#it’s redundant and you’re not adding anything new either it’s not even a head canon or anything

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

Not to be a complete prick because this is technically harmless but

Random, one-off thoughts like “omg I LOVE Jason Todd” “My Jason Todd addiction is acting up again”. Why do more and more people feel the need to put posts of these nature in the tags lol

[welllpthisishappening]

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 

With bright lights and beeping machines and out-of-date magazines. Roland’s career was supposed to end with confetti. Maybe a parade. At least some sort of cheering, because if there was cheering then it wouldn’t be possible to hear how difficult it was for Matt to catch his breath and if he started crying in the waiting room he was never going to forgive himself. 

Or: Roland Locksley gets hurt and Matt Jones doesn’t handle it very well. 

----

Rating: Teen, but like with a heaping side of angst Word Count: 5.2K or so AN: This story has been living rent free in the back corner of my mind that I reserve for angsty hockey head canons for as long as I can remember and last week I finally sat down and typed it. Anyway, this is as angsty as advertised, is basically just original characters at this point and I had no intention of actually posting it anywhere, but I thrive on forcing hockey words at the internet so here we go. Also, probably important to remember that Roland and Lizzie are together and that Taylor is Phillip and Aurora’s kid. I was not kidding about this really being mostly original characters.  

----

“Where is he? Is everything—”

Matt cut himself off. Nearly bit his tongue in half in the process too, but he also couldn’t quite come to terms with the overall circumference of Lizzie’s eyes or just how quickly Peggy had slid in the chair she was draped across. 

Both of their mouths dropped open. 

Audibly. 

“What are you—” Lizzie breathed, shaking her head slowly and she didn’t blink. Matt wasn’t sure she was capable. That was fair. Every time he blinked he saw the play all over again. In slow motion, even. Like his brain was trying to remind him of the wholly inhuman angle Roland’s leg had taken when he slammed into the boards and no one was supposed to slam into the boards like that. 

“MD,” Peggy said when the rest of Lizzie’s sentence drifted into the low hum of an exceptionally packed waiting room. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” “They do have cars, Mar.” “Was that supposed to rhyme?”

“And he doesn’t know how to drive,” Lizzie mumbled. Matt ignored that. “Where is he?”

Taking his time on every word felt like overkill, even as Matt was saying them, but he was also at least passably familiar with the accepted resting heart rate for professional athletes and his appeared close to beating out of his chest. 

Someone was walking towards them. 

And Lizzie still hadn’t blinked yet. 

“They took him to pre-op twenty minutes ago.” Matt startled at the new voice, not entirely surprised to see Taylor turning the nearest corner with three cups of undoubtedly shitty coffee clutched in his hands. “I didn’t get you any of this. Did you fly here?” “I don’t want your garbage coffee anyway. Probably burnt.” “You’re something of a snob, you know that?” Matt shrugged, trying to ignore the exact way his stomach continued to clench. Although when that same organ had spent most of the rented car ride from New York to Philadelphia trying to lodge itself in the middle of Matt’s throat, he supposed this was a step in the right direction 

Metaphorically speaking. 

Now that he was in the hospital, he wasn’t doing very much literal stepping. His legs felt like they’d frozen. 

Locked up. Particularly in the knee-type area. 

Knees were not meant to bend like Roland’s had. 

“What’s the kid doing here?” Matt nodded towards Taylor, who only grumbled a few choice words under his breath while he doled out garbage coffee and he must have bailed on his classes that afternoon. Apparently none of them could operate without at least a few of the others, because no one was entirely surprised when Taylor decided to go to school in Philadelphia and Temple didn’t have a hockey team, but that probably wasn’t really all that important. 

The Mills-Locksley plastered across the back of Taylor’s t-shirt looked bigger than usual. 

Peggy made a face as soon as she took her first sip of coffee, the expression quickly evolving into a glare. Directed entirely at Matt. That didn’t seem fair, honestly. He’d spent a lot of money on that car. “Does front office know you’re here? Or Henry?”

“Those two don’t go together.” She rolled her eyes. While Matt’s kept darting towards Lizzie — who, it seemed, was trying her best to bite her lip in half. Wringing her fingers together wasn’t doing much to help the anxious energy practically falling off her, the kind of pale that made it look like she hadn’t seen the outside world in several decades. 

She kept tapping her right foot. Five quick movements, the bottom of her heel colliding with the tiled floor, and a sharp inhale on every third tap. Her gaze had a distinctly glazed edge to it.

“Henry didn’t have any idea Matt was going to be here,” Lizzie muttered, not taking her eyes off him. It felt like she was staring through him. Or at whatever was directly over his right shoulder. 

Looked pretty interesting. 

Distracting, maybe. 

Matt could have used a distraction. 

“Didn’t say anything, at least,” she added, “neither did Gina or Robin. But, they’re uh—I mean they’re kind of preoccupied and—” Something wasn’t right. 

Less right. Than the piece of shit situation they were in now. 

He really hadn’t thought when he’d left New York. Just told everyone that he wasn’t going to be at skate that morning and made a few phone calls, sent a text to his parents and his brother, and the whole thing would probably end with some sort of lengthy discussion about priorities that Matt wasn’t particularly interested in hearing, but he really had lost track of how often he watched the video and people knew. 

What Roland meant. To him. To the game. To the way Matt was when he played. 

So, he’d sat in the backseat of that car, twisting his phone and resisting the urge to torture himself some more and maybe he should have told someone he was coming. Seemed almost redundant though.

People knew. 

Everyone knew. 

Something was incredibly wrong. 

“Lizzie,” Matt said, unable to stop himself from stretching the name out into some sort of reprimand. She blinked. He was suffocating. 

Shaking her head slowly appeared to be the only answer she was capable of giving at the moment, which wasn’t so much frustrating as it was a little overwhelming and Matt was going to set records. For self-inflicted oxygen deprivation. 

His mind raced. 

Tried to understand options and recovery periods and—this wasn’t the first time this had happened to Roland. Matt licked his lips. Several times. Didn’t help. Lizzie blinked again. And he kept trying to think. Because ACL injuries were common now, the inevitable cause behind most of the NHL’s publicized “lower body injuries,” and surgeries were relatively quick, but multiple issues with the muscle that basically allowed skating couldn’t have possibly been good or healthy and—

“No,” Matt exhaled. 

Lizzie closed her eyes. Lightly, as if she were giving into the feeling or everything she hadn’t said yet and it was Matt’s turn to shake his head. 

In disagreement. 

Of the strongest kind. 

“No, no,” he chanted. “That’s—c’mon, you guys are kidding me.” Peggy’s mouth twisted, as far away from a smile as the movement could be. “No one said anything, MD. Seriously, are you going to get in trouble for this?” “Fuck that.” “An irresponsible mindset.”

Something flew out of Matt — loud and wholly inhuman, like it was scratching its way from the depths of his soul and some deep, dark part of him where disappointment lurked and unfair things festered and this wasn’t fair. Nothing about this was right. 

He wanted time to freeze. To stop and give him a chance to understand, for his pulse to settle and his legs to move because he needed to move and Matt couldn’t move and there were tears on Lizzie’s cheeks. 

Machines beeped at the other end of the hallway. Outdated magazines moved as other people who did not have several worlds crashing around them at that very moment looked for something interesting to read in Philadelphia’s most brightly-lit waiting room. Orthopedic shoes squeaked on the floor. 

Voices drifted. Calls and pages and a slew of other words Matt couldn’t begin to think of or even pretend to care about. 

Taylor downed the rest of his coffee. 

“Might not be good, Mattie,” he mumbled. 

And that was it. Of all the things that could do it, Matt wasn’t entirely surprised when a decades-old nickname was the thing that pushed him over that metaphorical edge. Directly into what felt like a never-ending chasm of knowing and understanding and Peggy really was very quick on her feet. 

Moving into his space, her hands on his chest were most of the reason Matt didn’t fall over right there. Plus his knees. Which refused to function, still. She had to press up on her toes to curl his t-shirt into her fingers, saying things he didn’t hear and didn’t want to understand and the feeling of weightlessness on his descent into that metaphorical chasm was oddly pleasant. 

He figured that would end relatively quickly. 

“What—” Matt’s voice didn’t sound like his. Rasped out of him through lips that were quickly turning chapped, and that didn’t make sense either. It was April. Playoffs were just starting. 

It was so goddamn sunny out. 

He resented it, honestly. 

“What, uh—what have the doctors said so far? That’s...I mean, I know it was shitty, but Rol’s come back from—” “—Yeah,” Henry said, appearing out of seemingly nowhere with neither one of his parents nearby, “that’s not really what he wants to do anymore.”

“Be more specific, old man.” “Ah, that’s just rude.” “It wasn’t just last night,” Lizzie whispered, and Matt genuinely did not know where to look. He had to pick somewhere. He couldn’t glare at all of them at once. 

He tried anyway. 

“What does that mean?” “Something about a camel and last straw, I think.” “Grandma is not here, Elizabeth.” Narrowing her eyes only made the red in them more pronounced, a thin line across her face that Matt was sure had, at one point, been her mouth. “You know better than anybody, Mattie. Teams don’t disclose injuries like that. We—” Lizzie huffed, another quick shake of her head that only served to make her hair flutter against her cheeks, “He’s been playing banged up all year.” “Banged up? That’s what we’re going with?” “What would you like?” “Hurt?” Matt snarled, marginally disappointed when he couldn’t control the volume of his voice. Anger mixed with fear, manifesting itself into a weird tightening around his core and possibly the general area of his spleen. 

He wasn’t ever sure what the point of his spleen was, exactly. 

“It’s....it hasn’t been easy,” Lizzie explained. “This season, at least. Playing so long last year didn’t help with his knees and skating isn’t—” “—Easy?” “If you’re going to be a dick about this, you can get back in a car I know you paid way too much for and go home.”

Deflating wasn’t exactly a word Matt wanted to think about in that moment. But for as quickly as the fight had risen in him, it disappeared even faster. Leaving nothing more than a sharp emptiness in the very center of him. 

None of it made sense. 

“I really paid way too much to get here,” Matt admitted. 

Lizzie sniffled, dragging her hands down either one of her cheeks with enough force that she left angry red streaks in her wake and it didn’t look like she’d slept in several days. Possibly this whole season. 

“How bad was bad, then?” “Bad,” she echoed. “He’d kill me if he knew I said this, but getting to the Conference Finals took a lot last season. All those extra games and that triple overtime was a fucking disaster and...you know, there’s something about the way he plays. Never the biggest guy, or the most physical, but it—” 

Lizzie tugged her lips behind her teeth, another inhale that affected Matt’s respiratory system and this was why. Why he didn’t waste time thinking. Why he wouldn’t look at a single newspaper article the next day. Why he had to be here for a surgery he’d spend sitting in a mass-produced plastic chair. 

Because he knew. What this game meant to Roland. And what losing it would do to him. 

“Spent half his mornings in PT this year, and never really said anything, but I—” 

Lizzie always had exceptionally straight teeth. 

When they were kids, Matt thought it was entirely unfair that she hadn’t needed braces or a retainer or anything. She simply existed and everything was great. That had been some sort of trend for most of their lives. Lizzie knew. She had a plan and a list, and she got shit done. No matter what else was going on or who else said it was impossible, and when people had started muttering and questioning, whispering about how much older Roland was than her, she’d flashed them that kind of hundred-watt smile that usually distracted opposing counsel and, quite easily, told them to go fuck themselves. 

Lizzie never broke.

She never wavered. She believed and she knew and she fixed everything. 

None of this could get fixed. 

At least not entirely. 

And every one of her perfectly straight teeth was on display when she grimaced. 

“It hurt to skate,” Lizzie breathed, “every time he got on the ice. But he’s an idiot, so—” Matt chuckled, a sniffle of his own and eyes that couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him anymore. “Anyway, uh...we’d talked about it, a little. What would happen after the season, but that always seemed like such a far away thing and then there’s playoffs and that’s just another season, isn’t it? I’m rambling. Aren’t I?” “A little,” Matt agreed. 

“You really came down here.” “That wasn’t a question.” “More a slightly stunned observation.” Matt’s smile felt carved onto his face, nothing more than muscles that weren’t all that inclined to move the way he wanted them to. “Was he playing on the tear?” “No, no, no,” Lizzie promised quickly, but Matt lifted his eyebrows and Taylor snickered into his empty coffee cup. “Might have been strained.” “Likely,” Peggy amended.

Widening his eyes, Matt hoped he didn’t look as deranged as he felt. “You might have been right about the camel and the straw.” “Is that two different cliches?” Lizzie asked. “Yeah, absolutely. Grandma really would be impressed.” Another less-than-impressive laugh fell out of Lizzie at the same time her chin dropped to her shirt. “You play through the pain, Mattie. As idiotic as it’s always been. That’s the game, isn’t it?”

“It’s a dumb one.” “Yeah, it is. A good one too, though. Sometimes. Most of the time, really. All those cheers and the people and every stupid opinion on TV shows and tweets. You play for that chance. To be something bigger than yourself. To leave it all behind, for people to remember you by. You play for the possibility of it all, and sometimes you forget what losing that will mean.”

Matt’s hands moved. Darted, really. Onto Peggy’s shoulders and she grit her teeth at the force of his grip, but she didn’t tell him to move and he was going to have to take her to Serendipity for that. 

“You’re going to dislocate something in her,” Taylor chided lightly. He dropped into Peggy’s forgotten chair, catching one of Lizzie’s hands when she started wringing her fingers again. She didn’t pull away, either. 

Matt shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he was objecting to anymore. “I don’t think I have that kind of dexterity in my fingers, actually.” “Good word,” Henry murmured. 

“How long have you been here?” “Since last night. There was some talking and,” he shrugged, “planning and discussion. Now, Luce and Ella are back at the apartment trying to make sure no one starves after this operation—” “—Awfully pointed,” Lizzie interrupted. Taylor squeezed her hand. Her head fell to his shoulder. Which couldn’t have been very comfortable with the armrest looking like it was poking rather prominently into her ribs. 

“What have you eaten since the game?” “Uh, like...some saltines.” Peggy groaned. “Liar, you took at least two bites of my egg sandwich this morning. Please stop spreading rumors like that.”

Lizzie’s answering laugh sounded far too watery. 

“And,” Henry added, “Mom and Dad are outside talking to El and Liam who just got here and had to park several miles away, or so they claimed.”

“My parents are here?” Lizzie asked. “Probably texted you several dozen times.” Without letting go of Taylor’s hand, Lizzie threatened to dislocate her own shoulder as she yanked her phone out of her back pocket. She let out a low curse at the number of messages she’d missed, and Matt was getting a little frustrated that no one had actually confirmed anything to him yet. 

He also didn’t object when Peggy curled against his side. 

Made it easier to rest his chin on top of her head, anyway. 

And none of them flinched when the automatic doors slid open, four more sets of footsteps and muted discussion in obviously worried tones — but Lizzie wasn’t much more than a blur when she moved, launching herself into Aunt Elsa’s outstretched arms. 

“It’s ok elskan, it’s ok,” Aunt Elsa said, one of her hands coming up to cup the back of Lizzie’s head as she pressed endearments into her temple. None of the words were in English. Peak Jones comforting techniques. In addition to losing track of how often he’d watched the video, Matt couldn’t even begin to guess how many times his parents had done the same thing to him, quiet assurances and guarantees that worked when he was young, but might have rung a little hollow now and maybe he was just some sort of pessimistic asshole. 

No one had said the word actual yet. 

He wouldn't believe it until Roland told him. 

“C’mon MD,” Peggy said, tugging him back towards a pair of empty chairs on Taylor’s other side. “I can’t support your weight forever.”

He let her direct him, not sure if his lack of fight was a reaction to Lizzie or how blotchy Gina’s face was when she followed Robin into the waiting room, or how at some point in the next three hours he’d become the de facto contact point for anyone not in Philadelphia. 

Dad texted him and Mom called him — another round of those quiet assurances that Matt tried desperately to believe, but the growing lump in his throat made it difficult to respond and time was going backwards, he was sure. Chris FaceTimed. Four different times. 

“Nothing to report, kid,” Matt said, for at least the seventy-sixth time. Peggy was pacing a lopsided circle in front of him, Lizzie’s head resting on Aunt Elsa’s leg and her feet propped against Uncle Liam’s knee. 

“That’s bullshit.” “Saying it over and over is not going to help, Toph,” Henry muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. It was the middle of the afternoon. 

Matt couldn’t imagine any of them had slept the night before. What with life-changing conversations to have, and everything. 

“Lizzie eat yet?”

Matt’s eyes darted towards his cousin, but she didn’t so much as move — let alone show any signs of hunger, and he very much doubted she’d even tasted those so-called bites of sandwich she’d taken that morning. 

“Gets in her own head,” Chris mumbled, “can’t think about anything as human as sustenance.” Sliding down in his chair wouldn’t help the covertness of a conversation that should have had headphones, but Matt was getting more desperate the longer he sat there and he was even more convinced Lizzie wasn’t paying attention to him. “At some point, I’m pretty positive Aunt Gina’s just going to take over and start doling out rations to everyone and—”

He cut himself off. 

Suddenly. Sharply. As soon as he processed the specific squeak moving towards them and how quickly it stopped in front of Lizzie. 

She swung her feet back onto the floor. 

“Got quite a party out here, don’t you?” the doctor asked, like that was a joke and he was allowed to smile and both Peggy and Chris clicked their tongues knowingly. At Matt. Who couldn't see his face, but knew all too well the glare it had almost immediately shifted into. 

His shoulders rolled forward too.

“Like he’s going to check the goddamn medical professional,” Peggy muttered conspiratorially. Chris rolled his eyes. 

“Get fined, suspended and arrested, maybe?”

“That’d be a fun distraction.” “I will kill both of you,” Matt hissed. Peggy scrunched her nose when she nodded. For added effect. And obnoxiousness. 

And he was so busy doling out threats that Matt barely heard the updates. Something about feeling good and still a little groggy, but coherent and Lizzie nodded in what could only be described as understanding and possible hope while the doctor listed post-op plans and medicine schedules and then they were moving and squeaking and Matt was back to waiting.

Impatiently. 

He picked up Peggy’s route, ignoring the lingering looks from Henry and Taylor and Aunt Elsa caught his hand before he was entirely ready for it. 

“You’re making me dizzy,” she smiled, pulling him next to her. Still no fight. The lump in Matt’s throat was enormous. 

“Sorry.” “Ridiculous.” “Is that a compliment or an observation?” “Eh, little of column A, little of column B. How’s your breathing going?” Blushing was stupid, all things considered — but Matt suddenly felt like he was ten years old and getting caught for shoving Peggy into the pool because of course the Vankald-Jones’ moved into a house outside of D.C. that had a pool. Perfect family life demanded such things. 

“That’s what I thought,” Aunt Elsa nodded, “you know, sometimes you are so much like your dad it is amazing.” “Oh, that didn’t sound like a compliment either.” “It wasn’t,” Uncle Liam said, a soft laugh clinging to the words. “Nice shot the other night, by the way. When you guys start the next series?” “Once Carolina and Pittsburgh finish. They’re probably going to go seven, though.” “Carolina’s a better match for you guys, right?” Matt shrugged. “Both of ‘em have their strengths, but—” He desperately needed to finish his sentence. That proved impossible when he heard Henry’s smile stretch across his face, and Uncle Liam didn’t bother to hide his own look, a distraction that almost took root in the form of a politically correct and PR-approved answer and—“It’d be fun to fuck up Pittsburgh” Matt finished. “That center of theirs is a bastard.” “That’s the spirit.”

And, really, it didn’t take long. For Lizzie to come back and Aunt Gina to pretend like she hadn’t been crying, and Uncle Robin’s hand appeared cemented to the back of his neck, but then Matt was standing and Henry was standing and neither one of them double checked. They went in at the same time. 

To a room that was also questionably bright, bouquets of flowers already dotting a variety of flat surfaces. An IV wire ran towards the bed, the same one Roland was propped up in with more pillows than the hospital could have ever provided. 

“Your mom bring those?” 

Roland's grin threatened to split his face. The ache returned to Matt’s chest. “Don’t act like you aren’t jealous. And it smells like a goddamn rose garden in here. They’re going to have to drag me out.” “Don’t tell Lizzie that, she might not ever forgive you.” “She likes all those sweet smells at home. Vanilla, sugar cookie, cinnamon, coffee house whatever.” “Is a coffee house inherently sweet?” “Yes,” Roland replied, “and it’s our biggest disagreement ever.” Matt stopped short, not sure when he’d crossed so much of the room or how close he was to the bed and more beeping machines. “That so?” “Huh. You want to do this now, then?” Anger really was the most ridiculous reaction. It wasn’t Matt’s knee. Wasn’t his career or his legacy — which was stupid in its own right because Roland was this team and this city and the only reason they’d even gotten to the fucking Eastern Conference Finals the season before was because he’d set up the game-winner the series before and it had been a seven-game series and if Matt actually started crying in this overly bright hospital room he was never going to forgive himself.

“Is that the reason for the face?” “You cannot hold a conversation by only asking me questions,” Matt argued. 

Roland smiled. Asshole. “Can’t I, though?” “He’s going to have a coronary in front of you,” Henry chided, hooking his foot around the only chair, “and it will be your fault.” “Ah, well we’re in the right spot for it. And that wasn’t a question, Matt. Means I’m winning.” “This isn’t a competition,” Matt objected. “Are you serious about this?” And for half a second Roland almost looked like he regretted it. What could have been. What hadn’t happened. What had happened. Losing in five in the Eastern Conference Finals. But then it was gone. Replaced with something far closer to resolve and an understanding Matt couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around. 

“The first time sucked,” he said. “Getting back and trying to get my speed again and—” “—You are not a fast skater,” Matt interrupted. “Yeah, well you’re some freak of genetic nature. So we can’t all be like you, can we?” “‘Nother question.” “Conversational marvel, you are.” Matt huffed, blinking quickly and biting down on his lip until he tasted blood to keep himself from unraveling over something that didn’t belong to him. “It’s ok,” Roland said, “all of it is, really. It’s—this is the end, kid. And I’m not as freaked out as I thought I’d be, honestly.” “No?” “No. My knees are fucked. Even if I came back, it’d take months. I wouldn’t be ready for the start of next season and I don’t want to be that guy, Mattie. Showing up in fucking January, like some replacement. Clinging to something that’s passed me by already. Taking a spot from some other kid. Playing fourth line.” “But that’s not—” “—I’m not playing fourth line minutes, Mattie.” Twice. He’d said it twice, that nickname and all the meaning that came with it and Matt didn’t think. Again. Thrusting his hand forward he held onto Roland’s with enough force that someone’s knuckles cracked, but he could not begin to guess whose and that was probably some sort of metaphor. 

For the way they grew up and how much the game had twisted its way into both of their lives and—“Gotta be the star, huh?” Roland’s laugh echoed around them. Nothing about it was watery or disappointed, but rather certain and confident and Matt’s dad had always been his favorite player, but he’d been a kid when Killian Jones was captain of the New York Rangers and there was something different about now. About watching Roland come into his own in Philadelphia, a spotlight that was his on his own, not because of the name on his back, but because of how good his wrister was and how much those kids did look up to him. Matt included. 

“Face of the franchise, Mattie Jones. So, uh,” Roland continued, “this is it, kid. Not quite perfect. But you know I hate those farewell tours anyway.” “Could have gotten some good gifts,” Henry pointed out. “Bringing home some garbage merch from a bunch of Eastern teams that hated me every other day of the year really would have driven Lizzie insane. Plus, think about all the networks that’ll be clamoring for my face on their pre-game shows. Retirement’s got it’s perks.” There it was, kind of. 

One word and one decision and Matt was briefly worried about the blood flow to Roland’s hand, but he figured one of the machines would alert them to any problem before it happened and— “I’m going to retire,” Roland said, like he knew Matt needed to hear it. “Announcement coming in the next couple of days, probably. I’m almost looking forward to the tearful goodbye videos.” “God, you’re an ass,” Matt grumbled. “One who’s going to rake in that TV money.”

Smiling continued to feel more than a little unnatural, but it was some sort of innate reaction in that moment and Matt didn’t have to say anything. Roland didn’t expect it either, which felt like a bit of a twisted reward, but then he was walking and moving and Henry was still in the room. 

No one was in the hallway. 

Made it easier, that way. 

To quickly and completely go to pieces. 

Sliding down the wall, Matt’s legs tangled in front of him, tears on his cheeks and oxygen staging some sort of revolt in his body and he wished his girlfriend was there and he wished his dad was there and Peggy still had his phone and— “Hey, hey, hey, at least get your hands out of your hair.” The words didn’t connect immediately, another noticeable knuckle crack as Matt’s fingers dug into the strands he’d started gripping at some point. Uncle Liam groaned when he crouched, stymying the threat to Matt’s scalp as he ducked into his eye line. 

“If you tell me it’s going to be ok, you don’t have to. I—” Matt’s inconsistent breathing was even more annoying than his sentence structure. “I know it’ll be fine. Rol’s choice and for the best and...God, fuck, shit, damnit.” “Last one wasn’t very impressive.” “I ran out.” “Ah, don’t lie to me, kid. I know we taught you way more creative words.” “Mostly use that on the ice.” Uncle Liam hummed knowingly, finally letting go of Matt’s hands when it seemed he trusted him not to start yanking on his own hair again. “It absolutely isn’t fine. None of it. It’s bullshit and unfair and knees are worthless joints anyway.” Matt blinked. 

His neck ached with the force of his head jerk, gaping and staring and Uncle Liam’s smile shifted slightly. Into something almost like understanding. He knew. 

He knew. 

“Game like this, it...it sinks into you, doesn’t it? Has to, that’s the only way you can get through it. Because it’s not like other ones. No grass, no court, no sunshine. Fuck, any sunshine just makes it even harder to see on the ice. And that makes it worse and even better. Because for every time you’ve managed to sweat through your pads while shivering at a shitty rink, there are game winners and brekaways and hitting some bastard who thought he was better at faceoffs than you.” “They measure things like faceoffs now, y’know?” “I’m giving you a motivational speech.” Matt nodded. 

“Point is, a sport like this, it...for as much as it gives, it takes a little bit too. Because you’ve got to give yourself to it. Understand that the bumps and the bruises and the incessant cracking of your joints is payment in kind.” “For?” “For the way it felt. The way it’ll always feel, even when it doesn’t end the way you planned.” Letting out a shuddering breath, Matt barely felt his head when it dropped against the wall. “He never won. That’s—of all the things, that’s the worst.” “Sure he did. You don’t think so?” “Unless I forgot about a parade.”

“That’s not how this stuff works, kid,” Liam sighed. “All those runs when you were growing up, even before you were born, those were Rol’s as much as they were Locksley’s. As much as they were your dad’s. And anything you do, that’s his too. Not just because you stole his wrister. Which is kind theft four-times removed, actually.” “How you figure?” “Well, Rol stole it from your dad who ripped it off me, so. You’re welcome.” He might need oxygen sooner rather than later. And a tissue. More than one tissue. “The point I’m getting at,” Uncle Liam said, “is that there’s no perfect way for this to go. Happily ever after isn’t guaranteed, but it doesn’t wipe out everything else that happened. Doesn’t change how good this game is or how good it will keep being. You play with a team, right?” “Sounds like a cliche.” “You grow up in that house, some things become entrenched.” “Yeah, I get that.” “I know you do. Your sister was talking to your parents before, I’m sure they’re waiting for you to get back out there.” It wasn’t the dismissal it sounded like, especially when it came with a hand clasped on his shoulder — but Matt nodded all the same, muttering a quiet thanks and Uncle Liam had been right. Mom had totally been crying too. 

And it wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t the ending that Roland deserved, but eventually Matt started to wonder if it was actually the end and as the years went on he started to know it wasn’t. Not with weddings and kids and a whole subsection of the internet that was decidedly preoccupied with the cut of Roland’s suits on postgame television spots. 

They kept going. Games and hits and a few more injuries, and, eventually, when the Stanley Cup came back to New York and back to that brownstone downtown, Matt didn’t hesitate. He handed it to Roland. 

And took a picture. 

With both of their kid sitting in the goddamn thing. 

[tillie-bean]

EchoDragon Reads: Predictable Pretentious Pokémon Plot. Chapter 2, Part 2

Hi guys, Echo here. I’m back with more Predictable, Pretentious- you know what? I’m not even going to say it. It’s the worst title ever. EVER.

Well, here we are again. It’s always such a pleasure. In this part, Bitchy McF*ckface decides to be even stupider, and even more hateful, and she abuses a canon character, who is so OOC that I’m not sure she’s a canon character anymore. So, let’s dive straight back into this shit fest.

 I looked up at the sky, a herd of Pidove (I am sure this is the wrong way to describe a group of Pidove, and something like a flock is more appropriate but I honestly don’t know so I am just going to use herd) were flying above, towards the woods that surrounded Nuvema Town.

EchoDragon: WHHAAAAATTTTT? The f*ck am I reading?

With the sun falling across the sky pretty soon the skies will no longer be filled with the dumb looking bird Pokemon, and instead will be filled with disgusting, ugly Woobat.

EchoDragon: Why is Bitchy being given a Pokémon? She clearly doesn’t like them. I actually like Woobat, and Pidove.

“Hey Jas, stop looking up and get a move on.”

EchoDragon: I hate this fic.

Josh was a mile ahead of me ad had long since let go of my hand to storm ahead.

EchoDragon: Yeah, I kind of guessed that he’d let go. Unless you have stretchy arms, like Mrs. Incredible.

I have no idea how someone could run so fast for so long, but he was somehow doing it. This stuffy school uniform wasn’t helping me keep up the pace, especially the tie that seemed to strangle me at times. I wanted to reply, but I was panting far too much and was too out of breath for me to speak coherently and for him to hear me anyway.

EchoDragon: What the f*ck? Half of that is completely redundant.

By the time that I finally caught up to him he was standing up in front of Professor Juniper’s laboratory with his arms crossed, and an annoyed look on his face.

EchoDragon: This guy is such a douche bag. Someone think of a good nickname for him. I don’t have enough brain cells left to think of a good one.

“HURRY UP SLOWPOKE!”

EchoDragon: What the f*ck? Why is he yelling? She’s RIGHT THERE. I hate him. Not quite as much as I hate Bitchy, but it’s pretty close. Oh, and you see that comma in the previous sentence? Yeah, maybe we should move it into this sentence. There we go! Perfect!

I bent over with my hands on my knees, panting heavily.

EchoDragon: Gah! Do not want!

I could feel sweat rolling down my face, and I could feel that the back of my shirt was a little moist.

EchoDragon: Jesus, the wording is just making this worse. I said I wasn’t going to review smut, damnit!

I could already tell that I would probably look like a common slob in the eyes of the Professor. But those were the cards I was dealt with, so complaining about my current state won’t do anything.

EchoDragon: S*it! What happened? Where am I? Why did we change tense all of a sudden? Oh, wait. I know. AUTHOR IS S*HIT AT WRITING AND I HATE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!! *dies*

Once I was upright and no longer panting I brushed my hand through my hair, and it had predictably gone from neat and straight to untidy and messy.

EchoDragon: Guys, there were so many missing commas in that sentence that my word processor freaked out a bit. Seriously, it made a weird noise and crashed. Coincidence? I THINK NOT!

I quickly patted it down, so that I at least looked presentable enough even though I knew deep down that this wouldn’t fix anything.

EchoDragon: This writing. I hate it so much. Everything is filler, and when people speak, author doesn’t even tell us who spoke, or how they said it. Jesus, at least you can identify who’s speaking in Twilight! And I hate that s*it.

“Alright, let’s go… in.”

EchoDragon: *facepalms* See what I mean?

“Finally. You are far too slow”

EchoDragon: Hey, author? Do you know how punctuation works? No? Didn’t think so.

Honestly I think the problem is that he is far too fast. 

EchoDragon: Bitchy. Please. Shut the f*ck up.

We both stood in front of the door, and Josh thrust the door open before he quickly marched in.

EchoDragon: Oh, God. Please stop using words like ‘moist’, and ‘thrusted’. They have overly sexual implications.

I followed him sheepishly, trying to keep the pace with him.

EchoDragon: *weakly* The f*ck am I reading?

As he walked through the very… for lack of a better phrase sciency looking building many people kept trying to grab Josh’s attention, probably to tell him he couldn’t be where he is.

EchoDragon: WHAT? YOU JUST USED THE WORD ‘SCIENCY’. MY COMPUTER DOESN’T EVEN RECOGNISE THIS AS A WORD. IT DOESN’T EVEN HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS FOR THE WORD. I HATE THIS FIC! *dies whilst flipping off the fic*

However he refused to hear any of it, and ignored all their attempts to get their attention.

EchoDragon: I’m fed up of this. I’m going to start a new count. Department of redundancy department. Trust me, this fic needs it. So, I’ll start here, and give it 1.

Department of Redundancy Department: 1

Also, what the f*ck? ‘To get THEIR attention’? That’s not just a typo, that’s pure stupidity.

I just followed him, and fortunately none of them tried to hassle me, since I would probably have stopped and listened to them.

EchoDragon: *as Bitchy* Then I would have yelled and stropped until they left me alone! That’s just what I do!

We kept marching through, all the way until we got to the back of the building, right up until we saw a very attractive looking woman sitting at a desk, typing away rapidly like she was doing something important.

EchoDragon: Speaking as a scientist, when I’m working, I don’t want to be disturbed by bratty teenagers. If she’s working, back the f*ck away, you little bitch.

She was obviously so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn’t realize we were approaching her, which was shown by how much she jumped when Josh slammed his hand down onto her desk hard.

EchoDragon: He did what, sorry? Not only was that so rude, I can’t even, but he did it ‘HARD’? I don’t know about you, but I think it sounds stupid in this sentence. Also, it sounds vaguely dirty.

“ALRIGHT, WHERE ARE OUR POKEMON!”

EchoDragon: F*ck you! If you wrote that sentence better, you wouldn’t have to use ALL CAPS.

They aren’t your Pokemon, they aren’t even mine yet technically.

EchoDragon: We already established that you only get ONE of the Pokémon, not all three. You know it’s bad when continuity is lost in the SAME CHAPTER.

Juniper recovered from her shock and frowned at the sight of Josh.

EchoDragon: If it was me, I’d have them kicked out before they could even take a breath.

She looked like she was going to scream blue murder (which is a term I have never understood) which would probably be very uncharacteristic for her frankly pleasant appearance.

EchoDragon: So, let’s see how bad this sentence was, hmm? Well, we have a very long winded sentence, a random author’s note, and stupid, pretentious phrasing. I rate this sentence: GOBSHITE! 

I had never seen the professor before but I quite expected her to look… well ugly given the whole ‘scientist’ thing.

EchoDragon: Oh, F*CK YOU. NO. YOU’RE SAYING THAT SCIENTISTS CANNOT BE PRETTY, IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE SAYING? WELL, THAT’S ME F*CKED. I’M A GENETICS STUDENT, AND I DIDN’T GET PERFECT GRADES, SO ACCORDING TO BITCHY, I’M NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE IN MY LIFE, AND NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE ME. LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, AUTHOR. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LIFE WORKS. IT’S NOT ABOUT HOW YOU LOOK, OR HOW SMART YOU ARE. IF IT WAS, BITCHY WOULDN’T GET ANYWHERE IN HER LIFE. I HATE THIS, AND I HATE YOU. THIS IS THE MOST INSULTING THING I HAVE EVER READ. I MEAN, SERIOUSLY. I’M CONSIDERING PUTTING A PICTURE OF MY FACE HERE, JUST TO SHOW THAT WHILE I’M NO SUPERMODEL, I’M NOT COMPLETELY BUTT-UGLY, EITHER. I HATE YOU. I HATE THIS FIC, I HATE MY LIFE, I HATE UNIVERSITY, I HATE POKÉMON AMINO, AND I HATE EVERYTHING! *dies*

I mean her hair looked incredibly practical and weird but apart from that, she was almost as good looking as I am.

EchoDragon: *reads that sentence and remains dead*

Anyway, I digress.

EchoDragon: *lifts her head from her desk* Author just wanted to sound smart, and has no idea what it really means. It doesn’t work here.

Juniper looked like she was about to scream about something until she noticed me standing behind Josh.

EchoDragon: What do you think she was going to scream about? He just f*cking interrupted her in the middle of her work!

Once she did her face seemed to light up, like I was some sort of bringing of good news for her or something.

EchoDragon: I’m trying to think of something different to say, but Jesus tap-dancing Christ, what happened in this sentence? Did author have a stroke and hit the keyboard repeatedly? Or was author completely pissed?

It was almost creepy how much her facial changed at the mere sight of me. Then again for someone of my appearance (and probably soon to be stature) I will have to get used to soliciting that reaction from people.

EchoDragon: Woah, woah, woah. Do you know what you just said? ‘Soliciting’. Do you know what that means? I didn’t think it was used right, so I googled it. And do you know what it means? ‘To approach or accost a person with an offer of sex in return for payment.’ Yeah. Bitchy just called herself a prostitute.

Speaking of, how old is Jasmine supposed to be? I assumed that she was around 15, but she implies that she hasn’t grown her boobs yet. Now, I can’t say anything in that respect (I’ve been waiting 20 years for boobs), but if she’s supposed to be, say, 11, then why is she constantly going on about how pretty she is? It’s creepy!

“Well, you are Jasmine aren’t you?”

EchoDragon: oh, great. Our first canon character is completely OOC. I hate my life.

Her voice was incredibly soothing, like her voice was literally giving you a massage. If I was a guy I would be all over this woman.

EchoDragon: Get your hand out of your pants, author. I’m trying to avoid the way she refuses to let her self-insert be a lesbian, because I really don’t want to get into that. I’ll let you guys rant about that.

“Yes, ma’am.”

EchoDragon: Are we done yet?

“Well I assume you are here for your Pokemon. But you are a bit early for it. Fortunately for you I got them ready yesterday.”

EchoDragon: Wanna know something? Every time I type, I try and insert commas where they should be. Then I get sad.

Well, that’s convenient for Josh at least. I was going to say something before that man in question interrupted me.

EchoDragon: Commas are a fact of life. Tell me, author. Why do you hate life?

“Sweet, now can you give me one?”

EchoDragon: Maybe if you ask NICELY, then she might allow you to have one.

The second he spoke Professor Juniper’s face lost its calm demeanour, and once again she had a look on her face like she had just been insulted.

EchoDragon: *sighs* Professor Juniper doesn’t strike me as a woman with a short temper. She’s a POKÉMON PROFESSOR. She is one of the smartest people in the Pokémon world. She doesn’t seem like a woman who loses it over little things. I mean, she could be like that, but a more logical characterisation of her is that she is a little distracted when it comes to real-life, but when she is working in her lab, or with her Pokémon, she is so focused and happy. She comes across as responsible, intelligent and a really awesome person in general. SO WHAY HAVE YOU TURNED HER INTO A PSYCOPATH?

She looked at Josh, and the glare she gave him could pierce steel. It was horrifying, this professor was scary.

EchoDragon: Yeah, you should be scared. Actually, no, you should be intimidated. She’s one of the smartest people in the region.

“And why would I give someone like you one of my Pokémon?”

EchoDragon: Aww, yeah! Go Juniper! Shut that s*it down!

Her voice now sounded chilling, and sent shivers down your spine.

EchoDragon: hey! Don’t assume her voice sends shivers down MY spine. I don’t care what fetishes you have, I’m not into them, ok?

It was a voice that I would expect murders to have.

EchoDragon: Will you stop describing her as creepy and evil? She’s not. She’s awesome, at least in canon.

This new demeanour had definitely gotten to Josh, and he had backed away.

EchoDragon: WHY DOES IT TAKE THIS LONG TO GET A POKÉMON?

“Eh-I… well, ummmmm…”

EchoDragon: What the f*ck? You could say ‘Josh stuttered’, and it would have worked far better.

He was stumbling and fumbling his words, as he tried to explain why he wanted a Pokemon.

EchoDragon: Why didn’t he just ask for one politely, like normal people would?

His plan that he was so eager to drag me out here for was falling apart all because of a scary looking story.

EchoDragon: That sentence hurt my head. It makes sense, but it looks like it doesn’t. Do you know what I mean?

That’s pathetic, and it was up to me to fix it.

EchoDragon: Nice. You call your only friend ‘pathetic’, and you wonder why people don’t like you?

“Well since you are only giving me one Pokemon out of three, and you only give out one scholarship then you have two spare Pokemon. So, since you will have two spare Pokemon that you will probably give away, it makes sense to give it to someone that I, the deserved winner of your scholarship approve of.”

EchoDragon: Oh, for f*ck’s sake! Is she seriously saying that she has the power to dictate to someone who is older and smarter than her, and is doing her a favour and giving her a Pokémon, which she apparently couldn’t do on her own? Great. I hate this fic, and I really hate Bitchy. Please tell me that Juniper drop kicks her out of the lab.

I explained Josh’s plan concisely,

EchoDragon: and repetitively, because you used the same sentence twice in your little speech.

Making the decision to pretend it was mine.

EchoDragon: so you’re a plagiarist, now? Why am I not surprised.

For some reason I thought that would go over better with this angry, female Pokemon Professor.

EchoDragon: Why did you have to emphasise that she’s a woman? It’s not that unusual to find female scientists, you know. We’re two a penny!

And as luck would have it, it did. Juniper was once again smiling as she looked at me.

EchoDragon: Why is Juniper in love with Bitchy? Then again, why is everyone in love with her? She’s not a nice person.

“Well, I have never done it before but given your ridiculous scores in the tests for this scholarship I think I can bend the rules, but it will be our little secret.”

EchoDragon: Why are you letting this little f*ckwit dictate to you? You’re so important, you’re practically royalty!

Juniper winked at me after she spoke. What the hell does she think I am, a five year old or something? Don’t patronize me you bipolar nerd.

EchoDragon: WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL HER? NOPE. I AM SO DONE. YOU ARE CALLING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT PEOPLE IN THE UNOVA REGION A BIPOLAR NERD. I AM A NERD, AND I AM OFFENED. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, YOU ARE USING A MENTAL ILLNESS TO INSULT SOMEONE WHO IS BETTER THAN YOU. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HORRIBLE THAT IS? I HATE YOU! I’M IN A RAGE! THIS IS THE MADDEST I’VE EVER BEEN! *begins swinging a cactus around* F*CK THIS S*IT! I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE IT!

                    TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. PLEASE STAND BY.

 EchoDragon: Have you ever been so mad you started swinging a cactus? Word of warning: Don’t do it. It hurts. But she deserved it! Jesus Christ, how rude can you get, I mean- I’m calm. It’s all fine. So, back to the fic?

The professor stood up, and opened one of the draws in her desk before pulling out three pokeballs.

EchoDragon: Yeah, that’s a really bad typo. This is why there’s a thing called proof reading, author.

She walked in front of her desk, and held the balls up in the air.

“Well, you will get to pick one of these three Pokemon.”

EchoDragon: Everyone says ‘well’ when they start speaking, for some reason. It sounds stupid.

Juniper smiled as she dropped all three Pokeballs onto the ground at the same time. Once the balls fell down they seemed to react to the impact, and they all opened.

EchoDragon: because DRAMA!

Once they were opened the three balls released three small and unique Pokemon that all cried out in unison.

EchoDragon: ‘Ahhhh! It’s a Mary Sue! Run for your lives!’

These Pokemon were an orange coloured pig, a blue sea otter sort of thing and a green legged snake.

EchoDragon: What? ‘a blue sea otter sort of thing’? Are you kidding me?

I knew what these Pokemon were, their names are Tepig, Oshawott and Snivy.

EchoDragon: Of course she knows what they are called! She knows EVERYTHING! Bitch.

“I would love to do this more officially but hey, you are the one that came here early.”

EchoDragon: Umm, OOC Juniper? You could make it more official. You call the shots here, not that bimbo.

I stood there, weighing up the pros and cons of each Pokemon. This was an important decision that I would have to make, which would literally affect everything.

EchoDragon: Oh, f*ck you! I’m sorry, but this is going to drag out forever, and then she’ll pick the cutest one, because she could never have a snake or a button-nosed Pokémon!

However, Josh didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation and without thinking rushed over towards the three Pokemon. He was smiling as he picked up the Oshawott and its Pokeball.

EchoDragon: He probably DID think of it, Bitchy. You just didn’t care, and you would mock his choice whatever he chose.

“Alright then, I pick this one. Thank you creepy Professor. I would love to stick around but i have places to go and people to see. Bye bye.”

EchoDragon: WHY DO YOU HAVE NO RESPECT FOR THE WOMAN WHO HAS JUST GIVEN YOU A POKÉMON? Oh, right. This isn’t Professor JUNIPER. This is Professor Stupider. Never mind.

He was already rushing towards the door as he finished speaking, which was the norm for him. However Professor Juniper was going red, and once again looked like she was about to kill someone. This lady was so schizophrenic it was worrying. She turned back to me, and her face was now sympathetic looking. How the hell does one person go from extremes so damn quickly?

EchoDragon: *Stands up*

*rages silently*

*flaps hands a bit*

*sits back down*

I… don’t care for that.

“Sorry about that Jasmine. Why do you associate with someone so rude? You were supposed to get to pick first. I thought that rude child would realize that.”

EchoDragon: He’s the only person who will associate with Bitchy. Not the other way round.

“It’s fine, I wasn’t going to pick the Oshawott anyway, by my analysis it is not the strongest of the three.”

EchoDragon: I hope she’s not saying what I think she’s saying…

I wasn’t lying. From my quick analysis of the three I had quickly come to the conclusion that there was one Pokemon that was significantly better than the other two.

EchoDragon: F*ck. She was saying what I thought she was saying. Well, let me tell you something, Bitchy. THAT IS NOT HOW POKÉMON WORK. You cannot just look at a Pokémon, and instantly know if they’re strong. The only way you can really measure the ability of a Pokémon is by actually battling with them. You are a liar, and I hate you.

I smiled, and walked over towards the two pokemon. I knelt in front of the Tepig and picked it up in my hands. Once I picked it up it smiled, obviously aware of what me picking it up meant. I held it in my right hand as I picked up its Pokeball and stood up. I looked over a Juniper.

EchoDragon: I f*cking hate this. I don’t care about any of this. This is so BORING. You hyped this up for two f*cking chapters, and made it seem like the biggest decision she would ever make, yet now she’s saying that she would only choose a strong Pokémon. Twat.

“I pick the Tepig”

EchoDragon: Called it!

Well guys, there we have it. After two chapters, we finally have the tiniest hint that this is a Pokémon fic. I’m really pissed off. The only thing that got me through this was two of my flatmates doing a very dramatic reading of the last scene. So I didn’t suffer alone!

So, I’m sure many of you are wondering: Is Bitchy a Mary Sue? Well, yes. Yes she is, kids. When I took the Mary Sue litmus test, Bitchy gained a grand total of… 110! She is most definitely a Mary Sue.

Thanks for reading, guys! At some point in the past week, I surpassed 200 followers, so I’m going to do a thing ASAP, which might be fun? Keep a lookout for it!

Bye for now, puddings!

 ~Echodragon