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“Hey Justin, could you come up front? I think I’m gonna need to deny this guy service but he’s uh...really big, and well, kinda scary”
“Scary?” Ransom asked, straightening up from where he was crouched, sorting filled prescriptions on the bottom shelf.
“Yeah, I dunno, it’s just—a quality he has.” His co-worker shrugged then continued, “Anyways, he’s trying to pick up two oxy prescriptions at once, so…”
“Got it, take over this for me here?”
She nodded and he made his way around the front to see what to do about this customer. As soon as he got around the corner and saw who was there—well—she wasn’t wrong about the man being imposing.
There, whistling at the Walgreens Pharmacy counter, was the Falconers' hulking Russian D-man, Alexei Mashkov.
“Holy shit” Ransom jerked back behind the shelves. “Okay, deep breath,” he muttered to himself, “he’s just a normal customer, not your favorite NHL player, a normal customer. Act professional.” Then, with a deep breath, he straightened the collar of his white coat and stepped back around the corner.
“There is problem?” Mashkov asked when he spotted Ransom, “I’m pick up prescription for teammates, too busy whining about pain to get for themselves. Others did for me before, so I thought it was okay?”
“Uh, yes Mr. Mashkov— ” Fuck! He hadn’t actually said his name. Ransom stole a glance up as he logged into the computer, but it seemed not to have perturbed Mashkov. “You can do that, but they need to have authorized you to pick it up. What are the names on the prescriptions?”
He got all that out successfully in his ‘toe the corporate line” voice and even managed to keep his cool as Mashov gave the names of two players rumored to have been injured in a collision and the ensuing dust up in this afternoon’s game. Not that he’d been watching the game at work mind you, he just, got notifications on his phone and maybe clicked on a few highlights from time to time. It was a slow day; no one seemed to have noticed.
So, he was doing an okay impression of professional while internally screaming, right up until he explained that he did not have one of the authorizations and Mashkov said, “ Ah, poor rookie Poots, is his first bad hit, he probably forget.”
Without thinking, he responded, “Yeah, that was a hell of a brawl— “ and before he could even cut himself off Mashkov was talking over him excitedly.
“Oh, You watch games!” Then his voice dropped low, accusatory. “You are not Bruins fan are you? Many people here do not support new home team.”
“No, no!” Ransom wasn’t sure what possessed him in that next moment. Maybe it was a desperate attempt to prove his support to one of his idols; maybe it was just Mashkov’s impressive ability to stare a man down, but since he was in professional attire, he had to show the only piece of Falcs merch he had on him. He reached down and pulled up the waistband of his boxers, emblazoned with FALCONERS in bright blue letters. “Started following you guys when I was playing at Providence College; not that my Canadian parents were too thrilled about it.”
Somehow, miraculously, his fanatical flailing was not what Mashkov took from that, instead responding with, “Hockey with Friars? Then you play against our Holster—sorry, I mean—Adam Birkholtz?
“Yeah, a few times I did.” No one was waiting in line, none of his co workers were paying attention, and Mashkov seemed nearly as excited by this conversation as he was, so he leaned against the counter and continued, “He’s a hell of a player, everyone knew he was going pro. The two of you are like—an impenetrable wall out there.”
Ransom considered briefly, and yes, that seemed appropriately hockey-focused. Not like the actual reason he’d noticed Birkholtz back in college, which was that the man had striking blue eyes and cut an impressive line in his game day suit. Especially not that time when they’d run into each other in a hotel room party at the Frozen Four, barely tipsy but fully drunk on the adrenaline of winning their respective games.
As it was, Mashkov was already talking again, not questioning his motivations, so he settled in for the ride, trying to memorize every moment of what was sure to be the best conversation of his life.
_/_/\_\_
“I still cannot believe you showed Alexei Mashkov your underwear!”
Ransom had tried to gloat to his roommate about meeting a Falconer, but now somehow he was the one getting chirped.
“Ugh.” He flopped down on the couch and threw his arm dramatically over his face. “I told you, it was just the waistband!”
“That’s still part of your underwear.” Bitty sing-songed back from the kitchen.
“Well he didn’t seem bothered by it, maybe even flattered by it!” Ransoms insisted.
“Whatever you say, Hon.” Bitty returned dismissively, focused on whatever he was cooking.
“Anyways, he invited me to shinny this weekend.”
There was a loud crash from the kitchen followed by a squeaked “What?!”, then Bitty reappeared in the doorway, covered in flour. “An NHL player offers to let you come play hockey with him, and you lead with ‘I showed him my boxers!’”
“I was trying to tell the story in order, then you started chirpin’ me and I got distracted!”
“Well I doubt I would ever forget—wait!” Bitty’s went impossibly wider, “Are you telling me you got Alexi Mashkov’s number? ‘Cause I’ve heard some rumors, but wow! I think that might be too much man for me, maybe not for you but..”
Ransom cracked up laughing, cutting off Bitty’s rambling. “No, not like that, he actually just told me when to come by—said they were down to a pretty small group with some of the guys who usually play injured.”
“Oh lord, can I come too? No—I can’t I’m far too out of practice.” This launched Bitty into yet another ramble. He muttered under his breath, pacing and trying to work out whether he could fit some conditioning around his schedule at the bakery and what number of baked goods might make up for any hockey shortcomings. Ransom just watched, amused, until Bitty abruptly froze and turned back to him.
“Waait…” Bitty said slowly, his eyes narrowed accusingly. “Is Birkholtz going to be there?”
“Oh for the love of—” Ransom resumed his tormented posture on the couch with his arm thrown over his eyes. “How is it that you were completely smashed that night, but still manage to remember that to chirp me all the time.”
“Okay, first of all, I was not smashed, we had a game in 40 hours,” Bitty said, poking Ransom in the shoulder with a floured finger. “And secondly, I remember it because you talk about his hands every damn time we watch a game.”
“That is not why I talk about his hands, it’s purely a hockey thing,” Ransom insisted.
It was, at least a little bit, not a hockey thing.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to miss that. At least I can distract myself from my own embarrassment with yours.”
_/_/\_\_
Ten days and two sets of drills squeezed in on public rinks later, they were standing outside an impressive house with a big frozen pond out back. Ransom rang the doorbell and Bitty clutched his basket of scones closer to his chest.
“You’re gonna be fine Bits, he said it was cool to bring teammates and you’ve got baked goods! Anyone would be happy to see you.”
“Yeah, but—”
Fortunately, his panic was interrupted by Mashkov opening the door and greeting them with as much enthusiasm as when they’d met last week.
“You are here! I am so glad.” He threw one massive arm around each of them and drew them into the house. “Though it is a good thing Poots not come this time. He is still being upset I take whole hour to get meds, even though I tell him is his fault he not fill out form correctly.”
“Company policy I’m afraid,” Ransom replied with exaggerated remorse, “can’t skirt it even for famous NHL players.”
Mashkov nodded his approval, then turned to look at Bitty. “And who is this—tiny boyfriend?”
Bitty’s face turned so red at that, Ransom thought for a second he might have to answer for him. But he managed to work through his indignation to reply, in his best polite-Southern voice, “Eric Bittle, Mr. Mashkov, and I may not look like your average hockey player, but Ransom and I were on the same team in college.”
“Oh I am liking this one!” Mashkov said, laughing so hard he had to let go of them both. “Come meet guys, and can call me Tater. Mr. Mashkov a bit formal for the ice!”
Once his back was turned, Ransom grabbed Bitty and whispered “Tater! Holy crap Bits, this is so beyond cool!”
Bitty giggled, then responded conspiratorially, “it is, so let’s not ruin it by lurking in the hall like some weirdos.”
They hurried after Mashkov, no Tater, and emerged into the most wonderful room Ransom had ever seen. Beside him Bitty was almost certainly making the same assessment based on the actual kitchen, but Ransom was looking at the guys in it.
Holy Shit.
Tater introduced his teammates by their hockey nicknames and Ransom barely contained his squeal of excitement with each one. He reached out and shook each of their hands in turn. Guy, Thirdy, and Marty, were welcoming, Zimmermann—he shook off Tater’s insistence that he was ‘Zimmboni’—was as distant as his interviews suggested, and then there was Holster, who blushed, then grinned when their eyes met.
Double Holy Shit.
Ransom tried desperately to say something witty, maybe wink, do anything but stare blankly back at him, but his body refused to respond. Holster looked even more impressive up close than he remembered. Ransom finally managed to pull himself away, only to nearly run into Bitty.
“Hands”, he whispered with a smirk.
The traitor.
After that, Bitty’s baking was appropriately fawned over for about five minutes before Zimmermann insisted they ought to get on the ice as if there was any reason to hurry. Still, they all obediently laced up.
_/_/\_\_
Stepping out onto the pond felt like coming home.
Sure, he and Bitty made it to the rink when they could, but it wasn’t the same as real ice. He took a few laps, enjoying the wind in his face and the smell of snow and woodsmoke in the air. As he coasted, Bitty zoomed past him, really opening up the throttle without the crowds of the public rink in the way.
“He is wicked fast, man.” Holster pulled up beside him, matching his easy pace. “I definitely remember playing against you guys now.”
“Oh, him you remember, now?” Ransom chirped back. Blessedly his wits seemed to have returned to him now that he’d let off some steam on the ice.
“I’m saying I remember the game now. I’ve always remembered you.” Holster smiled, and gave him an exaggerated once-over.
“Is that so? Well, I don’t remember ever hearing from you after. Not even so much as a ‘good game.’” He’d meant it playfully, jostling Holster with his shoulder as he said it. A college hookup contacting you after was a rarity, not the norm. However, an unexpected darkness came over Holster’s face as he thought about it.
“Yeah, well back then—” He started to say, but was interrupted by Zimmermann hollering for their attention.
The man had an impressive number of rules and suggestions for a game of shinny. Ransom zoned most of it out besides the team assignments and “no checking after what happened last year”, since hockey wasn’t actually his job.
At least he and Holster were on the same side, so he could skate up to him after and ask, “Is he always this…”
“Oh, you mean Captain Hockey Robot?” Holster asked, doing a little robot dance, “He does have this way of sucking the fun out of things, but you know what would really piss him off?”
“What?” Ransom was simultaneously apprehensive about not being invited back, and thrilled at the conspiratorial way Holster was talking to him.
“If we kick his butt in this game.”
Now that, Ransom could definitely get behind. He held out his palm, Holster slapped him a high-five and they took off down the ice.
_/_/\_\_
They didn’t win.
Ransom couldn’t say he was surprised, given that Zimmerman was leading for points in the conference and Tater was built like a brick house. Still, it was a hell of a game. Seeing the shocked look on Zimmerman’s face when Bits spun around him and the way Holster just sensed where Ransom was. It might have been his favorite game he’d ever played.
Exhausted, and sore in places he’d all but forgotten existed, Ransom trudged his way over to bench and started to unlace.
When he was halfway down his first boot, Holster flopped down beside him and whispered in his ear. “Okay this is going to sound odd considering what I said before the game, but I think Zimmermann is trying to flirt with your friend.”
Ransom glanced across to where the two men were standing together, still out on the pond. It was hard to tell with Zimmermann. He wasn’t quite smiling, but Bitty, Ransom knew what flirty-Bitty looked like and… “Holy crap, totally flirting,” he hissed under his breath.
“Should we go rescue him?”
“No, he’s totally into it,” Ransom whispered excitedly, “This is perfect! Before he was chirping me about having a crush on you, now—”
“You have a crush on me?” Holster interrupted.
Ransom searched desperately in his head for any words that might undo what had just spilled out of his mouth, but he found nothing. All that came out was “I, uh...sorry?”
“Sorry? What are you sorry for? We’ve got killer chemistry on the ice, why not see if we’ve still got it off?”
Still, Ransom couldn’t shake the image of Holster’s face falling when he’d brought up their Frozen Four encounter. “I just—it’s hard to date a guy as a pro athlete. It seemed like, back in college, you were pretty freaked out about people knowing, and there’s still no one out in the NHL.”
“I was, back then,” Holster’s boisterous excitement from a moment ago settled down to a rueful chuckle as he recalled it. “But I’m established now. And sure, no one’s out publicly, but there are a lot of open secrets in the league, you might be surprised. I’m not worried who knows what about me anymore. I want to take you out.”
“Wow.” Ransom stared around at the impossible scene before him. At Alexei Mashkov’s private pond. At his best friend flirting with an Art Ross winner. At Adam Birkholtz asking him out on a date.
“I can’t help but noticing that’s not an answer.” Holster prodded with a sly smile.
Triple Holy Shit
“Yes.”