#Calgary Day 3

[ratatatastic]

"Battle of Alberta, right? It was my first game: Calgary, Edmonton. We would play them in the preseason, and you know—trying to make the team I'd always be asking him to fight in preseason, always. I'd be runnin' my mouth—like, tryna fight the biggest, baddest guys, tryna make an impression.

And he would never fight me. He'd always tell me, like If you make the team, I'll fight ya. You don't have to worry about that, but I'm not fightin' ya preseason. And I totally respect it, I'm not gonna chase him down. It is what it is. He's established—I'm looking for my chance.

So I get called up, we're playing Edmonton in Edmonton: Battle of Alberta. [He's] over there on the other side, and it's like the coolest thing ever... you know, the buildup was crazy 'cuz I knew if the opportunity presented itself—if the game went the way I hoped it would, I would get an opportunity to fight him.

I remembered in warmups tryna skate by the redline initially just kind-of gettin' a feel for it—to see if I have to say something or whatever... He's got no bucket on, his big, bald head is glarin' around, he skates by the redline with the biggest smile on his face, and just gives me the biggest wink...

At that moment I knew Okay, he remembers. It's gonna happen at some point.

We were up 1, I think it was 2-1 going into intermission or whatever—Oh, no, I think it was 1-1 and we had just scored so the position I'm like Yeah, I don't know if I can fight him now because we have the momentum and we're winning the game. I don't want to lose a fight, then we lose a game and now I'm, like, never getting a chance again.

You kind-of gotta play the game within the game like [...] there's an opportunity to fight, and there's an opportunities where you shouldn't fight. Things weren't looking good, then they score and now we need a spark. I'm like Fucking perfect.

I just skate by their bench and I'm like It's time, big boy! He jumps out, we line up, and he goes We squarin' up or we goin' right away?

I'm like I'm not fuckin' squarin' up with you right now! We're goin' right away!

Drop em, we go right away, grab each other. I know he's a lefty so he's gonna let go—let's go of my right arm before he throws one. I threw one. Big boy went down, he jumped back up pretty quick. I don't know, I tell people all the time, I'm like I would've been in the league fuckin' 2 years earlier if there was good footage of this fuckin' fight!

For some reason—For some reason, the cameras cut out. I don't know if [he] had his cousins working the cameras or something that night, or if they're in the video room or what happened.

That was my first NHL game.

It's funny 'cuz Chucky was there—Chucky's there and he knows, he saw, he always laugh when I say that I would've been in the league earlier 'cuz he knows how things like that go. You get a little bit of energy and buzz around ya, and then kind-of momentum takes you a little bit further but unfortunate[ly], I missed that opportunity but I don't regret a thing.

[...]

The opportunity was there, I just—unfortunately, for whatever reason, the Hockey Gods said not yet." (Ryan Lomberg reminiscing over his first NHL game/fight) (x)(x) (please go watch the second link to see lombos giant smile as he tells this story jfc)

and other genuinely bonkers things to say about a hockey player in your first fight... like why did this need to be said like that...what

[puckpocketed]

17/03/2024 - Post-game interview: Devin Cooley's NHL debut

First game; that's something I've been working towards my entire life, so I'm really happy that happened. And for it to happen for my hometown team that I grew up watching was pretty special.

What did you think of your performance tonight?

DC: Man, that one — that stings, y'know. This, the game, stings. It was — we were so close.

I wasn't happy with the first [goal]. I thought, I sometimes reach and extend when I could just shift. And then, like, I read it perfectly. I knew what was going to happen, if I could just shift my body over [it] hits me right in the chest. But instead I reached and got a piece of it. And then, y'know, two tough bounces. That was disappointing. And then y'know, another that was a screen.

I'm gonna go over video soon and figure out how I can improve and make those four saves and do a better job of keeping my team in it.

+ Bonus from Brian Daccord on The Eye Test

Who’s a goalie that really pleasantly surprised you when all was said and done?

BD: Well, I’ll give a shout out to him now and he deserves all the credit in the world: it’s Devin Cooley. Just got his first NHL win, and there’s a guy that… He was with Joey in Muskegon in the USHL and — 6 foot 5, athletic, dynamic goalie. Didn’t have the structure, right? And he identified the fact; “Hey, if I go train at Stop It [Goaltending] in the summers, if I go work on my mechanics and structure and put it with my system, I’m going to end up pretty good.” So he comes to us and he's a walk-on, like a non-scholarship, third goalie at Denver [University]. And ironically enough I just met up with the staff there a few minutes ago from Denver and [their] goalie guy pulls me aside and he says, “Hey I just want to congratulate you on Devin. We saw it every year he came back. We saw him get better and better.” And it was great, made me feel awesome right? But it was the fact that [Devin] identified what he needed, okay?

And everybody, like, everybody’s not the same. Some guys need to be on the ice all summer, some guys need to not touch the ice all summer, right? Like some guys need to work on their mental game, some guys need to get their body strong. Like everybody’s different, he just recognised what he needed, and ironically that’s something that we do very well from a structure and mechanic standpoint.

He would come, he would get an Airbnb for eight weeks and he’d be on the ice day. In the weight room, we have a 15,000 foot goalie centre and [inaudible]. He’d be in there every day just grinding. And to see the walk-on, the third guy at Denver end up the starter, and up playing in the NHL, like that’s, that’s awesome. It’s just like, awesome to be a part of, like we’re a small part of that, you know, the major thing is him and the work and the effort and what he did to do it, but it’s fun to be a small part of that.

Yeah so he just grinded away, and then covid hit, and then East Coast [Hockey] League, American Hockey League, and then you know you’re buried in Buffalo. And Andrew Raycroft says this all the time, he says “you just got to stick around, guys. Just stick around, keep on getting better. Just get better every day.” And [Devin] stuck around, and then finally it looks like, oh they got too many guys in Buffalo, nothing’s working out, you know. The year is not working out the way he was hoping, next thing you know he’s in the NHL; flying charter, never going hungry.

And yeah so we talk about that a lot, it’s just, you know, goaltending; you can’t take the elevator, you gotta take the stairs.

[ahsokaisawesome]

Hometober Day 3

Today's prompt was "a vision of home", based on the 3 months of living with my aunt Lossie [yes she's my godmother] in her big mansion-like house. Her bedroom was one of my favourite places to be, it was the ideal master bedroom in the early 2000s and it was quite hard to pick a colour for it, but the soft yellows from the morning light made it look like heaven to me as a kid. More detail under the read more, but otherwise hope you enjoy!

My aunt was a co-CEO of a law firm with my uncle, so they lived very comfortably and supported all of her kids through school and extracurriculars. My cousins had the coolest bedrooms, the basement was massive and decked out [you might see it in a later entry] and her backyard was large and ornate, and had a fancy gate that led into a forest trail. A large portion of my time in Calgary was spent idolizing her and all she had, she was the pinnacle of success to me. She fed me the large double chocolate chip muffins, gave me fancy vitamins and her home was so huge it was like discovering a new city to explore. But as stated, her bedroom was my favourite. It started with an inside balcony with a fancy little desk and chair that led you to a beautiful ensuite where she placed my daycare projects. [I felt like I won a gold medal in life when I saw them there]. Then these giant white double doors led to the bedroom, very spacious and brightly lit, and the slanted roof ceiling was the coolest thing ever to me. She had gorgeous decorations and fancy throw pillows, and it led into the biggest bathroom and tub I have ever and still have ever seen. The entire area was like a princess' castle and I felt spoiled when she let me walk around and sit on the bed to watch TV. I wore fancy dresses and lace-trimmed socks [any Latino will know what I'm talking about] and I battted my lashes at everyone I spoke to because I thought it made me more ladylike and I wanted to fit in with the fancy lady vibes of the house.

Looking back on it, those 3 months were very important to my formative years, learning manners at the table and how to speak English very quickly [to specify these 3 months took place right after Christmas from the last picture so I had just turned 4] so I'm thankful she was able to cater for us and keep us above water while my parents managed immigration stuff. However, I recognize as well that these memories while precious to my childhood, were built on a painful falsehood. My aunt married my uncle and assumed her position at that building through the marriage, a building my mom and dad were hired to clean while I sat in one of the break rooms reading or staring at the jellybean jar in a glass stand down the hall. My aunt used her kindness and goodwill to keep my parents in her favour, and especially bent my dad's thoughts to her side of things. While I loved going to her house for parties and family reunions and playing with my cousins, she continued her guise while talking down my mom and sister. She used my idolizing of her against them, and the whole house was a beautiful glass present wrapped in fancy antiques and overcompensation for the children she did and didn't bear. I loved that house, and the good times I had. But if I ever visit it again, I know for sure it'll be in a brand new light. It was the last sense of "home" I felt before I moved to Ontario and sometimes I feel a small little piece of myself still clinging to the deep brown doors of her home and the upper-class vibes of the neighbourhood I still look back on fondly. Who knows, really.

[cohendyke]

boss is making me take pto in the next month or so which means that i might get to tag along to the original cowtown aka calgary alberta :) yayyyyy going home

[rabbitcruiser]

National Skyscraper Day

Skyscrapers have become pretty commonplace in modern times, and National Skyscraper Day is our golden opportunity to appreciate these architectural marvels and feats of engineering. Skyscrapers grace our big cities with their bold presence and define our skylines with mighty buildings that literally seem to scrape the sky. But skyscrapers have only been around for about 130 years. The world’s first skyscraper was completed in 1885 in Chicago and it stood only 138 feet tall, a mere 10 stories that would not even count as a skyscraper today. But the name stuck, and initially any building that towered high over the surrounding structures was dubbed a skyscraper. Over time, our ability to engineer and construct skyscrapers improved drastically, and now a building must have at least 40 floors to be classified as a skyscraper at all. In crowded urban areas where land space is at a premium, skyscrapers allow us to build upwards rather than outwards, converting a single allotment of land area into 40 or more floors of potential living space. For National Skyscraper Day on September 3, we invite you to join us in taking a long look up.

National Skyscraper Day timeline

1870 Elevators Rise in Popularity

According to one of the top NYC PR Firms, the Equitable Life Building in NYC was the first tall office building with an elevator.

1884 The First Skyscraper

Chicago's Home Insurance Building is built; at 138 feet,  it is considered the world's first skyscraper

2010 Burj Khalifa Opens

Burj Khalifa is currently the tallest building in the world at 2,722 feet, including the antennae

National Skyscraper Day Activities

Visit the top of your local skyscraper

Explore your local architecture or engineering

Build your own skyscraper

Chances are, you live within visiting distance of a skyscraper, and National Skyscraper Day is the perfect excuse to see your local skyscraper up close. Take a trip to your skyscraper and get a sense of the building from the inside. Ride the elevator (or dare to climb the stairs) to the top of the building and look out the window at the city around you. The top floors of many skyscrapers have restaurants, tours, or other ways to engage visitors, so poke around the offerings at your local skyscraper and have some fun!

Most of us weren't cut out to be architects or engineers, but that doesn't mean you can't appreciate these two crucial professions and what they bring to many aspects of modern life. National Skyscraper Day is a great opportunity to learn about the styles of architecture in your area. Or if you prefer something a little less artsy, you can read up on the engineering challenges that were overcome to construct the skyscrapers near you. Every area is different, and regional construction challenges had an impact on how your local skyscrapers were built.

Most skyscrapers have a steel framework that works to support various curtain walls, but you can make a miniature version at home with building blocks, dry pasta and glue, or even toothpicks and tongue depressors. Decide on your materials ahead of time, and challenge your friends to a skyscraper contest! Give everyone the same amount of building time, and see who can make the tallest skyscraper of all. You could even hold a skyscraper party with a number of teams all competing for that top spot.

Why We Love National Skyscraper Day

Their lofty top-down perspective

They bring the prestige

They combine science and art

No matter how you slice it, there's one thing all skyscrapers have in common — they're tall. A modern-day skyscraper boasts at least 40 floors from bottom to top, and it can offer you some really unparalleled views of the surrounding cityscape. The higher you go, the smaller the bustle on the ground looks, and the tallest skyscrapers around the world can make the people and even the cars seem like tiny little ants. Whether you're struggling with some mundane problems or seeking a more big-picture outlook on life, there's nothing quite like looking down from the top of a skyscraper.

Whenever a new skyscraper makes the list of the world's tallest buildings, it creates a considerable amount of prestige for the city, state, and country it calls home. Skyscrapers really define the skyline from which a city derives a lot of its identity and unique personality. Hosting a skyscraper is really a mark of your city's economic prowess, and cities with more skyscrapers tend to see more business activity than cities with lower rooftops. If you've ever opted for a hotel's penthouse suite or felt impressed by a top-floor corner office, you've experienced the allure of skyscraper prestige firsthand.

Though the official origins of National Skyscraper Day are unknown, it remains clear that skyscrapers are a true testament to the awesomeness of humanity. They are gargantuan projects that rely on heavy-duty science and the artistry of design in equal measure. Skyscrapers require brilliant architects who can design beautiful buildings that will proudly feature in the city skyline for generations to come. But skyscrapers also rely on ingenious engineers to turn architectural designs into a real-world plan of action founded on modern scientific principles.

Source

[mostlysignssomeportents]

No, “convenience” isn’t the problem

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in CHICAGO (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Using Amazon, or Twitter, or Facebook, or Google, or Doordash, or Uber doesn't make you lazy. Platform capitalism isn't enshittifying because you made the wrong shopping choices.

Remember, the reason these corporations were able to capture such substantial market-share is that the capital markets saw them as a bet that they could lose money for years, drive out competition, capture their markets, and then raise prices and abuse their workers and suppliers without fear of reprisal. Investors were chasing monopoly power, that is, companies that are too big to fail, too big to jail, and too big to care:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

The tactics that let a few startups into Big Tech are illegal under existing antitrust laws. It's illegal for large corporations to buy up smaller ones before they can grow to challenge their dominance. It's illegal for dominant companies to merge with each other. "Predatory pricing" (selling goods or services below cost to prevent competitors from entering the market, or to drive out existing competitors) is also illegal. It's illegal for a big business to use its power to bargain for preferential discounts from its suppliers. Large companies aren't allowed to collude to fix prices or payments.

But under successive administrations, from Jimmy Carter through to Donald Trump, corporations routinely broke these laws. They explicitly and implicitly colluded to keep those laws from being enforced, driving smaller businesses into the ground. Now, sociopaths are just as capable of starting small companies as they are of running monopolies, but that one store that's run by a colossal asshole isn't the threat to your wellbeing that, say, Walmart or Amazon is.

All of this took place against a backdrop of stagnating wages and skyrocketing housing, health, and education costs. In other words, even as the cost of operating a small business was going up (when Amazon gets a preferential discount from a key supplier, that supplier needs to make up the difference by gouging smaller, weaker retailers), Americans' disposable income was falling.

So long as the capital markets were willing to continue funding loss-making future monopolists, your neighbors were going to make the choice to shop "the wrong way." As small, local businesses lost those customers, the costs they had to charge to make up the difference would go up, making it harder and harder for you to afford to shop "the right way."

In other words: by allowing corporations to flout antimonopoly laws, we set the stage for monopolies. The fault lay with regulators and the corporate leaders and finance barons who captured them – not with "consumers" who made the wrong choices. What's more, as the biggest businesses' monopoly power grew, your ability to choose grew ever narrower: once every mom-and-pop restaurant in your area fires their delivery drivers and switches to Doordash, your choice to order delivery from a place that payrolls its drivers goes away.

Monopolists don't just have the advantage of nearly unlimited access to the capital markets – they also enjoy the easy coordination that comes from participating in a cartel. It's easy for five giant corporations to form conspiracies because five CEOs can fit around a single table, which means that some day, they will:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/18/cursed-are-the-sausagemakers/#how-the-parties-get-to-yes

By contrast, "consumers" are atomized – there are millions of us, we don't know each other, and we struggle to agree on a course of action and stick to it. For "consumers" to make a difference, we have to form institutions, like co-ops or buying clubs, or embark on coordinated campaigns, like boycotts. Both of these tactics have their place, but they are weak when compared to monopoly power.

Luckily, we're not just "consumers." We're also citizens who can exercise political power. That's hard work – but so is organizing a co-op or a boycott. The difference is, when we dog enforcers who wield the power of the state, and line up behind them when they start to do their jobs, we can make deep structural differences that go far beyond anything we can make happen as consumers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

We're not just "consumers" or "citizens" – we're also workers, and when workers come together in unions, they, too, can concentrate the diffuse, atomized power of the individual into a single, powerful entity that can hold the forces of capital in check:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

And all of these things work together; when regulators do their jobs, they protect workers who are unionizing:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

And strong labor power can force cartels to abandon their plans to rig the market so that every consumer choice makes them more powerful:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/01/how-the-writers-guild-sunk-ais-ship/

And when consumers can choose better, local, more ethical businesses at competitive rates, those choices can make a difference:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/10/view-a-sku/

Antimonopoly policy is the foundation for all forms of people-power. The very instant corporations become too big to fail, jail or care is the instant that "voting with your wallet" becomes a waste of time.

Sure, choose that small local grocery, but everything on their shelves is going to come from the consumer packaged-goods duopoly of Procter and Gamble and Unilever. Sure, hunt down that local brand of potato chips that you love instead of P&G or Unilever's brand, but if they become successful, either P&G or Unilever will buy them out, and issue a press release trumpeting the purchase, saying "We bought out this beloved independent brand and added it to our portfolio because we know that consumers value choice."

If you're going to devote yourself to solving the collective action problem to make people-power work against corporations, spend your precious time wisely. As Zephyr Teachout writes in Break 'Em Up, don't miss the protest march outside the Amazon warehouse because you spent two hours driving around looking for an independent stationery so you could buy the markers and cardboard to make your anti-Amazon sign without shopping on Amazon:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/29/break-em-up/#break-em-up

When blame corporate power on "laziness," we buy into the corporations' own story about how they came to dominate our lives: we just prefer them. This is how Google explains away its 90% market-share in search: we just chose Google. But we didn't, not really – Google spends tens of billions of dollars every single year buying up the search-box on every website, phone, and operating system:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

Blaming "laziness" for corporate dominance also buys into the monopolists' claim that the only way to have convenient, easy-to-use services is to cede power to them. Facebook claims it's literally impossible for you to carry on social relations with the people that matter to you without also letting them spy on you. When we criticize people for wanting to hang out online with the people they love, we send the message that they need to choose loneliness and isolation, or they will be complicit in monopoly.

The problem with Google isn't that it lets you find things. The problem with Facebook isn't that it lets you talk to your friends. The problem with Uber isn't that it gets you from one place to another without having to stand on a corner waving your arm in the air. The problem with Amazon isn't that it makes it easy to locate a wide variety of products. We should stop telling people that they're wrong to want these things, because a) these things are good; and b) these things can be separated from the monopoly power of these corporate bullies:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/08/divisibility/#technognosticism

Remember the Napster Wars? The music labels had screwed over musicians and fans. 80 percent of all recorded music wasn't offered for sale, and the labels cooked the books to make it effectively impossible for musicians to earn out their advances. Napster didn't solve all of that (though they did offer $15/user/month to the labels for a license to their catalogs), but there were many ways in which it was vastly superior to the system it replaced.

The record labels responded by suing tens of thousands of people, mostly kids, but also dead people and babies and lots of other people. They demanded an end to online anonymity and a system of universal surveillance. They wanted every online space to algorithmically monitor everything a user posted and delete anything that might be a copyright infringement.

These were the problems with the music cartel: they suppressed the availability of music, screwed over musicians, carried on a campaign of indiscriminate legal terror, and lobbied effectively for a system of ubiquitous, far-reaching digital surveillance and control:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/02/nonbinary-families/#red-envelopes

You know what wasn't a problem with the record labels? The music. The music was fine. Great, even.

But some of the people who were outraged with the labels' outrageous actions decided the problem was the music. Their answer wasn't to merely demand better copyright laws or fairer treatment for musicians, but to demand that music fans stop listening to music from the labels. Somehow, they thought they could build a popular movement that you could only join by swearing off popular music.

That didn't work. It can't work. A popular movement that you can only join by boycotting popular music will always be unpopular. It's bad tactics.

When we blame "laziness" for tech monopolies, we send the message that our friends have to choose between life's joys and comforts, and a fair economic system that doesn't corrupt our politics, screw over workers, and destroy small, local businesses. This isn't true. It's a lie that monopolists tell to justify their abuse. When we repeat it, we do monopolists' work for them – and we chase away the people we need to recruit for the meaningful struggles to build worker power and political power.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/12/give-me-convenience/#or-give-me-death

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VII

—forever winter

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.8k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and covid. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello again, here's the next part!! also here are a few songs i listened to while writing this one: salt in the wound - boygenius, flume - bon iver, the gold - phoebe bridgers, for emma - bon iver, forever winter - taylor swift and calgary - bon iver.

happy reading <3

masterlist!

January 19, 2020

Los Angeles, CA

There have always been two versions of you: the person you once were and the person the world has decided you are. The first is the one who existed long before the spotlight, the one with a bit of adolescent angst, dreams bigger than herself, and a heart still learning to shield itself.

This version was taught by her parents that she was special, but the world hadn’t yet caught on. She was the girl who felt small and out of place, who wrestled with who she was and where she belonged.

And then there’s the second version, the one who stands in the center of magazine covers, on the glossy side of fame. She is everything you once dreamed of becoming—and more. You’ve spent the last decade perfecting her image, carving her out of raw ambition and countless hours under the hot glare of cameras. Her Wikipedia page reads like an epic: awards, accolades, achievements—flawless. She’s a masterpiece.

This side of you is never tired. She never shows frustration. She knows how to angle her face when the camera flashes, to smile when the questions sting, and to cry beautifully when accepting awards. She can gracefully discuss the sexism she’s faced in the industry, yet she knows better than to name names or point fingers.

She always sticks to the narrative.

For the longest time, you hoped you wouldn’t need to split into two people. That the version of yourself from years ago would be good enough for the world. But the divide wasn’t gradual—it was sudden. It happened four years ago, the day your ex decided to make you the centerpiece of a bitter, ugly breakup that splashed across every tabloid in the country. Since then, you’ve been caught between these two identities, juggling the woman you once were with the image the world expects of you.

As you sit in the back seat of the car, your eyes linger on your reflection in the tinted window. Tonight is the SAG Awards, another high-profile event where your public persona will take the lead. You watch yourself in the mirror, a familiar stranger, and wonder: Does anyone truly know you? Do you even know yourself anymore?

“There's a line of press when you get out of the car,” Taylor, your manager, says without looking up from her phone. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“Got it.”

You nod, trying to focus on the task ahead, but your thoughts are far away. You look out the window, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color. No matter how many of these events you attend, it never gets easier.

The car slows to a stop, the muffled sounds of the crowd growing louder through the windows.

“Why isn’t Daniel here?” Taylor asks, breaking the silence.

“He had to fly back to Enstone,” you reply, a pang of disappointment in your chest. “The season starts soon. He’s prepping.”

Last year was a challenging one for Daniel—his racing season wasn’t what he hoped for, and he’s determined to make up for it this time around. His commitment to his craft mirrors yours in so many ways, but tonight, you wish he was here with you.

“Oh, that’s too bad, babe,” Taylor says, her hand resting on your knee in a gesture of sympathy. “When will he be back?”

“I’m not sure; he didn't say,” you murmur. “Hopefully soon.”

The door opens, and the roar of the crowd hits you like a wave. Flashing cameras, the shouting of photographers, and the glittering red carpet stretch out before you. “Looks like we’re here,” Taylor says, stepping out and extending a hand to help you.

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. It’s always easier with someone by your side, but tonight you’ll have to do this alone. You follow Taylor’s lead, plastering a smile on your face as you step out into the chaos. The cameras flash, posing and waving, but inside, you feel detached—like you’re watching yourself from afar.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally make it inside the venue, your body relaxing slightly as the noise of the red carpet fades behind you. You’re greeted by familiar faces and smiles, but the exhaustion from keeping up appearances lingers.

“I thought I was going to be the coolest person here, but clearly, you've beat me to it.”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts, deep and teasing. You turn and find Pedro standing there, dressed in a sleek silver suit jacket with black pants, his expression warm and playful.

His presence doesn't faze you; you've been filming for the Mandalorian since November last year, seeing each other here and there, not really spending time together between takes, and not acknowledging what happened at the wedding. You didn't hear from him since production stopped mid-December, only to get back on set early January. Although with everything else he's doing, you barely see him there anyway.

“You look amazing,” he says, his eyes lingering on you.

You glance down at your outfit—a sharp, stylish suit you picked for the night. It fits perfectly, giving you an air of confidence even though, inside, you feel anything but. “Thanks,” you say. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Pascal.” You gesture to his getup, offering a kind smile.

Pedro smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I came over to congratulate you.”

"Yeah?"

“The Achievement Award. That's huge.”

You laugh softly, a little self-conscious. “That sounds like an overstatement for someone who’s only 28.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze piercing. Pedro has always been able to see through you in ways that others can’t. You can hide from the world, but not from him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly, his voice firm.

“Do what?” you ask, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“Don’t invalidate your accomplishments. You deserve this.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a weight to his words that makes you pause. Part of you wants to argue, to downplay everything like you always do, but his sincerity stops you.

Instead, you nod, offering a small smile.

“Thank you, Pedro,” you say softly. “That means a lot.”

Does it?

He sees right through and holds out his arm, a silent invitation. “Wanna walk in with me?”

For a moment, you hesitate. There’s an unspoken tension between the two of you, a history that neither of you has fully acknowledged. But as your eyes meet, the air shifts. You loop your arm through his, holding onto his bicep as the two of you make your way into the theater together. A camera flash goes off, and you smile. But this time, with Pedro by your side, it feels a little less lonely.

•••

You were sitting at a table when a fellow actor and friend started talking about you on stage. It was surreal, like time had slowed down, and you found yourself lost in thought. You’d been to countless awards shows and accepted more than your share of accolades, but this one felt different. A recognition of not just a role or a single performance, but a lifetime of work—or at least, a decade of it. And you were still young. Too young, part of you thought, for this kind of tribute. Yet here you were, about to be honored in front of your peers, the people who had seen your highs and lows.

The screen flickered to life, and a montage of your work began to play. Scenes from movies that had shaped your career, close-ups of moments that had shaped you. A smile here, a tear there, moments of triumph and vulnerability.

It was oddly like watching your life flash before your eyes—a strange out-of-body experience, as if you were looking back at someone else's journey. The montage moved through the years, capturing not just the characters you played but the changes in you—subtle at first, then more pronounced. The younger you, still full of raw hope and untamed energy, compared to the more seasoned version, who had learned how to navigate the treacherous terrain of fame. It felt like a snapshot of your life in fast-forward, as if you were witnessing your own eulogy.

You breathed in deeply, trying to stay present. It wasn’t the end, you reminded yourself.

The applause was thunderous as the montage ended, and it wasn’t until your name was called that reality snapped back into focus.

You stepped out into the blinding lights, the weight of the moment settling in as you approached the podium. The sea of faces before you blurred slightly in the brightness, but you could make out familiar ones. Peers you respected, younger actors looking up at you with wide eyes, veterans who had paved the way before you. And somewhere out there, you knew Pedro was watching.

With trembling hands, you held the award, the metal cool against your palm. You took a breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“This is... overwhelming,” you began, chuckling, your voice breaking slightly from the emotion of it all. “I don’t even know where to start. Thank you to everyone who believed in me and to the people who supported me through the ups and downs. This means more than I can put into words.”

You paused, scanning the room, catching sight of Pedro for just a second, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that grounded you.

“When I started this journey, I was just a kid with big dreams and very little understanding of how hard this industry could be,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “But I learned early on that dreams don’t work unless you do. It’s not just about talent—it’s about determination, grit, and pushing through even when everything seems impossible.”

Your eyes drifted toward the younger faces in the audience. “To the younger actors out there, keep going. I know it can feel like the world is telling you no at every turn, like you’re not good enough or that you’ll never make it, but don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop working. This industry can be brutal, but it can also be beautiful. Find the beauty. Hold onto it. Work for it.”

A wave of applause broke out, but you weren’t finished yet. You felt a pull, a need to say more, something from the heart. Something real.

“And through all of it,” you said, your voice softer now, “keep the people who truly love you close. In this business, it’s easy to get lost in the noise, in the hundreds of things that try to tear you down or make you feel like you’re not enough. But the people who love you for who you are, not what you can give them, are the ones who will keep you grounded. I’ve met some of my forever people in this industry, and for that, I’m grateful. Despite all the bad and all the heartache that comes with this life, it’s those relationships that make it worthwhile.”

Your gaze wandered again, unconsciously searching the crowd for Pedro, and when your eyes met his, something inside you softened. He knew what you were talking about. He knew the weight of those words better than anyone.

“I’m grateful,” you continued, your voice a little more vulnerable now, “because I’ve been able to hold on to those people. Even when things get complicated even when it feels like the world is pushing us apart. You have to fight for those connections. They’re what make this crazy, beautiful life worth living.”

You felt a lump in your throat but pushed through it, finishing with, “So thank you. To the people in my life who have stuck with me through the good and the bad. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

March 5th, 2020

Calgary, Canada

Life after the awards ceremony didn’t feel much different than before. It was still the same relentless rhythm—work, events, travel, more work. The brief moments of peace in between became rare and fleeting, like whispers in the storm of your career. Daniel’s season was supposed to start soon, and though you’d seen him twice after he flew to France for preparations, something between you felt... off. His distance was palpable, but you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on it too much. It was easier to stay busy, keep moving, and brush it off as a phase. After all, the both of you were pulled in so many directions—when was the last time anything felt normal?

A quiet dinner in your NYC apartment, one of the few times Daniel managed to swing by in between training sessions. The table was set with takeout boxes instead of a home-cooked meal—neither of you had the energy for anything more.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said softly, watching him as he absentmindedly poked at his food with a fork. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I miss this,” you added.

“Yeah, me too,” Daniel said, but the words were like dust on the air—insubstantial, weightless.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been quiet," you trailed off, unsure of how to breach the distance you felt growing between you.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind with the season coming up. It’s…you know, a lot of pressure.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand on his. “You’re going to be great. You always are.”

He gave you that familiar smile, but it still felt like something was slipping through your fingers.

•••

By March, you had flown to Calgary to shoot a horror-adjacent film. The setting—a desolate cabin in the snow, miles from anywhere—was perfect for the kind of chilling atmosphere the director was aiming for. You’d always loved working with indie directors; their stories had depth, innovation, and a sense of grounded reality that the big-budget productions sometimes lacked. It was a reminder of why you fell in love with acting in the first place.

On set, things moved fast. Between takes, you found a quiet corner of the cabin and pulled out your phone to FaceTime with Taylor. She was mid-ranting when she answered.

“There’s a potential shutdown happening, babe. Something about a virus…COVID, or whatever they’re calling it. Have you heard anything about it?”

You’d heard whispers from the crew, but nothing had been confirmed. “I’ve heard some talk around set, but no one knows what’s happening yet.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, it’s serious. This might be the last project you get to work on for a while. Everything else is likely to be delayed. Keep your eyes open.”

You sighed, looking around as the crew moved around with their usual buzz of energy.

“Guess I’ll enjoy this last bit of freedom while I can.”

Taylor chuckled. “Yeah, enjoy it while you’re in the middle of nowhere. Call me if you hear anything else.”

You ended the call and pocketed your phone, the unease settling into your chest. Everyone around the set seemed unfazed, but the air had undoubtedly changed.

By the final days of production, the world was different. Everyone wore face masks, and hand sanitizer became the reigning deity on set.

•••

Reality hit hard. Flights were cancelled. No one could leave. You were stuck in the cabin, snow piling up outside like a barricade against the world, while the virus barricaded you from returning home. You made a grocery run the minute things got a little hectic, filling the place with more supplies than you’d ever seen yourself buy—just in case. The panic in the air was contagious, and chaos reigned for those first two weeks.

You FaceTimed your mom as you unpacked. “I’m stuck in Canada,” you said, laughing softly despite the anxiety that gnawed at your insides.

“Are you serious?” her voice was a mix of worry and exasperation. “You should’ve been back by now. What about New York?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back. Airports are closed.”

She sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the phone. “Just take care of yourself, honey, alright? Don’t be reckless. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine."

Her voice softened. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

•••

It was a particularly dark, cold afternoon. The kind where the sky hung low with thick clouds and the cold crept in through the cracks of the cabin no matter how many layers you wore. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, the silence of isolation pressing down heavier than usual when your phone buzzed on the table.

Daniel’s name appeared on the screen.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, but you couldn’t ignore him. Not yet. So you swiped to answer and brought the phone to your ear, forcing a soft, casual, “Hey.”

His voice on the other end was calm, but there was an undercurrent to it—a kind of distance that had been growing for months. "Hey," he replied, his Aussie accent tinged with something heavy. "How’s it going over there?"

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “You know… same. Snowed in. A lot of waiting.” There was an awkward pause. You filled it with a half-hearted laugh. “How about you? Everything alright?”

He cleared his throat, and you could feel the shift before he even said it. “Actually… I don’t think we should keep this up.”

The words hit you like the cold outside, seeping into your bones, but not with shock—just a kind of muted inevitability. There it is, you thought, the final crack in what was already falling apart.

Your brain hummed with white noise after that. You don’t remember what you said in response, something vague like, “Yeah, I get it.” The words came out on autopilot, and you weren’t really listening anymore. It wasn’t traumatic; it wasn’t the kind of breakup that destroyed you. It was like slowly waking from a dream and realizing it had already ended before you even opened your eyes.

His voice was kind, soft—too soft. “You’re so great, you know that, right? This just… it wasn’t working anymore. For either of us.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. Your mind was elsewhere—on the conversations with Pedro, on the way your heart leaped when you heard his voice instead of Daniel’s. You had known, deep down, for a while now where your heart really was.

“I guess we knew this was coming,” you finally managed, voice steady, as if you were discussing something as simple as the weather.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still… I didn’t want it to hurt.”

The niceties and the polite words that followed hurt more than any fight ever could have. It was the kindness of it that made it sting—the acknowledgment that neither of you had it in you to fight for something that had already drifted away. There was no anger, no raised voices, no accusations.

Just two people who had loved each other briefly, now saying goodbye like they were parting ways at an airport terminal.

“Well, take care of yourself, alright?” Daniel said softly.

“You too,” you whispered, already feeling the weight of finality.

And then it was over. The phone went silent in your hand, and you stared at the screen as if it could offer you some kind of closure that you weren’t sure you needed.

•••

The days began to bleed into one another. You were alone in that cabin—snowed in and quarantined from the world. The only connection you had was through your phone, through calls with Sarah and Oscar, who checked in on you daily.

Most days, you found ways to pass the time. You read, you cooked—burned some things, too—and found yourself sitting by the old piano that had come with the cabin. Your fingers brushed against the keys, unsure at first, after so much time spent focusing on acting. But the music came swiftly, like muscle memory. The songs poured out of you, stories in lyrical form, shaped by the silence and solitude around you.

But some nights, the quiet was too loud.

The breakup with Daniel lingered in the back of your mind like a dull ache. You had been okay with it for the most part; you knew it was coming, and neither of you were in it anymore. But there were nights, like tonight, when the weight of it crashed down and the loneliness felt too heavy to carry. You lay in bed, tears wetting the pillow, thinking about how everything had ended in polite goodbyes when maybe you needed the screaming.

•••

One day, in the middle of baking—flour dusting your hands and a bowl of half-mixed batter sitting on the counter—you received a text: “I hope you’re doing okay.”

You stared at it, your heart skipping a beat. You had thought about him every single day and wondered how he was coping and whether he was safe. Anytime Sarah called, you asked about him, telling yourself that it was enough to know from a distance. But now, with that simple text, you caved.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

His reply came almost immediately. “Not really. Mostly lonely.”

Your heart broke for him. You knew how hard it was for him to be alone. He thrived off people, off energy. And now, the world had gone still.

“Wanna talk?” you typed, holding your breath.

“Would love to hear your voice,” came the reply.

So you called him, and the hours melted away as you both talked about everything—about the virus, about work, about how isolating it all was. He asked, finally, “How’s Daniel?”

You hesitated. “We’re no longer together. Haven’t been for a while.”

There was a pause, then a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

You quickly changed the subject, but it lingered between you, the unspoken acknowledgment of what that meant. After that, you spoke almost every day. The isolation became less suffocating, and with each call, you both felt a little less alone.

•••

On Pedro’s birthday, you baked a cupcake in his honor, lighting a single candle before FaceTiming him. When he picked up, he laughed, “You made me a cupcake?”

“Of course I did,” you said with a grin, holding up the tiny treat. “Now, pretend to blow out the candle.”

He played along, puffing his cheeks and making a ridiculous show of it. “Thank you for this. It’s not much of a birthday without people.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, singing an off-key version of Happy Birthday. His laughter filled the space between you.

Later that night, he posted a screenshot of your call on his Instagram story, and the internet lost its mind. Comments flooded in—"Omg, she baked him a cupcake!"—“My favorite best friends!”—and you laughed at the attention it brought.

•••

One evening, as you sat at the piano again, your phone propped up with Pedro on FaceTime, he listened quietly as you played a new melody. “I think the lyrics need work,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “Let me hear them.”

You hummed the first few lines, fumbling over the phrasing. “See, it doesn’t quite flow.”

“Let’s try this,” Pedro suggested, offering a line.

By the end of the night, the song felt whole, and you felt lighter.

The days passed—isolated and cold—but your connection with Pedro was alive and warm again. And as the weeks stretched on, you couldn’t help but wonder: How long until you fucked this up again?

October 5, 2020

Budapest, Hungary

Pedro had always known loneliness. It was a quiet, persistent companion, but in Budapest, it had taken on a new form. The city was beautiful, its streets old and layered with history, but none of it could distract him from the hollow ache in his chest. The early mornings on set, the long hours of filming—the work was steady. But outside of that, the hours stretched endlessly.

He had been filming in Europe for months, and though he loved his job, the thrill of creating something special—the distance—both physical and emotional—was wearing him thin. He had been keeping in touch with you, his constant thread of connection. The texts, the occasional FaceTime calls, were easy and comforting. But he could never shake the weight of what he hadn’t told you. What you didn't allow him to say. It felt like a brick in his stomach.

You lived strangely in his head.

He still hadn’t found the courage to say the words. I love you. They haunted him—a truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Every time he thought he was ready, he backtracked, swallowing the confession whole. His cowardice infuriated him. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been in love with you for years, the feelings growing stronger and deeper, but now… now you were thousands of miles away, and he was stuck in this self-made purgatory.

His thoughts often drifted to his mother lately. She had always known how to comfort him, her voice soothing, her advice simple but profound. What would she have said about you? About his inability to speak the truth? He could hear her in his head, telling him to stop being such a fool, to just go for it. But she wasn’t here anymore, and he felt lost without her, more than he ever let on.

The days on set were repetitive but engaging. The crew was tightknit, and the project was exciting. He threw himself into work, hoping it would distract him. He laughed with the cast, bantered with the director, but when the camera wasn’t rolling, his mind was elsewhere. It was with you.

•••

A few weeks later, after wrapping up in Budapest, he found himself in Switzerland alone again. He didn’t know why he’d come. The scenery was breathtaking, the mountains vast and quiet, but the isolation magnified the emptiness he felt. It was as if everything had come to a standstill.

The stillness weighed on him. The quiet, once a solace, now felt oppressive. He spent his days wandering the small towns, drinking coffee in hidden cafés, trying to convince himself that the solitude was a gift. But he felt shattered, more broken than before.

One night, the loneliness became too much, and he called you. Desperation tightened his throat as he waited for you to pick up, his mind screaming at him to just tell you. The phone rang, and when you answered, your voice was soft, familiar, and full of comfort.

"Pedro," you said, and it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

His breath caught, and the confession lodged itself in his throat again. He had been ready, so ready, but hearing you—he thought better of it. What could he say that wouldn’t ruin everything?

"Hey," he replied, his voice rougher than intended. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

You chuckled softly on the other end. "You good?"

"Yeah, I’m good," he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. "Just…miss talking to you, that’s all."

"I miss you too," you said, and it broke him a little more. The call went on, but he had already retreated into himself, too afraid to say what needed to be said. He listened to you talk about your day, your laugh filling the silence on his end, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing—failing himself, failing you.

•••

The next day, he went for a walk. The air was cold, biting, but it didn’t bother him. He needed to clear his head. He walked along the cobbled streets, past quaint houses with shuttered windows, and let the weight of his feelings wash over him. It was overwhelming. His history with you, all the unsaid things, all the moments when he should have acted and didn’t. It crashed over him like a wave, leaving him breathless.

He found a bench and sat, his head in his hands. One day, he thought. One day, I’ll tell her.

December 31st, 2020

New York, NY 

The phone call from Oscar came two weeks before New Year's Eve. His voice was warm, as it always was, but there was an unmistakable edge of hope in it, the kind that crept in after months of isolation.

“It’s just something small,” he had said. You could hear his smile through the phone, that charming grin he always wore. “Not a lot of people, you know. Just family and close friends. After the last few months we've had… I think we need this.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar in person in what felt like forever, and the idea of being with people—Oscar’s people, your people—sounded like a balm to the soul. You agreed before he could finish the invitation, the excitement bubbling up despite the world still not feeling quite right.

You got tested later that week, making sure you were safe to attend the gathering.

When you arrived at Oscar’s apartment, the city had an eerie quiet to it. New York was never still, even during the pandemic, but tonight it felt subdued, like it was holding its breath for something more. You headed for the entrance, and the soft sound of music spilled out the moment the doors opened.

Oscar met you with his arms wide open, pulling you into a tight hug. “Look who finally made it,” he teased, his face lighting up in that familiar way. “You look good.”

“You too,” you said, stepping back and taking in the warmth of the room. It was intimate—just the right amount of people to make you feel at home, but not so many that it felt overwhelming.

Before you could take another step, Sarah swooped in, stealing you from Oscar’s embrace with an exaggerated squeal. She enveloped you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe.

“I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. You hadn’t seen her in ages, and the reunion felt like a weight lifting off your chest. The two of you spent the next few minutes catching up, your laughter blending in with the soft chatter around the room.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. He had arrived a little late, typical of him, but the sight of him sent your heart into a dizzying spin. It had been almost a year since you last saw each other in person.

He moved through the room, and when he finally made his way toward you, your breath hitched. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his toned chest. His hair was longer, fluffy from the months of lockdown, and his big brown eyes—usually so full of light —looked tired.

But when he saw you, the weariness seemed to lift for a moment.

He said your name softly, stepping close. His arms opened, and you fell into them without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him in a way that felt too familiar, too safe. He held you tight, his grip lingering longer than necessary, like he was afraid to let go.

“Hey,” you breathed against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—pleasant, familiar, grounding. The world seemed to fall away for a moment, leaving just the two of you. You pulled back slightly, looking into his face, wanting to say something—anything. You couldn’t live without thinking about him. He consumed your every thought, and somewhere along the way, you had come to terms with how you felt about him.

But the words stuck in your throat.

“At last, we see each other,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, his hand still on your back.

“At last,” you repeated, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You both opened your mouths to speak, then laughed in unison.

"You first," Pedro said, his eyes twinkling with amusement, though there was something deeper there—something lingering just beneath the surface.

But before you could say anything more, Sarah reappeared, her arm hooking through yours as she dragged you away. “Sorry! I need to steal her for a sec,” she said with a laugh, oblivious to the quiet intensity of the moment she’d interrupted.

Pedro smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you. "What I wanted to say can wait," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise that sent a jolt through you.

You promised yourself you’d find him later.

•••

In the kitchen, you and Sarah were rummaging through cabinets for more drinks when you heard Oscar’s booming laugh. Turning, you spotted him and Pedro, who now had a ridiculous pointy birthday hat perched on his head. You burst into laughter at the sight, unable to resist.

“Cute hat,” you said, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “Let’s document this moment.”

He grinned, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder and pulling him in for the picture. Pedro tilted his head, drinking from his beer, and Oscar looked up at him with a puzzled expression as you snapped a photo.

“Perfect. That’s going on Instagram for sure,” you teased, and Pedro groaned.

Before anyone could respond, Oscar’s wife walked by, eyeing the hat on Pedro’s head with mock suspicion. Pedro took his cue, unlocking from Oscar and jokingly attacking her with the pointy hat, poking her side with the plastic tip. You snapped another picture, laughing as she swatted him away.

“Send that to me,” she called over her shoulder, and you nodded, tucking your phone back into your pocket just as Sarah handed you a drink.

•••

The night continued, the energy in the room bubbling up as the countdown to midnight approached. Karaoke had started in one of the rooms, and you couldn’t resist.

Pedro avoided it at all costs, standing in the doorway with a bemused expression. After your rendition of Losing My Religion, he caught your eye.

“That was something, huh?” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I was extra terrible just for you,” you shot back, walking over to him. “I know how much you hate this.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” he said.

Just as you were about to respond, a woman’s voice broke through the moment. “Oscar said you were in here,” she said, stepping forward. “Hi.”

You turned to see her approach Pedro, and before you could fully register what was happening, she leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. A casual, intimate gesture that sent a shock of realization through your entire body.

You blink, dumbfounded, as Pedro shifted slightly to make introductions. “This is Julia,” he said, his voice a little too calm for the turmoil suddenly spinning inside you.

Your mind raced, trying to place her. And then it hit you—she was in the group photos he posted from the crew of the movie he was filming in Budapest. One of the producers, you think.

Oh.

Julia greeted you happily, oblivious to the terrible ache now pooling in your chest. You felt your throat tighten, the words you had wanted to say earlier were now swallowed by this unfamiliar wave of jealousy and disappointment. You went mute, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray how much this hurt.

Pedro’s voice broke the silence again, almost too nonchalant. “This is what I wanted to talk about earlier.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, great,” you managed to say, forcing a smile that you didn’t feel.

“And you?” Pedro asked, clearly trying to keep things light. “You said you wanted to talk, too.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and your mind screamed for you to say something—anything—but all you could muster was, “No, um, it was nothing, really.”

Something stung deep inside you. It was a dull ache, gnawing away at your resolve. You needed a way out. Fast.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” you said to her, your voice tight. “If you’ll excuse me…”

And before either of them could say anything more, you slipped away, making a beeline for the kitchen where Oscar stood.

“Hey,” you blurted, pulling him aside. “He’s fucking dating someone? And you didn’t say a thing?”

Oscar looked at you, taken aback. “I—it wasn’t my news to share.”

You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to swallow the embarrassment. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I just… I can't believe I was about to confess my love for him and make a fool of myself. Again.”

Oscar stared at you, his eyebrows raised. “You were what?”

You laughed, though it was tinged with bitterness. “Yeah. But now? I mean, clearly, it’s just another sign. The timing’s never right. Never.”

Was it punishment? you thought.

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly uncertain of what to say. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed another drink. “Here,” he said quietly, offering it to you.

You took it, staring at the liquid swirling in the glass.

"It’s fairly new, you know," Oscar said softly, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Like two weeks or something. It’s not serious yet."

“I just don’t get it,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “I don’t.”

Oscar sighed, his hand finding your back, a comforting weight that helped ground you. “I know. I know.”

You knew there was else nothing you could do right now, so you poured the drink down your throat, feeling the burn as it went down.

•••

“There you are,” Pedro called softly, his voice muffled by the cold air as he stepped through the glass doors onto the backyard patio. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting, but the bitter cold felt fitting, almost poetic.

You stood there, your back to him, a silhouette against the frozen horizon. For a moment, he was transported back to the first time he saw you in this very spot, under a much different sky. That night, the air had been warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that crackled with every glance exchanged. You had stood just like this, dressed similarly too, arms crossed against the world, hair cascading down your back like a curtain he desperately wanted to pull aside.

But tonight was different. Tonight, your shoulders were tense, hunched against more than just the cold. When you turned around, your face wasn’t full of curiosity. It was distant, your eyes heavy with an emotion he couldn’t quite name, but that he knew he was responsible for.

"You bolted out of there," Pedro said, his voice strained as he tried to sound casual, but the worry leaked through.

You gave a soft, bitter hum, a sound he couldn’t decipher but felt in his bones. "I was a bit shocked, honestly."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous, fumbling with the words he had rehearsed in his mind so many times but never managed to say. "I know. I wanted to tell you about her, I just... I don’t know. It’s new. I didn’t think it was important enough yet. I thought I’d find the right moment, but it never felt... appropriate. And I didn’t want to make things weird, you know?"

Pedro kept talking, words spilling out as he tried to explain. He mentioned her name—Julia—said they had met on set, that it wasn’t serious yet, that it had barely even begun. His voice grew quieter, more unsure with every sentence, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

See, Pedro hadn't planned on getting into a relationship, not when his every thought was consumed by you, not when he knew he loved you, and yet here he was. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

But your expression had already changed. He could see the way your face shut down, the way your gaze hardened, and it twisted something deep inside him.

“Don’t apologize to me about your relationship,” you said, the words sharp and cutting. “That’s the kind of thing that makes me feel like I’m some kind of Machiavellian villain.”

Pedro winced, his breath catching in his throat. He hated this. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your voice lower, more controlled.

"Our time never seems to align, does it? It never has, and it never will. It's funny, even.” You paused, looking away, your voice a strained whisper.

Pedro wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that he felt trapped between his own heart and the razor-sharp edge of what was right, what was fair. The guilt and longing were choking him, twisting his insides until all he could feel was the jagged ache of wanting something that was always just out of reach.

You took a deep breath, the cold air clouding in front of you like smoke.

"Are you happy?" you asked, your voice barely audible. A mirror of his very own "Do you love him?" from last year.

Pedro looked at you, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, the truth in the words landing hard.

You nodded, your lips pressed together in a sad, resigned smile.

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

It was an unspoken agreement—a quiet acceptance that, once again, you were not meant to be. That your lives had written this story long before you’d ever had a say in it.

a/n: enough sadness, their time will come soon ;)

a like, reblog or comment, anything is very much appreciated <3

[orphicdreamers-wp]

Calgary — Ethan Edwards

Summary: You find yourself slipping into old habits and only know one person who can help you. The one person who won’t talk to you. So you turn to music

Content Warnings; Drug addiction, mentions of a previous overdose, angst, mentions of oxycodone.

Pairing; Ethan Edwards x Reader

Based on Calgary by Tate McRae

You stared at the bottle of oxycodone pills on the floor in front of you. You were sitting in the middle of your dorm room floor in tears. This past term had been overly stressful for you, you knew double majoring in criminal justice and political science wasn’t going to be easy for you but you were determined to turn your life around when you changed majors from visual communications. You’d changed your major once you were welcomed back to UMich following your overdose. You had been suspended for 4 months for not following the student conduct policy. You were graciously welcomed back the following academic year, you decided to turn your life around then.

Mostly because your overdose cost you everyone in your life’s trust and support. You also lost more friends than you would like to admit. You wanted to be upset about it but you knew it was your own fault for the ending of your friendships. The biggest loss would have to have been the fact that you lost all the friendships you had with the UMich hockey players. You had no contact with your best friend since you were 3. You felt guilty for him finding you, you felt worse for the words you said to him in the hospital.

You finally caught your breath and shoved you phone and the pill bottle in your pocket as you walked into your private bathroom in your dorm room. You placed your phone on the floor besides the toilet bowl and dialed Ethan’s number. Your heart clenched with every ring, but even more when his voice mail played, “It’s Ethan, don’t leave a message that’s what texts are for.” You sighed after the beep, “Hey Eth, I know I shouldn’t have called but I’m not doing too well. I’m alone in my dorm right now packing to head home for break. I found a bottle of pills. I won’t lie, I thought about taking them. I thought I had my shit my together. I can’t take these though they look tempting. I can’t do that to you guys again.” You let out a sob as you dumped the bottle into the toilet and flushed the toilet. “I miss you E. I’m really sorry.” You hung up as another wretched sob wracked through your body.

Ethan let out a yawn as he sat down at his locker and opened his skate bag and tucked his skates into them neatly. He changed in record time, Mark was going to his girlfriend’s house for the weekend so Ethan had their apartment all to himself, which meant blasting Phoebe Bridgers during his shower in peace. He was sliding his hoodie over his head when he felt his phone in his sweatpants pocket. He hadn’t checked it since he’d come off the ice after practice. Not that he was expecting anything but out of habit.

He slightly panicked when he saw he had a missed call and a voicemail from you. He connected his headphones before pressing play to be met with your sad voice, “I found some pills.” Ethan’s heart rate spiked, he couldn’t lose you again, “I didn’t take any, I miss you E.” He had to sit down in order to not lose his balance. She didn’t take any, she’s okay. That was what Ethan was repeating to himself the entire drive back to his apartment.

—

A good 8 months had passed since you left Ethan that sad sob story on his voicemail. You took a 90 day leave from UMich and admitted yourself into a rehabilitation program. You also started NA and AA immediately after leaving the program. You returned to school and made the deans list and you had taken up songwriting. You also changed majors again to Entrepreneurship and opened a coffee shop.cYou still had a lot of forgiveness to ask for, but you were mending a lot of broken relationships. You hadn’t had any contact with Ethan or anyone you knew around that time. Currently you sat on a barstool holding a acoustic guitar in your coffee shop off of campus. You had expected to see Ethan around campus and in classes, definitely not here and definitely not with a handful of other UMich hockey players.

You tore your eyes away from him and adjusted the microphone in front of you, “Hi guys.” The usual Thursday night crowd, who all had their stories and songs or poems they shared greeted you back. You cleared your throat, “For anyone who doesn’t know how this works. Welcome to Thursday Tunes here at Blessing UnDisguised. I am the owner of the coffee shop and my name is Y/N and I am a recovering alcoholic and addict. I opened this place as I like to call it around 3 months ago. I had my struggles with my recovery and wanted to give myself and others a safe place. And many of my regular costumers here know I write music now, so I have a song I’d like to share if you don’t mind.”

Your eyes held a glimmer Ethan hadn’t seen in years and it almost brought tears to his eyes. He hadn’t heard from you or seen you since before you left him that voicemail. He didn’t reach out, mainly because he didn’t want to hurt you by not being what you needed. But in this moment he could see you had finally gotten the help and stability you needed. A proud smile formed on his face as you tuned your guitar, “Okay so some backstory to this song, I wrote this about 8 months ago. I wrote this while I laid on the floor on my room in rehab. I had realized the night before that I still needed help. Admittedly I called my ex and dumped some of my problems on him. Which I shouldn’t have done. But I checked myself into rehab the next day. I wrote this about a time in my life where I didn’t have anyone because I had drugs. I’ve struggled with drug use since I was 15 years old. I’m now 21, as of 2 days ago. So here’s a song I wrote about being 20 and just feeling alone.”

Same bar, same street. I’m 20 but I still feel 15. Sane fears, same dreams. Still tryna get my brother to like me. You said I always seemed to land on my feet. But I got problems hanging like a chain around my neck. Trying but I’m barely seeing past 23. And the best of me, right now, is lookin a lot like a mess.

I thought I had my shit together. Can’t lie the pills are looking tempting. I thought I was hettting better. No I got better at pretendin.

Old friends, downtown. They didn’t like me then and don’t like me now. Im drunk, oh, wow. My old habits came back around. ‘I’ll figure it out’ that’s what I say. Figure it out and take a break. I’ll figure it out, maybe one day.

I’ll finally get my shit together. Can’t lie, the pills are looking tempting. I thought that I was getting better, no I got better at pretendin.

And I do it again. I’m a creature of habit. The moments gone but I’m still tryna catch it. Everyone left and I never got past in. Never got past it. Same bar, same street. I’m 20 but I still feel 15.”

Ethan felt a pang of sadness in his chest upon hearing his own words he’d used against you in the hospital after you overdosed. Something that stuck with him for a day, but had stuck with you for a year. He felt guilt for abandoning you when you needed him. Mark felt the guilt in his stomach, you’d tried to stay in touch with him, shooting him congratulations messages when they won games, liking his instagram posts and congratulating him on his engagement to his long time girlfriend Zoe. But he ignored you.

You exited the small stage and went behind the stack of books acting as a divider between the customers and workers. You bend down to grab a bottle of water from the cooler and when you stood back up, you were met face to face with Ethan, Mark and a few other players. You felt like crying when you saw the way they were looking at you, “So what do you think? You guys like Blessings UnDisguised or what?” Mark smiled, “It’s beautiful Y/N.” Seamus Casey and Rutger McGroaty were too engrossed in the hockey posters on the walls to reply. Zoe and a red headed girl you knew to be Luca’s girlfriend were flipping through the box of old love letters in the middle of the room to reply.

Ethan stood in front of you with an unreadable expression on his face, “You used it as decor? Here?” He was staring directly behind you. There were two(awfully made) pottery cups on a shelf behind you. They held tea bags and sugar packets. You and Ethan had made them at some pottery shop on a date your freshman year of college. You looked at him, “You always told me I’d find my calling and be amazing. I guess sometimes I still need a reminder.” Ethan smiled, “I’m really proud of you Y/N.” You smiled, “Thanks E. I’m really happy now. I’m proud of you too.”

[annieqattheperipheral]

Zadorov being so fuckin real

I feel like 99% of the players overall, Canadian, American, Swedes, they're more focus of hockey, their own lives, I don't think many guys go into the politics. There's something interesting for me, I like it, I'm reading a lot about that, I'm watching a lot of experts. Just I was more educated to speak out, I looked up the stats, I'm preparing myself for the interviews for the questions. Same thing for the Russian guys. We had a group chat, it went two different directions; some guys were against, some guys were for. There's a lot of young kids thinking the way I think, they just don't have a voice to speak out like this, but hopefully now they can feel the support from me.

amazing of both the calgary flames and sports reporters for providing him the space to share his Rus/Ukr stance and for the flames for posting it without editing

I know Rus have a bot system and it takes them 2-3 days to send some negative reviews so I'm expecting them to come to my page too.

lmaooo zady😂

I think it's important for me to speak personally I think I can hopefully change something in this world. ... I think it's important to be vocal.

I only have parents there and they're on the other side of the view.

fuck🫶

Training Camp | Nikita Zadorov - 22.09.23

[makingqueerhistory]

I know you used to have a book wishlist, where did that go?

Yes I did, it was gently retired, though we had some very generous people who sent me books (THANK YOU <3 I continue to be shocked and warmed by this community's generosity) I found that I am much more of an audiobook person. I have trouble keeping information in my mind if I am reading it physically. That being said, I have also begun requesting books from my local library, which has been a massive resource that has assisted me more than I could have imagined before I started using it.

That being said, there are some books that I wish I had access to still, just because they don't have audiobooks. Currently my list is made up of:

Feeling Backward: Loss and the Politics of Queer History by Heather Love: "Feeling Backward" makes an effort to value aspects of historical gay experience that now threaten to disappear, branded as embarrassing evidence of the bad old days before Stonewall. It looks at early-twentieth-century queer novels often dismissed as "too depressing" and asks how we might value and reclaim the dark feelings that they represent. Heather Love argues that instead of moving on, we need to look backward and consider how this history continues to affect us in the present.

Prairie Fairies: A History of Queer Communities and People in Western Canada, 1930-1985 by Valerie Korinek: Prairie Fairies draws upon a wealth of oral, archival, and cultural histories to recover the experiences of queer urban and rural people in the prairies. Focusing on five major urban centres, Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Regina, Edmonton, and Calgary, Prairie Fairies explores the regional experiences and activism of queer men and women by looking at the community centres, newsletters, magazines, and organizations that they created from 1930 to 1985.　

Racism and the Making of Gay Rights: A Sexologist, His Student, and the Empire of Queer Love by Laurie Marhoefer: Racism and the Making of Gay Rights shows how Hirschfeld laid the groundwork for modern gay rights, and how he did so by borrowing from a disturbing set of racist, imperial, and eugenic ideas. Yet on his journey with Li, Hirschfeld also had inspiring moments - including when he formulated gay rights as a broad, anti-colonial struggle and as a movement that could be linked to Jewish emancipation. Following Hirschfeld and Li in their travels through the American, Dutch, and British empires, from Manila to Tel Aviv to having tea with Langston Hughes in New York City, and then into exile in Hitler's Europe, Laurie Marhoefer provides a vivid portrait of queer lives in the 1930s and of the turbulent, often-forgotten first chapter of gay rights.

If you wanted to fund my ability to get my queer hands on these books, here is the link:

[ceasarslegion]

The first thing I want to do when I can afford a car is take a day trip to calgary to go to the zoo. Edmonton valley SUUUCKS bro they have like 3 mammals and a reptile house and charge you 45 bucks for admission. I only have good memories of the calgary zoo from when I was a little kid and if I go another full calendar year without seeing a tiger I'm gonna start eating tires

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Sending in an ask regarding trans friendly practitioners in Calgary: Dr. Jablonski is still practicing (I see him regularly) and the nurses are wonderful there too, they were always so understanding for both my disabilities and teaching me how to do my injections despite having needle fears. Dr. Jablonski is especially great if you have specific gender requirements that don't always feel very binary either, he's been fully supportive of me being on a very low T dosage. Dr. Donaldson at the Foothills clinic isn't an endocrinologist, but has worked extensively with trans patients before and does a lot of focusing on HIV/STIs, but only works 3 days (Monday - Wednesday) out of the week.

Unsure if she's still doing these sorts of surgeries still, but I got my top surgery from Dr. Farrah Yau! She did a really great job, but be prepared to endure a lot of comments about if you'd want to consider other plastic surgery procedures, she made a lot "You're sure you don't want a tummy tuck?" comments because I'm fat. Her actual work was fantastic, and the healing process was really smooth. But I did have to deal with those fatphobic comments and consistently had to make sure she slowed down to actually answer a lot of my questions. For what it's worth, she didn't bring up that I'd need to lose weight before surgery at least.

~~~~

[hockeyboysimagines]

I know it’s a few days late, but any chance we can get a tiny Matt and Hallie winning the cup blurb? I miss them.

This is way late, but yes. I will always accept any suggestions about writing Matthew and Hallie. They are my whole heart🤍I hope you love this.

Hallie had never been more uncomfortable in her life as she shifted her weight in the seat, easing her way back down. The pressure in her legs and feet was immense, and the “comfy” leggings she’d opted to wear weren’t comfy at all, but they sure beat sitting in jeans for 60 minutes after she’d given birth.

5:45

That was all that was left in game 7.

A wild rollercoaster this playoff series had been. With wins losses, and a brand new baby tkachuk born between games 6 and 7. Thomas and baby Lilly, who wasn’t the baby anymore were seated between Keith and Chantal, Taryn was holding the newest member of the family Joshua, who had come roaring into the world only 3 days prior, and Brady was sitting next to her. Hallie was exhausted, excited, nauseous, and she had to pee more than she’d ever had to in her life but nothing could pry her out of her seat at this moment. Watching Florida fall last summer in Vegas had been awful. The fallout from a hard fought series had been even worse, and the injury that Matthew had suffered has been a terrible start to the summer, and caused weeks of turmoil in their homes. The result at the end when the final buzzer went off would make it all worth it. She hoped.

She glanced at the clock.

1:00 left.

She felt someone bump her and she looked over the find Brady grinning. Wordlessly he reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m so happy to have you here with us.” He said so that only she could hear.

If the result at the end of the game wasn’t going to bring her to tears, Brady definitely did. She felt like it was only a short bit ago that he’d wiped her tears, held her hand and promised to keep her secret about Lilly back in Calgary, every bit as loving as an uncle and brother in law could be, should be, and was. As the minutes ticked by, and the clock wound down she and Brady made their way to their feet, still holding hands.

5 4 3 2 1

Everyone in the suite started to scream including Thomas and Lilly, and Hallie felt hot tears streaming down her face as she watched sticks, helmets and gloves fly all over the ice and the benches clear.

He had done it. Her Matthew was a Stanley cup champion. Brady too was crying as they turned to eachother, fingers still entwined and each let out a strangled cry before they leaned in to hug.

“He did it!” Brady whisper yelled in her ear as he squeezed her tightly and they swayed on the spot. When he let her go he leaned down to accept Thomas’s high five “Up top buddy! Daddy won!”

“Does this mean you will win one next year?” Thomas asked with a big smile “Because if you don’t, daddy will make fun of you.”

The group around them laughed as Brady slapped the brim of Thomas’s hat, pushing it down over his eyes while he giggled and straightened himself out, turning to look up at Hallie. He reached forward and squeezed Hallie’s leg, big smile full of missing teeth. He looked so much like Matthew.

“Thomas look!” Keith called. Hallie glanced up to see them on the Jumbotron and Thomas started flapping his arms around and making a big fuss.

She accepted hugs from Keith and Chantal, the other wives and girlfriends, and finally Taryn who gave her one and handed Josh back, as he started to fuss.

Hallie pulled out a bottle and sat to feed him. Her legs and lower body were killing her and she desperately needed some sleep, but this was all worth it now. Her kids had gotten to see their dad win a Stanley cup. How cool was that? Well not Joshua because he slept through the whole thing, but when they talked about it years from now he would know he was there. She let out a breath and turned her eyes to the Jumbotron to watch the festivities down on the ice. Families weren’t allowed out there until the handshake line ended, and the cup was passed from player to player so she had time to get her thoughts together before then. Everything seemed blurry around her as she watched the cup get passed, waiting with baited breath as it got closer to Matthew. He’d done a lot of great things since she’d known him, but this accomplishment would take the cake. His achievements as a hockey player now matched his achievement of being a great father.

She felt a hand on her arm “Hey mama. They’re ready for us.” Chantal smoothed a piece of her hair and gave her shoulder a squeeze “Proud of you honey. You made this week even better by giving us another little angel.”

She smiled and closed her eyes with a nod, another tear running down her cheek. As Chantal helped her to her feet they began to gather their things and make their way out of the suite to the steps.

“Do you want me to take him back?” Taryn asked from behind her.

“No I got him but can you grab my bag please?” Taryn hitched it over he shoulder and fell instep behind her as they formed a line.

“Brady stand in front of her so she doesn’t fall. Be careful walking.” Keith commented motioning at the stairs as she made her way slowly down them, sliding against the wall to keep her balance while she couldn’t grab the railing. She could feel her phone buzzing in her jacket pocket and the texts from friends and probably Carly and Noah, who’d promised they’d be watching, but she would answer those later. Right now, she just needed to see Matthew.

People were everywhere on the ice as media, families and staff began to filter on to it. People were crying, yelling and celebrating. Kids ran to dads, girlfriends ran to boyfriends, parents congratulated their sons with proud tears in their eyes.

“Daddy!” Thomas exclaimed pointing.

Matthew turned and spotted them, smiling so wide Hallie thought his face might crack. Thomas hurried ahead of her, nearly falling as he reached him and she made her way gingerly across the ice with the rest of the family. He accepted hugs, congratulations, and pats on the back from all his family members until it was just her left after she passed Joshua to Chantal. He put a hand on either side of her face reached a thumb out to wipe a mascara streak away.

“Why are you crying?” He asked leaning down to look at her.

“I’m just so proud of you.”

“Be proud of you too. Without you, none of this would have happened. My life sucked before I met you, and look at us now.” He motioned over her shoulder and she turned “We have a beautiful house, three beautiful kids, 2 cats and a Stanley cup. And it’s all because you agreed to go out with me. We should put your name on this cup.”

She snorted out a laugh and wiped her nose “Well if you insist.” She reached forward and squeezed him as tightly as she could, eyes closing as she listened to the roar of the celebration behind them.

He ran a hand over her hair and was quiet a second before he said casually “So when do you want to have another baby?”

She whipped her head up and started laughing, wiping the wetness under her eyes “Funny guy. If I hadn’t just had one 4 days ago, I’d indulge you but tough luck.”

“Damn.”

“Maybe if you win one next season we can talk.”

He grinned and kissed the side of her head before turning to look at Brady “Your gonna be an uncle again bro.”

Brady looked Hallie up and down and frowned, confused “Wait-what? But you-what?”

“Nevermind. Come on, they wanna do pictures. Let’s get one without the cup first.”

The Tkachuk’s hustled in to crowd around Matthew as his teammates took turns taking pictures with the cup. To his right, Keith, Chantal, Thomas in front holding Matthew’s hand. To the left Brady, Taryn and Lilly. She held baby Joshua, and Matthew reached an arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

This was her family. A family she once didn’t even want to be a part of. Anyone who said good luck wasn’t real had never experienced it. She smiled softly as she turned back to the photographer.

“Alright Tkachuk’s. Smile!”

[fannyyann]

can we hear more ab c/m/l spit roasting but make it cockwarming :3

it's one of my favorite concepts but i truly have no recollection of what prompted the idea?? other than apparently matthew getting traded lol

Leon stops teasing Matthew’s rim, presses his free hand between his shoulder blades and nudges him forward on Connor’s cock right as he slides a finger in.  “Asshole,” Connor breathes out; his eyes blowing wide when Leon glances over Matthew’s prostate and he clenches and moans.  “You seem fine.”  Connor’s expression goes soft when he drops his hand to Matthew’s hair, and cards his fingers through the curls on top. “Can’t really complain.”  He drags his finger out slowly, pushes in rough, and Matthew lets out a beautiful whimper that has Leon smoothing his hand over Matthew’s shoulders and down his flank. “Me either.”  He squeezes Matthew’s hip and adds a second finger, belly going hot when Matthew pushes back into it and whines. Connor’s eyes slip closed and his hand tenses in Matthew’s hair, and Leon takes a long, steadying breath and reminds himself that his time in Matthew’s mouth will come, but right now chasing an orgasm isn’t the point of what they’re doing right now.  The point is Connor loves getting hard inside Matthew’s mouth almost as much as Matthew loves getting filled and stretched open from cock and that he loves getting edged almost as much as Leon loves edging him. The point is Matthew is neediest for attention right after he’s given himself over for Connor and Leon to take apart and that when the season drags and their days without Matthew seem endless, it’s the quiet stretch of time after taking him to his limits where Matthew’s sex drunk and warm between the two of them that they miss the most.  The point is summer’s ending, Matthew won’t be a Calgary Flame three hours away when the season begins, and they’ve been clinging to each other for the last two weeks like committing the feel of Matthew shaking apart between them to memory will ever be enough to stave off the desperate ache of longing saying goodbye will bring. 

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The true post-cyberpunk hero is a noir forensic accountant

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TOMORROW (Apr 17) in CHICAGO, then Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

I was reared on cyberpunk fiction, I ended up spending 25 years at my EFF day-job working at the weird edge of tech and human rights, even as I wrote sf that tried to fuse my love of cyberpunk with my urgent, lifelong struggle over who computers do things for and who they do them to.

That makes me an official "post-cyberpunk" writer (TM). Don't take my word for it: I'm in the canon:

https://tachyonpublications.com/product/rewired-the-post-cyberpunk-anthology-2/

One of the editors of that "post-cyberpunk" anthology was John Kessel, who is, not coincidentally, the first writer to expose me to the power of literary criticism to change the way I felt about a novel, both as a writer and a reader:

https://locusmag.com/2012/05/cory-doctorow-a-prose-by-any-other-name/

It was Kessel's 2004 Foundation essay, "Creating the Innocent Killer: Ender's Game, Intention, and Morality," that helped me understand litcrit. Kessel expertly surfaces the subtext of Card's Ender's Game and connects it to Card's politics. In so doing, he completely reframed how I felt about a book I'd read several times and had considered a favorite:

https://johnjosephkessel.wixsite.com/kessel-website/creating-the-innocent-killer

This is a head-spinning experience for a reader, but it's even wilder to experience it as a writer. Thankfully, the majority of literary criticism about my work has been positive, but even then, discovering something that's clearly present in one of my novels, but which I didn't consciously include, is a (very pleasant!) mind-fuck.

A recent example: Blair Fix's review of my 2023 novel Red Team Blues which he calls "an anti-finance finance thriller":

https://economicsfromthetopdown.com/2023/05/13/red-team-blues-cory-doctorows-anti-finance-thriller/

Fix – a radical economist – perfectly captures the correspondence between my hero, the forensic accountant Martin Hench, and the heroes of noir detective novels. Namely, that a noir detective is a kind of unlicensed policeman, going to the places the cops can't go, asking the questions the cops can't ask, and thus solving the crimes the cops can't solve. What makes this noir is what happens next: the private dick realizes that these were places the cops didn't want to go, questions the cops didn't want to ask and crimes the cops didn't want to solve ("It's Chinatown, Jake").

Marty Hench – a forensic accountant who finds the money that has been disappeared through the cells in cleverly constructed spreadsheets – is an unlicensed tax inspector. He's finding the money the IRS can't find – only to be reminded, time and again, that this is money the IRS chooses not to find.

This is how the tax authorities work, after all. Anyone who followed the coverage of the big finance leaks knows that the most shocking revelation they contain is how stupid the ruses of the ultra-wealthy are. The IRS could prevent that tax-fraud, they just choose not to. Not for nothing, I call the Martin Hench books "Panama Papers fanfic."

I've read plenty of noir fiction and I'm a long-term finance-leaks obsessive, but until I read Fix's article, it never occurred to me that a forensic accountant was actually squarely within the noir tradition. Hench's perfect noir fit is either a happy accident or the result of a subconscious intuition that I didn't know I had until Fix put his finger on it.

The second Hench novel is The Bezzle. It's been out since February, and I'm still touring with it (Chicago tonight! Then Turin, Marin County, Winnipeg, Calgary, Vancouver, etc). It's paying off – the book's a national bestseller.

Writing in his newsletter, Henry Farrell connects Fix's observation to one of his own, about the nature of "hackers" and their role in cyberpunk (and post-cyberpunk) fiction:

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/the-accountant-as-cyberpunk-hero

Farrell cites Bruce Schneier's 2023 book, A Hacker’s Mind: How the Powerful Bend Society’s Rules and How to Bend Them Back:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/06/trickster-makes-the-world/

Schneier, a security expert, broadens the category of "hacker" to include anyone who studies systems with an eye to finding and exploiting their defects. Under this definition, the more fearsome hackers are "working for a hedge fund, finding a loophole in financial regulations that lets her siphon extra profits out of the system." Hackers work in corporate offices, or as government lobbyists.

As Henry says, hacking isn't intrinsically countercultural ("Most of the hacking you might care about is done by boring seeming people in boring seeming clothes"). Hacking reinforces – rather than undermining power asymmetries ("The rich have far more resources to figure out how to gimmick the rules"). We are mostly not the hackers – we are the hacked.

For Henry, Marty Hench is a hacker (the rare hacker that works for the good guys), even though "he doesn’t wear mirrorshades or get wasted chatting to bartenders with Soviet military-surplus mechanical arms." He's a gun for hire, that most traditional of cyberpunk heroes, and while he doesn't stand against the system, he's not for it, either.

Henry's pinning down something I've been circling around for nearly 30 years: the idea that though "the street finds its own use for things," Wall Street and Madison Avenue are among the streets that might find those uses:

https://craphound.com/nonfic/street.html

Henry also connects Martin Hench to Marcus Yallow, the hero of my YA Little Brother series. I have tried to make this connection myself, opining that while Marcus is a character who is fighting to save an internet that he loves, Marty is living in the ashes of the internet he lost:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/07/dont-curb-your-enthusiasm/

But Henry's Marty-as-hacker notion surfaces a far more interesting connection between the two characters. Marcus is a vehicle for conveying the excitement and power of hacking to young readers, while Marty is a vessel for older readers who know the stark terror of being hacked, by the sadistic wolves who're coming for all of us:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I44L1pzi4gk

Both Marcus and Marty are explainers, as am I. Some people say that exposition makes for bad narrative. Those people are wrong:

https://maryrobinettekowal.com/journal/my-favorite-bit/my-favorite-bit-cory-doctorow-talks-about-the-bezzle/

"Explaining" makes for great fiction. As Maria Farrell writes in her Crooked Timber review of The Bezzle, the secret sauce of some of the best novels is "information about how things work. Things like locks, rifles, security systems":

https://crookedtimber.org/2024/03/06/the-bezzle/

Where these things are integrated into the story's "reason and urgency," they become "specialist knowledge [that] cuts new paths to move through the world." Hacking, in other words.

This is a theme Paul Di Filippo picked up on in his review of The Bezzle for Locus:

https://locusmag.com/2024/04/paul-di-filippo-reviews-the-bezzle-by-cory-doctorow/

Heinlein was always known—and always came across in his writings—as The Man Who Knew How the World Worked. Doctorow delivers the same sense of putting yourself in the hands of a fellow who has peered behind Oz’s curtain. When he fills you in lucidly about some arcane bit of economics or computer tech or social media scam, you feel, first, that you understand it completely and, second, that you can trust Doctorow’s analysis and insights.

Knowledge is power, and so expository fiction that delivers news you can use is novel that makes you more powerful – powerful enough to resist the hackers who want to hack you.

Henry and I were both friends of Aaron Swartz, and the Little Brother books are closely connected to Aaron, who helped me with Homeland, the second volume, and wrote a great afterword for it (Schneier wrote an afterword for the first book). That book – and Aaron's afterword – has radicalized a gratifying number of principled technologists. I know, because I meet them when I tour, and because they send me emails. I like to think that these hackers are part of Aaron's legacy.

Henry argues that the Hench books are "purpose-designed to inspire a thousand Max Schrems – people who are probably past their teenage years, have some grounding in the relevant professions, and really want to see things change."

(Schrems is the Austrian privacy activist who, as a law student, set in motion the events that led to the passage of the EU's General Data Privacy Regulation:)

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/15/out-here-everything-hurts/#noyb

Henry points out that William Gibson's Neuromancer doesn't mention the word "internet" – rather, Gibson coined the term cyberspace, which, as Henry says, is "more ‘capitalism’ than ‘computerized information'… If you really want to penetrate the system, you need to really grasp what money is and what it does."

Maria also wrote one of my all-time favorite reviews of Red Team Blues, also for Crooked Timber:

https://crookedtimber.org/2023/05/11/when-crypto-meant-cryptography/

In it, she compares Hench to Dickens' Bleak House, but for the modern tech world:

You put the book down feeling it’s not just a fascinating, enjoyable novel, but a document of how Silicon Valley’s very own 1% live and a teeming, energy-emitting snapshot of a critical moment on Earth.

All my life, I've written to find out what's going on in my own head. It's a remarkably effective technique. But it's only recently that I've come to appreciate that reading what other people write about my writing can reveal things that I can't see.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/17/panama-papers-fanfic/#the-1337est-h4x0rs

Image: Frédéric Poirot (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/fredarmitage/1057613629 CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

[stereax]

hello!! for the drafts thing: “bless your waters, bless your doubts” what did you set out to do with this? what changed that caused you to put it on hold? what are the themes that jump out at you, what story were you trying to tell? also, is the title a reference to something? i love to hear about the creative process!! :3

- puckpocketed on main

Yes!!! Oh my god, this was such a fun project that I began undertaking. Just couldn't keep going on it. More under the cut.

So yes! The title is a reference to the Devils' goal song. Here it is, if you haven't heard it (or if you haven't heard it in its entirety) before.

Okay third time's the charm my posts are being chewed upon by tumblr please dear lord let me post this this time please please PLEASE

[inhales] Okay! So the initial premise of this fic is incredibly simple. Dougie Hamilton, one of the Devils' better defensemen, has a running joke going where the Devils claim he's the admin of our social media. Hamilton slapshot goals are posted with a caption of "I scored!", Dougie's been roped into the act a few times, the like. So obviously this means someone's gotta write a Dougie Hamilton social media admin AU. I'm surprised nobody has yet. Devilsblr, get on it.

Anyway. I think the indents are messing up my post so let's try to post step by step. Instead of indenting snippets, I'll italicize them.

"What?"

Of all the things Dougie Hamilton had expected to hear when being pulled aside by the media team before the first game of the season, this was not it. The hockey player reclines in his seat, rubbing at one of his eyes. "You want me to do what?" he repeats.

Across from him sits Christopher Wescott, leader of the social media team if memory serves Dougie right. A quick glance down at Wescott's placard on his desk, prominently placed, confirms it. Director, Content Strategy & Social Media. Then again, Wescott usually wasn't seen filming anything, or talking to the players even, unless it was roping a certain Jack Hughes in front of a camera to try to get him to sell the youth foundation. That took all hands on deck. They even got the players involved in that one.

Gravy celebrated that hundred-dollar bonus for capturing Jack harder than any goal he's scored with the man. Colorado sleeper agent, Severson complained the next day. I would've doubled it if he let me go, Hughes complained in concurrence.

Dougie didn't remember when the media crew ever needed the hockey equivalent of a SWAT team, not in Boston or Calgary or Raleigh. Then again, maybe he's just not used to Jersey yet. (It's not New Jersey, Nico clued him in before one of his first post-game interviews. Just Jersey. Say New Jersey and they know you're not from here. Just Jersey and you're one of the locals.)

And here, in Just Jersey, Christopher Wescott wants Dougie Hamilton to take a second job.

"The younger generation of fans like memes," Wescott explains. The word memes rolls off his tongue like Dougie rolls out of bed after a physical game; that is to say, falls like a paperweight and ends up on the floor sprawled awkwardly, wondering why he hasn't retired and become a lawyer like his father yet. Wescott is what, five years older than Dougie, maybe? From the way he speaks, it sounds like he's an old man trying to commit the name of his smart speaker to memory. Erica, remind me to buy rice.

"And the team said you're supposedly the best at making them," Wescott continues, snapping Dougie out of this train of thought.

"Rice?" Dougie echoes, confused. "Anyone can make rice. It's just an orange packet you put in the microwave, you rip the top off a bit..."

Wescott sighs, running a hand through his hair. He's definitely thinking some dumb hockey player stereotype right now; Dougie can tell by the way his brow furrows in annoyance. "Look," and here he drops his volume two steps, scooting forward to lean across his desk, and oh this is serious? Dougie better pay at least enough attention to remember this discussion. No more rice. "I thought social media posting was just going to be putting up reverse retro pictures and celebrating stars of the week if we get any. You know, standard fare. But Andrew floated the idea with us a few weeks back and we really think we can get ahead of the league in capturing younger fans with a more dynamic social media presence." Of course it was Maclean, or, as the team called him, Picture Day. One guess as to why.

"And where do I get involved in this?" Dougie asks, but he realizes even as he asks that it's not going to change his final answer.

"We were thinking to make a meme after every win." Wescott pauses. "Oh, and some other reels and things for when it's needed. Of course Catherine's also going to be making content for us, too." Catherine Bogart, Queen of the Tiny Mic. Oh boy.

"Do I get tiny mic privileges?" Dougie flashes one of his patented Hamilton Smiles, hoping to catch Wescott off guard.

"We'll think about it." No then. Aw. Would've been fun though.

"Do I get paid?"

The director shrugs. "Aren't you on a multi-million dollar contract?"

"To play hockey," Dougie specifies. "Not to deep-fry Bratt pics." From the look of confusion on Wescott's face, Dougie reminds himself once again that he's dealing with a senior citizen in the body of a mid-30s advertising executive. The guy probably needed an assistant to turn on his computer. For him, deep-frying is exclusively for overpriced tempura. "Meme things," he explains without explaining. "But - "

"Museum pass, any place in the state, any exhibit, we can figure it out for you."

That rumor even made it here? Well. Hey. It's something to do on the weekends, he figures. And he's pretty sure Wescott, fancy director placard and all, can't actually give him a salary for this. "Fine," Dougie agrees. He's used to being underpaid, after all. Might as well have fun with it. Besides, it's a good excuse to get out of any social events he doesn't particularly want to go to. (Is he justifying this to himself? Oh, definitely. But he'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't want to do this.)

So yeah! The basic premise of the fic is Dougie's (mis)adventures running the social media for the Devils, his work with the social media people, his reactions to the Devils' season, and the like. I tried to keep it quite light (funny, even, perhaps? but I'm not really funny). Dougie, is, at his heart, a fun character, and I'd like to think it shows a little. It's not that realistic (he definitely doesn't text from the bench!) but it's fun.

In typical Devils fashion, they lose the first game.

In typical Devils fashion, they also lose the second game.

Dougie already has the next three games lined up. He doesn't expect to need more than one of them, if he's being honest with himself, but he's personalizing for each team, so there's that. Might come in handy later in the season, too.

By the end of the second period against Anaheim, they're 2-2. This is also the approximate time Dougie realizes he doesn't have access to the Devils' social media accounts.

Fuck.

And to make matters worse, Dougie starts the third period on the ice.

Shit.

And, if that weren't bad enough, he scores a goal 33 seconds into the period.

Damn it.

All this to mean that, in the next thirty or so minutes, Dougie Hamilton needs to hack into Instagram and TikTok and get ready to post this meme.

The second he's on the bench, he paws off his gloves, reaching for his phone under the front wall. Shaking it on, Dougie quickly navigates to Instagram and logs -

"Dougie, you're on," Lindy calls. The defenseman slides his phone back and jumps over the wall.

When he gets back to the bench a minute or so later, Dougie completes the process of logging off his Instagram account, then quickly punches in the Devils' media email address for the login. It shows him the right account, which is good -

"Dougie, you're on." Lindy again.

As he skates, Dougie contemplates the password. He can't disappear from the bench mid-period to go and find whoever was still working now and ask, so he's got to figure this out on his own.

The first password Dougie tries is njdevils. No dice. He goes on for another shift, then comes back and tries raisehell. Also nothing. If he keeps this up, he's going to freeze the account. Two shifts later, Mercer scores, and now the situation is dire, just when Dougie's brain is deep-fried worse than the Bratt pictures he sent the groupchat last week.

"Hey, Haula," he whispers as the center clambers over the wall to take his position on the faceoff. "If you were gonna make a password, what would it be?" In retrospect, Haula is not the person to ask about this, but Dougie will take what he can get, thank you very much.

"I dunno, man," Haula shrugs. "Password or something?" He raises an eyebrow at the weird question, skating off. Dougie nearly facepalms at the response, but fuck it, he might as well try. password.

Holy fucking shit.

Dougie slides his phone back onto the shelf to take another shift, biting his tongue to keep from cackling so loudly that even his own teammates would stay away from him. Holy fucking shit. Wescott and company clearly have never had a single lesson about cybersecurity.

Well, he's in now, and that's the most important.

However, as I continued writing, another story "thread" popped up, this one a lot more personal to me - the story of the Polish diaspora in New Jersey. A lot of my own personal stories are reflected in this part of the fic. It makes sense in the story (Dougie rents a townhouse in Garfield to avoid being recognized in Newport, Hoboken, and that area), but it's definitely a sharp left from the fic's initial focus. The two plot lines do intersect later on, but I never got to really writing that part of the story, sadly.

A few moments later, Ms. K turns off the stove and carries the soup pot into the dining room with two oven-mitted hands. Dougie pulls himself up to steady the situation however he can, helping direct the pot into its position. Ms. K takes the ladle she had hooked onto her arm, snatching Dougie's bowl before he can react and filling it with several ladlefuls of żurek. At the hockey player's mortified expression of a silent way too much, Ms. K shakes her head emphatically. "Big man, strong, big meal."

"Okay," Dougie agrees, cautious, as he settles back down in his chair and takes his spoon, stirring the soup. Chunks of sausage - kiełbasa - float up to the top before dipping back in. "Thank you," he mumbles, a little too quiet for even his own liking. He's just tired after the game. Yeah. Tired and a little humbled by the kind gesture.

"No worries," Ms. K replies, and from the way she rubs her hands together as she sits, Dougie knows she's one step away from launching into a story over dinner. "You know Martyna from the deli?"

"Yeah," Dougie nods. One of Ms. K's co-workers at Bratek, the business on the other side of town where she cooks for a living. Dougie's been there a few times, just to bask in the atmosphere and maybe score a few free candies. Martyna's the young one, couldn't be more than 24. Her husband Konrad is, from what Dougie has heard of him, a massive piece of shit. He suspects he's going to hear more of him in a moment.

"She came in yesterday all crying," Ms. K sighs, blowing on a spoonful of soup. It reminds Dougie to try his own - it's distinctively sour, but in a good way, enticing yet filling. (He suspects Ms. K makes him a lighter batch than she normally cooks, given the difference in color between this one and the one at the deli. No matter.) "Says that barely enough money for rent. Konrad drinks it all away. Co za kurwa debil."

Dougie doesn't need to speak a word of Polish to understand the meaning behind that acidic sentence, that Ms. K clearly isn't happy with her coworker's husband. "That bad?" he queries, making sure to leave it open for interpretation.

"He even doesn't have job," Ms. K rolls her eyes. "I told her, this man no good, he not love you. No. She loves him. Enough for her that she loves him." The older lady sighs. "Love doesn't pay rent. Or food. Or gas. He needs job." Dougie nods again in agreement, letting her continue; after a moment, she does. "Nobody want to hire him. Not construction, not restaurant, nobody. All what he does is drink and complain."

"Maybe he's got some sort of mental disorder?" The defenseman offers the idea. "Sits at home all day, does nothing, drinks - "

Ms. K barks out a laugh, cutting Dougie off. "His mental disorder" (here she butchers the pronunciation of the words) "is lazy. He doesn't go to school, doesn't work. Only watch game and drink. Lazy. Mother not raise him right." She shakes her head. "You give child everything, they get lazy. You make child work, they not get lazy."

"Aha," Dougie grants the point, deciding that a debate on the existence of depression against his matronly elderly neighbor who was currently feeding him wasn't exactly his plan for the rest of the day.

"No discipline in that house," Ms. K sighs. "All three Kubiaks lazy. One I understand, three is parents' fault." A pause as Ms. K lifts her spoon. "Martyna stupid, Konrad lazy. Perfect together."

They eat for a few minutes in silence, Dougie digesting both the soup and the gossip. "She's at least a good worker though." It's a calculated statement, because Ms. K very obviously wants to keep talking, but Dougie doesn't want to hear about Polish child-rearing strategies (which, from his very limited experience, began and ended at corporal punishment). So hopefully she bites on the redirect.

"Did I tell you about Barbara?" Hook, line, sinker.

"No," Dougie hums.

"She knows nothing!" Ms. K flushes red with annoyance. "She goes all day and looks how I cook. She can't even make salad. All you do is..." Her steam runs out as she searches for the word she needs. "Zetrzeć carrot, doesn't know how."

"Cut?"

"No, not cut." Ms. K mimes running a carrot over a grater. "So you get thin."

"Grate," Dougie supplies.

She nods quickly. "Yes, grate. Cannot grate carrot. Cuts herself. Cannot stir soup - not even make soup, just stir it. Burns herself. Or gets soup dirty."

He chuckles at that. "So she's not a good chef."

"No, but she is owner's son's wife," Ms. K sighs. "Cannot be at cash register, scans things twice. Cannot stack food, food falls and breaks. Cannot cook, chicken is raw and burnt. Both on same piece. Useless."

Dougie tilts his soup bowl to fill his spoon, unable to stop his eyes from looking at the cakes on display. The nutritionists don't need to know. "Can she bake?"

"She make pączki and pączki go boom." She says it so matter-of-factly that it's hysterical. "If she know how bake, she work at Piast."

Piast, the Polish store/restaurant hybrid that looks like a literal castle on the side of the road. Dougie hasn't ever been inside, Ms. K forbidding it (and once again, he's not going to argue with the woman who clearly knows her stuff). "If you ever need Polish food, come to me. Not Piast. Owner died, place is bad now. Too expensive."

That's another thing about Polish people - they measure everything in who died. Usually with when and how thrown into the mix. Honestly, it's fascinating. Ms. K puts on her Polish television shows and points out to Dougie who had a heart attack and who got into a car accident, recounting the details as if she were the coroner. She turns on the radio and everyone got cancer or was murdered by a French guy, five songs in a row, and then an Italian song comes on. Ms. K purses her lips for a minute, then says, "Did you know their daughter disappeared? Took too many drugs, jumped off a bridge. So young, too."

It's kind of morbid, Dougie figures.

Every Sunday, Ms. K goes to church and then to the cemetery, weather permitting. She takes candles with her in fancy glass containers, lights them and leaves them on her husband's grave. Dougie's seen the containers and heard the stories, how she counts the days until she sees him again. Dougie asks her, once, whether she wants to find another husband; she laughs sadly, "When Wojciech died, I saw it was either son or new man. I said better to work for son than for stranger. Son no longer here, but am old now. No point in looking for husband. I have husband already. Just not here anymore."

I think the main "issue" with this fic is that it's Super Fucking Long. There are so many plot lines in it and so much going on that it quickly became an overwhelming sort of project and I sputtered out on energy.

If I went back to rework it, I'd have to definitely consider whether all the parts are truly necessary or whether I just want to focus on Dougie as the social media admin and go from there. Additionally, I didn't know much about some characters before beginning to write, so they come across as fairly OOC, so I need to rework that.

Fun fact, though - I originally intended bless your waters, bless your doubts to be a capstone of a series. Each fic would represent one line of "Howl" and would be a short oneshot dealing with a specific Devil and some specific situation they were in. For example:

and all grown up and traveled so well - Mercer about heritage

do you still hear the sound of the thunder while you lie up by yourself? - Palat injury

And each one would offer a new perspective, roughly in chronological order, on the Devils and their own narratives. I still feel that the "braided" fics, as I call them, would be vitally important in presenting a complete picture, and I'd want to preserve them if I do retry this one.

However, it's a bit of a "dated" fic (22-23 is so long ago now), plus it'd end up being so incredibly long... I don't think I have it in me. Maybe someday.

Have one last snippet, here, and Experience Devils Hockey with me! [profuse sobbing]

It's seven-fifteen by the time Dawson shows up, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. Classic. Dougie can't help but chuckle as he opens the door for the young center. "Nice to see you," he smiles, a little fondly. Dawson reminds him a little too much of himself. He supposes it's only kind to pay it forward and take him under his wing.

"Yeah," Dawson grins back. "What's cooking?"

"Figure it out," Dougie challenges. The kid sniffs the air, contemplating his next words, and Dougie takes the opportunity to take the finished chicken out of the oven. "Before if gets cold," he calls across the room, balancing the dish in both gloved hands. Dawson scurries over to get a better look.

"I knew it had to be garlic," the Newfoundlander comments. He pulls out his chair and plops down unceremoniously. "Got anything to drink?"

Dougie bites his tongue to stop from rolling his eyes. "Because you want to be hungover the morning before the Caps."

"It'll help the L go down," Mercer offers. Damn, they really thought they had no chance, huh?

Right. This team never did have a chance. He's been here a year already but enough of that time was on injured reserve (and the rest trying to avoid anyone on his former teams) that it's still new to him, this - this culture of expecting loss. He sees it in the eyes of the old guard, how Sevo and Wood sigh when a goal is given up like it's the last breath they know how to take. Even the newer players feel it, see it, know it.

This was once a dynasty, Dougie understands, and now the castle is in ruins.