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Leon’s always the first one on the ice. It’s a habit he can’t break from his time with the Raccoon City Hellhounds, when Captain Krauser used to make him run drills an hour before the rest of the team showed up.
Even though he’s with the DC Capitals now, he arrives at the rink before most of the lights are even on and laces up his skates. It’s become therapeutic, time for him to think before the locker room is buzzing with activity.
He sits down at the bench to tape up his stick. As he reaches the toe of the blade, he unceremoniously runs out of tape, leaving him with an empty roll. He sighs when he reaches into his equipment bag and finds it devoid of a new one.
A gentle knock on the door frame startles him. He’s usually the only one here for at least 45 minutes.
“Morning.” You’re standing in the doorway, already opening a new roll of tape for him. He notes that it’s his favorite brand, but decides not to put too much thought to it.
“You’re here early.” He says, accepting the tape when you pass it over.
You shrug. You’re holding a large drink from a cafe down the street and your famous scheduling clipboard. “I just wanted to do some inventory. It’s a lot easier when you guys aren’t crawling around in here. No offense.”
“None taken.”
You’ve been the Capitals’ equipment manager for three seasons, two of which Leon has been a part of. You’re the reason any of this shit even comes together and his team isn’t lost looking for a hotel at one in the morning.
Every team has a person like you. Someone who buys new sticks, books hotel rooms, and memorizes Starbucks orders. All the little things that keep things running like a machine instead of grinding to a halt.
Every team has a manager like you, but only the Capitals have you. Leon considers it pretty lucky. Maybe something like fate.
Nah, that’s too dramatic for…friends.
Er, coworkers.
“Shooting drills this morning?” You ask as he finishes taping up his stick.
He nods. “I’ll probably do that and work on some puck control.”
“I won’t tell Coach that you’re not doing speed work.” You say, taking a sip of your drink. His heart stutters a bit at your teasing tone.
“Yeah, the last thing I need is him on my ass, so let’s keep it between us.” He stands with a grunt. He’s taller than you, meaning he gets a peek at the clipboard. It’s all highlighted gibberish.
You grin and give him a little mock salute. “Yes, Captain.”
He rolls his eyes but bumps his glove gently against your arm before he heads out to the rink.
Leon survives his personal warm up and team practice without much fuss. He gets a bit distracted every time he glances down at his stick, remembering the way your fingers brushed his when you handed him the tape.
“What’s got you blushin’, Kennedy?” One of the rookies has the nerve to ask as they file back into the locker room.
Leon shoots him a glare.
“Hey, Kennedy.” Your soft voice interrupts him. Leon blinks, turning and praying to god he doesn’t still look pissed off.
“Oh, hi. Hey. What’s up?” He fiddles with his stick, bouncing it back and forth between his hands.
You show him the clipboard, like he’s supposed to understand what all the color-coded bullshit means. “We have a meeting, remember? We have to go over your equipment sheet for the year.” You make a little tsking sound at him. “Everyone else has done it but you.”
Leon acts like he’s forgotten, when in reality, the thought of this meeting has kept him up at night for the past three days. He’d ‘rescheduled’ twice already because he was too nervous to be alone in the equipment storage room with you. “Oh, that’s today? Shit, alright. Sure. I’ll be, uh, right there.”
As soon as you leave, Leon has to ignore the rising laughter and the sound of someone humming the wedding march. Are his teammates children?
He takes his sweet time getting to the equipment room, even though it’s just down the hall. When he finally opens the door, he almost runs directly into you on the other side.
“Oh! You’re actually here!” You hold your clipboard to your chest and look up at him. “I was just coming to look for you.”
Leon glances at a cinderblock on the wall over your head. “Yeah, sorry. I…lost track of time.”
“No problem. Get in here.”
You gesture him inside. The equipment room is small and a little musty, but you’ve somehow made it feel cozy. Your desk is pushed into one corner, piled high with papers and empty mugs. You rifle through a few folders and produce a form seemingly at random.
“Alright, let me make sure I’ve got the right guy.” You say with a little smile, leaning your hip on your desk as you slide the paper in place on your clipboard. Leon’s eyes follow the line of your form for a moment before they snap back to your face. “Mr. Leon S. Kennedy, number 24. Captain and center.”
Why does Leon feel like he can’t breathe when you say his real name?
“Sure sounds like me.” He says, folding his arms.
You busy yourself with a tape measure, rambling on about the different charity jerseys that were going to debut this season. Leon accidentally holds his breath every time you get close. He can smell the fragrance you’re wearing, still lingering on your skin even after rushing around all day.
“You like this brand of tape, right?” You ask once he thinks you're done, holding up a roll of his preferred tape.
He blinks. It’s a personal preference he’s never really brought up. The team uses a different brand, one that he’s sure they have a sponsorship with. He typically buys his own.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal, though.” He tries to brush it off. Even as he speaks, he knows it is a big deal. Hockey players are well known for their superstition. If you’d have given him the team brand this morning, he’d probably have preferred to go out with his stick half-taped up.
You scribble something in the margin of his sheet. “C’mon. Anything for the Captain.”
“I don’t need special treatment.” He insists. The idea of being treated any differently leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“Then consider it a friend helping a friend.” You shoot him another one of those disarming smiles and all his stubbornness suddenly disappears.
“I guess.” He mutters, then: “Thanks.”
You fill out the rest of your form fairly quickly, sending him off with a little wave. “Don’t be a stranger, Kennedy.” You tease.
Leon’s at the rink at 4:30 AM the next morning, head fuzzy as he skates speed drills.
You start showing up early too, appearing in the locker room every time he drags himself back to the bench. A new ritual is slowly threaded into his morning routine: accepting a cup of coffee and asking how you are.
“I’m neck deep in hotel and flight scheduling for the season right now.” You tell him one early morning as the season starts to loom near, when he notices the circles under your eyes. You’re holding an energy drink in one hand and your clipboard in the other. He’s seated next to you on the bench, rows of empty lockers in front of you. “Coach wants to fly West Air but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Leon has no doubt you’re the expert when it comes to this stuff. Every time you talk logistics, his head spins with all the details and minutiae. Despite the clear stress of planning, you always seem to have everything under control.
“Yeah. He’s a dipshit.” Leon says, just to coax a smile out of you. It works.
“Careful. That’s my boss.” You tilt your head. “Yours too.”
He knocks his knee into yours. The brief contact sends electricity up his spine. “Coach can’t tell me what to do.”
You laugh, then take a thoughtful sip of your drink. “That’s what I like about you. You do your own thing.”
Leon’s face feels hot. “Yeah? I guess.” Wow, what a smooth talker he is.
Thankfully, you put him out of his misery by standing up and checking your clipboard. “Sorry to cut this short, but I've got to run.”
He’s a little disappointed, but tries not to let it show on his face. After all, the team was probably going to start filing in soon. He’d never hear the end of it if you got caught together.
“Well, good luck with…all that.” He says.
He swears you wink when you leave the locker room.
The first game of the season is an away game in Harvardville, so Leon gets packed into the first of many buses in his future. He’s so busy getting the rookies situated that he boards last, pushed to the back of the bus. He’s about to sit when he notices you’re sitting in an aisle seat next to someone’s backpack.
He stands and walks over. From here, he can already pinpoint the bag as JD’s.
You glance up from your laptop. “Do you need something?”
He’s not focused on you right now. His gaze finds JD, who’s sitting in the seat behind.
“Move the bag.” He says flatly. The kid quickly stands and drags it to his own row.
“It wasn’t bothering me.” You say, tilting your head.
He shrugs, suddenly self conscious of the glances some of his teammates are throwing your way. “...I know you like the window seat.” He mutters. He’s been on enough buses and planes with you to notice the way you like staring outside.
When he returns to his seat, he glances over and feels satisfied when he’s seen you’ve shifted, watching the scenery slowly roll by.
Everyone’s exhausted when the driver pulls into the hotel. You’re wide awake still, handing out room assignments and keycards as everyone drags themselves off.
He’s again one of the last off, and you just give him a slightly panicked look when he climbs down the stairs.
“Shit. Did you have a card?” You ask, opening a manilla envelope labeled HARVARDVILLE - HOTEL in bold sharpie.
“No.”
You nearly rip through the envelope, then start thumbing through ones labeled with other stops along the way. “I don’t think I miscounted.” You mutter.
Leon shrugs, shuffling his heavy bag to his other hand. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep on someone’s couch or floor.” He’s tired enough that he could probably pass out anywhere.
“No, no, hold on. I'm not sharing a room with anyone since coach's assistant went on parental leave.” You say quickly. “Don’t sleep on the floor. That’ll be terrible for your back.”
“I don’t want to intrude.” He says softly. It’s a bit of a lie. He does want to intrude, to see who you are when you aren't hiding behind the clipboard.
Instead of an answer, you start walking toward the front door of the hotel. “Come on, Kennedy.”
Leon unlocks the door for you and turns on the lights as you drag the luggage inside. The team is only in town for two days before going back on the road, so it’s just the essentials. He lets you take the bathroom first as he claims the bed that’s closer to the door. It’ll be easier to get up for a morning run without disturbing you.
When you exit the bathroom, you’re wearing a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt clearly leftover from a promotion that’s two sizes too big for your frame. Some of the tension has left your shoulders, looking more like exhaustion now. Sure enough, you flop down onto the other bed and plug in your phone.
“You can leave the lamp on if you need.” You say with a yawn and a stretch that makes his heart flip.
Leon nods and escapes to the bathroom before he does something stupid. Your toiletries are strewn out over the sink. He stares at himself in the mirror instead, like it’s too personal to see all your stuff casually laid out.
It’ll be fine. He just has to make it through pre-game practice tomorrow, then the game, then it’s off to the next stop. He’ll barely be in the room anyway. Just fine.
(Back to the early days of avoiding you.)
He finally heads back to the main room. You’re in your bed scrolling on your phone, and glance up when he returns.
“You can turn off the lights whenever.” You say. The light from your screen bounces off your brow.
“Don’t stay up too late.” Leon counters, collapsing into the other bed. It’s alright, as far as hotel beds go. He’s a pro at falling asleep anywhere, whether on a couch, bus, or plane. It’s just a blessing to have a pillow and a blanket.
You hum in agreement, but don’t put down your phone. Leon closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, the alarm clock on the nightstand is blinking 3:46 AM. You’re hunched over your laptop, using your phone’s flashlight to scribble something on your clipboard.
“Dude.”
You have the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
Leon sits up, rubbing sleep from his eye. “No, you’re fine. What are you doing up?”
You click a few things onscreen. “I’m double checking all the other reservations to make sure everyone has rooms.” There’s a note of guilt in your voice, like you still feel responsible for the mix-up.
“Hey, it’s fine. It can wait until the morning.” He tries to lean across and close the laptop lid, but it ends up being a bit further reach than expected. His hand paws at the air instead and you give him an amused look. Mercifully, though, you close the laptop and plunge the room into darkness.
“I guess you’re right.” You say.
Leon squints through the darkness, trying to see your face. “Get some sleep. I don’t want to see you up before 8:00.”
You laugh, but he hears the springs of your bed squeak softly as you lie down. “Sure, Captain.”
He stares at the ceiling and considers telling you that it’s okay to call him Leon. By the time he decides, he can hear you snoring softly.
Leon wakes again at 6:25 for his 6:30 run. You’re fast asleep, and still are when he returns dripping sweat with coffee.
“Hey.” He taps your shoulder. Nothing. Your eyelashes flutter, but your eyes remain closed. He tries louder: “Hey. I got coffee.”
“Mmm?” You mumble, one bleary eye half opening. Your disoriented gaze lands on him and you close them again.
“Wake up.” He insists again, jostling you this time.
Both your eyes open. You blink a couple times then squint at him. “Oh. Huh.” You say with a yawn. “Didn’t think I was awake.”
As you accept the coffee, he takes the chance to tease. “I can’t help that I’m so dreamy.”
You roll your eyes, but he catches a little smile behind the cup. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Kennedy.”
It takes you an impressively short time to get ready. By the time Leon has checked his emails and drank a quarter of his latte, you have showered, dressed, and thrown your empty cup away.
“Ready?” You’re already flipping through your clipboard. “Practice isn’t until 10:00, but I bet we can catch the continental breakfast downstairs before it closes at 8:00.”
“Man, you never stop.” He says, mostly to himself.
A few of the guys are already downstairs, polishing off huge plates of waffles and eggs. Someone whistles when he walks in beside you, but he can’t pinpoint which table it came from to glare.
“I see the lovebirds have made it.” Serra chirps, waving from a table in the corner.
Leon sets his drink down at an empty spot nearby. “Watch it.”
You’re floating between tables, asking how everyone’s morning is, inquiring if their key was working correctly, wondering if their beds were comfortable, all that stuff. Leon bumps your hip as he walks by.
“Get some breakfast before it’s gone.” He says as he passes.
“Oh, sure, sure.” You nod, then go back to discussing the hotel’s gym with one of the rookies, taking very intensive notes.
Leon balances two plates on his final trip back to the table, setting one on the other end before digging into some cereal. You can’t beat some good fast carbs.
At 8:00 on the dot, the hotel staff start cleaning up the buffet area. You’ve cornered Coach now, apologizing profusely for the mix-up with the hotel rooms. Leon watches out of the corner of his eye. Coach thankfully shakes his head and sends you off with a pat on the shoulder.
You glance around at the closed partition where there once was hot food, as if staring will make it appear once again.
“I got you a plate. It might be cold now, sorry.” Leon says finally.
You perk up, finally sitting down across from him. Your clipboard is placed carefully beside your plate, presumably so you can keep notating while eating. “Aw, thanks! I thought I’d be fast enough to catch them before they put it away, but obviously not.”
From the table beside, Serra glances up from his phone, smirking as you open a container of yogurt. “How is sharing a room with our Leon?”
Leon considers kicking him hard in the shin but holds back.
“Hm?” You glance up. ‘Oh, he’s been fine. He brought me coffee this morning.”
“Ah, did he?” Serra’s voice is filled with delight. Leon refuses to meet his gaze.
“It’s whatever.” He mutters at the same time you say: “It’s kinda our thing.”
Leon carries the conversation all through practice. Somehow everyone’s heard the scandalous news that he, what? Bought you a drink? Friends do that. It was a friendly thing.
“I’m jealous. Getting cozy with the equipment manager?” Oliveira says when they sit down for a brief water break.
If it was anyone else, they’d have earned a shove into the boards. However, they’ve got history playing together for Raccoon City, so Leon just sticks a middle finger in his face and skates off.
After practice, some of the guys get together to go explore the city. Leon’s never been that into it, but gets dragged along with a promise someone will pay for his first round.
He gets a little drunk. Ok, a lot drunk. Drunk enough that someone calls him an Uber to be sent back to the hotel.
(That’s why he never goes out.)
He fumbles with the keycard on the door, but it keeps flashing red instead of green. “Stupid fuckin’ thing.” He mutters under his breath, rattling the door handle as though it’ll do anything.
He manages to get his phone out and tries to call one of the guys. His vision swims as he stares at the prismatic carpet pattern.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end isn’t Redfield.
“Mm? Is Chris there? M’trying to call Chris.” He mutters, attempting the card one more time. The scanner buzzes aggressively and flashes red. “Fuckin’ goddamn it.”
“Leon?” There’s shuffling on the other end of the call. “Are you still with the team?”
“At the hotel.” He squints at his keycard, like it’s personally wronged him. “Is Chris there?”
“I’m coming, stay put.”
A few moments later, a door three down from where Leon is standing swings open. You step out, looking like you just dragged yourself from bed. You’re not even wearing shoes, just socks that pad along the carpet as you walk over to him.
“Wrong door.” You say softly, putting a hand on his wrist. “Come on.”
“Hi.” He says as greeting, and hears his own voice echoing from the phone in your other hand.
You smile over your shoulder. “Hi. Did you have fun?”
“They made me go home.” He mutters, still a little annoyed. The night had just started getting fun, that hazy, relaxed feeling settling into his chest.
You laugh, pulling him inside the hotel room and closing the door. “They’re trying to save you from having a hangover for the game tomorrow.” You help him sit down on his bed, setting your phone and his on the nightstand. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Leon slumps back against the pillows, closing his eyes. Now that he’s horizontal, he’s suddenly aware of the subtle pressure starting to build behind his forehead. He presses his palms against his eyelids and groans.
“Here, this will help.” You’re back, nudging a cup of water and two pills into his hand. He takes them easily, slumping back down once he’s finished.
“You’re really nice.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “I like you a lot.”
“Yeah?” You laugh softly, pushing a strand of hair off his forehead.
He opens one eye. Even though his vision is still blurry, he can still make you out, standing over him.
Why does someone like you even care about someone like him? You, who has everything together all the time, making every decision perfectly and independently. Then there’s Leon, who can barely string together a sentence to communicate how he feels and hides his struggles behind self-imposed grueling workouts and manufactured isolation.
Instead of saying any of that, he just closes his eyes again. “Yeah.” Then, he adds, "I'm tired."
“Yeah, me too. Sweet dreams, okay?" You say, finally flicking off the light. He can hear you climbing into your own bed, springs squeaking.
After a bit of silence, you add, “I like you, too. Just so you know.”
Leon wants to respond, but slips under before he can reply.
His fitness watch buzzes to wake him up at 6:25 like always. His head aches a little, but he’s had worse.
The embarrassment is pretty bad.
He sits up and rubs his face. Did he seriously sleep in his clothes? Did he seriously tell you he liked you, like a schoolgirl with a crush?
His morning run goes two miles longer than normal, as he chases the runner’s high that will clear the racing thoughts from his head.
On his return, he has to pause outside the hotel door for a few moments to collect himself. Part of him hopes you’re not inside, but he hadn’t seen you down for breakfast yet, so there’s not much chance for him there. Does he acknowledge last night? Ignore it? Pretend like nothing even happened and like he’s not dragging a hangover behind him like a heavy equipment bag?
The door opens before he can decide. You’re in your usual game day gear: business casual in the Capitals colors and a pin on your lapel with the logo. Leon can’t look you in the eye, instead staring at the stupid pin. It’s from the championship win last year.
“Oh, hi! I was worried you got lost out there.” You joke.
“Nope.” He says lamely. “I just went a bit long today.”
You step aside to let him in. “No coffee?” You ask, leaning on the doorframe.
Leon stiffens. He’d passed a couple shops on his last mile, but none of them looked good enough for you. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“Come on, I’m just pulling your leg. You’re so serious.” You laugh, then lower your voice a little. “Are you feeling better?”
Leon focuses on making the bed, a habit he’s never had before this exact moment. “Yeah, a little. Sorry I bothered you.”
“You weren’t a bother.” You pause, and he can hear the tapping of your fingernails against the bottom of your clipboard. “You were…fine.”
He choses to take his as you letting him sidestep his embarrassing confession without being outright rejected. As much as it hurts, he’s glad you don’t drag it out.
“Thanks. You were…also fine.”
“Cool.”
There’s a long silence as Leon smooths out the pillowcase for the third time. If he continues doing this, he doesn’t have to look at you.
“Well, I’ll see you down there. Don’t take too long, you’ve got to be in the locker room by 9:45. Puck drop is noon.” Your demeanor changes from friendly to managerial, offering some more distance that Leon both hates and is thankful for.
He nods and the door clicks when you finally exit.
Leon’s a bit disappointed when he goes down for breakfast and you’re already gone. There’s a lone paper travel cup of coffee on one of the tables, and his heart skips a beat when he sees his name written on it in a familiar handwriting. He has to quash it, because you're clearly just being friendly.
He can’t get to the rink as early as he’d like since it’s not home ice, but he puts on some headphones and tries to block things out.
At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if he got too drunk last night, or blurted out his feelings, or if you let him down like a lame animal. Leon Kennedy was going to go out there, lead his team, and play with everything he had.
The pre-game strategy meeting is tense. Harvardville is a tough team, with some big names that will be fierce competition. Leon picks at the tape on the handle of his stick. It’s fraying a bit at the edge.
Once Coach is done with an impassioned speech, Leon forgoes milling about his teammates to sit on the bench alone. Despite being the captain, he’s always been the type who needs some time by himself before a game. Helps him focus.
You’re across the room, chatting with Coach about something. You meet his eye. Leon looks away.
Need to focus.
Leon’s in the starting lineup, the first wall against Harvardville. The opening ceremony goes by in a blur. Leon gets announced, stands next to some 4th grader in a hockey kit for the national anthem, then he’s up to center ice. The crowd is chanting so loud it feels like something’s rattling around in his skull.
The referee drops the puck and the game is on.
Leon gets possession first, already rushing down toward the opposite end of the rink. Red jerseys swarm him, already on the attack. Harvardville’s a fucking aggressive team, and he knows they won’t hesitate to pull a dirty play if they catch him.
Leon feels most alive like this, blood rushing in his ears and ice under his skates. It’s like the world narrows to one objective: get that damn puck in the net.
And, well, if there’s one thing he’s good at…
He tries to maneuver around one of the Harvardville defensemen and ends up in the boards. He lets out a grunt, trying to quickly shake off the impact. Rough play, indeed.
When the line finally changes, he’s panting with a trickle of sweat rolling down his forehead. He slumps onto the bench, giving Piers a tap for a pass he’d intercepted.
“Water?” He sees the water bottle by his shoulder before he processes your voice. Leon accepts it gratefully, expertly aiming towards his mouth through the cage.
“Thanks.” He says, then only looks at you once he’s sure you’re not paying attention anymore.
You’re holding your clipboard like always, pen tapping against your lip. You’re already surveying the game again, and he watches your gaze slide back and forth with the players on the ice.
There’s a focus you always seem to have that impresses him. No matter what gets thrown your way, you always seem to have a plan B…or C, or D, or even E. If he had half the ability you did, he’d score ten times as many goals.
To his right, Redfield nudges him, speaking as quietly as he can in the loud arena. “Dude. Are you guys fighting?”
“What? Fighting?” Leon turns his attention back to the game. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You weren’t with them at breakfast.”
“What, are we supposed to be attached at the hip?” Leon snaps before he can stop himself.
Redfield puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Sorry I asked.”
There’s a line change, and Leon’s back out. No time to think about you, it’s time to tie up the game.
The Capitals make a couple attempts down the ice, each shot being blocked or intercepted before it can reach the goal. Harvardville continues with their cheap shots, and Leon has to shake off a hit from behind that the refs don’t catch.
When someone smashes a rookie into the boards, Leon’s body feels hot. He’s never been the fighting type, but for some reason he feels all the building frustration, anger, and hurt inside of him crest over like a crashing wave.
The Harvardville player just laughs as Leon grabs his jersey, yanking him forward.
“Don’t fucking touch the kid.”
“I’ll do whatever I fucking want.” is the reply.
Leon responds by giving him a punch to the gut.
It’s uncoordinated and slow with his glove still on, but he gets a little bit of satisfaction at the grunt that escapes the player’s mouth.
“Dickhead. I knew the pretty boy thing was just for show.” The Harvardville player tosses down his gloves first, earning a cheer from the crowd. A circle of their teammates has formed around them and the refs float carefully nearby to keep things from escalating too much.
Leon can’t help it. His eyes flick to the bench. You look…disappointed. Your clipboard is tucked neatly under one arm and you’re frowning, eyebrows pinched together in a way he’s never seen before.
The Harvardville player takes the opportunity to land a blow to his cheek. Leon’s head snaps to the side and he feels the awkward way he passed out in bed last night all over again. The crowd’s cheers ring in his head.
“Fuck you.” Leon coughs, trying to land another shot to his stomach, but gets blocked. “You don’t know me.”
He earns another punch to the side of his head. The refs finally swoop in and start to pull them apart. Leon lets himself be dragged to the penalty box.
He sits and catches his breath, ignoring the way a Hardvardville fan keeps banging on the side and shouting obscenities. The giant screen overhead plays out the fight in replay. Leon’s shocked to see how fast it all happened. While he’s still not too proud of his conduct, seeing the hit on the rookie again makes him feel a bit more secure in his decision.
He’s released after five minutes and plays the rest of a very uneventful period. The team files back to the locker room and Leon slumps into a corner, picking at the tape on his stick.
Coach again talks strategy, and makes some comment about ‘keeping our emotions in check’ while giving Leon a pointed look.
It’s a longer break, so Leon checks in with the rookie who got hit. “You okay?”
“I’m totally fine, you good?” The rookie grins, showing off a characteristic gap-toothed smile. “That dude really got you in the jaw.”
His face still aches, but it’s just another hurt on top of everything. “It’s alright.”
“Captain.” You appear next to him. Your shoulders look tense and you’re still frowning.
Leon swallows around a lump in his throat. “Hey.”
The rookie decides to excuse himself quickly, leaving him and you standing with the bench between you. Leon tries to duck his head, like it’ll somehow hide the bruise that’s already starting to form there.
“Here.” You hold out an ice pack from the trainer. “It’ll help.”
“I don’t need it.”
“It wasn’t really a question.” Your voice is sharp all of a sudden, mouth pulled into a thin line.
Leon takes the ice pack and presses it to his face. The coolness offers some relief to the stinging pain there. “...Thanks.”
One of the aides announces that there’s five minutes until the end of the TV intermission.
“Give me your stick.”
“What?”
You hold out your hand. Leon hands you his stick.
You sit down on the bench, your back to him as you pull a roll of tape from your pocket. He watches as you carefully re-tape the section of his stick that’s been bothering him all game. The color matches the pin on your lapel.
When you finally stand, the wrinkled spot between your eyebrows has smoothed out. You let out a sigh and hold it out to him. “Here. Now you won’t be so on edge.”
“How’d you know it was annoying me?” He asks. Some of the other guys have started to head back out, but he can’t bring himself to move.
You shrug. “Lucky guess.” He turns to go. “Hey, wait.”
“What?”
You stare at him for a long moment before pressing your palm over the ‘C’ on his chest. Your hand sits there for just a bit too long, and Leon worries you’ll be able to feel his heart thrumming through the thick fabric.
“Good luck out there, Captain.” Your voice is soft, losing the sharp edge you’ve been using with him since the penalty. “Don’t get into any more fights, okay? That’s not you.”
“I know.” He replies, gloves wrapping around his stick. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”
You finally smile. God, he missed seeing that. “Good. That’s the Leon I know.”
He’s on the bench for the majority of the third period. It’s his own fault, but it still stings. His team fights hard, though. They didn’t win that championship last year for nothing. With any luck they’ll get there this season too…one game at a time, Kennedy. Focus.
Harvardville manages another goal to make it 3-3, and he finally gets put back out in a final push in the final minute to prevent overtime.
That’s not you.
He steals the puck going around the opposing net, hitting an angle that makes him feel like he’s flying. His teammates shout as he weaves by, dodging defensemen and their sticks alike.
I’ll do better.
Leon kicks back his arm and shoots.
The goalie raises his glove too late and the puck rockets into the upper left corner of the net.
That’s the Leon I know.
A siren blares announcing the goal and his teammates start to pile on him. Fans that traveled all this way just for this game are cheering, filling the stadium with noise. His cheek, honestly, still kind of hurts.
He doesn’t care about any of that. Leon speeds toward the bench, coming to a sharp stop in front of you.
You lower your clipboard. You’re smiling. “Nice shot.”
Coach and some of his teammates still on the bench try to get his attention, shouting praise and whooping, but he just keeps staring at you. “Better?”
“Better.”
The locker room is rowdy and filled with cheering. People keep slapping Leon on the back and sticking cameras in his face. There’s already murmurs of going out again tonight to celebrate.
Leon just wants a bit of quiet.
He doesn’t even realize that he’s drifting toward the equipment room until his hand is already on the handle. You’re inside hard at work, packing everything up to get back on the road tomorrow. It strikes Leon as a little unfair. You should get to celebrate too.
Glancing up when you hear the door, you set down the back-up jersey you were folding. “There he is. The man of the game.”
Leon feels an uncharacteristic blush creep up the back of his neck. He’s suddenly aware of your proximity. This room is much smaller than the one in the rink at home, meaning you’re squeezed in one a few steps from the door.
“Hey. I just wanted to see if…you needed help.”
You look at him like he’s grown two heads. “Instead of celebrating your big win, you want to pack up equipment?”
“Um.” He glances around, taking in the boxes and equipment bags scattered everywhere. “...Yeah.”
You laugh and shake your head. “Alright. All the practice pucks need to go back in their case.”
Leon works silently for a while, happy to have a task that can occupy him for a while. He can still hear the team’s shouting echoing down the hall.
He finally takes a deep breath and looks up. “Listen. About the other night.”
You pause sorting the extra sticks. “Yeah?”
It’d be so easy to tell you it was nothing. That he was drunk and not thinking right and to forget it all. Maybe things will go back to normal.
That’s not you.
I’ll do better.
“I meant what I said.” He says finally. “I like you. More than I should, probably.”
You step the short distance to be in front of him. Your finger traces the ‘C’ on his chest. “I meant it, too.”
Leon shakes his head. “I mess things up.” His insecurities speak before he can stop them. “I…I’m worried I’ll mess this up, too.”
“You think I don’t mess things up, too?” You slide your hand down to take his. Your thumb rubs over the sore spot from when he punched the Harvardville player. “You were supposed to have your own hotel room, remember?”
Leon laughs, staring down at your intertwined hands. Even if you weren’t perfect, he admired how you always had a solution. “It’s not so bad. Y’know, rooming with you.”
“Well.” You squeeze his hand. “Maybe there can be a couple more scheduling mistakes.”
Was that flirting? Did you just flirt with him? He feels like he’s drunk all over again.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Quit worrying.”
His other hand finds your waist, fitting there in a way that feels too natural. “I can’t help it. I’ve got to watch out for my team.”
“Alright, Captain.”
Your gaze flicks to his mouth. Leon’s mouth goes dry, but he leans closer. Closer, closer…
The door bangs open. Leon jumps apart from you, yanking his hand away. You do the same, pretending to look very invested in a box of elbow and shin pads.
Redfield’s somehow already tipsy, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes slide from Leon to you. “Oh. Am I interrupting?”
“No—” “We were—” You and Leon try to speak at the same time.
Redfield laughs and waves. “Dude, we’re going out in ten. But I get it if you’ve got…other stuff to do.”
“We weren’t—” “It’s not—” You’re interrupted by the door slamming closed again.
You’re the first to break the silence with a laugh. “Sorry. I should let you get out and celebrate.”
Leon shakes his head, winding his arms around your shoulders. “I’m not really interested in that. I’d rather celebrate with you.”
Your second attempt at a kiss is successful this time. Leon’s heart thuds against his chest where your hand rests, right over the ‘C’. Your lips are soft, and he swears he can feel you smiling.
When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours. “That was nice.”
“We’ll probably need to tell the legal team.” You mutter, and it’s like he can see the gears turning in your head. “This could really blow up. We might have to put out a statement.”
“Do you ever stop thinking?”
“No.” Your thumb traces the bruise on his cheek. “Unless I’m with you.”
There’s no paparazzi photos of Leon out at the bar that evening. He’s back at the hotel, passing you one of his shirts to wear to sleep. His heart skips as you climb into the other side of his bed and switch off the light.
“Sweet dreams.” You say into the darkness.
Leon reaches out to find your arm, tugging you closer.
His watch alerts him for his morning run, but he switches it off. A rest day, perhaps. Besides, there’s no way he could get up without disentangling himself from all of your limbs like a puzzle.
Maybe when you wake up he'll see if you want to go out for coffee.