Work Text:
Purpled was used to getting what he wanted.
The puck was on his stick, the goal was thirty feet ahead, and three defenders were already moving to close him down. It was familiar. Comfortable, even. He’d spent most of his career making things look easier than they were.
He cut left. The defender followed too slowly. Purpled shifted his weight, accelerated–
And Tubbo was there.
Purpled barely had time to register him before he had to pull the puck back, narrowly avoiding a collision. Tubbo didn’t even look particularly impressive doing it. No dramatic check, no desperate lunge. He simply slid into the exact patch of ice Purpled had been aiming for, his stick already positioned to take the puck.
Purpled clicked his tongue and passed instead. Except Tubbo moved again too. The puck never reached his teammate.
A few seconds later, Purpled had it back. He faked a shot. Tubbo didn’t move. Not even a twitch. Purpled’s jaw tightened. He tried again, selling the movement harder this time. Tubbo still didn’t bite.
The Purpled went right. Tubbo went right too. Purpled stopped dead. For half a second, everything seemed to hang around them. The roar of the crowd, the scrape of skates against ice, the shouts from both benches.
Tubbo was staring straight at him. Not smug. Not even particularly pleased. Just watching. As though he already knew. Purpled felt something hot and irritated twist in his chest.
He’d played against hundreds of defenders. Plenty of them were good. Some were brilliant. Some had managed to shut him down for an entire period, even an entire game. But this was different. Tubbo wasn’t reacting to him, he was anticipating him.
Purpled pushed off again determined to prove that he could break through.
He couldn’t.
The whistle finally blew, and Purpled skated back toward his bench, glaring over his shoulder as Tubbo retreated in the opposite direction.
Tubbo reached his teammates. Foolish immediately leaned down towards him, looking far too amused for someone whose team was losing.
“You broke him.”
Tubbo blinked. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly!” Foolish snorted.
Tubbo glanced back across the rink. Purpled was still watching him. Their eyes met for a brief second before Purpled looked away. Tubbo shrugged and turned back to the game.
Purpled didn’t. He remembered Tubbo.
After that, Purpled started looking for him. Not consciously, at first. It was simply a matter of knowing where the strongest defender on the opposing team would be. Knowing where the gaps in the ice were. Knowing what to expect.
Except Tubbo kept changing.
So Purpled changed with him.
The next time they played, Purpled went left when Tubbo expected him to go right. Tubbo was still waiting for him.
The game after that, Purpled faked the pass that he’d made three times in a row the previous match, only for Tubbo to ignore it completely and steal the puck from beneath his stick.
Purpled stared at him. Tubbo grinned back. It became a pattern.
Every matchup brought something new. Purpled would spend the first few minutes testing him, probing for weaknesses, only to find that Tubbo had already anticipated whatever he'd prepared. Tubbo, in turn, began changing his own habits, refusing to give Purpled anything predictable to work with. Their teammates started noticing. The commentators certainly did.
Eventually, every time the two teams were scheduled to play, the question became less about who would win and more about what Tubbo and Purpled were going to do to each other this time.
Foolish noticed it too. “Your boyfriend’s here.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, asshole.” Tubbo nearly missed the pass.
“Didn’t say he was.”
“You literally just–”
Foolish laughed as Tubbo skated away, muttering under his breath.
The worst part was that Tubbo couldn't even deny he looked for Purpled too. He knew the way Purpled held his stick when he was about to change direction. Knew the tiny shift in his shoulders before he accelerated. Knew that when Purpled slowed down, it usually meant he was about to do something fast. And, increasingly, Purpled knew him just as well.
It got to the point where Purpled started watching footage of Tubbo's games. Not just their matchups. All of them. He'd sit in front of a screen after practice, rewinding the same thirty seconds until he understood why Tubbo had moved where he did. He learned which teammates Tubbo trusted with the puck. Which routes he favoured. Which mistakes he made when he was tired.
Then Tubbo found out. He responded by changing everything.
Purpled arrived at their next game expecting one player and got another entirely. He should have been annoyed. Instead, he was fascinated. Tubbo was the first player who made Purpled stop relying on instinct. The first who forced him to think three moves ahead, and then another three ahead of that.
And Tubbo?
He told himself that he hated how much Purpled challenged him now. He didn’t though. Not really. There was something addictive about stepping onto the ice and knowing that, for the next sixty minutes, someone would actually make him work for every inch.
Neither of them ever said it. They didn’t have to.
Every time their teams met, they found each other.
By the time they met again, there was very little left for either of them to prove. The season was almost over, and the standings had made the difference between their teams painfully obvious. Purpled’s team had spent most of the year near the top. Tubbo’s, however, had spent most of it fighting to stay there at all.
None of that seemed to matter once they stepped onto the ice though. Purpled immediately found Tubbo and Tubbo was ready for him. Of course he was.
Purpled went left. Tubbo followed. He slowed. Tubbo slowed with him. He faked the pass. Tubbo didn't move.
Purpled almost laughed. Almost.
Because he knew exactly what Tubbo was expecting. They’d done this too many times. Purpled had spent months learning how Tubbo’s mind worked, learning the patterns beneath all those instincts and split second decisions. Tubbo knew Purpled. But Purpled knew Tubbo now, too.
He carried the puck toward the goal, letting Tubbo close the distance. He could practically see the calculation happening behind Tubbo’s eyes. Tubbo expected him to cut right. So Purpled did. Then, at the last second, he stopped. Tubbo shifted with him. Exactly as Purpled knew he would. Purpled immediately accelerated in the opposite direction.
For once, Tubbo was half a second too slow. The gap opened. Purpled took it. The puck hit the back of the net. The crowd erupted. Purpled barely heard them.
He’d score hundreds of goals. He’d celebrated most of them without thinking. This one was different. He turned. Tubbo was still standing where he’d been left, staring at the goal. Purpled looked straight at him.
I finally got you.
Tubbo’s expression shifted. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. Not bitterly. Not reluctantly. Like he’d been waiting for this. Purpled smiled back before he could stop himself.
And somewhere between the celebration and the next face off, Purpled realised that the victory didn’t feel quite like he’d imagined it would. He’d spent months wanting to beat Tubbo. Now that he had, all he wanted was another chance to play him.
They crossed paths after the game in the narrow hallway outside the locker rooms. Tubbo was still damp from the shower, hair sticking up in every direction. Purpled had his bag slung over one shoulder.
"That was a cheap move," Tubbo said.
Purpled raised an eyebrow. "It worked."
"Unfortunately."
Purpled hesitated.
Then, quieter, he said, "You make me better."
Tubbo stared at him. Purpled immediately wondered if he'd said too much. But Tubbo only looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah," he said eventually. "You make me work for it."
Neither of them knew what else to say. So they went their separate ways. But Purpled spent the entire journey home thinking about that smile.
The season ended much sooner for Tubbo than he would have liked. Their team made it through the first round of playoffs by the skin of their teeth, then lost the next game badly enough that nobody could pretend they had been unlucky.
Purpled’s team, meanwhile, went all the way to the final.
Tubbo watched the last game from home. When the final buzzer sounded, Purpled’s team celebrated on the ice, and Tubbo found himself smiling at the screen despite everything.
Then the season was over. That was it. No more matchups. No more trying to predict each other. No more seeing Purpled across the ice and wondering what the hell he’d come up with this time.
Tubbo figured he’d get used to it. He didn’t expect to hear Purpled’s name again until next season. He certainly didn’t expect it during the draft. The announcement appeared on the screen.
PURPLED – ACQUIRED BY SNOWCHESTER WOLVES
Tubbo stared. Once. Twice. Then he looked at Foolish. Foolish was staring at the screen too.
“No.”
Tubbo slowly nodded.
“No!”
Around them, the room erupted into noise. Their struggling team had just acquired one of the best players in the league. Tubbo barely heard any of it. Because Purpled was coming here.
To them. The player he'd spent an entire season fighting against was suddenly going to be wearing the same colours.
Foolish finally looked at him. "I don't trust him."
Tubbo blinked. "You don't even know him."
"I know enough."
"Foolish."
"He spent an entire season trying to ruin your life."
"He was playing hockey."
"Same thing."
Tubbo laughed despite himself.
Across the country, Purpled was staring at the same announcement. His old teammates were congratulating him. His new contract was better. His position was secure. Everything should have felt like a promotion.
Instead, Purpled found himself thinking about one thing. Tubbo.
For the first time in his career, Purpled wasn't going to have to figure out how to get past him.
He was going to have to figure out how to play beside him.
The first practice was a disaster. Not because either of them was bad. That would have been easier. Purpled knew exactly what Tubbo would do when they were opponents. Tubbo knew exactly how Purpled moved when he was trying to get around a defender. The problem was that neither of them knew what the other was supposed to do when they were on the same side.
Purpled carried the puck down the ice and glanced towards Tubbo. Tubbo was already moving. Purpled expected him to cut left. Tubbo went right. The pass sailed harmlessly past him. They both stopped.
Across the rink, Foolish sighed. “This is going wonderfully.”
Tubbo flipped him off without looking.
This time, Tubbo anticipated Purpled’s route perfectly and moved into the space ahead of him. Purpled, expecting Tubbo to cover the opposite side like he always had, changed direction. They nearly collided.
Purpled caught himself at the last second. Skates scraping sharply against the ice.
"This is weird," Tubbo said.
"You're weird."
"Helpful."
They reset.
Again.
And again.
Eventually, Purpled stopped trying to predict what Tubbo would do. Instead, he watched him. Tubbo wasn't looking at Purpled. He was looking everywhere else. The other players. The open ice. The gaps forming and closing around them. Then Tubbo moved. Not toward the puck. Away from it.
He was pulling a defender with him. Purpled saw the opening. He didn't think, he just moved. He accelerated through it. Tubbo sent the puck across the ice without even turning to look. Purpled caught it.
Shot.
Goal!
For a moment, neither of them moved. It had been effortless. Not because they'd planned it. Because, somehow, they'd both understood.
Tubbo looked over his shoulder. Purpled grinned. They tried it again. This time, Tubbo spotted the gap first. Purpled was already moving before Tubbo passed. Then again. And again.
It was almost unsettling how quickly it clicked. Tubbo could see the entire ice. Purpled could see exactly what to do with the space Tubbo created.
For the first time, Tubbo wasn't trying to stop Purpled. He was trying to figure out where Purpled was going so he could help him get there. And Purpled realised something that made his stomach flip strangely. Tubbo understood him better when they were on the same side.
The first game together was supposed to be easy. At least, that was what everyone kept saying. The Snowchester Wolves were still the underdogs. Purpled was still the biggest acquisition they’d made in years. And the opposing team had apparently decided that the easiest way to deal with him was the same way every team always had.
Box him in.
Two defenders closed in from either side as Purpled carried the puck towards the goal. He’d seen it a thousand times before. Normally, he’d forced his way through. Instead, he glanced up to see Tubbo across the ice.
For half a second, Purpled expected him to move into position to receive a pass.
But Tubbo wasn't looking at him. He was looking behind Purpled. At the defender shifting just slightly too far to the left. At the gap opening behind him. Tubbo saw it before Purpled did. He sent the puck back to Purpled. It cut across the ice, straight through the space between two defenders.
Purpled caught it without breaking stride. He shot. The puck slammed into the net. The crowd erupted.
Purpled barely heard them. He turned instinctively. Tubbo was already looking at him. For a moment, neither of them moved. They'd spent an entire season playing the same game.
I know what you’re going to do.
Every feint. Every turn. Every sudden acceleration.
They’d learned each other’s movements until anticipating them had become almost automatic. But this was different.
This was I know what you’re going to do and I’m going to help you do it.
Then something enormous slammed into Purpled's shoulder.
"LET'S FUCKING GO!"
Foolish had apparently decided celebrating involved tackling both of them.
Purpled stumbled sideways, Tubbo grabbed his arm to keep from falling, and the three of them nearly went down in a tangled heap.
"Foolish!"
"What?" Foolish demanded, laughing. "We scored!"
"You almost killed us."
"I've been waiting weeks to do that."
Tubbo was still laughing as he pushed himself upright. Purpled looked at him. And smiled.
After the game, they were walking back toward the locker rooms when Purpled spoke.
"You know," he said, "I think I preferred playing against you."
Tubbo looked at him. "What?"
Purpled shrugged. "You were easier to beat when you were trying to stop me."
Tubbo stared for a second. Then he laughed.
"Cocky bastard."
Purpled grinned.
For once, neither of them minded being on the same side. They almost preferred it.
Maybe this would be the Snowchester Wolves year.