching needed to get it to pick up pigment might damage it. And on top of that, they wouldn't be able to guarantee it would pick up pigment at all--sorry, I bet you knew all this, Melissa."

"I had some idea."

"I didn't," said Xie. "It was really interesting to learn about, and the extensions too. Just human hair in general; I didn't realize it was such a complex subject. I've had long hair for a long time, but beyond brushing it, keeping it clean, and braiding it before games and training, I didn't think about it."

"Why did you grow it out in the first place?"

"It grows too fast and I had to wait too long at the barbershop for a basic cut, so when I was like fourteen, I decided to just let it do what it wants. I haven't looked back since. Except for the hair extensions, which are a little more work, I guess."

There was an outright argument going on in the comments, as usual for one of his reels, but this time it was mostly from women arguing about whether or not he was lying about not knowing much about hair care. His hair was simply too healthy looking, too long and luscious, to be a result of basic washing and brushing. Hair that beautiful, even if some of it was due to genetic luck, was a part time job.

Ryan didn't know the first thing about hair. His own routine, if it could be called that, was merely washing it and using his stupid salary to schedule a barber visit to his apartment every two weeks when he wasn't on the road. He didn't like risking conversation with random strangers at the barbershop.

He believed Xie, though. The guy was so confident. It was the source of Ryan's hopeless crush, more so than his looks. He bet that if Xie had an elaborate hair maintenance protocol, he would be happy to share it with the world, just like he'd readily admitted that he'd gotten extensions to please his fans.

The days continued to blend into one another, but at least Ryan had someone to hang out with after work. He didn't have much in common with Nate, but the company wasn't bad and his apartment was close to the rink. And decked out in tacky, expensive-looking furniture.

"Did you hire an interior decorator?" Ryan asked one evening, gazing at a golden statue of some kind of jungle cat. He hoped the thing wasn't solid gold.

"Huh?" said Nate. "What's that? I've looking at cool stuff online."

"Hm," said Ryan, glancing around the living room. The color scheme could be described as 'haphazard rainbow', and Nate certainly wasn't gay.

"Don't look like that," said Nate. "My parents--and Dylan!--already gave me like ten speeches about being careful with my money, and how it's not as much as I think it is, and I should plan in case I get injured or wash out."

"Yeah?"

"I told you my dad's a CPA," said Nate. "He already hooked me up with a 'sensible financial advisor', but I still have spending money. And I want my house to look dope."

"Of course," said Ryan, looking at a giant disco ball that had been installed on the ceiling.

"Anyway, I can't believe you haven't seen the X-Force movies," said Nate. "We need to start from the beginning even though Rose Landry doesn't show up until the third one. The new one's the best one, but you won't get it for real unless we start from the beginning."

The X-Force movies were. . . okay. Not the most brilliant thing on Earth, but the characters were fun, the action scenes serviceable, and the dialogue snappy. Rose Landry was gorgeous; even Ryan could see that. Something about her coloring reminded him of Wynn, though Ryan of course thought Wynn was better looking.

Their first preseason game would be against the Voyageurs, over in Montreal. Ryan breathed a sigh of deep relief when an assistant coach told them that they'd be traveling by bus. Most of the other Knights grumbled about being stuck in a cramped bus for six hours when the team had a serviceable plane, but Ryan would spend the entire season living out of his car if it were possible.

"Oh man," said Nate. "They're the champions."

"Don't panic, rook," said Troy Barrett. "They lost like half their team last year. We'll be up against a kindergarten class."

Ryan wasn't so sure, and neither were the gamblers online. While the Voyageurs had lost an unusual number of players last season, they'd kept all their best ones, including the Shane Hollander. And consecutive two-time Eastern conference MVP, Jake Merrell, who was still very much in his prime. During the summer, they'd recruited some strong free agents and somehow gotten Jamie Wagner traded to them, a strong contender for rookie of the year last season and broadly expected to be another generational talent.

So the Voyageurs were strongly favored to win. Everyone was more interested in the next Voyageur-Bear game, which would be the last game of the pre-season. Not only were Montreal and Boston embroiled in a decades-long rivalry, but hockey fans everywhere couldn't wait to see how Roz would play post-accident.

Ryan loved this turn of events because it was driving Kent insane.

Kent might be a star center, and the Knights were considered a strong team, but the real stars of the Eastern conference were Roz and Hollander. They were the ones who sold tickets and merchandise. Their faces and names were the ones plastered in every generic MLH commercial. They were the ones who got shouted out in obscure rap lyrics and used as examples of hot athletes in Sports Illustrated. Roz's antics were the ones that ended in TMZ for no reason. Casual fans weren't arguing about who had the most technically impressive backhand; they were sighing about how dreamy Shane Hollander was.

The hardcore fans who did argue about who had the most technically impressive backhand didn't talk much about Kent either. He wasn't a generational talent, only serviceable. Top-mid tier at best, sure to have a respectable career so long as he didn't suffer any serious injuries. That was true of a lot of pro hockey players, and most accepted it at some point during their rookie years. Not everyone could be at the top, or no one would be at the top.

Kent obviously hadn't come to that conclusion.

He spent the last training session before their trip to Montreal skating like a man possessed, yelling at his linemates over the slightest mistakes. And some that he made up. Ryan blocked one of his shots during a drill--which he was supposed to try to do, just to be clear--and Kent skated his way with a furious look on his face. Ryan braced himself, not particularly scared.

Just tired. He knew the coaches would blame him for whatever came next.

"Hey, Dal!" Troy Barret called out, skating closer to his shitty friend. "Don't make a thing out of it. It was a fair block."

Kent stopped for a second. He spat on the ice, dangerously close to Barrett's skates, then moved back to his original position. The assistant coach signaled them to try the drill again. Barrett remained frozen, next to Kent's drying spit.

"Why do you put up with that?" asked Ryan.

Barrett startled. For a second, his striking blue eyes flashed with a strange sort of fear. He gave a noncommittal shrug and skated to position at Kent's left. Maybe Ryan had imagined the look in his eyes.

He hadn't imagined the strange situation going on between the Knights' top forwards, though. Barrett was handsome, a good skater, and mostly okay to be around when he wasn't playing along with Kent's bullshit. In fact, he often tried to deescalate potential arguments. If anyone in Toronto had a shot to change the atmosphere and build that sense of camaraderie Coach Cooper kept babbling about, it was him. So, why didn't he?

Well, Ryan certainly wasn't going to ask. Maybe Barrett just wanted to coast. Maybe he was an asshole, happy enough to be nasty verbally, but unwilling to have his locker room break out in an actual fight.

Next day, Ryan was the most relaxed Knight on the bus simply because they weren't in a fucking plane. Mean as it was, he enjoyed being the calmest person in the room, for once. Calmest person in the area. Bus. Whatever. In contrast, the other Knights were bristling with excitement and anxiety. Exhibition match or not, they all wanted to win.

"Gilbert Comeau is mostly average, right?" said Nate. He was sitting next to Ryan looking like he wanted to throw up. The bus had been moving for maybe twenty minutes. Not a good sign.

"He's a reliable defensive player," said Ryan.

"But he loses face offs frequently, right?" insisted Nate.

He was probably thinking that as the Knight's third line center, he might have to face the Voyageurs' third line center. That wasn't how hockey worked, but Ryan guessed that Nate didn't want to be reminded that he might have to face off against Shane Hollander.

"How many face offs did Comeau lose last season?" asked Nate.

Ryan didn't have those sorts of numbers memorized, but he bet Comeau lost face offs at an acceptable rate for a center with his experience. "Nate, it's okay," he said. "You may or may not lose a face off against Comeau. Centers lose face offs all the time, even Shane Hollander. Just try your best."

Nate nodded, but he didn't exactly look calmer. There wasn't much else Ryan could do. He remembered his own first MLH game. At least Nate didn't look like he was about to throw up.

The Montreal crowd was ecstatic, more so than usual. Ryan feared that someone would have a heart attack when their beloved Voyageurs entered the rink, waving happily at their fans. On the screens, the prediction markets seemed certain that they would win the game. For a second, Ryan let himself imagine what it would have been like to be traded to them instead.
He'd probably be huddling in a corner somewhere, dreading his next flight.

While they waited for the game to start, Kent approached the edge of the bench wearing an ugly smirk. "Hollander! Heard you finally got a girl. Is her pussy as tight as your wingers'?"
Hollander didn't even look his way, merely sipped at his bottle of Gatorade calmly. Kent got stuck in the awkward silence until Xie, seated on Hollander's side, leaned forward to peer behind Kent. He waved, eliciting a quick response from Nate. Kent was, luckily, ignoring his team.

"Xie," said Kent. "How's your asshole. Heard my dad was pretty rough with you last night."

What? Didn't that imply that Kent's dad was gay? Ryan heard a small sigh coming from Barrett.

"Thanks for your concern," said Xie, "but it turns out your dad has a small dick."

From Xie's other side, Jake Merrell snorted.

It was a strange game, played mostly by the teams' second, third, and fourth lines, and not because the coaches were trying out new combinations. It was just that every time Kent was on the field with Hollander, he picked a stupid fight. A very stupid fight. Hollander was one of the bulkier forwards and not shy about using his weight and speed when he was mad. And it looked like Kent made him really mad.

At one point during second period, Cooper sent Ryan out with explicit orders to target Hollander, which he didn't want to do at all. Not because he was afraid, but because he didn't fancy getting into a fist fight over Dallas fucking Kent. It was one thing to do it for Roz, who was a fair player even at his most annoying, but Kent? If anything, Ryan wanted to join forces with Hollander.

Theriault must have read Cooper's lips or something, because he called for a switch and sent out Babikov, who was about the same size as Ryan. And a better player too; he'd won Rookie of the Year last season. Babikov proceeded to stick as close as he could to Hollander without outright abandoning the D-line. The crowd started rumbling, likely expecting a fight between him and Babikov.

Ryan groaned, despairing at how much the season was going to suck.

He didn't end up fighting Babikov. He had done it before, but it was never easy and Ryan didn't fancy a black eye over Kent. Or hurting Babikov either, who seemed like a sweet kid on Voyageur reels. It wasn't particularly difficult to let Hollander skate circles around him until his fellow defenseman got impatient and checked Hollander from a bad angle. Babikov settled for picking a fight with that guy and Cooper benched Ryan for the rest of the game.

The Voyageurs ended up winning, four-to-one. Wagner scored twice, and Pike and Merrell once, respectively. Barrett managed the Knight's solitary goal.

"That was an absolute fucking disgrace!" Cooper shouted at them in the locker room, after they'd skated off the ice with their tail between their legs. Ryan tuned him out. He didn't care that they'd lost. Maybe he should, but he just didn't. This team was full of assholes.

Nate, on the other hand, was clearly devastated. He huddled on the bus next to Ryan, pretending to sleep. Ryan knew it was pretend sleep because his breathing was off. Every once in a while, he sniffled.

"Did anyone say anything to you?" asked Ryan.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," said Ryan.

"Nobody said anything." Nate sniffled again. "That was just the worst game ever. I couldn't do anything."

Ryan thought it'd been pretty standard, Hollander-Kent beef aside. They'd just lost, so it felt shitty. He almost told Nate that losing was part of the job, then he remembered that it was the kid's first MLH game. It would have been nice to win, or at least to not get their asses handed to them so soundly.

Out of habit, he checked what the talking heads on ESPN were saying.

The Knights clearly haven't moved on from last year's Stanley Cup series. At least Kent hasn't, if the way he kept trying to fist fight Hollander is anything to go by.

Hollander looked pretty eager to rise to the challenge, if you ask me.

Could we have a new rivalry in the Eastern conference? We could use one, now that the Voyageurs and the Bears are friends.

Nah.

Ryan closed the tab. He hadn't ever spoken directly to Shane Hollander--he doubted Shane Hollander could pick him out of a line up--but he'd played enough games with both him and Roz on the rink to know how Hollander acted when he thought he was facing a worthy opponent. It wasn't by tackling him onto the ice before raining punches down on him until J.J. Boiziau had to drag him off.

He moved on to the Bears' group chat, where he learned that they'd been victorious in their first match of the pre-season over in Buffalo.

Maybe they're still too embarrassed about their cuck captain, said Mitch Denk.

That dude isn't even on their team anymore, Damian Cook responded.

Ryan agreed. And besides, the Bears won three-to-two. The Wolves had not crashed as hard as the Knights. Ryan watched the highlights of the game, smiling. Roz had scored twice and assisted Wynn for the clincher. Wynn skated over to Roz and kissed his helmet in what had to be the most demonstrative goal celebration of his career.

The internet and commentators were already declaring that he'd recovered fully from his accident. It was probably too early to say for sure, but regardless, it was nice to see Roz smirking at the camera again.

Hollanov Private Chat

Shane Hollander
why are you slobbering over Wynn every time there's a camera on you two?
very macho of you

Ilya Rozanov
of course
Wynn is prettiest Bear right now and because your team sucks ass my baby doesn't have championship ring
not acceptable

Shane Hollander
do you think this is safe?

Ilya Rozanov
what do you mean?

Shane Hollander
how far are you planning these little "jokes" with Wynn?
first he's your kitten and now he's your baby?

Ilya Rozanov
hollander are you having another episode?

Shane Hollander
what's your next quip gonna be?
are you planning to fuck Wynn on center ice?

Ilya Rozanov
omg Hollander
sure you want this shit in writing?

Shane Hollander
you have it on fucking video
what would Putin think of this?

Ilya Rozanov
did you ask what Vladimir Putin thinks of me messing around with teammates?

Shane Hollander
maybe you've heard of him
he's the dictator of your homophobic country where it is illegal for you to be calling random men baby
what would he think?

Ilya Rozanov
idk what would Trudau think of you sucking my dick?

Shane Hollander
he wouldn't have me fucking arrested for it
he's not even prime minister anymore
and it's Trudeau

Ilya Rozanov
well
this has been great talk

Shane Hollander
great so you'll back off Wynn then

Ilya Rozanov
no I will not 'back off'
who do you think you are telling me how to treat my teammates?
or telling me who I can touch?
do I do these things to you?

Shane Hollander
I don't care who you touch but Wynn is different
he probably doesn't understand what you're doing and he doesn't like all this bullshit chirping and messing around

Ilya Rozanov
he likes it plenty coming from me

Shane Hollander
no he doesn't
you just wore him down

Ilya Rozanov
fine then
I will stop playing with Wynn and when he notices I change
and he will because he is not dumb like you think
I will explain his keeper shane hollander said he is too stupid to take a joke and would rather be a boring loser with no friends

Shane Hollander
that's not what I fucking said and you know it
you know what
do whatever you want
it's not my problem if you end up in a fucking gulag

Ilya Rozanov
wait Hollander wait!!!

Shane Hollander
what?

Ilya Rozanov
fuck marry kill: Putin, Trump, Trudeau

Shane Hollander
fuck you

Ilya Rozanov
you know only one correct option
Hollander!!! come back!
see you next week in Boston
we will kick your ass
if you win I let you kiss Wynn on the cheek

Shane Hollander
I don't need your fucking permission to kiss Wynn

Ilya Rozanov
kill Trump fuck Putin marry Trudeau
then fuck him

Shane Hollander blocked Ilya Rozanov