#if u recognize the owner of this picture pls comment so i can credit them

[madeinheaven2008]

[itsstickball]

I saw your prompt post so can u pls give us the father son Wymack and Andrew dynamic we deserve thank you hallelujah

Okay so I know you probably were expecting sth at a younger stage of life (and tbh, I might still write that, bc it’s good shit), but we’re four weeks into 20quarantine and I miss hockey. And you know what they do in hockey? Dad’s Trips.

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Andrew’s watching some Netflix series about the drama between a bunch of exotic animal owners, alone in the dark of his apartment with an entire tub of ice cream resting on the pillow in his lap when the call comes through. He’s more invested in the ice cream than the drama, which came out the year prior. In fact, he’d avoided the show until now on the principle of annoying his family and was only watchin it now because he was tired of having to decode the references Neil made any time he posted a picture of Sir.  

He doesn’t bother to pause it or move to another room when he hits the “answer” icon on his phone.

“It’s a little late to be getting the mail, isn’t it?” He asked in lieu of a greeting. There was really only one reason for Wymack to be calling him.

“If anything, it’s early. This is yesterday’s mail.” Wymack grunted. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Andrew looked at the clock, and realized that yeah...that tracked. The red numbers blinked back 3:39am at him and he remembered Neil mentioning that the Foxes had a road game this week. Once he did the math, it was actually a little surprising Wymack hadn’t called an hour earlier.

“You called me.” He reminded the coach rather than comment on the rest of it.

There was a sigh from the other end of the line. “I had a hunch.” Wymack retorted. It was more like he had five years to put up with Andrew’s bullshit and Andrew four years of putting up with Neil and Kevin’s. Night practices made more than one lasting impact, it seemed.

“So you got it.” Andrew prompted, not asked. 

Wymack sighed again and there was the faint sound of shuffling papers.

“Yeah. I don’t have a fucking clue why, though.” 

“It’s pretty self explanatory.” Andrew retorted. “Assuming you can still read.”

“Reading is the only thing I need the glasses for, thank you very fucking much.” 

Andrew would be lying if he said the corner of his mouth didn’t twitch up at Wymack’s easy irritability. But this was his apartment and there was no one there to misunderstand it anyway.

“So what’s the problem?” He asked, taking a bite of ice cream while waiting for Wymack to fill the silence with his trepidations.

“Are you sure you want -”

“I gave them the address.” Andrew cut him off, letting Wymack fill in the space between his words. They both knew that he didn’t do or mean things halfway. Without an address, there wouldn’t have been an invitation at all - just like there hadn’t been the previous two years.

More silence, this time less interesting now that Andrew knew what useless emotions were hiding on the other side.

“Do you have any other plans?” He didn’t. Andrew had checked. Wymack’s grunt confirmed what he already knew. “Then let Wilds take over yelling at the delinquents for a weekend.”

“Okay, but Andrew -.”

“The dinner on friday is black tie. Try not to embarrass yourself.” He reminded his former coach and then promptly hung up before Wymack could so much as shout in indignation. 

Onscreen, a man with a truly horrendous mullet cussed out one of his rival gamekeepers.

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Once a year, like many professional Exy Teams, the Spokane Sundogs hosted a special weekend trip for their players and their families - or, more specifically, their fathers. Andrew had scorned the idea of it when brought up by his last two teams - and not just because he had no biological guardian to invite.

This year, however, as the team gathered outside the arena, nearly ready to depart, he stood with mild anticipation. 

They were only waiting for one more addition before they boarded, with most of the players and their dad’s already conversing or posing for the team’s PR photographer. Andrew was standing slightly apart from the group, a quirk which thankfully they’d all come to accept about him. This time though, it was with more intention than just preserving his personal space.

“Ah!, finally.” The team’s defensive coach, Elliot Martin said, stepping over to show Andrew the text reading out that their last guest had arrived.

“Took him long enough.” Andrew grunted in reply, thankful that the coach didn’t press or make more noise about the issue. Martin was one of the few people intuitive enough to recognize the difference between Andrew’s silences and attention span. He also didn’t crowd any closer now that their exchange was over.

Just a few minutes later, Wymack’s form strode through the exterior door.

In truth, it was just a chance that his travel plans put him as the last arrival. Andrew felt no ill will or disgruntlement towards the coach for it, but he was undecided on how he felt about the matter as a whole. On the one hand, all of his teammates were currently distracted interacting with each other, but their attention would all be called together now that everyone was here. He doubted any of them expected to see someone standing next to him, and wasn’t looking forward to their speculation.

“Wymack.” He greeted, his voice characteristically monotone.

“Minyard.” The coach nodded and returned it in kind - although Andrew noted he sounded rather tired. That didn’t bode particularly well for someone he was going to have to travel with, but at least they wouldn’t be flying. Wymack didn’t try to step closer than necessary or make any physical greetings with him, which he was grateful for. 

Then, however, it was time to go and his position among the coaching staff - complete with his guest was made obvious. A round of quick murmurs went up from the small crowd, which Andrew ignored in favor of staring at their head coach as he gave their schedule. An assistant handed out paper forms of the itinerary and then they were being ushered onto the bus.

“Your teammates seem nice.” Wymack said, apropos of literally nothing, after they’d handed their luggage off to the equipment team.

Andrew grunted.

“Regret inviting me already?” Wymack tried again, this time with a bit of dry humor in his voice.

Andrew turned to look at him, a tiny spark in his eye. “Not at all.” Wymack’s eyebrows furrowed, so he elaborated. “This way, they can pester you with their questions instead of me.”

He pat Wymack once on the shoulder before disappearing into the bus. When he’d found his seat at the very back and chanced a glance out the window, he found Wymack swamped by other players and their dads just a few feet from the steps. He seemed to be handling the attention alright, but Andrew recognized the slight tension in his movements. It was as close to a deer in headlights as Wymack got.

“I hate you.” He said a few minutes later when the coaches got serious about everyone boarding the bus.

Andrew glanced over at where the older man was slumped into the seat next to him. His grin was feral and sharp. “See, you fit right into the family. You’ve already learned our main vocabulary.”

Wymack scowled at him, but there was no real heat to it. And if Andrew’s smile softened and quirked higher on one side, even as he pressed his lips together and turned to look outside - well, there was only one person alive who would call him on it and he was hundreds of miles away.

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Forty hours later and they’re in the hotel room, getting ready for the fancy team dinner. Andrew was long resigned to having to share rooms with potentially obnoxious teammates for away games, so the change of pace that comes from sharing with Wymack is welcome. Living with him - even for just a few days, even in a cramped room - is familiar. Andrew spent too many nights quarantined with the man in college for it not to be.

There was no threat to anyone’s safety or sanity - aside from the fallout typically associated with overly friendly teammates, but they knew each other’s quirks. Andrew didn’t comment when Wymack woke up at 5:30 to brew an entire carafe of coffee - despite not having any engagements until 9:00. And Wymack didn’t question why he spent nearly the entirety of their afternoon free/rest time sitting on the desk by the window with a pint of ice cream just staring out at the cityscape below.

Andrew didn’t have to hedge or explain why he needed to shower first when it came time to get ready for the dinner. In fact, they skipped the discussion altogether. Both men simply glanced at the clock after the shitty made-for TV movie they’d been watching rolled to credits and Wymack said. “Let me know when you’re done.”

It was that simple.

Being away from the Foxes, from his family for so long, Andrew actually sat there stunned for a moment before Wymack turned back to look at him, prompting a grunt in reply. Seemingly satisfied, his former coach turned back to whatever he was doing with the charcoal suit he’d hung up in their shared closet space. Andrew allowed himself one more second of stillness before getting up and angrily grabbing his own pants and undershirt and locking himself in the bathroom

Behind him, he heard Wymack let out an amused huff, but no comment.

By the time he finished and they swapped rooms, the frustration of his startling realization had left Andrew. He still waited for Wymack to click the bathroom lock in place behind him before he moved to finish dressing and comb his hair into something acceptable. But then he had nearly half an hour to sit on the bed and think before his teammates and their fathers would fill up the fuzzy parts of his brain. 

He could use the time to analyse how he got to that point - how Wymack had gotten to that point. Andrew enjoyed living on his own, but it clearly wasn’t just Neil's company at PSU that had left a lasting mark on him. Thirty minutes was plenty of time to catalogue each of the things he’d gotten used to in college that he’d lost again as he moved from team to team each year in the pros…

 He flipped on the TV instead.

Wymack opened the door fifteen minutes later to Andrew staring blankly at an infomercial.

“I didn’t take Neil as the type to wear pearls.” He poked, looking bemused from Andrew to the man and woman on stage who were trying to make outdated jewelry seem like the newest fad. 

Andrew slid his gaze sideways, eyes focusing in on the older man. Unlike Andrew, he’d exited the bathroom in only his boxers - which, Andrew was secretly bemused to find, were covered in tiny orange fox paws. He didn’t stay that way for long, of course, turning to retrieve his actual clothes from the closet.

“He likes to feel classy.” He shot back, deadpan and several seconds too late to be anything more than a deflection.

Wymack snorted, and for a moment, Andrew thought he’d let it drop. To Andrew’s downfall, unfortunately, he had the capacity to both dress himself and prod at the blonde’s psyche at the same time. 

Andrew would have to ask Bee to stop spending so much time with him and Abby. It was ruining his “above my paygrade” modus operandi.

“You know I’m shit at this kind of stuff.” He started and Andrew resigned himself to the fact that they were, evidently, going above the paygrade. “But you’re allowed to enjoy nice things.”

Andrew held back his urge to scoff. “Nice things” had never factored into his life unless he was being accused of breaking them. It would be easy to deliberately misconstrue Wymack’s gruff sincerity, to make this about the pearls, pretty but ultimately meaningless objects. He knew, however, that this wasn’t the type of “nice” the older man was talking about. 

How many times had he told Neil that Foxes didn’t get to have nice things? That they came from nothing and so would always have nothing? It turned out, though, that there were a lot of nice things that also came from nothing. Renee’s smiles and unwavering - even if often annoying - encouragement. Kevin’s refusal to let him give up on life, even in the face of his own fear. Neil’s never-ending respect for his boundaries. 

Half an hour of sick sobriety in exchange for a few stopped goals. A bottle of Jack in exchange for a whole game. 

Wymack’s second, third, fourth chances.

He met Wymack’s gaze. “I know.”

Because as intolerably cheesy as Coach’s whole “as many chances as it takes” philosophy sounded, Andrew would either be dead or rotting in a jail cell without it. He would have thrown himself to the wolves in order to keep his family safe, and it would have destroyed him. But Coach gave him the back-up he’d gone his entire childhood without. He only took what Andrew was willing to give, held him accountable, and called him on his bullshit, but never tried to fix him. 

In a world of people preoccupied with making everyone around them perfect, Wymack said “what you are is good enough.”

Andrew didn’t know if he’d ever be able to bring himself to say thank you, but he could show it. He’d thought it funny to spring Wymack on his teammates and vice-versa, sure. But he’d invited him because he fit the bill.

Andrew might not ever say it, but maybe he could show his gratitude, one hectic weekend at a time. 

Wymack seemed to understand.

“Alright.” He said, nodding once, then twice more firmly. “Now how many times can I expect Richard Decker to ask me about fishing?”

Andrew snorted. “Based on his son? It will be the only thing he talks about all dinner.”

Wymack shook his head and gave a little laugh before pocketing his wallet and keycard and gesturing toward the door.

“Well, let’s not keep the man’s sturgeon dreams waiting, then.” He said, earning a dubious expression from the blonde.

He didn’t deign to honor the joking comment with a response, but as they headed towards the elevator, Andrew thought he might have one more nice thing to add to the list.