#911 hockey au

[hawkbutt]

Edmundo “Eddie” Diaz 🏒 Hockey AU 🏒

[archerincombat]

i think this season if anything i'm going to watch 911 without knowing any bts stuff and experience it ~organically~ and then if chelsea writes fic well i am at heart just a follower

[newtkelly]

Goon by alchemystique

the fabulous @alchemistc gave bucktommy the hockey au treatment and i’m obsessedddd — check it out!

[kitweewoos]

oh my god they were teammates

Buck didn’t know what the hell was up with the Fury that night, but if he took one more elbow to the throat, he was about to throw off his gloves and start a brawl in the middle of the ice regardless of how many penalties were held against him. He didn’t want to get another power play against them though, so he kept his gloves on and his stick down and he played as clean as he could. When he was tripped by the Fury defensemen without a ref whistle, again, and bit his tongue hard enough that he tasted blood, he wanted to rage. 

“Calm down,��� Eddie Diaz, his best friend on and off the ice, said as he pushed himself up and growled under his breath. “Don’t let them get in your head.” 

“Too late,” he admitted. 

“Shake it off, Buck,” Eddie called as Buck skated away from him towards the puck still in motion. There was a reason Maddie had pointed all of his extra energy growing up towards skating and hockey, and he was good at it, because for the longest time all of the extra energy meant that he was ready to fight the first person who looked at him wrong, or throw himself into the worst situations. Once he’d gotten into hockey, there wasn’t anything else that fit him better, and he’d worked so hard to get to the NHL.  

Of course, flying off the handle and cracking your opponent in the face repeatedly with your stick would get you, probably, kicked out of the NHL so he should calm down, but he just wanted to bowl them the length of the ice by their face plates instead.  

The Fury sent the puck flying back towards the Firefly goal to get it away from their own, but it went wide thankfully, and Buck breezed back towards it to retrieve it. He was easily one of the quickest of the ice, so he rarely stayed in one spot long, and he liked dropping back by the goal just for a second. 

“Hey,” he heard from their goaltender, and he looked up to catch Tommy Kinard’s eyes through the grating on Tommy’s helmet. Tommy, who he’d share a room with that night, who he shared a life with, who he loved and admired, and he smiled. Tommy looked so good in his pads, even though the incredible body that he worked for was swallowed up, and Buck loved to look at him. Tommy was the first man he’d found this kind of peace with, the first person in the world who had ever caught Buck’s attention and held it so well that the rest of the world just stopped mattering. “Evan, you good?” 

“They’re pissing me off,” he admitted as he circled behind the goal to take the puck and face the rest of the ice for a moment. He took in the scene in front of him to assess the situation, and figure out where to shoot the puck, who would be the best to get it into position and found Ravi sliding unnoticed by two of their d-men. 

“Baby,” Tommy called just off to his left, and he looked up. “Kick their ass.” 

That was all he needed to feel the resolve settle in his chest. They may trail by two near the end of the second period, with the Fury playing dirty, but Evan “Buck” Buckley had his boyfriend to impress, and he absolutely was going to show off.  

[princessfbi]

Traded

Really, it was Lena’s fault. She’d been the one to demand a video when Eddie had finally caved and sent an SOS to the group chat asking if anyone was willing to trade. “Is anyone interested in trading jerseys with me? Preferably for a smaller size,” Eddie had said because knowing his coworkers, one of them would’ve been a smart ass and gave him an even bigger size. “I ordered an XL because I’m usually a XL but… the way it fits makes me look like I’m fucking one of the players.”

Eddie wasn't trying to go viral. He just wanted to trade his jersey. But then something called Booktok got involved.

Bartender!Eddie Diaz x Hockey Player!Evan Buckley

Read on Ao3

Rated: M | One Shot | Words: 23,732

Banner by @mellaithwen and big thank you to @homerforsure @djdangerlove and @buddie-buddie for helping me with the edits!

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy | chapter four

check out the hockey glossary here (updated through chapter four)

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

credit to weatherwaxed for the truly horrendous and accurate hockey nickname for Tommy

read Chapter Four on ao3

Tommy’s ears are still ringing.

Kane’s been sent off for a game misconduct, and Diaz’s nose doesn’t seem to be too much worse for the wear, although he’s going to have a nasty shiner on both eyes by the time this game is through. Hen’s done what she can to patch them both up, while Nash talks them through how the hell they’re going to come back from a four goal deficit in twenty minutes, in Edmonton, with McDavid on a hot streak and Hyman one goal away from a hatty.

Tommy’s already done his part — with the Oilers up by three Kane had taken a run at Diaz, elbow angled just right to get him right beneath the bucket, square between his eyes, and Tommy had almost jumped the gun trying to get on the ice before anyone could skate off to give him the opportunity. No call, of course, just the jeers of eighteen thousand or so fans while McKinley screamed at the refs, but the whistle had given Nash the opportunity to throw Tommy out on the ice, and Knoblauch had left Kane out to take his lumps, no doubt certain a fight would just keep the momentum rolling.

Kane had gotten his licks. It’d been a fairly evenly matched fight, right up until Tommy had squirmed his way out from the sweater Kane had been attempting to trap him in and gone full tilt with just shoulder pads for his opponent to try to get leverage with.

His knuckles are split. He can still taste the blood in his mouth. He’s running hot, even now, knee jumping up and down with no conscious effort as he listens to coach try to rally them, but Edmonton had scored almost immediately after Kane had been sent off for chirping a ref after serving his five, and they’re short on momentum, at the moment. It’s been a span of rough days — losing at home to the two-seed in their division, ending the home winning streak. Two new guys slotted into the lineup post-trade deadline who haven’t had the time to build up the chemistry they need. Two back-to-backs with travel time in a week and a half.

They’re tired. They’re annoyed with each other. They keep fumbling the puck in the neutral zone and giving Edmonton the chance to skate it in without challenge. Tommy’d won the fight and it hadn’t rallied shit, and honestly? Tommy’s a little annoyed about that. Kane’s not an easy down, and Tommy’d had him on the ice taking a fist to the gut before stripes had managed to separate them.

This is the point in the game where Tommy cedes his ice time to the skill players — the speedsters, the play-makers, who are all staring at Nash right now like they’re thinking about the mini-bars in their hotel rooms.

Tommy is annoyed.

Nash ends his spiel with five minutes left to go in the intermission and disappears out into the hallway. That’s not abnormal — for all his quiet confidence he’s rarely a hype-man. The problem is right now no one is a fucking hype man.

Tommy shifts his weight, eyes on Diaz as Panikkar mumbles to himself next to him. The ice he’s had on his hand is already too warm to be doing much, and he’s halfway to standing up and spending the next four minutes trying to convince Hen that frozen packs of peas are actually miles better than her gel-packs when he notices one of the new guys shooting him a shifty look.

“Skinner’s taking chances behind the net because he thinks we won’t take advantage of them,” Tommy says, just loud enough to lower the volume of the sporadic chatter. “Hyman’s been nursing his left side all game from the stinger in the first, and they’re leaving gaps in coverage all over the ice. We’ve played this game before. We’ve won this game before.” Two weeks ago, on home ice, with the ability to make the last change and a team fully refreshed after the All-Star break, but Tommy doesn’t feel like that part is necessary to point out. “We’re passing too much, and we’re spinning our wheels for the perfect shot when we should be shooting everything at the net. We’re not gonna get a lucky fucking bounce if we’re all doing geometry on the move trying to find a lane.”

“Great points,” Ravi says, the bratty little tone of his voice betraying him, and Tommy presses his weight down on the bench in an effort not to pick a fight. “Or maybe they’re on three days of rest and a heater.”

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth, darts a glance around the room. Three minutes to puck drop, and the room is ready to pack it in. “Anyone else gonna tell me why I wasted a fight on this?” Across the room, Diaz smirks at him, and a few of them shift in their seats. “Or do we wanna put on our big boy pants and play out the next twenty minutes like they mean something?”

As far as rousing speeches go, it’s no St. Crispin’s. But McKinley’s admonished look shifts into that blank-faced zen stare he gets sometimes, right before he runs it up, and the new guys seem to have a bit more energy.

The time ticks down, and they head down the tunnel, and Tommy takes a seat on the bench, fully prepared for his little pep talk to fall on deaf ears.

Buckley shifts closer to Tommy as they all scoot down the bench, three shifts into the third. "McDavid's injured," he says unprompted, and Tommy shoots him a look from behind his visor. "Listen, I know it sounds crazy but he's weak on his left wing right now, and I have a plan."

"You tell Nash this plan?"

"Next time you're out with us, just get to the net."

"Buckley, if I'm out for more than thirty seconds we've already lost this game."

"Just get to the net, Kinard."

Tommy can't help the snotty little salute he sends Buck's way, but three minutes later he's chasing down Ravi, for once grateful that his speed is shit because it means he's never in danger of an offsides call when Panikkar skates the puck in past the blue line. Diaz and Buckley aren't far behind him, so Tommy shoulders his way past two Oilers and plants himself in front of the net.

And then they're passing.

This shits not gonna work. He can feel Skinner behind him, trying to pick out the puck between the bodies blocking his view, and Tommy takes a moment to watch Diaz circling, and Buckley quarterbacking from the top of the zone, Ravi searching out a lane while Buck tosses it back to Landstrom, who returns it to Buck. Near the top of the circles McDavid is skating into the passes and nursing his left side.

Shit.

Buck's right.

Tommy shifts to the other side of the crease. He's got Hyman unknowingly screening the left side of the net, and if Buck can get some separation between Nurse and McDavid --

The puck comes screaming in on Hyman's right, and Tommy shifts his stick, angles it and —

He doesn't even fucking care if it hits Hyman or his stick before it tips into the net over Skinner's shoulder. The crowd noise drops off, and Diaz and Buckley are speeding towards him.

The three of them go slamming into the boards, Diaz and Buckley shouting incomprehensibly, and then Ravi and Landstrom are there too. One of them has a hand on his bucket, shaking his head indiscriminately back and forth, and another one is yelling, and over on the bench, in the sudden deadening of the crowd noise, he can hear Donato and McKinley both celebrating, sticks smacking against the boards.

Tommy’s already halfway to the bench when Diaz and Buckley both have to circle back and send him to the front of their line for glove taps, and as he clambers back over the boards to greet a full barrage of back slaps and bucket-smacks, the refs actually have to come over and warn them to cool it with the celebration.

Buckley settles onto the bench next to him with a bright grin as Nash sends out their second line. “Told you,” he says, the sparkle in his eyes almost cartoonish against the harsh glare of the ice, and before Tommy can think of anything clever to say, he’s turning back to Diaz and the iPad.

---

Tie game, with three minutes left, and the Bobby Blender has somehow worked well enough to give them a chance to win this game. Tommy’s been out for maybe a minute and a half of the last fifteen. He’s feeling pretty fucking good about both the fight, and the dubiously moralizing speech he’d made, when McDavid intercepts a sloppy pass and suddenly has open ice between the blue line and the net.

There’s a certain noise, that happens in an arena, when a particular player has possession of the the puck and speed on his side. A sudden hush, the air being sucked out of the room, before a wild roar taken up by thousands upon thousands of voices, and as Buckley and Diaz chase him down Tommy’s waiting for the inevitable sound of the goal buzzer.

Chim pulls off a stunner of a poke check half a foot outside his crease and while McDavid spins into the turn behind the net, looking about ready to break his stick on the boards, Buckley and Diaz have caught Edmonton in a change — it’s a dumb change, Tommy has no idea why they’d chosen a breakaway as the moment to swap out players, but Diaz has a sheet of free ice to pass it off to McKinley, who is screaming down the ice.

Tommy checks the clock. A minute forty, and McKinley makes a clean break between two Oilers down the stretch, and then he’s free as a fucking bird, ten feet between him and the crease — five, and Skinner miscalculates exactly how many dekes McKinley has in him; the puck slides in five hole and Buckley and Diaz circle up while the entire bench explodes around Tommy.

---

Across the table, Buckley keeps shooting him looks. He’s grown familiar with some of Evan Buckley’s looks, over the past month or so, but he can’t quite parse this one. Before he can raise a brow, tilt his head, try to figure out exactly what the look had all been about, Buck shifts his gaze to Nash, up the table, telling a story about one of his fights when he’d played for the Stingrays.

Next to him, Eddie taps at his shoulder again, phone out to show him yet another comment thread about Tommy’s fight. This one seems to be slightly less horny than the last one, but he’s still not entirely sure he understands why Diaz hops on there so often.

Eddie chuckles when Tommy gets three comments down and rolls his eyes before returning to his food, and across the table, Buck turns to look at them both again. When he catches Tommy looking back, his eyes swivel away.

“No, hold on, listen to this one: Nards could drop me like he dropped Kane tonight and I’d still beg him to —.”

“—Okay,” Tommy interrupts, and Eddie cackles, fingers darting across his phones keyboard like he’s about to do something Josh Russo will absolutely take umbrage with.

“Telling you not to send that reply is just an exercise in futility, isn’t it?”

Eddie raises a brow, lips pursed while he continues to type. He hums. “Josh is gonna be pissed I’m not using my burner account right now. Muy inapropiado.”

Tommy’s not great with Spanish, but it’s not really a stretch to decipher that one. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Buckley leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a look of consternation on his face, gaze focused intently on whatever story O’Connor is telling now.

“Don’t show it to me. I want to have the ability to claim ignorance.”

“Fine, but I’m tagging you in it.”

“The last thing I posted on there was three years ago.”

“Well, the fan who’s clinging to ‘Nards’ as your nickname is still gonna assume you saw it.” Eddie darts his gaze up with a grin. “Can I call you Cojones?”

“No,” Tommy tells him, but he can feel the lines around his mouth stretching almost to his ears as he shakes his head. “My nonna would rise from her grave to slap my wrist and yell stugotsa before she returned to her slumber.”

Buckley picks at his salad across the table, frown still prominent, and Tommy tries his hardest not to find the pout of his lower lip appealing. He’s not — they’re not — but he’s barely gone a night in his own bed without a phone call from Buck, who’d taken Tommy’s one call to him in the early morning hours before a meaningless exhibition game as blanket permission to spend an hour before sleeping every night talking Tommy’s ear off.

Tommy doesn’t hate it.

(Tommy is very aware that he’s treading a tight rope with too much slack, and can’t get a read on the end-game for the life of him.)

He’s intriguing , is the problem. Beyond the curls in his hair that always appear after twenty minutes tucked under his helmet, beyond the wine-dark splash of his birthmark, beyond the sea-glass gleam of his gaze and the gentle slope of his cheekbones, the frankly ridiculous cut of his Adonis belt and the ass that fills out his dress pants on game days, he is miles more interesting than any man Tommy’s met in years, and he knows plenty of interesting men. He knows more useless trivia than Tommy could fill a book with, and hires chefs to teach him how to make his chickpea pasta, has terrible opinions on Star Wars (according to Christopher Diaz), a codependent relationship with his partner. He’s absolutely obsessed with hockey lore, and on top of that he’s sweet, and kind, and so fucking generous with his time.

Tommy’d watched him spend forty-five minutes with fans in the parking lot outside their practice facility, signing pucks and sweaters and posters, talking to each individual kid like he’d known them for years, taking selfies and talking to parents.

He’d spent that evening under the hood of Diaz’ Chevelle and watching Eddie struggle to make any sense of his son’s homework while slyly derailing the conversation by mentioning Buck, and that night listening to Buck walk him through the history of invasive plants, with twenty minutes reserved for kudzu alone.

Tommy is, in all frankness, a little fucked. He’s well aware, at this point, how heterosexual all of Evan Buckley’s previous romantic entanglements have been, with the help of Christopher, and the fly-by from Eddie to bitch about the latest girl who’d apparently found his brush with death to be the most intriguing thing about him. (He still has the silvery wisp of the scar on his neck from where Kucherov’s blade had nicked him — half an inch to the left, a few millimeters deeper, and Buck would have bled out on the ice in front of eighteen-thousand horrified fans.)

Which isn’t even taking into account how insane Tommy would have to be to throw out twenty years of carefully curated lies about himself to even think about this in anything more than the abstract.

(And Buck is still young — Tommy’s almost out but Buck’s got years ahead of him, in a league so behind the times that Travis Dermott shooting a big fat fuck you to the commissioner by playing with colorful tape on his stick had been seen as an act of ballsy rebellion.)

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about the lingering glances, the flirty head tilts, the tone of Evan Buckley’s voice when he’s teasing.

“...hear her purr, now,” Eddie says beside him, with a smack to the meat of Tommy’s shoulder, and he glances up from his plate to find Buck staring at them both.

“Cool,” Buck says, a moment before he stands, dropping his napkin onto the table. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

Eddie, apparently not catching the tone of his voice, just grins at his friend. “Yeah, you need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

Coming from the man with deep purpling bruises blooming under both eyes, it doesn’t seem to hold much weight, but Buck scowls anyway, a moment before he turns to leave.

---

Tommy tosses and turns for an hour, unable to get comfortable, rolling over their next few opponents in his mind; thinking through the way Buck had looked at him in the moments before he’d walked out of the hotel restaurant; pondering the last thing his therapist had said to him, two weeks ago, when he’d been stuck on something he’d said to his father five years earlier; wincing every time he flexed his hand and was reminded of how sturdy Kane’s jaw was.

He’s contemplating popping one of the pain pills Hen had given him when he finally admits to himself exactly why he’s having trouble sleeping.

His phone has been dark since he passed Eddie’s door on the way to his own.

It’s not abnormal that he doesn’t talk to Buck, after a game on the road. It makes sense, in the context of the last few weeks — they’ve all been a little wired, with so little time between games, so much travel in between. They don’t have another game for three days and all of them should be resting, recuperating. Buckley’s played over twenty-five minutes the last two nights in a row, and less than twenty-four hours before that he’d played almost twenty-eight.

But the gentle hum of Buckley’s voice as it grew tired has become something of a white noise machine to Tommy, and... he’s missing it.

He rambles around his room for ten minutes, tosses a twenty on the desk when he finds the frozen peas he’d asked the concierge for chilling in the freezer of the mini-fridge, fluffs his pillows, contemplates trying to find a shitty rom com on his Netflix account.

When the peas sweat through the hand towel he’d wrapped them in, he tosses them back in the fridge and leaves a note for housekeeping and an extra twenty.

Tommy stares at the ceiling for another ten minutes before he picks up his phone and sends the most cliché text imaginable. You up?

The message glares back at him, mocking him, and Tommy contemplates unsending it while it sits unread for thirty seconds, a minute.

He’s hovering his finger over the message when he gets a read receipt.

A bubble pops up. Disappears.

Three minutes pass, and they appear again, and just as quickly disappear.

He’s just about to plug his phone back into his charger and call it a wash when the text comes through.

Sorry, talking to my sister. Get some sleep, man.

Buck follows it up with a gif of Stanley Hudson passed out in front of his desk, and Tommy takes it for the dismissal it is.

[onward--upward]

fuck it friday <3

thanks for the tag bestie @shitouttabuck

here is a snippet from my hockey au playoffs sequel i am trying sooo hard to finish it i promise!!

Buck looks over at Eddie, who is holding his own jacket up, BUCKLEY bold across the shoulders. “You got us WAG jackets?” Eddie says, but he’s smiling.  Maddie rolls her eyes. “They’re not WAG jackets, because you guys aren’t wives or girlfriends, now, are you?”  “You didn’t have to change the whole acronym for us,” Buck says. “We don’t – It hadn’t even occurred to me.” It really hadn’t – he doesn’t consider himself as one of the WAGs, because… he’s one of the players.  “It’s not really for you,” Maddie says, and Buck gives her a look. Of course it’s for them – how could it not be about them? “I’m serious, Evan. Look – you’re obviously not the only queer players in the league, and you won’t be the last on this team. It’s something easy that we can do now that will probably mean something to people in the future. Okay?”  “Well,” Buck says, glancing at Eddie. “If you put it like that…”

tagging @eusuntgratie @hoodie-buck @sibylsleaves @bigassbowlingballhead

[iltrpls]

buck and eddie hockey college AU 🌈

words : 2k

rating : general audience

this fic was requested through @911actionforgaza fundraiser for gaza ! very proud of their initiative and to be a part of it ! 🔥

[bi-buck-coded]

Fuck It Friday

Tagged by: me, myself, I

The hockey AU haunts my dreams so here's something from the exhibition game that made Buck have Eddie's guts:

“Listen, man, calm down. No one needs to fight here,” Diaz says. Buck can’t believe his ears. Does this guy know what game he’s playing? Even more annoying, does he think he’s the mediator of the NHL? 

“Why don’t you tell your teammates that, man. I’m not the one you should be talking down.” 

Buck rips his arm away and goes to skate off but then Diaz decides to say “My teammate isn’t the one acting like a child,” and maybe Buck should have known he was just being riled up. Sitting in the penalty box, maybe sulking but mostly furious, Buck shoots daggers at Diaz only to see him smirk and wave before putting his helmet back on. That mother- The puck drops and Buck turns his head to watch the game play out. The power play that he could have prevented had he kept his cool. He shakes his head just thinking about the lecture Bobby will have waiting for him back in the locker room. 

Tagging: @wildlife4life @disasterbuckdiaz @barbiediaz @honestlydarkprincess (if u have already done it or do not wish to my apologies)

[buddie-fic-recs-this-way]

two minutes for roughing

—if you love hockey au's, this one's for you!

author: ok_thanks | rated: m | words: 10.8 | ao3 link

summary:

They trade for a winger after Buck’s second season. When he walks into the dressing room a few days later, Buck freezes in his place.

Chim and Bobby are huddled in the corner, openly staring from their stalls.

“Who the hell is that?”

Bobby simply shrugs. “Eddie Diaz. New winger out of Dallas.”

or: the hockey AU that literally NO ONE asked for

—kels reasons to read—

hockey au's my most beloved; seriously, give them all to me

the enemies to friends to lovers was chefs kiss

i just love them being them but in a hockey universe 🥹

[exhuastedpigeon]

Buddie baseball AU where Buck is an extremely talented, but hot-headed starting and erratic pitcher and Eddie’s a catcher who is brought in after Buck’s rookie season because he’s known for being level headed behind the plate and is great at game management.

Buck initially hates Eddie because he thinks he’s there to tell him what to do (tbh he kinda is, but only in that he’s there to help Buck keep his cool and to help him plan a little better) and Eddie is just like ‘hey man, I know what I’m doing and if you’re not gonna trust me that’s fine I’m still gonna be behind the plate’.

It takes two starts before Buck realizes that Eddie is … so fucking good at what he does and suddenly he’s like “no Bobby Eddie is the only person who I trust to catch for me” and the rest is history.

Also Eddie is wildly good at the plate too, which is wild for a catcher. He’s just so patient and doesn’t swing at bad pitches. Bucks a little obsessed with watching Eddie take batting practice.

[hawkbutt]

Edmundo “Eddie” Diaz 🏒 Hockey AU 🏒

[ynscrazylife]

the urge I have to make a 9-1-1 hockey team AU except I don’t know where/how Hen would fit in (unless I just pretend that the NHL doesn’t have men-only teams)

[fromxxthexxashes]

steppin' into fate (71520 words) by r_holland Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Maddie Buckley/Howie "Chimney" Han Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Howie "Chimney" Han, Bobby Nash, Maddie Buckley, Henrietta "Hen" Wilson, Athena Grant, Ravi Panikkar, Christopher Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Shannon Diaz, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Developing Relationship, Slow Burn, Found Family, Homophobia, Coming Out Summary:

“What the hell is this?” Evan Buckley storms into the office without knocking, tossing his phone onto the desk.

“The LA Kings have signed forward Eddie Diaz (@EDiaz82) to a five year contract” it reads. Buck doesn’t need to see it to know. He’s stared at it long enough already. There’s a graphic of Eddie Diaz and his stupidly pretty face beneath it, in his old Dallas Stars green and white, mouth open as he skates the puck up the ice. He’d looked at the replies, all of the “omg”s and heart-eyes emojis and 280-character amateur analysis of Diaz’s skills. He’d scrolled until he’d hit the inevitable “so when are we trading buckley?” tweets, and then he’d stormed into Bobby’s office without thinking about it twice.

“Management got you a centreman,” Bobby says, perfectly calm. “I thought you would be happy.”

“Well, I’m not,” Buck says. “I don’t need a center. And even if I did, I don’t need Eddie Diaz."

--

or, the 9-1-1 hockey AU

Notes: I know literally nothing about hockey, but from what I can tell the author of this does. Either way, if you know hockey or don’t you should definitely read this because it seems accurate and as someone who doesn’t know hockey I only had to look up a couple terms (plus it’s a really lovely fic). Overall, this is a really good read, and the relationship between Buck and Eddie is really sweet. 

[kitweewoos]

Evan "Buck" Buckley is an upcoming player with the NHL, a winger signed to the LA Kings after being scouted from the Hershey Bears, and he's finally found a home with his team. He can get his energy out in a constructive way rather than a destructive one, and he's good at hockey. He learned how to skate from Maddie when he was just a kid, a way for her to distract him from their parents' disappointment, and he learned how to be fast even before his growth spurt and muscle gain. He's tall, and strong, and one of the fastest skaters in the NHL. He's happy, and he can see his team going all the way to the Stanley Cup if they're good enough, if they practice and learn how each other work, if they become one on the ice. Then, the unimaginable happens. There's an accident, another skater crashes into him and then another, something cracks loud enough to be picked up by the television microphones, and Buck can't get up on the ice. He presses his face into the cold and sobs through the pain. He's rushed to the hospital and they have to surgically fix his leg. His doctors aren't sure he'll walk again, let alone skate, and he can't hear that. He can't, if he wants to survive this. His physical therapist, though, Doctor Thomas Kinard, "Tommy" as he insists on being called at their first appointment, thinks he can get Buck's mobility back and get him back on the ice before the next season, if Buck follows his routine and does the work. Buck is more than motivated, and he'll do anything that Tommy tells him to (and maybe it's not just because Tommy's a good doctor, but he's also very pretty and Buck is a simple bisexual man). Tommy is funny, and smart, and he doesn't let Buck get away with anything, pushing him to work harder and be better. He is good at what he does, and if he looks good doing it, Buck doesn't mention it to anyone. His hands are magic, and Buck doesn't mention to anyone that his favorite part of their appointments is when Tommy gives him a small massage to help prevent clotting. More than just a physical therapist, Tommy helps him understand that he is still an athlete, he is still worthy of his fans and his friends' attention, that he isn't just his injury or his scars. He reminds Buck every appointment that he's doing a great job and that he is so proud of the progress that he's made. He feeds Buck compliments like treats, and Buck has never had so much praise to feel genuine. It's addicting, far more than the pain meds he's given to make it through the day. He keeps his hands to himself, and his comments about Tommy's attractiveness, about Tommy's hands, about how he wouldn't mind those hands elsewhere on his body, at least until their final session when Tommy clears him to go back to work, and discharges him as a patient. Buck sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Tommy. "Would it be inappropriate to ask you for your number?" "If you'd said that at the start of the appointment, yes, but since I'm no longer your physical therapist, here." When Buck plays his first game the next season, there's a roar of welcome applause from their audience, but all he sees is the man behind the bench, wearing his jersey with a big grin, cheering him on just the same as he did when he was recovering, and the way he will for the rest of their lives if he's very lucky.

Dedicated to @gregorygerwitz and @regent-of-rarepairs <3

[catscardigan]

Ok my Tumblr pals... I am need of some crossover in my life.

Give me all your best Dean/Cas, Buck/Eddie, Steve/Bucky, Steve/Eddie x ICE HOCKEY AU fan fiction recs! Any rated M or E are a plus, but willing to read a well fleshed out story with less *spice*

Pic attached for science and attention... not necessarily in that order.

Pic credit; @princessamericachavez