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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

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The PyeongChang Triple (12/15)

It’s the Olympics. The. Olympics. And Emma’s running out of post-it notes to write schedules and plans on and there are more games and more expectations and not enough time for any of it. She’s fine. Totally. Absolutely. If she could just sleep. Or stop feeling as if her knees are going to give out every time she stands up. Or get Ruby to stop staring at her like that. It’s fine. After all Killian Jones, captain of Team USA, keeps promising it will be.

He’s going to win. Again. At the Olympics. And Killian’s not nervous. Not about that. It’s hockey. He could play hockey in his sleep. Probably. He’s never tried that. But he probably could. And, sure, there are expectations and games and schedules and barely any time for what he wants to actually be doing, but winning a Gold medal isn’t bad. After all, Emma Swan, temporary New York Rangers Olympics team social media manager, keeps promising it will be.

They’re fine. They’re going to win. Together.

Rating: Mature. Swearing, hockey-type violence, lotsa making out. Word Count: 9.9K. Fluff. Kissing. Hockey charades. AN: This chapter has, quite possibly, my favorite part in this entire stupid mess of hockey words I have written. There is a lot of fluff and a lot of sports feelings and Elsa keeps dropping the phone. Literally. This story would be nothing without @laurnorder & @distant-rose or you guys for reading and commenting and flailing and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. With added Will Scarlet Instagram updates just for fun at the end. Also on Ao3 and FF.net

They barely made it back to the ice before puck drop and Ruby muttered something about recent history and repeating themselves and then made a less-than-tactful joke about being late that Emma did her best to completely ignore.

“They kept them on the same line,” Ruby marvelled, resting her forehead against the glass in front of them. Emma glanced at her out of the corner of her eyes, lips twisted as she tried not to worry too much, particularly when the other winger on the Rangers line appeared to be playing keepaway from Killian and Robin.

“What the fuck,” she muttered, standing up a bit straighter. Her hand went to her ring out of instinct, tugging and twisting and dragging it across the chain it was hanging on. She was still holding onto the onesie.

They hadn’t even gotten a bag.

That probably wasn’t doing much to keep this under the radar.

They’d always been absolutely horrible at that.

“Who is that guy?” Ruby asked. “I can’t see a jersey.” She pressed up even higher on her heels, eyes narrowing when they moved the puck back into the zone and Robin was tapping his stick impatiently on the ice. “Oh, shit,” she sighed.

It was a Blackhawks guy – something Mendell and he wouldn't give up the puck. Robin was wide open.

Killian, however, wasn’t.

There were two players in front of him, one of them tapping their stick against the back of his legs and she heard Ruby mumble something that sounded a bit like that’s a fucking penalty, assholes, but Emma didn’t say anything, just watched the shift with frustration seeping through every single inch of her.

They weren’t going to let him get a shot off.

And he wasn’t just playing against the double team – which he could have easily skated out of, no one on that other roster could keep up with him – he was playing against his own team as well.

Goddamn Chicago.

They were back on the bench and Killian looked as angry as he had when Graham scored, but there was something in the set of his shoulders that made Emma certain this was different. And it was impossible for him to notice her – to glance up and meet her gaze in the middle of a goddamn gold medal game, but she was certain it happened anyway.

She was certain he looked up and she smiled when his eyes met hers, hands pressed flat against the boards while she tried to stand as tall as she possibly could.

Her feet had popped out of her shoes.

Killian opened his mouth, leaning forward slightly and he’d absolutely seen her – Robin’s hand finding its way to the front of his jersey so he didn’t actually fall off the bench. Emma’s eyes went wide, trying to figure out what he was yelling at her.

“What is he saying?” Ruby asked softly. Emma didn’t blink, just shrugged slightly and her lungs were starting to burn in protest at the distinct lack of oxygen they were receiving.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Emma mumbled and he was yelling now, leaning over Robin’s outstretched hand until he was practically doubled over on the bench. She banged on the boards, frustration working its way out through both of her fists, and she nearly dropped the onesie. “Say it again!” Will had joined the fray now, waving his arms on Killian’s other side like Emma wasn’t staring a hole through the boards to try and figure out what he was asking her.

“Oh my God, Scarlet, jeez, look at him. He looks like he’s playing charades,” Ruby chuckled, but Emma was still punching the glass in front of her. The Canadian goalie was probably going to turn around and demand she stop at some point.

“No, no, that’s exactly what he’s doing,” Emma argued. The ‘Hawks guy was yelling now too, pacing behind the bench with his eyebrows pulled low and, maybe, some steam coming out of his ears and Emma could only imagine what the announcers were saying.

David was probably cackling.

“Playing charades?” Ruby repeated skeptically, pulling her head back when Killian cupped both his gloved hands in front of his mouth like that would make a difference. There were only a few minutes left in overtime and the arena felt like it was shaking, every person on their feet and cheering and shouting Emma couldn't hear herself think.

Will rolled his whole head, shoulders sagging when it became obvious neither Emma nor Ruby could hear what they were yelling, and he tugged off one of his gloves, holding his hand up to his ear like it was a phone.

Emma understood then.

He’d gotten her text messages.

Ruby must have seen Emma’s realization as soon as it landed on her face, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ as she sighed. And then laughed – loudly.

“We’re going to have to have some kind of talk about his in-game communications,” Ruby muttered. “That’s got to be against the rules somehow.” Emma didn’t listen, just pressed her palms back against the glass and tried to pull herself up so he could see her over the Canadian defense. One of her shoes fell off.

She still couldn’t hear what he was yelling, one leg swung over the boards as he tried to get out for his shift, but it didn’t really matter. Killian stared at her when his skates landed on the ice, eyes wide and blue and just a bit hopeful and Emma nodded, the smile on her face threatening to do permanent damage to her jaw.

“This is gross,” Ruby muttered, but she couldn’t quite make it sound believable. “When mini-Jones makes his and or her appearance in the world, this is the first thing I’m going to tell him and or her. And then him and or her is going to be absolutely embarrassed that his and or her parents were so absolutely, disgustingly in love with each other.” “Matthew,” Emma corrected. “Although I do keep calling him Mattie in my head.” She still had her hands on the glass and her arms were starting to tingle slightly, but she couldn't figure out if that was from holding them up or if her body was trying to find some kind of hormonal balance between bliss and frustration.

They still wouldn’t give Killian the puck.

“Wait, what?” Ruby asked sharply.

Emma didn’t look at her. “Matthew,” she repeated and she appreciated Ruby’s quick intake of breath more than she probably should.

Ruby didn’t say anything else, but Emma saw her hand move quickly, brushing underneath her eyes and her cheeks actually hurt from overuse.

The muscles nearly seized up when she heard it – the wave of noise from the crowd washing over her and her hands fell off the boards with a quiet thump, landing painfully at her side when she realized what happened.

Canada turned the puck over in the neutral zone.

And it had landed on Killian’s stick.

Emma tried to blink and forgot how, just focused on keeping her legs straight and oxygen in her lungs, and something in the back of her mind reminded her to grab her phone and she just barely got Twitter open before Killian skated over the blue line.

It was a better move than the first goal.

She tried not to think of all the reasons for that.

There was a defender in front of him this time, but Emma didn’t think Killian noticed, just juked around the guy and his stick moved so quickly it looked like a blur.

The goalie had no chance – straight over his shoulder and into the back of the goal, knocking against the webbing of the net in what felt slow motion.

“Did we just win a gold medal?” Ruby yelled, head darting around like someone would suddenly appear to challenge the goal or the question. “Holy shit. We just won a gold medal.” Emma didn’t move, just gripped her phone tighter and did her best to make sure that the fabric clutched underneath her arm didn’t actually fall on the floor. Killian lost his stick at some point, thrown in the air in celebration as soon as he landed against the boards and Robin was threatening to crush him.

Will joined the fray half a second later, jumping on top of both of them and Emma’s phone was ringing, phone calls and text messages from New York and Colorado and, probably, the team suite they’d never actually gone back to.

“We won,” Emma muttered, not entirely sure if she was agreeing with Ruby or just trying to convince herself it had actually happened.

“God, that ‘Hawks guy was a dick though, right? Ah, they’re all going to ask about that in post. Jeez, that’s going to be annoying.” Emma laughed softly, trying to keep the phone in her hand steady when the entire Team USA roster jumped over the bench and crashed into the boards. She hoped Henry took pictures of the fans. She should have left more detailed instructions.

They were a pretzel of hockey-player limbs and skates and equipment that was only half staying on as Emma and Ruby pushed their way onto the ice, flashing credentials and trying to keep their balance.

“Man, they’re probably going to build a statue of Cap in front of the league offices now,” Ruby chuckled, nodding when Killian managed to pull himself out of the crowd. “New York boy saves hockey. That’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Emma couldn’t answer – she didn’t have a chance. And she could, finally, hear him.

“Swan,” Killian shouted, tugging his helmet off as he moved. “Emma!”

“Cheating,” Emma mumbled and Ruby was bordering dangerously close to cackling now, tugging her phone out of her hand and giving her a small push forward.

She couldn’t really run and Emma could only imagine how absurd she looked, trying to keep her feet in her shoes and the onesie in her hand and Killian got ice on her toes when he skidded to a stop in front of her. She thought he’d talk, thought he’d say something or maybe even explain what he’d been trying to shout from the bench, but he didn’t.

She didn’t really give him half a second to breathe.

Emma pushed up, flinging her arms around his neck and one of his hands found its way to her back. The other one landed on her stomach, palm flat against the fabric of her dress when she captured his mouth with hers.

Will whistled – it was absolutely Will – and Emma was dimly aware of Robin muttering something, trying to pull Scarlet away at the same time Ruby promised cameras there was nothing to see here.

She couldn’t stop kissing him, fingers pressed into his hair so she could tug his face back towards hers every time he tried to catch his breath. Killian laughed against her, the ends of his mouth ticking up when Emma started peppering kisses against his cheeks and his jaw and she couldn’t have been making it easy for him to stay upright.

They were, after all, standing on the ice.

“You’ve got to stop moving, love,” Killian muttered. His hand hadn’t moved at all. “We’re going to end up on our backs and that…”

“What?” He swallowed before he spoke, eyes tracing across her face like he was trying to make sure someone didn’t yell surprise at him. “That probably wouldn’t be good for the baby. Right?”

Killian’s voice cracked slightly on the final word and Emma’s whole body tensed at the way he tried to ignore it, the emotion apparent in all five letters, and she nodded again, tracing her thumb against the curve of his jaw.

“Right,” she promised, pulling the other hand down to push the onesie against his chest. “Ruby’s mad you were looking at your phone during intermission.” “It’d be rude just to ignore you, Swan.” “Didn’t you have things to do?” He shook his head quickly, tugging apart her fingers with a reverence that did something very particular to her pulse and his eyes widened for a moment when he realized what she was holding. “How?” Killian asked softly.

“Ruby bought a test,” Emma explained. “And the onesie. I think she’s making some kind of play to be Mattie’s favorite. And, uh, well, I took the test and it was in English and it said yes.” “The test said yes?” “I mean not in so many words.” “What were the words, Swan?” There was an edge of desperation in his question, but his gaze was just as hopeful as it had been when he’d been trying to get her attention in the middle of OT of a gold medal hockey game. And if she didn’t love him more at that moment than she ever had before, it would have been an absolute lie.

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “The test said I’m pregnant.”

Killian yelled, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and tugging her up until both of Emma’s shoes fell on the ice. He couldn’t stop kissing her that time and Emma barely considered the symmetry of that before she did her best not to actually groan in the middle of the ice when Killian’s tongue found her bottom lip.

“Jeez, you can’t do that,” she mumbled and he laughed against her mouth.

“Why not?” “Because then we’ll really end up on our backs and that wouldn’t play well in the tabs. Some kind of international hockey scandal.” “Why, Swan, are you suggesting you’re somehow attracted to me?” Emma smacked at his shoulder and he still hadn’t actually put her down. That was good. She didn’t want to stand on ice. “Idiot,” she mumbled. “You were only supposed to score two goals, you know. Henry and Rol are going to fight over who gets control over that third one.” “Ah, yeah, well, there was an intermission game plan that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard, so I was trying to prove some kind of point.” “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Killian said. “And, maybe, the third goal wasn't for Henry or Rol.” “No?” Emma asked, fairly certain she knew the answer already. She wanted to hear anyway. “Who for then?” Killian kissed her once before he answered, smile just a bit nervous like he was worried he’d somehow say too much. “Matthew,” he said and every media outlet in the world could have been taking their photo and Emma would have kissed him anyway.

It took forever.

Photos and post-game and questions and Killian was half convinced Ruby was going to strangle The Post reporter who asked what Killian had gotten from his girlfriend on the ice after OT.

Will laughed so hard that Killian barely heard the next question.

He, admittedly, wasn’t paying attention.

“Cap,” Robin said, elbowing him in the side and Killian winced. He’d nearly forgotten how hard he’d hit the boards in the first period. His hand had started to swell up again. “They’re asking you more questions.” “He’s got some other things on his mind,” Will muttered, wrapping his hand over the microphone in front of him so the words didn’t get picked up by the recorders around them. It didn’t really matter. Someone heard anyway.

And promptly asked about it.

“Those other things have anything to do with why your girlfriend was out on the ice, Cap?”

“She looked like she was trying to give you something. Can you give us any idea what it was?” “Jeez, Lucas, relax.”

Ruby moved in front of the podium, practically snarling at the media contingent in front of them and Killian could barely hear her when she hissed no comment into one of their recorders.

Killian reached forward, tugging lightly on the back of Ruby’s blazer and she grumbled when her heel skid across the carpet. “Stand down, Lucas,” he muttered. “We’re all done here, anyway, right?”

She nodded deftly, ignoring the final-moment questions that came from the crowd in front of her. “Yeah, we’re absolutely done here. No comment,” she added one more time, practically stomping out of the room. “You guys, all got that? Stop acting like tabloids.” Killian laughed under his breath, determined to make sure Ruby didn’t actually hear him. It didn’t matter – her glare had shifted to Will as soon as he started promising that he’d battle her somehow for the honor of Matthew Jones.

“Can we just get out of here, please?” Robin asked exasperatedly, groaning slightly when Killian’s phone started making noise in his hand. “Jeez, Cap, silence that thing. And tell Liam he can critique your game later.” “There’s nothing to critique,” Killian argued. “I scored three goals.” Will made a face. “God, we’re never going to hear the end of this. You really failed on this one Locksley, at least if you scored, we wouldn’t have to hear about Cap scoring a goal for his kid for the rest of our human lives.” “Just a little bit dramatic, don’t you think?” “Lucas is trying to steal my thunder as mini-Jones defender. And I couldn't hit anyone all game tonight. I’m not in a mood to be tested.” Ruby glared at him again. “And what exactly could you do to defend Matthew’s honor, huh? You got a lot of pull with the media, Scarlet? Can you keep him out of headlines? Because we’re doing that already. No one’s going to know this kid exists until Cap and Emma decide they want them to.” Will blinked once, mouth falling open under Ruby’s continued stare and Killian shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Uh,” Robin muttered, taking a step in between Ruby and Will like he was crossing some sort of unspoken truce line. “We might want to change that statement slightly. And you should answer your phone, Cap.” It was still ringing, which all things considered, was pretty impressive. They must have been using two different phones. And he didn’t even need Robin to tell them who it was. Killian sighed softly when he swiped his thumb across the screen, the eyes staring at him already dangerously thin when her face appeared in front of him.

“Hey, El,” Killian muttered, dimly aware of Anna’s screech in the background.

“How come he answered you?” Anna shouted, sprinting into the frame and grabbing the phone out of Elsa’s hand. “What the hell, KJ? I mean you play favorites all the time, but in a moment like this, that just kind of seems like an excessively dick move.” “Is that the technical term for it then? Give the phone back to El, Banana, she looks like she’s going to explode on the edge of the bed.”

Anna muttered several very specific words at him, but she did as he said and Elsa stared impassively at him – features gone decidedly cold after spending most of the afternoon being ignored.

“We were in media,” Killian said, like that somehow explained it all.

“Yu huh,” Elsa hissed. She barely moved her mouth when she spoke and Killian was vaguely aware of a few shifting shadows at the end of the hallway, Henry and Roland’s voices making their way through the space before one of them collided with his side.

“Jeez, mate, relax,” Killian mumbled, reaching his free hand up to brush Roland’s hair back and Elsa gasped loudly.

“KJ is that your hand?” “What?” That wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.

“Ariel said it was fine! She said it was only green and that was good! That looks enormous!” “Is that concern I hear, El?” “Shut up, KJ,” Elsa snapped, but her voice shook just a bit and he backed up until he was resting against the wall, Roland talking a mile a minute against his leg. “Is it really ok?” “It’s fine,” he promised. “Better than.” “Of course it’s fine,” Anna interrupted, grabbing a pillow behind her to rest her chin on as she stared accusingly at the phone. “I mean aside from the three goals.” Killian quirked one eyebrow. “Aside from?”

“You really shouldn’t tell Liam anything.” He rolled his eyes, slinging his arm around Roland’s shoulders so he wouldn’t start yelling at both of his sisters and a conveniently absent from the conversation older brother. That’s what he got for answering his phone.

“What do you two think you know?” he asked and Anna cackled in response, the pillow a forgotten casualty.

Elsa didn’t blink. “You tell me, KJ. I was the one getting ignored all day.” “I had a hockey game to play, El.” “Yeah and there was some time before the hockey game. And after the hockey game.”

“Elsa.” “Oh ho,” she yelled triumphantly and Killian knew he was a lost cause. Anna was still laughing. “If we’re back to Elsa, it must be something big.”

“Did you finally do it, KJ?” Anna cut in, pressing her face into the frame and she was practically jumping with excitement.

Killian tried to be frustrated. He did. He should have been. And years before he probably would have been. But then Emma had shown up and changed everything and there was no reason to be frustrated by a family that, simply, wanted him to be as happy as he absolutely was.

“How?” Elsa asked, not bothering to ask anything else.

“Oh, God, KJ did you ask her on the ice?” Anna groaned as her head fell onto Elsa’s shoulders. And for half a moment he forgot he was in South Korea, forgot he was on the other side of the world and they weren’t sitting in the brownstone living room, grilling him on every single of the choices he was making.

“No,” Killian snapped, half yelling the words. He kind of wished he had. He wished he’d asked her again. Maybe in the car ride back to the hotel. “Of course not.” Anna and Elsa both lowered their eyebrows, respective mouths twisted in confusion. “Wait,” Elsa started slowly. “So, what was going on when she ran onto the ice? Wasn’t she holding something?” Ruby let out a low curse and Killian gaped at her, mind racing to the point and the problem and maybe he was just a bit frustrated after all. “Oh shit,” he whispered. Elsa was still asking questions. “That was on TV?” “I don’t know, Cap,” Ruby admitted, eyes wide and her phone already out. “I’ll take care of it. Right now. This is going to be fine.” Will stood up, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and Ruby didn’t even flinch under his stare. “Lucas, you are stealing my job with mini-Jones again. I don’t appreciate it.”

Elsa dropped the phone. Anna actually jumped on the bed, screaming something that was absolutely not English as Will hissed in his breath, grimacing slightly when he noticed the look on Killian’s face.

“Ah, sorry, Cap,” he mumbled.

Ruby smacked at the back of his head, her other hand still typing out something on her phone. “Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job, Scarlet.” Killian rolled his eyes, sliding down the wall with all the grace of a mac truck. Elsa picked up the phone as soon as he landed on the floor, mouth hanging open when she met his gaze. “Seriously, KJ?” she asked, any trace of frustration gone from her voice.

She sounded a little stunned.

Killian smiled at her, nodding slowly and Elsa’s hands flew back to her mouth. “Yeah,” he said quietly, glancing away from the screen when he heard heels clicking on the tiled floor. Emma beamed at him, the ring around her neck bouncing up against the front of her dress when she moved.

“Why are you sitting on the floor?” she asked, pushing her toe against the side of his thigh. Her eyes widened slightly when she heard Elsa sniffling and Anna had switched languages at some point. “What is she saying?”

Emma sank down next to him, ignoring his quiet Swan, don’t and he had to strain his ears to actually make out the words. “Uh, I think that’s Portuguese.”

“I take it you don’t speak Portuguese.” “That’s probably why she picked it.” “It absolutely is, KJ,” Anna shouted. “And trust me, you don’t know want to know what I was saying. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Emma glanced at him and Killian grimaced slightly, tugging her against his side and muttering it’s Scarlet's fault against her hair.

“Hey,” Will argued. “It is not my fault. You guys were the ones being all gross on the ice. I’m just here to make sure the internet doesn’t know about Matthew Jones before it’s supposed to. No one believed that thing A sent us anyway.”

Elsa dropped the phone again.

“Jeez, Scarlet,” Emma mumbled, lacing her fingers through Killian’s hand.

There was noise on the other end of the line and the phone fell back to the ground three more times before Elsa finally picked it up, eyes decidedly red and just a bit puffy. Anna bit her lip tightly, tapping her fingers on the side of her jaw like she was trying to work out some residual emotion.

“Killian,” Elsa said slowly and Emma squeezed his hand. She didn’t get another word out before she started crying again, tears falling down her cheeks quickly until she was hiccuping slightly and the phone was shaking.

“Don’t, uh, don’t tell Mr. or Mrs. V yet, ok?” Killian asked. “It’s still super early and we don’t…” “No jinx, you giant weirdo,” Anna said when he couldn’t quite finish the sentence.

“No jinx,” Emma repeated.

They were the last ones to leave the arena, a string of New York Rangers Olympians piling into cars with some kind of plan to take over the lobby of the hotel with takeout food two hours later. And Killian would have to thank Robin at some point, pulling both Henry and Roland into the car with him and Regina.

“Go plan a wedding or something,” Robin said, swinging open the back seat of the car. “Or, you know, tell her about the bet.” Emma lifted her eyebrows questioningly and Killian groaned, hand falling on her back when she climbed into the seat. “It’s nothing, Swan,” he promised. “Just colleges and something about a national championship and bringing glory back to Minnesota.” “Badger, badger, badger,” Robin muttered, saluting once slamming the door shut and Emma was laughing by the time the car pulled away from the arena.

Emma shuffled along the seat, swinging her legs over Killian’s until her head was resting on his chest and he wrapped his around her shoulders tightly.

“Did you bet on where he’d go to college?” she asked, voice not quite even against his jacket, and Killian kissed the top of her head lightly. Of course she figured it out.

“Ah, maybe.” “Maybe?” “Definitely?” Emma’s body shook against his when she laughed, but it didn’t ring totally true and Killian shrugged her up until he could meet her eyes. “What’s the matter, love?” “Nothing.” “Swan.” “Nothing.” “Nuh uh. Once more. He doesn’t actually have to go to Minnesota, you know. Probably better that way, even. Hell, he could play baseball for all I care. As long as he’s happy, it doesn’t really make a difference to me.”

She exhaled loudly, teeth finding her lower lip and Killian wondered what he’d said that she couldn’t quite seem to look at him anymore. “Or….not?” “You bet Locksley on Mattie going to college. One South Korean pregnancy test and you’re planning his whole entire life.”

Emma’s laugh was shaky at best and she still wouldn’t look at him – even when he ducked his head to try and get into her eyeline. “Did you just call him Mattie?” “That’s what I’ve been calling him in my head since you told me you wanted to name a kid Matthew.” Killian hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but it all seemed to rush out of him quickly, pushing him back towards Emma and his lips found her forehead before he could even remember that something was, probably, wrong.

“I like it,” he said.

“Yeah?” Emma asked, sounding like she was trying to get confirmation on some kind of media report. “Because, uh, I do too. And we didn’t really talk about it. Not until it was already pretty much happening and now everyone knows and Ruby bought that test and David and Reese’s were there and I just…” “What?” “I didn’t know I wanted this so badly until I had it,” she whispered and Killian got the distinct impression she felt like she was admitting something.

Emma pulled her lips behind her teeth, eyes flashing back up towards him and he couldn’t keep the smile off his face if he tried. He absolutely did not try. He pushed his hand into her hair instead, fingers wrapping around the back of her head and leaned forward slightly, lips just half a breath away from hers.

“Me too, love,” he said.

His shoulders hit up against the seat when Emma surged up towards him, pulling herself flush against his side and it was as desperate as it had been a few hours before puck drop, trying to pour every ounce of emotion either one of them could feel into a single movement and a single moment.

He wasn’t sure it would work, but he’d be damned if he didn’t keep trying – for most of the car ride back to the hotel.

“Do we have to get out?” Emma asked when the car stopped, cheeks flushed and lips just a bit closer to swollen than they probably should have been. “God, your hair is an absolute disaster.”

“I think they’ll be mad if we blow them off again, Swan,” Killian reasoned. “And, maybe, I’ve got something I want to do.” Emma hummed in the back of her throat, confusion coloring her gaze when he pulled them out of the backseat. “Half a plan, love,” he said and there was a cry when they walked into the lobby, a sea of Olympians and fans and a few more cameras. “Left, right, Swan. Head up, eyes front.”

“You sound like you’re giving me marching orders.” “Nah, just trying to follow through with the schedule here.”

“I thought there was only half a plan,” Emma countered, one side of her mouth tugged up into a slightly skeptical smile.

“That doesn’t mean there shouldn’t be some kind of attempt at a schedule. We should have done it this way from the very beginning anyway.” Emma’s eyebrows moved up her forehead quickly, but she didn’t miss a step, even when they weaved their way towards the front desk. It took her three and a half seconds to understand.

“Smart,” Killian muttered, nodding when a hotel worker appeared in front of him. He tried not to look impatient when they started congratulating him on the goals and the win and the Rangers Olympic contingent was already shouting in the background, screaming about the ever decreasing temperature of the food they’d bought.

“You guys have something of mine in the safe back there,” Killian said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. “I’d like to get it back.” The hotel worker looked a bit stunned at the request – lips going thin and eyes going wide and he looked anywhere except Killian. “Uh, I don’t know that I can do that.” “Excuse me?” “There’s no manager here right now. I don’t have access to the safe.” Killian opened his mouth, some very specific words on the tip of his tongue and that’s what he got for half of a plan. “I’m sorry,” the hotel worker continued, still not able to pull his eyes up.

“It’s fine, Killian,” Emma said softly, tugging on the front of his jacket. “We can, uh, we can do it tomorrow. I’m starving anyway.” Killian groaned. “Swan.” “Hey, we’re good. We’re excited. It’s totally fine.” He sighed softly, not quite able to overlook the note of disappointment in her voice. Emma smiled at him, hands flat on his chest and his fingers trailed across the front of her dress before he considered the cameras behind them.

“I love you,” Killian said and Emma’s smile was a bit more genuine.

“I know. I love you too.” “Oh God, this is absurd,” Regina groaned, appearing out of nowhere with a box of food in one hand and her phone pressed up against her ear.

“What the hell, Gina?” Killian asked. “Did you just teleport here?” She lifted her eyebrows in response, not even bothering to answer him whenever whoever was on the other end of the phone call said something. “Obviously,” Regina hissed. “Yes, right now. Yes, they’re here right now. I’m staring at them! You can believe me. It’s Killian Jones. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, looks a little bit like his entire world has shifted on its axis today. I don’t care about protocol. Open the safe.” Killian stuttered slightly, but Emma laughed, head thrown back until her hair landed across his face. Regina kept talking. Or threatening. It sounded a bit more like threats now.

“Of course you’re going to do it,” she continued. “Because America. And gold medals. And the goddamn fucking Olympic spirit. Get him his ring.” Regina growled out the last few words, thrusting her hand towards the slightly stunned hotel worker in front of them. “Here,” she said. “Talk to your boss.”

He took the phone slowly, looking a little stunned at the whirlwind that was Regina Mills-Locksley.

“You can thank me later,” Regina said pointedly, taking her phone back when the hotel worker walked into the back room. “And congratulations, by the way. On both fronts. But you guys totally should have put that thing in a bag. Roland and Henry had a lot of questions on the way back here.”

“I was kind of excited,” Emma muttered and Killian tugged her closer to his side, something that felt like joy shooting through his entire body. “It was on TV?”

Regina nodded slowly, lips going thin as she tried to find a balance between agent and friend . “Very much on TV.” Emma groaned slightly and Killian muttered something he hoped sounded supportive against her hair when the vaguely terrified hotel worker reappeared in front of them, a tiny, black box clutched in his hands. “Uh, sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I, uh, again, sorry about all of this. It’s just not policy to usually do it…” “Don’t worry about it,” Killian promised, interrupting before Regina could say something particularly aggressive. “Thank you.” The hotel worker nodded, cautious smile working its way back on his face when Regina stopped glaring at him. “Congratulations,” he said.

Killian hummed in agreement and the nerves were a bit unexpected. He stared at the box resting on his palm, doing his best not to drop it – that had not been part of the half-plan. Regina rolled her eyes when he didn’t move immediately.

“Hey,” Emma said softly and his head snapped towards the sound of her voice. “Still yes.” They’d developed a bit of an audience – no doubt drawn in by Regina’s voice and demands and Killian would have to mention that to her at some point. Maybe on the plane. Not then.

He was going to do this right.

Emma smiled at him, soft and encouraging and, God, she’d come up with nicknames for the kid already. Their kid. They were going to get married and have a kid and a family.

A family for Emma Swan and Killian Jones.

Huh.

Killian moved slowly, not quite sure if he was trying to stay in the moment or simply because bending his knee was decidedly difficult after several hours and one overtime on the ice, but Emma’s eyes didn’t leave his while he moved.

“We kind of hit all the high points before,” he started and Emma let out a watery laugh. Regina groaned and something that sounded exactly like Ruby swatting at Will’s side echoed in the suddenly silent lobby. “But I’ve never wanted anything more than this. Ever. And I’m not going anywhere, Swan. I love you.” “God, Cap, ask the question,” Will shouted, groaning when Ruby elbowed him.

Emma rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t waver, tugging lightly on the end of her hair. Roland started jumping at some point, just out of the line of Killian’s vision shouting ask her Hook and even Henry muttered something that sounded like come on, already, not quite silenced by Robin’s quiet reprimands.

“None of them were supposed to be here,” Killian muttered. “There should have been a mountain involved.” “I’m glad there was no mountain,” Emma said, eyes widening slightly when he flipped open the top of the box. That joy he’d felt before seemed to multiply and Ruby was absolutely crying.

Killian took a deep breath, eyes closing lightly when Emma brushed his hair away from his forehead. She was smiling at him when he looked back up.

Joy wasn’t the right word.

Everything.

It was everything.

“Will you marry me, Swan?”

“Yeah,” Emma breathed, tugging her right hand around her waist when he slid the ring on her left finger. “You know, again.” The Rangers contingent exploded into yells and cheers and camera phone shutters going off as Emma pulled Killian back up, arms wrapped tightly around his neck when her lips met his. Again.

They couldn’t seem to stop kissing in public places.

“That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Will mumbled, sticking a phone in their faces to snap another picture with the excuse that Anna made him promise to send updates.

“Shut up, Scarlet,” Ruby and Robin said at the same time, matching looks of irritation on their face.

Robin clapped Killian on the shoulder – Henry had his phone to take pictures and Roland was still jumping up and down, announcing to anyone that would listen that he was, in no unquestioned terms, the ring bearer.

“It was kind of disgustingly romantic,” Robin admitted. “And I’m here to officially throw my hat in as a third potential Matthew Jones defender. I don’t have much on-ice experience with that, but my kid loves Cap, only seems fair we go both ways.” “That’s true,” Emma agreed quickly and Killian barely had time to gape at her before she pressed on her toes and kissed him silent. “C’mon, Jones, let’s get some food. Maybe we can stage some kind of air hockey competition for godparent status.”

The next day and a half were some kind of blur.

Emma could hardly remember them happening, let alone actually feel like she was experiencing them – far too caught up in memories of post-gold medal celebrations and they’d posed for an absurd number of photos, her own smile catching her off guard every time she saw it.

God, she was happy.

And several other emotions that she couldn’t actually say out loud because there had been more to the post-gold medal night than an absolutely absurd amount of South Korean takeout.

He kept asking her – the same question over and over throughout the night, muttered in her ear and mumbled against her jaw and as soon as they fell onto the mattress, finally, back in the bed together and there were far too many clothes in her way.

“You want to get married, Swan?” he asked and Emma rolled her eyes so she wouldn’t do something like dissolve into some kind of puddle of swooning.

“Haven’t we done this several times already?” “This is romantic.”

“You keep asking. The answer’s not going to change.” His eyes got brighter or maybe a bit wider and Emma knew she’d said something important. “Yeah?” Killian asked, breathing out the question. It sent a chill down Emma’s spine. “That’s some kind of indefinite type thing.” “So mark me down for indefinitely,” she said. She hoped her voice didn’t tremble.

Killian nodded, eyes never leaving her face when his thumb traced just underneath her ring. “Indefinite works.” She wasn’t sure who moved first – and moving at the same time was almost too romantic, even for her and that moment – but they both shifted slightly, hands finding each other as they tried to touch every bit of skin not covered by clothing.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Emma grumbled, shifting back up towards the top of the bed and Killian chuckled in her ear.

“Impatient, Swan.” “Determined.” He kissed her again, lips moving against hers possessively and she whined when he pulled away, teeth nipping at her lower lip.

God, he looked as happy as she felt.

“Too many clothes,” Emma repeated. “Come on, you’re supposed to do what I want in my delicate condition and all that.” “I hardly think you’re delicate, love.” “Only when it serves my argument.” “And does it, now?”

“Depends on how quickly you can take your clothes off, I guess.” Killian grinned at her, eyebrows moving quickly and Emma was certain her pulse sped up. Maybe she was just a bit more delicate than she claimed.

Their hands moved, tugging on their own clothes and each other’s clothes and Killian nearly lost his balance when he tried to kick his pants off his ankle. There wasn’t much finesse to it – both of them far too wired and emotional and she couldn’t quite remember the last time they’d had an actual moment to themselves.

At least not like this.

“Quick enough?” Killian smirked, a distinct lack of clothing between them when he tugged the blankets over both of them.

“See, but now you’re talking too much.”

“So many complaints, Swan.” “Suggestions.” “Such as?” “You could kiss me some more.” The smirk shifted, genuine and meaningful and Emma met his smile with one of his own, fingers carding through his hair when he ducked his head and muttered deal.

He asked her to marry him two more times before they fell asleep.

There were stories after that – blog posts and actual news stories and Mary Margaret texted the next morning to tell them they, somehow, made Page Six again, that photo of them on the ice plastered across nearly every paper in the entire Tri-State area.

And Emma would have been annoyed by it all, if she didn’t have so much goddamn work to do. Still.

There were medal ceremonies and post-Games videos and she absolutely, positively had not teared up when her fiancé walked back up to her with a gold medal slung around his neck. And there were Closing Ceremonies and the Rangers contingent was adamant that the bet was finished, something about honor and dignity mentioned several times.

Graham rolled his eyes so often Emma was nervous they were going to get stuck that way.

He sang the anthem anyway.

“That was good,” Emma said when he belted out the last note, joined, as promised, by Roland who spent the majority of the video conducting Graham as well.

“Yeah, shut up, Em,” Graham groaned, sinking into a chair and stretching out his legs. His eyes landed on her ring almost immediately and she couldn’t quite believe it had taken that long to get there. “You good?” he asked. “Good?” “Happy? Content? Overjoyed at the prospect of some kind of future with Captain America?” Emma laughed, crossing her arms over her chest and rocking back on her heels. “You getting ready to defend me, Humbert?” “If necessary.” “It’s not.”

“You should have put the thing in a bag before you got on the ice, Em,” Graham muttered knowingly and his gaze flitted from her ring to her stomach. “The internet’s been losing its collective mind.” “Ruby’s doing her best to put a stop that relatively quickly.” “That’s not like you to do stuff like that.” Emma shrugged. “I’m happy. The internet can suck it.” “Ah, well, of course,” Graham laughed, sitting up a bit straighter. “I’m glad, by the way.” “Me too.” “That video better get eight million hits. At least.” “That seems reasonable.” Graham took a step toward her, tugging Emma against him and she barely caught her breath before he squeezed it all out of her, hugging her tightly in the middle of another Olympic arena. “That kid’s going to have so much family, he won’t know what to do with it all.” Emma’s heart thudded and that, that, was why she couldn’t stop smiling.

Her kid would have a family – from the very start. No matter what.

“Let me know when you land, ok?” Graham asked, kissing her forehead quickly when Killian stepped into the room.

“Of course,” Emma promised.

Graham nodded at Killian before he left, Emma turning slightly when she heard the squeak of his shoes on the floor behind her. “You ready to go, love?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

She fell asleep on the flight - head on Killian’s shoulder and legs pulled up underneath her with Roland back on her other side, a mess of brown hair spread across her thigh.

“Swan,” Killian muttered softly, laughing when Emma grumbled at being woken up. “We’re here, love.”

“That’s stupid,” Emma muttered. Roland shifted against her, kicking dangerously close to the window when she tried to pull him back up. “What time is it?” “I have absolutely no idea. Most of the plane fell asleep.” Emma hummed, not entirely awake yet, and Roland mumbled next to her – he was wearing three gold medals, Robin, Will and Killian’s all claimed as his own as soon as the closing ceremonies were over.

“That can’t be good for him,” Emma said, nodding at the weight around his neck.

“He slept the entire flight, Swan. I think he’s fine.” Ruby was doing her best to direct Rangers traffic at the front of the plane – her attempts failing to hit their mark when she kept getting interrupted by yawns. Henry was still asleep, sprawled out over three seats in the front row.

“There are cars outside and you’ve got to go in order and…” She groaned when her phone went off in her hand, but hers wasn’t the only one.

It felt a bit like dominoes – the sound working its way down the rows of seats until it seemed like they’d never be able to hear anything else ever again.

“God, are we under attack?” Will muttered, staring at his phone like he couldn’t quite understand what it was doing.

“Scarlet, turn your ringer off,” Killian sighed, pulling Roland against his side when he tried to crawl over Emma. “Watch your feet, mate.”

“Oh shit,” Ruby said. She glanced down at her own phone, mouth falling open when she read the message. “You guys, uh, you should read your message.” Emma glanced at Killian – Roland halfway up his side with his arms wrapped tightly around his neck. There were four voicemails on her phone and sixteen text messages – most of them from Mary Margaret, but the most recent one was from a number she didn’t recognize.

It’s a boy! Dylan William was born at 9:46 pm today. He’s super excited you guys won, but Ariel feels like she should be getting one of her own gold medals as well.

Killian grinned at Emma, muttering quiet reassurances to Roland that everything was fine, and Ruby was yelling at them all again.

“Alright,” she said sharply. “Change of plans.” “We’ve got to go, right?” Will asked, standing in the middle of the aisle with a bag slung over his shoulder already like he was ready to run to the hospital if necessary. “I mean, we’ve got to go. We’ve got to go now.” “That message did just show up. It’s only quarter after ten.” “You want to go to a hospital on Long Island half an hour after A just had a baby?” Robin asked skeptically.

Henry had finally woken up. “Who had a baby? Emma?” “Yeah, that’s not how that works, kid,” Emma said, rolling her eyes. Henry shrugged. “We should go,” she added. “A’s been by herself for two weeks. Plus you guys can’t deny Scarlet the chance to start playing weird uncle from the get-go.” Will glared at her, hitching the bag farther up his shoulder. “You’re just jealous because you’re not the kid’s favorite.” Emma pointed at her stomach. “I think I win.” Killian barked out a laugh, Roland jerking forward at the sound and he murmured a quiet sorry mate against his head. “Swan wins, Scarlet. That’s, at least, twenty points for her. And we should probably go. What do you bring to meet a newborn?”

“These are things you should learn, Cap,” Ruby said pointedly, thumb flashing across her phone screen as she, presumably, told Eric the entire Rangers Olympic line was about to descend on their hospital room. “We can get flowers on the way.”

“Let’s go,” Will whined, already halfway down the aisle before he nearly ran into Ruby.

Killian shifted Roland to his side, pulling his arms back up so he didn’t actually choke him when they moved, and held out his still slightly swollen left hand towards Emma. “You ready to go, love?”

She fell asleep in the car – again. And jet lag was even worse after realizing she was pregnant, every one of her muscles feeling far too heavy for her body. Killian was still holding Roland when they walked into the hospital an hour later, the eight-year-old, apparently, as exhausted as Emma and she mumbled a half-hearted apology while Ruby tried to explain all the reasons they should be allowed into the room in the middle of the night.

“How are you doing this?” Emma asked and Killian hummed in confusion.

“Doing what, love?” “Aren’t you exhausted?” “A little.” “But?” “Is there a but?” “There probably should be.” He laughed softly, resting the side of his head against the top of hers and Emma could feel his lips quirk up. “I’m happy,” he said simply.

Ruby spun on the spot, the entire crowd – all of them still decked out in Team USA gear and Olympic medals and surrounded by carry-on luggage. “Room 314. We’ve got twenty minutes, tops. Let’s go troops.” “She’d make a fantastic general,” Killian whispered in Emma’s direction and she bit back a smile so Ruby didn’t start yelling at her.

“Admiral, at least,” Emma said.

Ruby glared at her. “See if I defend Matthew Jones from the internet anymore.” Emma lifted her eyebrows and it took five seconds for Ruby to cave. “Yeah, whatever. Come on, let’s go see the first baby.”

They barely all fit in the room and Eric shushed them before letting them cross through the door. “I’m really glad you guys are here and, you know, congrats on being awesome at hockey, but if any of you wake up that baby, I’ll poison all of you one by one.” “Jeez, is this what fatherhood does to you?” Will asked, pushing to the front of the line. “Take notes, Cap.” Eric gaped at them. “Wait, what?” Killian tried to brush it off, but Ariel, apparently, had supersonic hearing. “What did he just say, Cap?” she demanded, hissing out the words so she wouldn’t wake up the baby in her arms.

“Scarlet talks too much, Red,” Killian said. “You should know, naming your kid after him.” “Only part of the name.” “Still.” “Killian.” “Still here.” Emma laughed softly and that had been a mistake – Ariel’s eyes snapped her direction, mouth falling open when she spotted the ring on her finger. That woke the baby up. “This is your fault,” she accused, glaring in Killian’s direction while she tried to calm down the newborn in her arms.

“How?” “If you’d just answer the question like a normal person, we wouldn’t be doing this. Hey, Emma. I’m glad he stopped being an idiot and asked you to marry him.” Her laugh was shaky, but that might have been because she was so tired and a bit more focused on the half-a-plan that was taking root in the back of her mind than whatever accusations Ariel could throw out in a hospital room.

“That makes two of us then,” Emma said and Killian grinned like he’d won the fucking lottery. Several times.

“See, Red,” he said, leaning forward to drag a finger across Dylan’s tiny arm. He couldn’t move too much. Roland was still hanging off him. “Everything’s fine. Isn’t it?” Ariel didn’t look convinced. “Stop trying to distract us all by being adorable with my kid. How’d you do it?” “Hmmm?” “How’d he do it, Emma?” “Uh, which time?” Emma asked and Killian groaned. She’d mostly done it for the reaction.

“You did it more than once?” Ariel asked, clearly trying to control the volume of her voice. Killian shrugged. “Do El and Anna know that?” Killian nodded. “Yeah, they do. Yesterday. Or tomorrow. I don’t know how time works anymore.” “You told them!”

“You’ve been kind of busy, Red.” Ariel huffed slightly, but her eyes fell back to her son and the smile on her face sent a specific type of emotion through Emma’s entire body. “I hear you scored three times,” she said softly and Killian stood up a bit straight.

“Yup.”

“Interesting.” Will groaned. “Alright, alright, we all know what’s going on. You guys are dumb, Cap can’t stop asking Emma to marry him and I want to see that kid.” “Ah, well, who can argue with that?” Killian laughed, retreating back to Emma’s side. He asked her to marry him again in the back corner of the hospital room.

It took nearly another two hours to get back to their apartment, loaded down with bags and a gold medal and neither one of those things made it much farther than the front door as soon as it slammed shut behind them.

“What time is it?” Emma asked blearily, wobbling just a bit as Killian came up behind her.

“I have no idea. It’s got to be close to two.” “Jeez.” “Three days, Swan. Three days before we have to go back and I have no intention of letting you out of this bed. Understood?” “That seems kind of possessive, Cap.”

He grinned against her neck, leaving soft kisses in her wake and she wasn’t convinced she didn’t just collapse, suddenly weak at the knees over whatever it was he was doing. Or where his hand kept landing.

“Yeah,” Killian agreed. “It is.” “Well before we fall into that, maybe we could do something else. Quickly? Or kind of quickly. There’s a timer to these things.” Killian lowered his eyebrows, twisting her around to face him as Emma ducked down to grab that half-a-plan out of her bag. “Swan,” he said slowly, staring at the pregnancy test in her hand with something that could only be described as awe in his gaze. “How’d you get that?” “In the hospital. You guys were talking to A and trying to impress a newborn and Ruby covered for me long enough that I could ask the front desk if they had them. They did. It was almost too easy. I don’t think that lady knew what to do with the entire New York Rangers roster showing up.” “Why?” “Well, collectively, you guys are all pretty attractive and you’re just a bit intimidating in USA gear and…” “No, no, that’s not what I meant. Why’d you get another one?” Emma blinked. “Oh,” she muttered. “Only seemed fair you got to see too. And, well, that one before was kind of questionably accurate.” She shrugged. “Just seemed better to...double check. And I kind of wanted you here.”

He nodded at her, smile inching across his face and she’d probably remember the way he stuttered over the words for the rest of time. Or something slightly less dramatic. “So, uh, how do we do this then?” “I mean, you don’t really have to do anything,” she said, twisting her eyebrows sarcastically. “Swan.” “That’s just a fact.”

“It’s timed, right?” Emma nodded. “So you go and I’ll time and then we’ll...see.” “Again.” “For sure.” Emma swung open the bathroom door a few moments later to find Killian leaning against the opposite wall, one leg pulled up and his forearm resting on his knee. “You ok?” she asked, sinking down next to him. “Set a timer and everything?" “Yeah and yeah.” “Really selling it.” “I love you Swan,” he said suddenly and earnestly and Emma pulled back at the sincerity in his voice, the way the words cracked as soon as they were out of his mouth.

“I love you too,” Emma echoed, tugging his arm back around her shoulders and curling herself against his side. “You know, Graham said something to me this afternoon.” “About his singing?” “No, no. Nothing to do with the singing. Although Rol totally stole that particular show.” “What about?” “He said our kid would have more family than he knew what to do with. And I never had that. Not really. Not until I got here. And, well, you’ve gotten all these great, big sweeping romantic speeches, but it’s my turn now.” Killian nodded, eyes wide and one side of his mouth pulled up. “I came here thinking it’d be some kind of transition. And I’d stay with Reese’s for a little while and maybe find my own apartment and I’d go to work and do my job and that would be that. And it’s so much more than that. You made it so much more than that. You made it...everything. So you can keep asking me the same question over and over again and it’ll be same answer every single time. Yeah. No matter what.” He looked stunned – breath rushing out of him and he’d barely started kissing her before the timer on his phone sounded. “Ready, Cap?” Emma asked softly. “Always, Swan.” The instructions on this box were in English and it all felt a bit more real – standing in the bathroom of their apartment with Killian’s arm wrapped around her waist and his hand on her stomach.

He grabbed the piece of plastic off the edge of the sink and Emma felt him exhale against her back when he saw the word on the test, the same one it had been the day before or maybe tomorrow, or whenever.

“Same answer,” Killian repeated softly.

“Yeah,” Emma sighed, twisting around to burrow her forehead against the crook of his neck. “Seems to be some kind of theme.” The test fell the floor when he moved his arms around her waist, lifting her up to rest her on the edge of the sink and Emma’s legs sprung apart out of instinct, Killian stepping into the open space to kiss her.

Again.

Another theme.

“Swan,” Killian muttered and she made some kind of impatient noise in the back of her throat. He laughed against her lips, fingers inching underneath the edge of her t-shirt with practiced ease. “You want to get married?” Emma rolled her eyes, but she nodded again – a yes every single time he asked her for the three days they didn’t leave the apartment, promises of everything that would come next laid out in front of them.

They hung the gold medal on the Conn-Smythe that was still sitting on the corner of the kitchen counter, an Olympic onesie folded up on the nightstand next to their bed.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs #captain swan ff #cs fic #blue line olympics #elsa is crying and ruby is crying and regina might be crying #and emma and killian can't stop making out #so all going according to plan

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37-children-of-the-dreams · 4 years ago

Text

Day #13: Ruin My Life

It’s official to me. Put a runaway duke and ex-trooper clone and there will be a fight. I mean, Fennec’s only there because she likes the drama. How else can you explain Fennec be calm all the time.

------------------

As the three finally made their way back to the ship, Crosshair had a hard time looking at Korkie’s face. The former duke didn’t seem to know anything about last night, and if he did, he was doing the same thing Crosshair was doing. Hiding the fact they slept next to each other in such close proximity. True, it was because they were in a tent, but the tent was big enough for them not to be near each other.

The three settled down in their respective seats in the ship. Crosshair at one of the pilot seats, Fennec at the other and Korkie was behind them close to the bunk beds. Crosshair turned on all the engines and the ship was off to another world.

“So, where we going?” Korkie politely asked. “Another safe planet for Fennec to learn her skills?”

“No,” he said. “I think we’re running out of credits.”

Korkie and Fennec looked at each other. They weren’t running out of credits. Korkie checked their account and they had enough for the ship’s fuel to be full and ready to go from one system to another. It didn’t make sense.

“We’re not out of credits for now,” Korkie replied.

“Maybe to you, but I never had that much money in my life. So if I say we need the credits, we need the credits.”

“But, I’m not ready to go high stakes with my skills yet,” Fennec pointed out. “I just learned how to hit with the speed you wanted.”

“Just do it. We don’t know when we’ll spend all of the credits. So, we need more.”

Korkie wanted to say something, but one look at Crosshair, and he knew. Crosshair would not listen to him, nor would he look at Korkie. Korkie didn’t know why he was acting like this. He was happy last night and they were both far away from each other in the tent. Why does Crosshair have to make their partnership difficult in just a few hours?

As they were entering a bustling planet’s air space at night, Korkie was beginning to get annoyed with Crosshair. For the entire ride, Crosshair was avoiding him and not even listening to Korkie. The last straw was when he and Fennec were talking about making a new disguise. Korkie was loud enough for Crosshair to hear them say he was making a dress for Fennec to wear while doing to high end gossip spaces. Yet, Crosshair said nothing as they descend.

“Crosshair is such a boring person,” he whined hoping to get a reaction.

It didn’t work. Crosshair kept looking for a good place to land.

“He possible doesn’t know any other color except for gray.”

Still nothing. Fennec began to realize what Korkie was doing.

“If it wasn’t for me, Crosshair would always be broke.”

Still no reaction. Fennec was rather surprised because that comment actually might have stung if it was her.

“I’m marrying you!”

Not one sound. Crosshair was wearing nothing to protect his ears from listening to Korkie. He knows Korkie was talking, he just wanted to avoid him. Fennec was gasping at Korkie’s outrageous antics. That really should work. Marriage is sacred to Mandalorians.

“If I marry you, I’m also divorcing you in an hour!”

Crosshair finally found a hanger to park and relaxed his back. He turned to his two comrades and smiled. Fennec was giving him a look that expressed confusion and irrational fear. Korkie was smiling in a psychotic way. Crosshair finally looked at him, but he still didn’t listen.

“Why?” Korkie hissed. “I’ve been trying to get your attention. Why are you being difficult?”

“Because I’m landing the ship?” Crosshair said. “Also, you’d really make a bad wife.”

Fennec went away from the two and prepared herself for some screaming. Korkie went to Crosshair’s space and just stared at him. Crosshair still sat, but his face was now stone cold.

“So you were listening? Crosshair, what is going on with you? I thought we had better communication. Can you please tell me what I’ve done?” “Nothing,” he answered. “Just give me some areas around here and we’re good. You stay here for your safety and just watch the ship.”

Korkie blanked out. He shook his head. This was not happening to him. He thought he could ran away from this type of mistake. The mistake of being someone’s puppet. Yet, here he is.

“Am I just a glorified housewife to you? Am I just someone you can use because I told you I have visions? Crosshair, please don’t say anything like that. I thought we were partners.”

“We are,” he agreed.

Crosshair stood up and went to Korkie’s side. The royal was breathing hard, he looked confused, and he was shaking. Crosshair took both of Korkie’s arms and held them to keep him from doing anything ridiculous.

“You’re not my housewife, nor am I using you. It’s just you’ve made plenty of mistakes while being with me. I’m not letting you make a huge one here.”

“But you’re making a huge one with me. I’m not going to let you use my powers without me being with you.”

“You’re much safer in this ship.”

“I’m not becoming a prisoner again!”

“You’re not a prisoner! This was for family’s ship, you can do things here while Fennec and I are away.”

Korkie pushed Crosshair away and just growled at the clone. He thought thing were getting better with Crosshair. Why were things going back to square one? What happened that night? What did Korkie say in during his visions?

“I’ll give one tip, but trust me. You’re. Not. Getting. Anymore.”

“So you’re divorcing me?”

“No, I’m just giving them to Fennec until you tell me what’s wrong. There’s a huge bar in the main plaza. They have patrons needing good bounty hunters. Go there, say ‘Is your King of Riches here,’ and get your stupid credits.”

Korkie exited from the cockpit and went to the bunk beds. He went to the end of the room and opened a secret coding lock. He answered the Kryze’s password and entered a small room filled with a king-size bed. Korkie launched himself to the bed once the doors closed and cried.

He truly does not understand why he had clung to Crosshair so fast that it hurts so much just from him wanting Korkie away. He blames Bo-Katan for ruining his thoughts on a good relationship. He blames his former friends Amis, Lagos and Soniee for ruining his trust on friendships. He blames himself for being so naive and good hearted that he thought a bounty hunter, and a former Jedi killer, would be a good partner. He cried harder and fell asleep crying.

Crosshair got out of the cockpit and saw Fennec wiping her rifle while shaking her head back and forth. She was not happy with what she had heard. She thought, despite everything, that Crosshair would never hurt Korkie so bad that he didn't want to talk to Crosshair. Guessing she was wrong because the instant Crosshair came out with a crooked frown and angry eyes, she knew it must have been painful.

“You really should have stopped him before he said he was going to marry you,” Fennec sighed. “I mean, he was just trying to get you to listen to him.”

“Shut up and get out,” he snarled. “We got our info. Just give Korkie some space and he’ll be back to normal.”

“No, he won’t. He was worried about you during the ride and you just avoided him like he was a bomb. You guys had weeks of being partners. He’s not going to brush this off like it was nothing.”

Crosshair said nothing and went out. The hanger person asked how long they were staying, but Crosshair just gave him enough credits for a week. Fennec shook her head as she followed him. She couldn’t understand Crosshair’s behavior herself. Just last night, Crosshair was happy because Fennec got her perfect shot and Korkie made food using his family sword. What happened? Was there an altercation with a bug and now he’s acting like the world’s about to kill him? Was Korkie talking too much in his sleep?

Actually, the Korkie bit would not have made sense. Crosshair got used to Korkie knowing his visions through sleep and listened for some words...

“What did Korkie do?” Fennec asked. “You guys were in that tent together. What did he do?”

“He can’t dream, so nothing bad.”

“But you’re mad at him!”

“Fennec, just shut up and let’s do the bounty.”

Fennec did shut her mouth, but she was not backing down from the fight. Korkie had done nothing wrong to her and Crosshair for all the trips they’ve been at. Which might not be much, but she knew enough that Korkie would never hurt a person, much less a bug. Crosshair was being so unreasonable and she knew there was one way to make him talk. Beat him in the bounty hunt.

At the bar, Crosshair and Fennec saw an unholy amount of gaudy clothes and glittery hair. This were all rich people and the sniper were in their den. Crosshair went to the receptionist telling her what Korkie instructed him to say. The receptionist took them to the VIP spot where they met a huge, and highly drenched in gold male Twi’lek. His lekku was so huge that it turned itself to a necklace and he had multiple females by his side. Crosshair waited for him to notice them, but grew impatient.

“Feeling a bit like a certain someone?” Fennec asked.

Crosshair said nothing and sat next to Twi’lek. The Twi’lek finally looked at him and laughed.

“I’m surprised that someone knew my code,” he laughed. “I do have a bounty on someone. Here you go!”

He tossed a puck at Crosshair who caught it. He left with Fennec as the Twi’lek whistled in her direction.

At the entrance, Crosshair read the puck and groaned. Their target was last seen at the other half of the city. Which meant they had to leave fast. Fennec and Crosshair ran to the nearest speeder rental and went as fast as they can to the other side of the city. The other side of the city was dump. The buildings were rotting and the smell are horrible. It was perfect for a target to lay low. Crosshair and Fennec parked their speeders near a dilapidated building and went on foot. The two looked normal for the people living here. They had worn clothes and scratched helmets. They had the perfect disguises.

It took them long enough to hear where the guy was, but when they did, they went to a broken down apartment complex and readied their rifles. Suddenly, shots went out and a full-blown shootout was happening. They were outnumbered, but they had better aim. The two hit enemy to enemy and their target was running away from them. Crosshair and Fennec left the complex and ran after him to the roofs of every building. Then, they were hit with a trap.

The target? The Twi’lek was his brother and he was the biggest rival to him. The problem? He had his slice of a gang. The snipers were on one side of a rooftop and the target and his gang were in the other. There wasn’t much cover and they had to hide behind a door roof. Then, one of the man’s goons got to Crosshair and pushed him off the building.

Crosshair thought it was the end for him. No forgiveness from Korkie and he failed Fennec too. Also, he never got to see his brothers again.

WHIP!

Crosshair’s left hand was wrapped by a whip and he was airborne as he got back to the rooftop. Fennec had killed the goon who pushed Crosshair off, and was watching Crosshair get back on his feet as another person got in the fray. Crosshair gasped.

“No,” he said. “Not again.”

Fennec looked closer at the third person and also gasped. True, the person was wearing some sort of robe and had some hair accessory. But, the stance and the hair did not lie. Korkie Kryze found his partner and Fennec, and he was not happy.

He donned on some wire-filled gauntlets and Kryze styled clothes with a mask to conceal his face. He had cascading flower ribbon in his hair and he had both the fan and the sword strapped to his hips. In one way, he looked like a runaway princess.

The target laughed and so did his men.

“Do your men just pushed my partner?” he asked.

“So what?” he guffaw. “It’s the way of life here.”

Korkie smile and took out a flower from his ribbon and tossed it to their feet. The men laughed at his attempt at throwing and crushed the flower. They weren’t laughing anymore. The men screamed as liquid nitrogen froze their feet and they couldn’t move. Korkie took out the fan and its safety coverings, revealing sharp edges at the tips, and a dagger underneath. Korkie rushed to them and sliced their lives away except for the target. The target tried to get away, but Korkie got to him and punched him out cold. He dragged the target to his two companions. Fennec was horrified by Korkie’s actions, but she could not blame him for being angry. As for Crosshair, he looked away from Korkie.

Korkie rolled his eyes and went to Crosshair’s side.

“I told you our partnership was never going to be easy,” he reminded the clone. “But I also told you we can mend it. You could have just told me I was moving in my sleep and bumping you during the night! I know I’m not the best tent partner, but don’t just get mad at me and avoid me like that! Say something. I have another room in the ship if you hate how I sleep.”

Crosshair looked at Korkie. His partner was close to tears and still had bloodshot eyes as if he cried before coming to their rescue.

“Fine, I will tell you next time we camp,” he agreed. “It just, I’m not really comfortable telling some people how they sleep.”

“Why? People in my past told me I do weird things when I sleep so I don’t do they as much. I can handle people telling me I have a weird way of sleeping. It’s natural for me to hear those.”

“Maybe, but you’re not my brother. My brother and I had cussed each other on our sleep issues every night , but you’re different.”

“How?”

“You’re my partner and I actually respect you enough to not tell you how bad you are at some things.”

Korkie blinked rapidly. Fennec watched their target sleeping while hearing the new drama between them.

“I really don’t how what to think of that,” Korkie said. “It’s nice, but you already tell me how bad I am. I’m getting immune to your insults. Most of them really.”

“So forgive me for my attitude?”

“Let’s have a shopping spree, and then I’ll forgive you. Starting with getting those credits, then killing the person who gave you the bounty and running off with their money.”

Fennec laughed at what she just heard. Korkie, nice, sweet Korkie wanting violence and death. How bad did he cry just for him to think it was okay to kill someone?

Crosshair sighed and nodded. This time, it was his fault that Korkie choose violence. They dragged the body as Korkie started planning their shopping.

#korkie kryze #clone trooper crosshair #crosshair #korkie x crosshair #fennec shand #star wars #bounty hunting

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lisacongo2-blog · 5 years ago

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‘Shrill’ Shreds Hollywood Stereotypes About How Women of Size Eat

The first time you see Annie, the protagonist of the new Hulu show Shrill, eating, her meal doesn’t look particularly pleasant. Played by SNL cast member Aidy Bryant, Annie grabs a plastic container from the fridge, opening it to reveal three white disks — supposedly pancakes — from a Tupperware labeled “Thin Menu.” While standing in her kitchen, she tries to break off a slab, puts it in her mouth, and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Her roommate, Fran (played by Lolly Adefope), walks by to witness the three doughy pucks, and says, “Good God.”

It’s not the only time Annie eats in her kitchen. Later in the series, Bryant opens a sealed container of leftover spaghetti, standing alone over an island near the sink. She twirls noodles around her fork, grinning in anticipation. She looks confident, blissed out, holding her hand under her chin as a noodle inches toward her lips. She scrunches her eyebrows and crinkles her nose, the perfect opposite of her look of disgust eating the Thin Meal pancakes. She nods and smiles while chewing, enjoying the moment.

The annals of TV are full of stories where women change themselves, from Mad Men’s Peggy Olsen to Eleanor Shellstrop in The Good Place. But Shrill, the six-episode adaptation of writer Lindy West’s memoir of the same name, is a different kind of “transformation” story, starring a woman of size. The show tells the story of Annie, a Portland-based calendar editor for an alt-weekly newspaper, trying to jump start her career, earn the love of Ryan, a painfully oblivious loser, and become a more honest, self-assured person. What Shrill is not is a story of body transformation, of a fat woman getting thin. Although it shows Annie eating diet meals and exercising with her mother, her real goal goes beyond the universal challenge of self-acceptance — she wants to feel powerful, as a woman of size and simply as a woman. She wants to demand respect from the people around her.

Those people often fat-shame Annie, whether it’s her obsessive online troll, her perpetually sneering editor, or an invasive personal trainer who eventually devolves into calling her a “fat bitch.” Still, Annie’s relationship with her body is more nuanced. Her insecurities are more often portrayed in physical details or unspoken interpersonal choices she makes because she feels that, in her words, “there’s a certain way that your body’s supposed to be and I’m not that.”

In media where a woman’s relationship with her body plays its own role, the eating scenes are telling. There are countless movies in which women devour ice cream during break-ups or lonely moments. And for years, when a person of size ate on screen, it was portrayed as comic relief, from Melissa McCarthy consuming a napkin in Spy to a cross-dressing Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live inhaling his friend’s french fries while asking, “Can I have some?”

Even in shows and movies celebrated for their representations of non-normative bodies, eating is reserved for emotional distress. In HBO’s Girls, Hannah Horvath (played by Lena Dunham) is often caught eating during low moments, like when she eats cake with her hands after her purse is stolen on the train. In Real Women Have Curves, it takes a conflict with her mother to get the protagonist, Ana (America Ferrera), to eat a bite of flan in a moment of overall positive defiance. Rarely do women of size get the opportunity to eat happily on screen without some tumult, some churning emotional hang-ups or interpersonal conflict. The exception, of course, is when people of size are shot eating healthy foods, like when the contestants on The Biggest Loser marvel over turkey burgers. But if a not-thin character is caught eating a cupcake, the audience is meant to laugh or cry at their expense.

When Annie eats so-called “indulgent” foods in Shrill, she’s not considered a failure, and it’s not used as a comic device. Instead, it’s often tied to a moment of personal or thematic triumph completely unrelated to her weight. By simply showing Annie eating the foods countless people love in a way that’s empowering, Shrill reinforces the idea that people, regardless of size, have the right to enjoy food in its entirety — not just salads and apples and other pious things, but rather the foods that are seen as permissibly comforting and luxurious for people of a smaller size. Like last year’s hit culinary travel show Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, Hulu’s new series rewrites the rules for who gets to enjoy food on television.

Annie isn’t the only big millennial woman eating spaghetti on TV. In a scene on Girls, Hannah grabs handfuls of noodles from a takeout box, dangling them into her open mouth. There is an element of watching this scene that feels relatable, especially for anyone who lives alone, but nothing about that moment is sexy or empowering. At its best, it’s a moment of comic relief born out of universality; at its worst, it’s Dunham’s self-ridiculing humor shaming herself — and other women — for eating without control while not thin.

This is far from the only moment when a woman eating sugary, greasy, and otherwise “bad” foods on television works as a boiler-plate scene representing rock bottom. In her essay “Why is it sad and lonely women who turn to chocolate?” Telegraph culture writer Rebecca Hawkes recalls similar moments in romantic comedies, like when Renee Zellweger devours chocolates under a blanket in Bridget Jones’s Diary, or when Sandra Bullock turns to ice cream in Miss Congeniality. “When you look at the trope in more detail, the implication is that eating chocolate is something ‘naughty,’” she writes. “It’s something that (calorie-counting, figure-obsessed) women shouldn’t be doing, but can’t help resorting to in moments of extreme trauma — or simply due to a comedic lack of discipline.” In her essay, Hawkes also brings up another classic plus-sized person comically shamed and punished for their gluttony: Augustus Gloop, the rotund little boy in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, presumably killed for wanting to eat some of the chocolate in a literal river of chocolate — as if anyone wouldn’t.

Ryan (Luka Jones) and Annie (Aidy Bryant)

Photo: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

But still, beyond little boys, beyond thin ladies, it’s plus-size women whose eating is most often used as a thematic example of a psychological and/or personal failure, whether it’s comical or supposedly tragic. “With any overweight, unruly woman, there’s always a tendency to pathologize their relationship with food,” says Kathleen Rowe Karlyn, author of The Unruly Woman: Gender and the Genres of Laughter. “[For] women who dive in to the quart of ice cream or the box of chocolate, food is a source of comfort because life is not giving them other types of comfort.”

If women get fat as a plot device, they’re often shown eating something like pizza, ice cream, chocolate, or other sweets — take, for example, Goldie Hawn gorging herself on frosting post-breakup in Death Becomes Her. If a character appears to get them out of a slump, a chicken wing might be yanked out of their hands. And they won’t reach personal fulfillment until they’re skinny again. Meanwhile, women who are thin and confident — whether it’s Drew Barrymore in Charlie’s Angels, or the titular Gilmore Girls — are free to eat as much as they please, to the delight of all who watch them.

Annie didn’t originally eat the spaghetti. It was made by Fran’s brother, Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen), who spends the third episode, “Pencil,” visiting his sister and her roommate. For most of the first few episodes, Annie is busy obsessing over a man (Luka Jones) who is so embarrassed by her that he sends her out the back door of his apartment so his roommates can’t see her. On their first date, she eats a salad. When she arrives home after Ryan has stood her up, Lamar and Fran offer her the spaghetti. She turns it down.

Lamar, a chef, spends the episode quietly fawning over Annie. When he arrives, he gives her a box of chocolate turtles, an elaborate reference to a memory from their past. He lights up when she enters the room. And later, when she comes back after choosing not to see Ryan, he admits that he likes her, and that he always did. After they have sex, Annie tiptoes downstairs to the kitchen, where she finds the pasta he made. The scene is romantic and almost sexy, in a totally subtle, maybe even unintentional way. He didn’t make the pasta for her, specifically, but it was made by him.

But beyond the romantic arc of Annie and Lamar, the scene’s impact comes directly from what it means for her, in her path to self-respect: she’s giving herself what she wants and deserves, on her own terms. And the bewildered delight in her face as she eats is so contagiously joyful that the context of her weight becomes irrelevant.

Annie (Aidy Bryant) and Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen).

Photo by: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Beyond the men in her life, one of Annie’s most fraught relationships is with her mother, Vera (played by Julia Sweeney), who’s responsible for the Thin Menu meals. During a pivotal rant, when Annie describes the ways the people around her have made her size seem like a moral failing, she says, “At this point, I could be a licensed fucking nutritionist because I’ve literally been training for it since the fourth grade, which is the first time that my mom said that I should just eat a bowl of Special K and not the dinner that she made for everyone else so I might be a little bit smaller.” One of Annie’s most significant plot developments with her mother, when she pushes back against her health policing, starts with a meal of meatball subs with her father. And when the season ends, we leave Vera lying on the ground with a bag of chips, suggesting that Annie’s number one advice giver also needs respite from controlling everything.

“Whether they’re very curvy like Mae West or they’re slender, I think what we haven’t seen in a long time is the ability of women just to be seen enjoying food,” Karlyn says. “Food is enjoyable (to women), not because they’re neurotic, not because they’re crazy, not because they’re sex-obsessed, just because food is a natural pleasure of life.” That’s how Shrill treats food, but also most of life’s joys: dancing at a party, swimming in a pool, having sex, being honest. Counter to the ways television and movies have previously presented plus-size women, as victims of their own lack of self-control, Shrill shows how restrictive life as a plus-size woman can be, and how often that’s a direct result of their self control. Shrill seems to be advocating for more self-designated freedom for women of size — the freedom to live with abandon. As Annie says, lying in bed and taking charge, “I’ve got big titties and a fat ass — I make the rules.”

Brooke Jackson-Glidden is the editor of Eater Portland. Edited by: Greg Morabito

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/28/18284128/shrill-hulu-aidy-bryant-food-eating

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tohealofinfinitywar-blog · 6 years ago

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Goaltending It Takes A particular Variety of Participant To be A Goalie

Goaltending - It will require a particular Kind of Participant to be a Goalie

Goaltending

It's going to take a certain kind of participant to become a goalie. Bodily a goaltender have to have superior reflexes, superior fingers and over all great vision. He also should have a specific amount of braveness, because the puck is awfully hard in can come at you at fairly rapidly speeds. I have heard it claimed which i some gamers can hearth puck at more than a hundred miles an hour or so and following halting a few of the shots I'm guaranteed some goalies can feel it. You should not Allow that discourage any young boys want to become a goaltender and I do not Assume any position in hockey can verify far more fulfilling. You're the final male between the opposition and the Internet. No profitable group in hockey could get together without having a very good goalie, so after you decide you should play intention, stick to it. To start with you could possibly find it discouraging, but while you master a number of tricks with the trade, I am absolutely sure you may learn to appreciate it as lots of NHL goaltenders have.

Assurance

Certainly one of The most crucial items any goalie has to have his self-assurance in himself. You have to think you will be the most beneficial. Always think that you're just as fantastic as the very best goalies at any time to Participate in Even when you usually are not. When you have that attitude it will assist you to If you have a nasty sport. The make any difference how excellent a intention you will be, faster or later you are going to have a terrible recreation. But You can not Allow that get the best of you. If you need to do, you might be completed. After i was a young boy began the play objective, I utilized to think I used to be as good as Terry Sawchuk, then the Detroit goalie, for my part the very best in hockey. Perhaps I was not pretty much as good as Sawchuk, but assuming that I thought so, and assistance me about People tough spots a goaltender is bound to run into.

Mask

Right before we begin discussing many of the finer points of goaltending, I have yet another little bit of recommendation for virtually any younger boy who wants to Engage in while in the nets. In my view each individual youthful goalie should buy and dress in a mask. I do know I did have on a person, but when I have been setting up yet again I surely would. If I had worn 1 from the beginning, I'd nonetheless have my very own enamel. The masks are now being steadily improving upon and now they allow the goalie to begin to see the puck perfectly. And likewise give you additional courage If you have to dive into a pile of gamers once the puck.

Skating

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I don't suppose quite a few goalies consider it, but one among The key items a goalie need to do perfectly will be to skate. He needs to be not simply a powerful skater likely ahead but he need to have the capacity to skate backwards at top rated pace. Any time you exercise skating you should do using your goal pads and devices on. That's the way you're going to really have to skate from the games you may at the same time get accustomed to it.

Ailment

Considering the fact that participating in aim can be arduous and tiring, I propose you receive oneself in best physical situation. You ought to get a minimum of eight several hours snooze a night and consume a properly-well balanced diet plan. I also propose you are doing work out, significantly during the off-year, to help keep by yourself in condition. I have found especially beneficial exercise routines which include running and skipping to develop your legs and wind. Additionally they help increase your reflexes.

Observe the puck

Maintain your eye to the puck. That is considered one of the simplest but also considered one of the most important guidelines and goaltending. It's also dominated that youthful goalies normally split, the outcomes of goals currently being scored towards them. A couple of Adult men split, you enjoy The person While using the puck. Such a defence and be worried about the opposite fellow. It to mentor before The online, you concern yourself with the fellow With all the puck. You Allow your defenseman, in a good way obviously, to receive again and search after the other fellow. But you must remain in or in the vicinity of your Internet. I don't Consider the goalie has any organization wandering across the ring attempting to apparent the puck. That is what they pay back defenseman for, so let them make their funds.

Stay on the ft

Continue to be with your toes. That is yet another rule that lots of young goalies split. I am aware I'd a bent to go down too typically After i was more youthful. When an individual shoots at you, you do have a significantly greater prospect of getting the rebound in case you are standing up the niche you're sprawled to the ice. In some cases chances are you'll obtain it needed to go down well. But if you do, you should drop like an Indian rubber ball, usually all set to get better up onto your ft.

The palms

Figure out how to use your palms. On the list of surest ways to stop the puck will be to catch it. This method guarantees there'll be no rebound and likewise avoids the prospect that a puck rebounds off your leg in to the Internet. But once you capture it, Do not hold the puck for just a faceoff. Toss it in the corner Suwannee or players might get it out of the conclude in the ice. There exists one strategy I take advantage of to help you me catch pucks which I think you may discover useful. Once the teams practices is in excess of, I obtain a participant with a fantastic shot, the fireplace 30 or 40 pucks of my hand side and I capture them. Then I throw my stick absent and try halting the puck with only my arms and pads. This tends to make you a lot more proficient at catching pucks and also offers you self esteem with your capacity to get it done.

The adhere.

The adhere remains to be crucial that you goaltender. The very first thing a young goalie need to Examine is always that he has the right adhere for his individual bills and magnificence of play. Adopt the normal position use while in the nets in place your stick within the ice. If it would not lie flat, you are using the Incorrect adhere, and parks that may be sliding about the ice will go right beneath your adhere to the net. I do think a goalie can perform quite a bit to fret a ahead if he sweeps or pokes his adhere out in front of The online as the man is available in on him. From time to time forgets to shut and you will set the puck away. Some goalies Do not believe this checking is productive but I have found for being extremely beneficial. It's also wise to apply passing the puck together with your stick so that you can provide the puck on your teammates to perform of your respective conclude from the rink.

The skates.

Youthful goalies market them consumer skates to prevent a shot. I feel that's a blunder. If the pocket shot together the ice, I propose you make use of your skates to stop it. Just stick out your foot, end the shot after which deflected towards the corner. This will choose a little bit exercise but I do think you'll find it truly worth your even though.

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Angles.

A goalie can make his occupation less complicated if you can provide the opposing forward as little space as possible to shoot at. It is a cardinal sin while in the NHL to permit a goal on the short facet. Make particular your leg on that aspect of The web is from the submit so no shot might get in. This continue to leaves the ahead pretty a target to shoot at. I try and Slash this down by transferring out to fulfill the ahead as he comes in towards The online. Once you skate out, remember to maintain your legs close alongside one another as is possible, so he can place the puck between them. I find by shifting out on breakaways I am able to Minimize down the angle so he is a smaller sized concentrate on which the purpose. All goalies Never agree using this type of. Glenn Hall, for instance, moves out after which skates back again to his net as The person moves in. Just one other stage on a breakaway: make the forward make his 1st go. If he will get you to move he has crushed you to the Perform. It takes a great deal of nerve but It's important to learn to stand there right up until he moves, and afterwards certainly your rapid reactions arrive at your rescue and you can stop the shot. Or no less than you hope to do so.

Summing up.

I think there a couple of other points the youthful goalie can perform. For illustration, I might counsel when he watches a game on tv, or is lucky more than enough to generally be at among the list of NHL rinks, that he concentrates around the goalie.

look at how he clears the puck, how we moves Adult males from before The online And just how we stays upright more often than not, also you may also help yourself by working with your defenseman. You furthermore mght should really review your opposition. Certain gamers love to shoot at specified spots. So you are attempting to acquire that likelihood far from him.

And 1 last phrase.

You should not consider to copy One more goalie design and style. It may not be ideal for you. Just undertake a stance during the nest that you'll discover snug and stick to it. Should you do this and follow some of the suggestions I've presented you, I believe you find taking part in purpose a lot of entertaining. And who understands, one of you could someday consider my position in The web on the Toronto Maple Leafs. At my age, a fellow cannot hope to go on forever.

This article was trends submitted by Jim Walker for those who want to know more about the NHL Trade Rumours. You might find this short article handy with some practical tips Particularly the sections on "The Forwards" and "The Defenceman". We hope this information serves as an introduction for that countless youngsters who'll play hockey this Winter season. It truly is purpose to assist them play and revel in this good sport and Finding out more details on NHL Trade Rumours.

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

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Tripping Over the Blue Line (12/45)

It’s a transition. That’s what Emma’s calling it. She’s transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she’s definitely not worried. Nope. She’s fine. Really. She’s promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She’s fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She’s got a job to do. And she doesn’t care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He’s done. One more season and he’s a free agent and he’s out. It’s win or nothing for Killian. He’s going to win a Stanley Cup and then he’s going to stop being the face of the franchise and he’s going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won’t be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That’s the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn’t going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Swearing, eventual hockey-type violence AN: I have no excuse whatsoever for how absurdly long this is. Fair warning, it is absurdly long. But with fun hockey traditions! As always, I can’t thank you guys enough for reading this or scream the praises of @laurnorder, @beautiful-swan & @distant-rose enough. Also living on Ao3, FF.net & tag’ed up on Tumblr.

“Five hole,” Killian yelled from the far end of the ice, tapping his stick impatiently as he waited for the rest of them to get back in position.

“Phillip the Rookie just did that one,” Jefferson argued, tossing a water bottle over his shoulder. It crashed to the ice – as much as a water bottle could crash to the ice – and Arthur groaned audibly from the bench.

“It doesn’t count. You saved it. So I get to do whatever I want.”

“You did save it, Jeff,” Arthur called, finally looking up from the binder he had propped up against one knee, leg stretched out so his foot was nearly dangling off the boards. “Those are the rules.”

“See,” Killian shouted. He twisted his stick in his hands, shifting back and forth on the few inches of ice he was standing on, handling through some sort of imaginary obstacle that wasn’t there. “Now, come on, five’er and we make Scarlet pay for drinks later on tonight.” Killian glanced over at the bench in just enough time to see Arthur practically leap up – falling into near-perfect time with Will’s groan from the far circle – and he laughed loudly, pushing his stick underneath the puck until he was bouncing it on the blade.

“If any of you even so much as looks at a drink that is anything other than water tonight,” Arthur muttered, voice barely audible, but just as obnoxious as the whistle he still had around his neck, “I will personally murder each and every one of you.” Killian laughed, eyes moving towards Robin when he came to a stop next to him – dousing the top of his skates with ice. Arthur might have to wait in line to murder his team behind the building-ops crew.

They’d absolutely destroyed the ice.

Two weeks after he and Emma had gone to B&H and Killian realized she drank more cinnamon in her hot chocolate than any actual hot chocolate, he couldn’t seem to stop smiling or skating. The second part was slightly newer, just a few days removed from medical’s ok on his generic upper-body injury and they’d made him wear a no-contact jersey for the first few practices.

Emma laughed for what felt like hours afterwards, tugging on the bright red fabric and muttering how it made him looking a stop sign on skates, but she’d stopped saying much of anything when he kissed her.

He kept the jersey, promising Kristoff he had no idea what happened to it after the final practice he’d been forced to wear it and that was probably against the rules too.

Killian kept doing that.

So, technically, they hadn’t been on that real date yet – there was a season on the immediate horizon and Emma had opening night to get ready for and, more often than not, Killian found himself sitting in one of the chairs in her office after practice, feet propped up against the front of her desk while she shuffled through paperwork and permits and responses from season-ticket holders about how well she was relating to the community.

He almost wasn’t dreading it, the event and the questions and the forced interactions with fans who’d also have questions about his free-agent status and, probably, a better understanding of the Rangers’ cap space than some of the beat writers who covered the team.

He was, almost, excited about opening night and the look on Emma’s face when she saw how well it all played out because, if there was one thing Killian was certain of, it would all play out perfectly.

She’d put in too much work for it not to.

They hadn’t been on that date yet, but they’d lost track of time in her office the night before and the rest of the building was probably completely abandoned at that point, closing in on midnight when Emma’s eyes widened at her laptop screen.

She mumbled an apology about making him stay so late and rushed around the side of her desk, all green eyes and slightly parted lips and they lost track of time a bit more, seconds feeling like minutes and minutes feeling like hours and he would have slept on that goddamn floor if it meant she kept her hand in his hair and her body next to his.

Five weeks – and two weeks after deciding to stay as under the radar as they possibly could – and it felt like something. Killian tried not to think about that too much – tried not to remember that he still didn’t know what Emma had told Henry or why the ends of her mouth ticked down whenever he talked about Anna or El or asked a question that was anything more than what food they should get delivered to her office.

He still didn’t know enough.

And Emma hadn’t offered any of it.

He tried not to dwell on that.

“Come on, Cap,” Will called, banging his stick on the ice and even Arthur looked a bit frustrated that he hadn’t moved yet. “If you’re going to call your shot, you’ve got to actually skate. Locksley’s going to turn to stone if you don’t get going.” “Not to mention I’d like to, eventually, get uptown,” Robin muttered, glaring in Killian’s direction.

He’d taken his helmet off – visor a bit unnecessary when they weren’t really practicing anymore. It was a long-standing game across the roster, judged, as per usual, by a grumbling Arthur who found the whole thing a lot more entertaining than he’d ever actually let on.

The rules were simple – call your shot, take the breakaway pass and get around the defenders to score. If you scored, you got the chance to gloat and...that was about it. If you didn’t score, you got mercilessly mocked until the final person got off the ice and, at the moment, Phillip the Rookie was the latest to face the metaphorical firing squad of the New York Rangers’ front line.

They were two days out from the opener – and the next practice wasn’t much of a practice, mostly just pointed glares from both Ariel and Victor about the state of this team’s collective muscles and Arthur’s not-so-quiet grumbles when they couldn’t recite every single play the Islanders had.

The Islanders hadn’t even made the postseason last year.

Killian wasn’t worried. He’d be back on the ice and Emma’s event was going to go off without a hitch – or maybe some other adjective that didn’t make him sound several decades older than he was – and they’d completely fucked up the ice by running breakaway drills and shouting at each other like they were playing pickup.

Building ops was going to kill them.

“Before we’re dead, Jones,” Arthur said and the rest of the them started tapping their sticks on the ice in a simultaneous move that would have been impressive if it wasn’t also the most obnoxious thing he’d ever seen.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Killian yelled, dropping the puck back on the ice. “Alright, five’er and, uh, if I make then Phillip the Rookie’s got to buy coffee before film tomorrow afternoon.” “That’s pretty lame,” Will said. “Come up with a better idea then.” “You make it five-hole and Phillip the Rookie has to buy coffee and donuts for film tomorrow afternoon. Requirements, however, dictate that both of them need to be freshly made.” “The donuts too?” Phillip asked, leaning on his stick as if he couldn’t quite support his own weight anymore, eyes darting across the ice. No one said anything. “It’s going to be the middle of the afternoon.” “Better hope Cap misses his shot then.” “I’m not going to miss my shot,” Killian promised, shooting an apologetic glance Phillip’s way.

“We’ll only know if you actually take it,” Arthur muttered. “They’re going to kick us out soon anyway.” “We’re an NHL team,” Jefferson said, laughter creeping into the edge of his voice as he tapped each side of the goal with his stick. “They can’t just kick us out of our own arena.” “They can and they will. And we’ve got to get uptown anyway or the combined forces of Ruby and Ariel will kill us.” “I thought you were going to kill us,” Killian said.

“Shoot the goddamn puck, Jones.” He saluted and he could see Arthur’s overly dramatic eyeroll even from several feet away. “Here,” Killian said, sliding the puck towards Robin’s outstretched stick. He grabbed it, tugging it towards him and skating towards center ice as Killian shouted instructions at his back. “Wait until I’m at the blue line.” “I’ve passed you the puck before,” Robin yelled, not even bothering to turn around. “I know what I’m doing.”

Killian shifted on his skates again, digging his toe into the ice and they’d have to zamboni the whole rink twice to make up for the all the grooves they’d put into the surface over the last few hours. He was vaguely aware of movement on the bench when Arthur's whistle went off, but he didn’t actually see her until he was at center ice, puck on his stick and Will closing in and he needed to spin out of the way.

He almost lost his edge, half a moment away from from collapsing at center ice as soon as he caught a glimpse of blonde hair and another flower-patterned dress and she was absolutely smiling.

He didn’t fall – which was probably for the best because Will would never have let him live that down – but Killian had lost half a step when he blinked, trying to refocus his energy on that tiny bit of space in between Jefferson’s legs when he crouched in front of the net.

There was barely anything on his shot and he groaned as soon as he pulled his hands back, already certain he wasn’t going to score.

He didn’t.

It was probably the easiest save Jefferson had made in his entire life.

“What the hell was that, Cap?” Jefferson asked, tugging his mask off and staring at Killian like he was the rookie.

He kind of felt like one.

And he could feel Robin and Will staring at him, eyes practically boring into the back of his head like they were looking for an answer to Jefferson’s question.

That wasn’t going to help with under the radar.

“Lost my edge,” Killian mumbled, skating towards a still-red Phillip the Rookie and clapping him on the shoulder. “Lucked out, Rook, I guess I’m buying the coffee and the donuts tomorrow. You’re officially off the hook.” Phillip seemed to breathe for the first time since they’d gotten on the ice hours ago and he nodded numbly, staring at Killian with a very specific type of look on his face. He wished he’d stop doing that – staring at Killian like some sort of hockey hero or something absurd.

“Thanks Cap,” Phillip said softly, eyes falling back down to his skates. He thought Killian had done it on purpose.

That was probably for the best. That, almost, made sense.

And if it got Phillip the Rookie to relax, at least a little bit, then it was absolutely worth it because the kid could skate, but he hadn’t quite gotten over the whole idea of playing with his ideals thing yet.

They should probably stop calling him Phillip the Rookie.

“This ice is garbage anyway,” Robin added, tapping his stick against the back of Killian’s heels. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill yourself falling into that one particularly impressive chasm in front of the goal.”

Killian nodded slowly, shooting Robin a look that he, at least hoped, looked thankful. “Well, whatever,” Jefferson said, leaving the water bottle behind him when he skated towards the bench. “As long as we get some form of food for film tomorrow. And you don’t suck that much on Friday.” “A fantastic pep talk,” Killian mumbled and Jefferson somehow managed to shrug through the mountain of pads he was wearing.

“If you are all done making me question staging a walk-through tomorrow and not actually making you run shooting drills like you’re nine, then you should probably get off the ice,” Arthur called, nodding towards the wide-open door in the boards.

Emma was still on the bench – sitting next to Arthur with her phone in one hand and a notebook in the other and there was a pen stuck just above her ear, jutting into her hair. And he was absolutely staring, smile inching across his face before he could actually consider any of the reasons he shouldn’t be doing either.

Under the radar was going just as well as not wanting to kiss her and caring about three weeks. It didn’t matter. It was five weeks now anyway.

“Hey Emma,” Will said, not even bothering to slow down when he collided with the boards. She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch as she shook her hair off her shoulders, making sure to pull the pen away before it landed on the ground.

Killian was still staring.

“Hey,” Emma asked cautiously. She handed Arthur the notebook or it might have actually been another stack of papers, the coach’s fingers flipping through them quickly as Will leaned over the boards.

“What’s that?” He nodded towards the papers in Arthur’s hands and Emma’s eyes got even more narrow, barely any green, and Killian could feel Robin eyes on him, moving from teammate to teammate.

“None of your business,” Arthur muttered, not even looking up.

Will made a disappointed noise in the back of his throat, shrugging slightly and he wasn’t even remotely deterred, pressing through whatever awkwardness he’d single-handedly created. The doors at the far end of the ice opened and there were zambonis and building ops and they were supposed to be uptown in an hour and a half.

The list of people set to kill this entire team seemed to be growing by the minute.

“You going later?” Will continued, nodding towards Emma. “We’re all going to go. All of us. Whole team. You know you’re supposed to wear team merch again. Any idea whose number you might pick?”

Killian barely suppressed his groan, skating towards Will’s side and shooting him a glare that didn’t do much to slow down whatever metaphorical train they’d apparently gotten on in the last few minutes.

“I work for this team, don’t I?” she asked and Killian’s smile was a grin now, bordering dangerously close to taking up most of his face. Will stuttered at that, not entirely ready for his sarcasm to be met with sarcasm.

“Rumor has it.” “Then, yeah, I’m going. And Ruby’ll kill me if I don’t.” She glanced over Will’s shoulder, gaze meeting Killian’s and she absolutely knew he’d missed because of her, several internal organs constricting as soon as her eyes landed on him. “And,” Emma added. “I heard a very interesting rumor about you too. One that might make tonight rather interesting for you.”

Will shifted his shoulders and Arthur, finally, glanced up up from the pile of papers resting on his knee, something tugging on the side of his mouth. Killian bit his tongue. “What?” Will asked, glancing over his shoulder at Killian like he had an answer to the question.

Emma sat up a little straighter, shifting forward on the bench and she rested her chin in her hands, propping her elbows on her knees. “I heard, from a reliable source, that you still haven’t been able to define your relationship yet. And, for what it’s worth, in the great, big rumor mill of this team, I heard the puck is, decidedly, in your zone. So maybe you should be less worried about whose number I’m going to wear and ask your whatever to be your girlfriend and wear your jersey to the restaurant and the opener.” Killian nearly fell over again.

Robin was hysterical, head thrown back towards the giant screen hanging over center ice and even Phillip the Rookie started laughing, trying to hide the noise behind his hand. It didn’t really work.

Emma’s smile got wider, eyes flashing towards Killian and he ran his hand through his hair, pressing his skates into the ice until he was certain he’d created another divot.

Will’s mouth was hanging open, shoulders moving quickly and he didn’t come up with a response quickly enough because Emma was standing up already, hand held out towards Arthur. He put the stack of papers back in her hands, muttering something that sounded like it better not rain and Emma clicked her tongue, nodding towards Will with a smile on her face.

He knew that smile.

She’d won.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Will shouted, trying to get over the boards and failing miserably, skate almost sticking in the wood. Arthur grabbed his shoulder, pulling him over the bench as Will continued to sputter to a still-victorious Emma. “Who told you that?” Emma shrugged. “Must have just picked it up somewhere.” “You said reliable source!” “Well, then I guess you’ll just never know will you? Remember how I made that vaguely horrible hockey pun?” Will made a noise in his throat that might have been a groan or a sigh or maybe just a general sense of discontent and Robin was still laughing.

“The hockey pun might have been horrible, but it’s also true,” Emma continued, shifting the stack of papers from her hands until they were resting on her hip. “So stop asking about my jersey choices. Got it?” Will grumbled again and even Arthur looked impressed, lips pursed as he glanced between his defenseman and Emma.

The zamboni was actually on the ice now.

“Alright,” Arthur said sharply. “Off the ice. Like minutes ago. Med will lose its collective shit if one of you gets run over by a zamboni.” “Such a good coach,” Killian laughed, skating by Will and taking a step over the boards. “So concerned about our safety.” “And the status of the zambonis,” Robin added. Arthur blew his whistle in his ear.

“Eight o’clock,” Arthur said. “At the restaurant. Team-branded because Ruby continues to make ridiculous rules. Do not even think about drinking before during or after dinner. You leave the restaurant at eleven. You go home and you sleep.” “You’ll see us all in an hour, Arthur,” Killian muttered, leaning up against the hallway wall, balancing precariously on one skate. Emma moved in front of him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she moved and if he didn’t fall over it was, absolutely, some kind of miracle. “You don’t need to dole out all of these instructions now.” “I am doling out instructions because you’re all children and if I didn’t, Scarlet would probably show up at the restaurant in that ridiculous onesie they sell for $125 at the store in Chase Square.” “Hey,” Will shouted. “Come on, at least give me some credit. I’m going to wear a t-shirt.” “And jeans?” “Arthur!”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to get a girlfriend by the end of the night, you should probably wear a pair of jeans. And maybe get better at pulling the puck out of the corner with a guy on your back. No one wants a boyfriend who can’t get the puck out of the corner.” And it must have been a miracle because Killian hadn’t fallen over and Will was speechless for the second time in as many minutes.

Maybe this season would be ok.

Will stalked back to the locker room, followed closely by Robin who kept muttering something that sounded like it was trying to be supportive and Arthur nodded in Killian’s direction, smile still tugging on the ends of his mouth.

“Eight, Jones,” he said again. “Make sure Scarlet wears something almost acceptable, ok?” “Sure, Arthur.”

“Good.” It sounded like more than the word, like some sort of knowing something and that didn’t make any sense at all because they were decidedly under the radar – except of course when he was tripping over the blue line and smiling like a complete lovestruck idiot because Emma had taken down Will in the middle of the arena.

Huh.

He didn’t let his mind linger too long on the word, didn’t consider it for the ten steps it took him to get down the hallway to find Emma standing just outside the door to the film room, arms crossed lightly over her chest with a smile on her face and he didn’t think about it when his pulse started thudding in his ears.

And possibly behind his eyes.

And he was still smiling at her.

“You didn’t miss on purpose did you?” she asked, glancing up at him and that was hardly even fair.

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, coming up just a few inches in front of her and Emma didn’t blink, just stared at him expectantly. “You look like you already know the answer to that question, Swan.” “Ah, but it’s so much more fun to hear it out loud.” So, they hadn’t gone on a date or done much more than a vaguely overwhelming amount of wholly unprofessional making out in that one chair in her office, but they were getting very good at this whole flirting, banter thing and she hadn’t really stopped smiling in the last two weeks either.

It wasn’t pushing.

It wasn’t the definition she’d claimed Belle deserved but it was...something.

Comfortable.

And she knew she’d made him miss.

“I wasn’t expecting you to just show up on the bench,” Killian said softly, taking a step towards her with the sole intent of touching that incredibly flowery dress. Emma eyed him meaningfully, making a noise in the back of her throat. “What?” “We are in the middle of the hallway, Jones.”

“And?” “And we’re not exactly trying to broadcast this. Something you need to get better at by the way because you can’t just keep missing wide-open breakaways like that. They’ll stage some sort of captain mutiny.”

“That’s not how that works, love.” “Even so.” “Even so, unless you’re suggesting you’re just going to show up on the bench on Friday night, I think that the status of my breakaway ability is safe.” Emma scoffed. “I think, Jones, you just promised me a breakaway goal.” He blinked once and opened his mouth, certain some sort of witty remark and equally sarcastic banter was just on the tip of his tongue – it wasn’t. It disappeared at the look on her face and her slightly nervous smile and Emma Swan was flirting with him and that was a much bigger deal than the status of his breakaway ability.

And, five weeks into this whatever, he’d lost all control of the situation and started thinking and considering very specific words that had no place in a relationship with secrets and enough nervous energy to power the entire east coast.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian said and he didn’t care about the hallway or whoever was walking behind him, just tugged on the side of her dress until his fingers had wrapped around her waist and they were both pushed into the tiny space in front of the film room door.

“You really didn’t miss on purpose? Save Phillip the Rookie from having to buy donuts?” “And coffee.” “That too.” Killian shook his head. “I was more than willing to let Phillip the Rookie provide us with several dozen donuts. It was just bad ice.” “Yuh huh.” “That’s what I told Jefferson. Why would I lie about that?” “No idea.”

He lifted his eyebrows and she hadn’t actually moved his hand away from her waist, just shifted a bit underneath his fingers, trying to roll her shoulders against the door and ducked her head when footsteps sounded behind Killian.

“Why did you come down here?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him and he needed to get out of this practice gear.

“Not happy to see me?” “That’s not even remotely what I said.” Emma rolled her eyes, finger looping through the laces on his jersey. “I had to talk to Arthur about opening night and some sort of pep talk, rally call that he does every season and you guys ran late doing whatever it was you were doing, flexing some sort of competitive muscle or whatever.”

“Breakaways,” Killian mumbled, leaning a bit closer to her and he’d rationalized it easily – something about making sure no one saw or gossiped and it absolutely didn’t have anything to do with how much he just want to kiss her. “We were practicing breakaways.” “You’re going to be late for Ruby’s pre-opener extravaganza. Do you guys really do this every year?” Killian nodded, humming in the back of his throat and this team was far too obsessed with tradition and friendship and interfering. There were too many rules. “We could blow it off,” he said quickly, not even bothering to think about what he was actually suggesting.

“What?” “We don’t have to go.” “We have to go.” “Who says?” “Ruby literally told me she would kill me if I didn’t go. She actually said those words to my face. One human being to another. And what would happen if we didn’t go?”

Killian made a face and Emma rolled her eyes. “Probably get a few moments actually by ourselves because this team is a cesspool of ridiculous.”

“Cesspool of ridiculous?” “Exactly that.”

“We have to go,” Emma sighed, tugging on laces again and he was absolutely moving so she wouldn’t choke him and not so he could duck his head and kiss her.

Absolutely.

She made a noise when his lips caught hers and that was going to do dangerous things to his ego two days before the season opener and, well, he had promised a breakaway goal. “Under the radar,” Emma mumbled, but it was only half an argument and her hand moved away from his laces and into his hair, tugging tightly until he made a noise.

“If we’re going to go to this stupid thing, I need to get out of this gear,” Killian said, voice laced with innuendo and he didn’t even bother to pull away from her mouth. Emma rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically and tapping the toe of her shoe against the side of his skate. “Hey, did I mention you were pretty fantastic before?” “When? During the making out in shadows?” “Under the radar,” Killian mumbled, earning a soft laugh out of Emma and she still hadn’t moved her hand out of his hair. “And, while I am consistently impressed at your ability to excel at kissing, Swan, that’s not exactly what I was talking about.” “What else was there?” He took a moment to be slightly impressed at that and Emma was still staring at him expectantly. “Telling Scarlet off,” Killian said. “He’s been asking for it for weeks and you were...something else, Swan.” She was fantastic and sarcastic and, very clearly, as much a part of this team as any of them at this point – even if she still didn’t seem to realize it completely. That was a work in progress, a goal as much as the breakaway he’d inadvertently promised.

“Charmer.” “Gentleman. That was a compliment, by the way.” “Yeah, I picked up on that,” she said, hand flat against his chest and the ‘C’ just underneath his shoulder. “Do you have to wear team-branded later too?” Killian arched one eyebrow and Emma made a face, lips twisted in the same frustration he was certain he felt whenever he was forced into one of these team-wide events with rules and curfews and a distinct lack of alcohol and he wouldn’t even be able to kiss her in front of anyone there.

They should definitely blow it off.

They absolutely couldn’t.

“That seems like cheating,” Emma accused. “You can just wear your own jersey.” “And have Kristoff want to kill me as soon as I show up in the restaurant?” “There’s a lot of bloodlust on this team, isn’t there? Everyone’s always facing some sort of certain death if they don’t do something.”

“Ah, well, hockey’s a violent sport.” “What are you going to wear?” Killian shook his head slowly. “You’ll just have to wait and see, love.” “What?” “You’re the one who wanted to go.” “I never said that! I said we had to go and not going would be some sort of flashing neon sign about…” She waved her hand in the distinct lack of space between them and Killian nodded in agreement.

“What are you going to wear? Practice jerseys?” “Speaking of flashing neon signs.” “It’s just a suggestion, love,” he said, moving his eyebrows quickly and maybe that was starting to work now because Emma actually laughed. “You can’t wear the t-shirt again. As disappointing as that is.” She smiled again, the look of it shooting straight to his core and he was rocking back and forth on the edges of his skates. He was still wearing skates. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” “Ah, that’s not even fair, Swan.” “Them’s the breaks. Or whatever.” Killian laughed, lips landing on her forehead quickly and instinctively and he squeezed her hip tightly before taking a step back into the hallway. He needed to get into the locker room and uptown and figure out a way to not brush his fingers across Emma’s hand or over her back the second she walked into the restaurant in an hour.

Less than an hour now.

“Go,” Emma said, tapping on his jersey. “I’ll see you uptown.”

And she moved before he did, ducking around his arm and shooting him a smile before she walked back down the hallway.

“What the hell is that?”

Killian leaned back against the door as he did his best not to slam it shut behind him and grinned at Regina, something resembling hysterics threatening to overtake him just a few feet into the restaurant.

“It’s a shirt, Gina. Sweater. If you want to get technical.” “It says Christmas on it. It’s October.” “Semantics.”

Regina rolled her eyes, but there was something in her gaze and she was, very clearly, trying not to laugh as well. Will, however, wasn’t even trying – laughter practically attacking Killian from the other side of the restaurant as he pushed through the ridiculously large crowd packed into the room.

“Where did you even get that?” Will asked, Belle just a few feet behind him, sporting his jersey and her own smile.

“They sold them on some fan site last Christmas and Banana bought it for me. She thought it was hysterical.” Strictly speaking it was hysterical – Killian hadn’t admitted it last Christmas, making a face at Anna when she actually fell back against the carpet in the Vankald’s living room, her entire body shaking with laughter, but he could admit it there in that ridiculously overcrowded restaurant and he’d mostly done it for the look on Regina’s face.

The shirt was a distraction.

And it was working.

“It’s the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen in my life,” Regina muttered, taking a step towards him and tugging on the end of it. She was smiling.

It was the ugliest sweater in the world – all blue and white lettering and there were actual candy canes stitched on and Killian had never actually worn it before, but he was being forced into this stupid, yearly tradition so he was going to wear the ugliest sweater he could find, even if it said All I want for Christmas is Locksley on it.

“How much did it cost?” Will continued, laughing as Roland slammed into his side.

Killian shrugged, reaching down instinctively to grab the six-year-old around the waist and, eventually, someone was going to have to teach this kid how to walk. The problem with being raised by an entire hockey team, however, was no one was particularly concerned with walking when there was skating to teach and stick-handling instructions and Roland was better on ice than he was in sneakers.

“You’d have to ask Banana,” Killian said, eyes darting around the restaurant as he tried to make sure he didn’t actually drop Roland. “You’ve got to stop kicking me, mate,” he muttered, shifting Roland on his shoulder. “Where’s your dad?” “Getting onion rings,” Roland said, voice mumbled with his face pressed against the sweater. “With Emma.” He was actually fairly proud at his ability to keep his face even, not even lifting his eyebrows or reacting any more than a quiet hum in the back of his throat. “What do you say we go get some onion rings and show off my very fashion-forward sweater to your dad, huh?” “Onion rings?” “Onion rings.” Killian hitched Roland up again, balancing him on his shoulder and Regina rolled her eyes – or maybe widened them and her mouth was half open with warning, the quiet be careful halfway out before he just grinned at her and turned around, letting the six-year-old work his charms without even having to say anything himself.

“You want to come, Gina?” Roland asked.

Regina must have nodded because Roland kicked again and Killian let out a soft grunt when a well placed shoe collided with his ribs. And Ariel must have had some sort of sixth sense because he heard the gasp before he even saw her or the flash of red hair in front of him, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Are you for real, Killian?” Ariel gasped, hand falling on Roland’s back immediately. “They, literally, just cleared you.” “You’re not supposed to start yelling about the state of my medical well-being until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, Red,” Killian argued. Will ducked his head towards the ground – so Ariel wouldn’t see him laughing, the stupid traitor – and Ariel sighed as dramatically as she could, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Give me my kid,” Regina said, tugging on the sleeve of Roland’s t-shirt and Killian hadn’t noticed he was wearing his number. He shifted his shoulder again, nudging Roland up until he had his hands wrapped around his waist again and feet back on the ground.

It was an 85th anniversary jersey – the one they’d given him two years ago and the jersey had been enormous then, far too big for a four-year old to wear without tripping over and wasn’t much better now. Especially for the sleeves. The sleeves were still too big, fabric draping over the back of his palms and threatening to overtake his hands completely.

“Nice jersey, Rol,” Killian said, hand ruffling hair and Regina groaned at the movement. Roland grinned and laughed and maybe this whole, stupid tradition wouldn’t actually be that bad.

And maybe he should work on figuring out what the hell he wanted.

“How are you feeling though?” Ariel pressed, hardly aware of whatever mental battle Killian was staging in the middle of her husband’s restaurant. “Honestly.” “Fine,” he answered quickly. It was almost true. His collarbone was still tinged a bit purple, but it had been green before, so they seemed to be moving in some sort of positive direction as far as whatever collar his skin should be. And it hurt to shoot – but it always kind of hurt to shoot, so Killian just shrugged and Ariel didn’t argue anymore.

“Hook,” Roland said, tugging on the side of his sweater. “Can we go get onion rings, now?” “Yeah, yeah, of course, mate. You coming, Gina?” Regina nodded and they pushed through the same crowd Ariel had just worked her way through a few moments before, moving back towards the corner of the bar and the seat Killian hadn’t actually been in in nearly two weeks – far too preoccupied with a different seat several dozen blocks downtown.

Robin had four plates in his hand, balancing onion rings with actual fries and sliders and he groaned as soon as he saw Killian. “What is that?” he asked, nodding towards the sweater. “Did Anna buy that?” “We clearly spend far too much time together,” Killian said, grabbing Roland and moving him onto one of the chairs in front of the bar, far too aware of Emma’s eyes. He didn’t look immediately, something about under the radar and keeping his face even and both of those things would have been decidedly impossible if he looked up and saw her wearing his number as well.

Again – wearing his number again.

Robin laughed, sliding the plate of onion rings towards Roland without even having to be asked. “Yeah, well, it’s an FA season, maybe they’ll deal you somewhere else and we can get some breathing room and I won’t know your sister bought the ugliest sweater in the world just to make fun of me.” It was supposed to be a joke.

Robin was laughing, shoulder shaking with the effort of it and even Ruby chuckled, as if the idea of Killian anywhere except New York or in a jersey that wasn’t decidedly bright blue, was a laughable offense.

They didn’t see Killian’s eyes dart towards Regina or how she lifted one eyebrow perfectly in response, mouth set in a thin line that practically screamed every single opinion she had on the subject about his potential trade of free agent status.

Emma noticed.

He could see it – gaze finally landing on her and she was wearing his number, an actual jersey this time, that fit about as well as Roland’s, fabric hanging off her shoulders and halfway down her thighs and his whole body tensed at the sight.

She stared straight back at him, eyes going slightly narrow when he didn’t laugh right away, and Killian shook his head quickly, like he was trying to wake himself up. “Idiot,” Regina mumbled, quiet enough that only he could hear as she reached around Roland to grab an onion ring.

“Hey,” Eric said, oblivious to everything that was going on in the corner of his bar. “Long time no see, A’s been worried you’re not eating.” Killian groaned, hooking his foot around one of the chairs and he did his best not to actually look at Emma when he answered. It didn’t matter. She was talking to Ruby, fingers tugging on the untied laces of her jersey – and he needed to figure out where she got a jersey because it didn’t actually look like the ones they sold in the stores. Those ones were just a bit too blue and a bit too stiff and this one looked a little worse for wear, the ends of the laces not perfectly formed anymore and the ‘C’ on her shoulder was just a bit dingier than usual.

It looked like it had been run up against the glass.

“Killian,” Eric continued and he shook his head again, making a noise in the back of his throat as if that proved he was still there and some sort of active participant in the conversation. Robin pushed the plate of sliders towards him. “You are eating, right? Because I’m not joking, A’s been legitimately worried.” “I am eating,” Killian promised, grabbing one of the sliders like that proved his point. “Should I be offended that it’s not here?” “No.” Eric made a face, but didn’t push the issue anymore and there was a sound from the front of a restaurant, chairs scraping on the ground as Arthur climbed onto one and tapped the side of the glass in his hand with the edge of a knife.

They did this every year.

Or, rather, they’d done this every year since Ruby had shown up and Ariel had started dating Eric and then Arthur had shown up and started making motivational speeches at this yearly event like they were some sort of army going off to battle for on-ice glory.

They kind of were.

Hockey was, at its very core, a very dramatic sport and there wasn’t a more dramatic team than the New York Rangers – all of them far too invested in winning and competition and none of them could seem to butt out of each other’s lives.

Emma still hadn’t moved away from Ruby, smile on her face not quite as strained as Killian’s had been, and he was absolutely staring again.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur shouted and the crowd didn’t really get any quieter as he tapped the side of his glass again. He groaned, rolling his neck as he handed the glass to his wife – Gwen wearing her own personalized jersey with ‘17’ emblazoned on the back – and reached into his pocket to grab something.

The whistle.

He blew the whistle and the roster snapped to attention, something vaguely Pavlovian about the whole thing, and Killian heard Emma laugh quietly just a few feet away from him. “God, Arthur,” Will yelled. “Do you just carry that thing everywhere?”

Arthur didn’t answer, just glared at Will and no one said anything else or questioned the whereabouts of the whistle. “Alright,” he repeated sharply. “Now we’re two days out from the opener and we all know how last year went.” There were a few jeers from the crowd, but they were silenced as quickly as Arthur could shoot them another glare. “This year is going to be different. We’ve got more talent than anyone in the entire fucking league and the best rookie prospect on the entire goddamn continent.” Regina had her hands over both of Roland’s ears and it didn’t really matter, but he wasn’t really listening either – far too focused on eating an entire plate of onion rings on his own.

“Arthur, there are kids here,” Killian shouted, falling into overprotective so quickly it nearly made his head spin.

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but then he saw the look on Regina’s face and muttered a quick apology, scuffing his foot against the top of the chair he was still standing on. “Anyway,” he said, doing his best to keep the attention of his team and front office staff and the one kid in the crowd. “We’re going to do something good here this season. I know it. As long as we don’t screw it all up to start on Friday.” He stopped talking and the crowd waited for more, waited for the encouraging part of the pep talk and it never came – Will actually started to boo.

“That was the worst speech I’ve ever heard,” Emma muttered, stepping into his space easily, like she wasn’t wearing his jersey or smiling at him and Killian hummed in response. He couldn’t come up with another word.

“He’ll be better at opening night,” Robin promised. “He doesn’t have to try as hard with the fans. He’s always been kind of shitty at that sort of thing when it’s just the team.”

Regina groaned and Robin sighed when he realized what he’d said – Roland still completely oblivious to anything that wasn’t his now empty plate of onion rings. “Jeez, mate,” Killian said, pushing the plate towards a clearly amused Eric. “Maybe you’re the one we should be worried about not eating.” “Rude, Jones,” Regina hissed, nodding at Eric when he held up a bottle of wine.

“You know it’s supposed to rain on Friday,” Will said, pushing his way into the conversation with ease and Killian was almost impressed at how quickly he’d worked his way across the restaurant.

“We’re ready for that,” Emma promised, glancing towards Killian. They were. He’d watched her order the tents two days before, demanding blue and white and workers on 34th Street on Friday afternoon even if it actually didn’t rain. “We could probably withstand an actual hurricane if it happened at this point.” “I doubt it’ll hurricane,” Will said reasonably.

“You know you’ve got to wear a suit,” Robin mumbled, eyeing Will meaningfully.

“What?” “How could you not know that?” Emma asked. “That’s, like, a league-mandated thing. You’d have to wear one even if there wasn’t an event before.” “I just figured I could wear whatever for the event.” Emma shook her head. “Suit.” “That’s stupid.” “A solid argument on your part. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still going to have to wear a suit. And probably sign a ridiculous amount of autographs.” “Nah,” Will argued. “That’ll be Cap. He’s everyone’s favorite, after all.” Will nodded towards Emma’s jersey and she rolled her eyes – a picture of indifference in the middle of the restaurant and maybe they were getting better at this.

He didn’t even try to brush her hair off her shoulders.

“Is Hook your favorite, Emma?” Roland asked and every adult in a five-foot radius froze immediately. “On the team, I mean.” Emma blinked twice and took a deep breath before she answered, smile on her face and hair moving just a bit when she shook her head. “Nah,” she said quickly. “You know he missed a wide-open breakaway in practice today?” “What?” “Barely even got his shot off.” Roland’s mouth hung open – as if he’d just heard Killian had missed the game-winner in a Game Seven – and spun on his chair, nearly careening off the side of it before Regina reached out to keep him steady. “Hook,” he shouted. “You never miss those!” “Blame your dad, mate,” Killian said. “It was a terrible set-up.” “Ah, now you’re just making excuses,” Emma muttered, one side of her mouth tugged up into a smile and this was good. This was distracting. If they kept them distracted, kept the entire stupid roster thinking they were just friends and following some sort of stringent blue line of rules and regulations, they’d leave them all alone.

Maybe this could almost be easy.

Killian scoffed, keeping his hands pressed against his side so he didn’t inadvertently run his hands through his hair. Emma clicked her tongue and made a face, laughing softly again and if that didn’t shoot straight from his ears to his feet and settle somewhere in the very middle of his being, it would have been the biggest lie he ever told.

“You know, Jones,” Emma continued, “I think you’re a bit too confident for your own good. Better make sure Kristoff keeps your skates sharp on Friday so you don’t lose your edge again.” He tilted his head, eyes widening just a bit and Emma’s smile got even bigger. She glanced towards Will again, eyebrows lifted and face set with determination. “A suit on Friday,” she said again. “Or I’m not letting you in.” Killian laughed before he could stop himself and Will stuttered a bit when Belle appeared on his side, hand falling on the front of his jersey. He’d worn his own jersey. “I don’t think we’ve had a chance to meet,” Belle said, throwing her hand out towards Emma. “At least not officially. We were too busy trying to set you up with Killian before. I’m Belle.” “It wasn’t a set-up,” Robin argued, but it didn’t sound very genuine.

“It absolutely was. I’m sure Emma knew as well as Killian did.” “I did,” Emma confirmed. “Your intentions were in the right place, just don’t do it again, ok?”

Regina hadn’t stopped staring at Killian in hours, he was convinced, and Will sighed dramatically. “For real?” he asked, head snapping back and forth between Emma and Killian. “I thought…” “Nope,” Emma said, popping her lips on the final letter. Will glanced at Killian, disappointment on his face and good, this was good – this was absolutely part of the plan. Under the radar. And a bit of harmless lying.

It wasn’t like he wanted to kiss her everywhere or shout something vaguely romantic from the roof of the Garden and his mind drifted back to words and ideas he shouldn’t even be considering – especially not around teammates or an agent who knew he wanted to go to Colorado at the end of the season.

“Nope,” Killian repeated and even Robin looked a bit surprised.

“Whatever,” Will mumbled bitterly, drawing a laugh out of Belle as he shot Killian a very specific type of glare. “When we calling the leader?”

“Who’s the leader?” Emma asked, taking a step closer to the bar. Killian bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from reaching out for her hand. “Sounds a bit extraterrestrial.”

“Liam,” Regina explained, mumbling to Roland about one onion ring at a time. “They all call Liam ‘leader.’” “Fearless,” Will added. “The fearless leader.” “Wait, wait,” Emma said quickly. “You guys all still talk to Liam?”

Will and Robin stared at her like she’d just asked them how to break into the White House or chart a course to the moon and Killian rolled his eyes. She really never had been on a team like this. “Of course,” Robin said slowly. “Why wouldn’t we?” Emma shrugged. “Just...an overwhelming amount of team.” “Ah, well, welcome to New York or something,” Will said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and propping it up against an empty glass on the counter. “He said something about six o’clock his time and the twins’ll be occupied. Cap, you better figure out a way to get Anna too because I don’t want to hear about it for the next three weeks if she’s not around for the ritual.” “Ritual?” Emma repeated, voice cracking just a bit over the word. “What exactly are you going to do in the middle of this restaurant?” “Ritual’s a very strong word, Swan,” Killian muttered. He grabbed his phone though and Anna would absolutely text each of them every day for the next three weeks if they didn’t call her too.

“It’s super fun, Emma,” Roland said excitedly, bobbing up and down a bit on his seat for good measure. “There’s a puck and a whole speech and Uncle Liam makes them all put their hands on their hearts.”

Emma gaped at them, mouth hanging open and shoulders moving just a bit quicker than normal. “It’s because they all came to New York together,” Regina said and Killian was fairly certain he didn’t miss the edge in her voice, the way the words seemed to cut across his chest like she was reminding him of everything he was, maybe, walking away from. “A whole group of vaguely terrified professional hockey players who started this stupid thing to make themselves feel as if they had a little bit of control.” “Hey,” Killian said quickly, tapping on his phone screen and hitting Anna’s number. “It’s not stupid. And we started this way before we got to New York, Scarlet and Locksley are just tag-alongs on this.” Will’s phone lit up, Liam’s face taking up most of the screen and he was already smiling, the sound of the twins in the background making their way across the country and into that tiny corner of Eric’s restaurant. “Is it time?” Liam asked.

“Obviously,” Will sighed. “You ready?” “Well, you’re five minutes late, so, yeah, I’ve been ready for five minutes.” “Find a hobby.”

“And miss the ritual? Come on, where’s the puck?”

“I’ve got it,” Robin said immediately, dropping on the counter of the bar and Liam shifted a bit in the frame, making room for Elsa when she sidled next to him.

“Is Anna here yet?” Elsa asked without preamble, eyes falling on Killian like there was a magnet on his forehead. “She’s going to be pissed if we do this without her.” Killian grabbed his phone and Anna screeched when she saw Elsa on the other screen, somehow sounding as loud as if she were standing next to him instead of God-knows-where Alaska. They started talking and Elsa was asking Anna about photo shoots and Anna was asking Elsa about that bill she was trying to pass and Will grumbled loudly, pulling the phone out of Killian’s hand and earning a collective hey out of each one of his sisters.

“Alright,” he said intently, waving his hands like that somehow made him some sort of authority. “If you guys want to talk, you’ve got to do it on your time, we’ve got to do the ritual.”

“Jeez, Scarlet,” Anna muttered. “Relax.” “This is serious.” “And it’ll get done,” Liam promised. “Hey Gina, hey Ruby.” They both waved in response and Killian could see the look on Elsa’s face as obvious as if she’d just been hit with some sort of meteorite. It didn’t help that Anna gasped as well. She didn’t say anything – and Killian would probably have to write a ten-page manuscript to thank her for that – but her eyes were wide when they landed on Emma and the jersey she had on. Anna was laughing.

“Can we do this?” Killian asked impatiently. “We’re going to miss curfew if we drag this out any longer and I don’t know how well my data plan can hold up to get Banana in from wherever she is right now.” “Still Alaska, KJ, at least pretend you listen when I tell you things,” Anna said.

Killian opened his mouth to argue back and Emma was still breathing heavily, eyes darting from phone to phone and back to him and they probably should have just told everyone because then, at least, he’d be able to hold her hand. “Are we doing this or not?” Liam said and they all snapped to attention immediately.

“See,” Regina muttered, nodding towards Emma. “The leader.”

Liam nodded once, grabbing the stick thad had been resting just outside of the frame and holding it out in front of him. “Alright,” he started, “eight years ago we all stumbled back into this stupid city and laced up skates and tripped over ourselves on the ice. And we were God awful. Terrible. Embarrassingly bad. But, as with most things, we figured it out. We stopped tripping over that giant emblem at center ice and we didn’t stutter during post and we actually started scoring goals.”

He pointed the stick again and Robin lifted the puck like it was a trophy, hardly touching it, as if leaving fingerprints on it would somehow marr what it stood for. “And we inexplicably won a first-round series and made the backpages of the tabloids and, now, it’s up to you guys to keep the tradition alive, to score more goals and play fodder for terrible pun-influenced headlines and win a goddamn Cup.” Liam nodded once and his gaze fell on Roland, smiling at him from Colorado. “You ready, Rol?” Roland nodded once, sitting up a little straighter when Robin’s hand landed on his shoulder. “To the Cup,” he shouted.

“To the Cup,” the crowd repeated, voices all a bit jumbled with the addition of videos from Colorado and Alaska. Eric put a tray down in front of them – shot glasses almost filled to the brim and that was another rule broken, just like it was every year.

Liam and Elsa held up their own glasses on their screen and even Anna had found a water bottle to toast and they all downed their drinks in one, quick gulp of tradition and meaning and this year was going to be the year.

And the restaurant suddenly felt very small and there were too many people in there and they must have been breaking some sort of fire code, because Killian’s head felt like it was spinning.

Liam was smiling and they were all laughing and Robin had put the puck back in his bag underneath the bar – saved from that series-clinching goal their rookie season – but Killian couldn’t quite breathe, the weight of it all landing on his shoulders like an anvil. This would be the year – he was certain of it – and...then what? He’d still probably feel guilty.

One of the twins shouted something off-screen and both Liam and Elsa moved in tandem, while Anna announced she had to go climb a mountain and the ritual was over as soon as it began, leaving Killian with a fresh wave of guilt and confusion and Emma kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

He grabbed his phone as soon as Anna was gone, a quick see ya shouted at the lot of them, and Killian barely even heard Robin’s quiet what’s wrong when he moved out the door of the restaurant and sank onto the sidewalk just around the corner.

It took less than a full second for his phone to buzz in his hand.

She’s pretty, KJ.

He sighed – he should have expected it. She hadn’t said anything on video. There was, at least, that.

She was wearing your jersey too.

I was there, El.

Ooooh testy. Yeah, I figured as much. No one’s downed a vaguely against-the-rules shot quicker in the entire history of the world. Why? Why what? Why are you feeling guilty? You know Liam isn’t mad. He’s as excited about the season as the twins are and they basically sleep in your jersey now.

Fucking hell. Killian ran his hand through his hair and he probably should have brought a jacket when he ran out of the restaurant because it was October and weather in this city never made sense.

What happens if we win?

I hear you get a parade.

I’m serious, El. What happens if we win and he’s not there?

Well, he’d probably be there. He was there the last time.

That’s not what I meant.

Be more specific then.

What if we win and we get the parade and the trophy and our names on the Cup for the rest of time? How am I supposed to look him in the eye ever again? If this was the other way around I’d never forgive me.

Ah, well, you’ve always been kind of dramatic. This conversation is proof positive.

Killian didn’t answer at first, mostly because Elsa was always right and that must have been exhausting for her – so certain of whatever she had to say in moments like this, just a bit more frequent in the last five weeks.

He was a mess.

She was wearing your jersey, KJ.

“Killian?” He twisted around to find Emma standing a few feet away from him, arms wrapped around her waist and his jersey and lips twisted into something that almost resembled concern. “You ok?”

“Yeah, of course.” “You’re the worst liar in the world,” she said, sinking next to him and nudging his arm with her shoulder. “Seriously, what’s going on?” “Just preseason stuff,” he answered evasively and Emma sighed at the lie. “Ready to get on the ice and all that.” Emma hummed in agreement, lips pressed together tightly and she was staring at her shoes, playing with the ends of sleeves – his sleeves. “Are you alright, love?” Killian asked.

“Fine.” “Look who’s lying now.” She made a face, rolling her eyes for good measure and he tugged her against his side, brushing his lips over her forehead before remembering they weren’t really all that far from the restaurant. “I think they almost believed us,” Emma muttered. “About the whole under the radar thing.” “We need to come up with another word for it. That’s kind of a mouthful and we’ve said it so many times it doesn’t even seem like an actual language anymore.”

Emma laughed softly and nodded against his shoulder, cheek brushing up against the ugliest sweater in the history of the entire world. “Yeah, that’s true. I just…” “What?” “You were right.” “That happens more often than not,” Killian said, working another laugh out of Emma. “What about this time?”

“Me lying.” He was still breathing, which was impressive since Killian was convinced his heart had actually stuttered for half a beat and he leaned back to find Emma staring at him, nerves practically rolling off her in that tiny alleyway. “What’s going on?” “Remember how I said I didn’t normally do this?” He nodded, thumb tracing against the back of her wrist. “Well, there’s a reason. I did. Before.” “I still don’t understand, Swan.” “I dated a guy on a team,” Emma said, rushing over the words so quickly he could barely even make them out.

Killian clenched his jaw tightly so he wouldn’t ask the wrong question or push into uncharted territory and no wonder she’d talked about HR. And then something sounded in the back of his mind and he actually heard what she said. “Wait,” he said quickly, not moving his thumb. “Did you just say we’re dating, Swan?”

She let out a shaky laugh, smile barely visible on her face as she shrugged. “I mean we’ve done a good amount of making out in my office if that qualifies as dating.” “I don’t see why not.” “Well, there you go.” They didn’t say anything for what felt like hours or days and he’d probably missed the season opener at this point, fully content to sit in this alley with his hand wrapped around Emma’s wrist and that smile on her face. “It wasn’t a player,” she said quietly, taking him by surprise.

“What?” “The guy...he didn’t actually play for the team.” “Front office?” “Was communications. He’s all PR now.”

“Where?” Emma pursed her lips and for half a second he was nervous he’d pushed or stepped over that blue line that seemed to rule this relationship – and it was definitely a relationship, now, even if they hadn’t used that word specifically, the thought of it making his stomach flip and his pulse thud just a bit harder than usual.

She sighed softly, turning towards him until her knee bumped against his. “He’s in Los Angeles. Probably sitting behind my desk now.” “What?” “He took my job,” Emma said, frustration obvious in the set of her shoulders. “And that’s not why we broke up or anything, that happened before I even got to LA, but he was, apparently, in with the new owner and I wasn’t and, well, he’s a jackass.” “Obviously.” She laughed again, tugging on the end of her hair until he finally gave into that desire that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach as soon as he saw her in the back corner of her restaurant, reaching forward to wrap her fingers up in his and squeezing – tightly. “I just…” Emma muttered, teeth tugging on her lower lip. “I just can’t take a chance that I’m wrong about you.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed slightly like he was looking at her for the first time and, well, maybe he was.

She still looked nervous, the edges of her mouth moving every few seconds, like she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to smile, but she was staring right back at him, something on the edge of her gaze that felt a bit like hope.

And there were walls still, something Killian knew she still wasn’t talking about and there had to be a reason she’d never been to New York before or ended up in Minnesota for a year, but he could wait.

He would wait.

“You’re not,” Killian said softly and it sounded like the promise it absolutely was. Five weeks and it didn’t make any sense and he didn’t care.

“This job is important,” Emma continued. “And the last one didn’t end the way I thought it would and I already got enough charity from Ruby and I’m still sleeping on Reese’s couch and I can’t...I can’t deal with people thinking we’re…” “It’s fine, Swan,” he cut in, ignoring the way his stomach clenched at the uncertainty in her voice. “We’ll come up with another word for under the radar. I think we were rather convincing. The only person who seemed remotely aware of what was going on was El and she’s in Colorado.” “Is that why you came out here? Because they’re in Colorado and you’re here and still doing questionable pre-season rituals? “How’d you figure that out?” Emma shrugged, smile just a bit more cautious than it should have been. “Open book works both ways.” He moved an instant later, mouth crashing on hers and he appreciated the way she gasped against his lips before moving back towards him, her fingers carding through his hair. She rocked against him, free hand finding its way under the ugliest sweater ever made and her jersey was far too big because it kept getting twisted up in between them, making it all but impossible for him to hit skin the way he wanted to.

He wanted her a questionable amount.

“You know,” Killian mumbled, moving against Emma’s jaw and her fingers tightened in his hair. “This jersey looks awfully familiar.” “It does have have your name on it,” she said, voice shaking just a bit with the effort of trying to make sure it didn’t shake. He grinned, moving back down her neck and he’d, finally, managed to work his hand underneath the fabric of the jersey, almost gasping when he realized there wasn’t another shirt underneath.

“God, Swan,” he whispered and now he was the one with the shaking voice and slightly shaking fingers and they were still in a goddamn alley.

They never should have come to this stupid thing.

They should go on a real date.

“Your sister might not be the only one who has some sort of idea as to what’s going on,” Emma said and her voice felt like a live wire against him or in him or whatever. He’d only gone to college for a year.

“Why is that?” “Because it took me no less than forty-five minutes to convince Kristoff that giving me an actual jersey was some sort of good idea.” He knew it. “This is a real jersey?” Killian asked, leaning back slightly. Emma’s fingers trailed across the back of his neck and her other hand had found a belt loop, tugging tightly until he moved forward and she kissed him again.

That was as much of an answer as he was going to get – it was the only answer he really needed.

The door of the restaurant slammed open around the corner and Killian could hear Arthur’s voice and Gwen’s heels and they snapped apart as quickly as if there was a live wire in between them. “We should probably go back inside,” Emma said and he didn’t even try to mask his groan at the suggestion. “Under the radar or whatever we’re going to call it from now on.” “If you wanted under the radar, love, you probably shouldn’t have worn my jersey. It makes it very hard to think clearly.” She moved her eyebrows quickly and she was smirking at him now, standing up and readjusting the jersey so it almost settled on her shoulders. “Maybe that was the point,” Emma said, widening her eyes meaningfully before turning back towards the restaurant and leaving Killian open-mouthed behind her.

#cs ff #captain swan ff #ouat ff #csbb #cs #well that was a mess of words #emma likes wearing killians number #killian likes emma wearing his number #this will be a trend #blue line

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yahoo-puck-daddy-blog · 7 years ago

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George Parros on suspending Sidney Crosby, answering Player Safety critics (Q&A)

The NHL announced on Wednesday that George Parros is the new Senior Vice President of Player Safety, taking the reins of the league’s on-ice supplemental discipline from Stephane Quintal.

“George possesses one of the brightest and most innovative young minds in our game,” NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman said of the 37-year-old former Anaheim Ducks enforcer. “He has immersed himself in all aspects of Player Safety during the last 12 months and his selection to run this department not only will maintain the stability and consistency in decision-making that have been essential to the Department’s success but also will enable it to continue evolving in step with our game.”

Parros is an interesting choice for the role, because he’s always been an interesting NHL personality. He had 1,092 penalty minutes in 474 NHL regular-season games during his career, spanning from 2005-14 – playing an on-ice role as a fighter that seemed in contrast with his Princeton educated background. There was some backlash to his promotion, as media and fans couldn’t quite square a guy most notable for throwing punches being tasked with NHL Player Safety.

We asked Parros about that skepticism, and well as his plans for Player Safety, his philosophy about NHL violence, whether the department needs to suspend more players, and whether his new emphasis on addressing slashing plays would have led to a suspension of Sidney Crosby last season.

Q. As expected, when a guy with over 1,000 penalty minutes and a fashion line called “Violent Gentlemen” becomes the head of NHL player safety, there’s going to be skepticism and backlash. How do you answer those critics?

PARROS: I’m happy to answer those criticisms. I welcome it. I read your article, and I agree with it: Who better to run the department than someone that’s been on the front lines and dealt with it?

From the moment I retired, I was after Stephan Quintal to work with the department. I find it interesting work. And who better than me to have this job, as a guy who played as physical as anybody but was never fined or suspended?

I know where the line is. My job was protecting my teammates. Now, my job is protecting 750 guys.

You said this morning that you wanted to crack down on slashing and “non-hockey plays” in your Department of Player Safety. What did you mean specifically?

The department is good hands. All the numbers are trending in the right direction. Suspensions are down, injuries are down. There’s no reason for sweeping reform, but those are two areas I think we can work on – the stick stuff and non-hockey plays.

We try not to judge intent too much in our department, but if there’s clear intent for something that happens on the ice – someone retaliates, someone gets slashed in the face, a non-hockey play away from the play – those are infractions I want to come down hard on.

Is a slash across the wrists a non-hockey play?

No, that’s separate. Slashing is something that’s become a hot topic, especially last season. [NHL director of officiating] Steve Walkom said it’s something the officiating is going to be paying attention to.

I use the term “greater scrutiny” with slashing, because we had 791 slashing minors last season. We know we’re not going to be suspending, or even penalizing, all the infractions. But we’re going to be paying closer attention to them. We’re going to eliminate guys who are repeatedly, with force, slashing guys on the fingertips and slashing guys away from the play. When a guy has the puck on his stick, and they’re slashing the hands, we’re going to be taking a look at that closer.

That doesn’t mean we have a hard and fast rule, but we’re going to try and eliminate those ones.

So is this more about trying to change behavior than it is suspending for injuries?

There’s two things we want to eliminate. We want to eliminate repeat offenders in this department and eliminate the same kind of slashes, although we’ve get to define that. Each play is unique. But initially, I’ll be looking at where the slashes take place. If you’re slashing a guy on the elbow pad, I think that would be different than slashing a guy on the finger tips.

If a guy moves his hand at the last second on his stick, that’s going to be taken into consideration. But if I see a lot of hard fingertip slashes, that’s something I’m going to be looking at.

It’s going to be a moving target, but it’s something we’re going to scrutinize more and more.

youtube

OK, so let’s get to it: If it had been the George Parros Department of Player of Safety, and slashing fingertips was something you’re focusing on, would Sidney Crosby had been suspended for that slash on Marc Methot?

No.

I was here for that incident, and that was something, in my opinion, we shouldn’t have acted on, and we didn’t act on it. But I would like to get certain slashes and plays [eliminated], and if it happens again, perhaps it’s a fine. And if it’s the same player that does the same type of slash, maybe that’s a suspension. You have to take it as it comes.

Maybe all of a sudden, with the officiating, they crack down on this and take care of our work for us.

What about slew-footing?

It’s on the radar. Our criteria for a slew-foot in the past is a double leg sweep with an arm pushback, essentially, but like I said: If there’s clear intention on player’s part to even take one foot away and dangerously shove one player to the ice, especially away from the play, then certainly that would be my big concern. If there’s clear intention on someone’s part to injure somebody, we have to consider it seriously.

You were still playing when Brendan Shanahan started the Department of Player Safety. We both remember there being more suspensions then than there are today. Do there need to be more suspensions?

That’s a good question.

Prior to the department starting with Shanahan in 2011, there wasn’t much consistency. There wasn’t much transparency. There was no communication about what was on, and why guys were being suspended. So when the department started, all of that became vital to adding credibility to the department. First and foremost, the players have to belief that are department is handling these plays in the right fashion.

When the department came about, there were a lot of head shots. You had guys like Matt Cooke and Raffi Torres. It was a big issue. So right away, Brendan had to make a statement on those plays. Eventually guys started to get it. We had Rule 48. We have younger guys that have come up playing with stop signs on their backs.

Yes, suspensions were fast and furious when Shanahan first started. But that was a product of reeducating the guys. Now guys are starting to get it. Suspensions are down. That’s great news. That’s the whole point of the department, which is to change player behavior. It’s taking its natural course.

The focus used to be on headhunting. Now the focus is on slashing on the hands. We’re on the right course. Things are good. The game’s in a good spot. But there are areas to focus on.

What needs to change for the Department of Player Safety?

I didn’t recognize it until I took the job: I didn’t realize how much education we do. And that’s something that can be improved upon: More and more education.

We met the rookies at the rookie orientation program last week – 90 of the up and coming class of players in the NHL. We hammered down what we do, how we see things. Certain areas where they can learn to protect themselves, like not putting themselves in a vulnerable position along the boards. The majority of injuries in our game, and suspensions, happen along the boards. So education will be important for us, and eventually I’d like to reach out to even younger players.

As you’ve said before, the challenge is blending player safety with the physical nature of the game. How do you balance it?

Our mission statement says we’re trying to maintain physicality in this game. But at the same time, we’re concerned with players being taken advantage of. We’re not trying to stop good, clean checks, and I think the players get that. Part of this job is maintaining that trust with the players.

(This interview was edited for clarity.)

—

Greg Wyshynski is a writer for Yahoo Sports. Contact him at [email protected] or find him on Twitter. His book, TAKE YOUR EYE OFF THE PUCK, is available on Amazon and wherever books are sold.

#_uuid:32624e66-f378-31b0-83dd-c3058bbded07 #_revsp:21d636bb-8aa8-4731-9147-93a932d2b27a #NHL #_category:yct:001000863 #Anaheim Ducks #George Parros #_lmsid:a077000000CFoGyAAL #_category:yct:001000001 #$nhl #_author:Greg Wyshynski

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sparkvelvet75-blog · 6 years ago

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‘Shrill’ Shreds Hollywood Stereotypes About How Women of Size Eat

Ryan (Luka Jones) and Annie (Aidy Bryant)

Photo: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Annie (Aidy Bryant) and Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen).

Photo by: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Brooke Jackson-Glidden is the editor of Eater Portland. Edited by: Greg Morabito

Eat, Drink, Watch.

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/28/18284128/shrill-hulu-aidy-bryant-food-eating

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butaneplate02-blog · 6 years ago

Text

‘Shrill’ Shreds Hollywood Stereotypes About How Women of Size Eat

Ryan (Luka Jones) and Annie (Aidy Bryant)

Photo: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Annie (Aidy Bryant) and Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen).

Photo by: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Brooke Jackson-Glidden is the editor of Eater Portland. Edited by: Greg Morabito

Eat, Drink, Watch.

Food entertainment news and streaming recommendations every Friday

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/28/18284128/shrill-hulu-aidy-bryant-food-eating

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starwitness42 · 8 years ago

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Holding the Stick (8/?)

Alec Lightwood has dreamed of hoisting Lord Stanley since he was eight. It's in his blood. He's spent the last five years trying to make that dream a reality, only managing to fall short each time.

Until a scandal leads to a multi-team trade that sends Magnus Bane his way. One of the top performing wingers in the league. An up and coming star.

And the most handsome man Alec has ever met.

He's doomed.

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven

Magnus is not entirely certain when he became Angela Lansbury. But if he were to hazard a guess, it would’ve been right around the time Alec nearly sobbed the words, “Not now,” into the palm of his hand.

Not now.

Two words that will likely be etched on his tombstone someday, perhaps in the near future if things do not soon make a shift to something less madness inducing.

Not: (adverb) Used with an auxiliary verb or “be” to form the negative.

Now: (adverb) At the present time or moment.

They are simple. They are both such simple words. And yet Magnus is forced to spend the next three weeks trying to dissect them as if he can figure out their meaning by pulling them apart, letter-by-letter.

Two n’s, two o’s, a t, a w, and a whole lot of nothing else.

The taste of Vegas still lingers bitterly in his mouth, all these weeks later. It had been a surreal experience to say the least, the lowlight of which had been watching teammate after teammate draped over Alec like cheap, ill-fitting suits.

Foolishly, he had thought the night off might be an opportunity to get closer to Alec as the friend he had been trying so valiantly to be. He’d had very simple hopes: See a show with Alec, perhaps get dinner if Alec had not already eaten, talk, bond, the usual. But then he had walked into what can only be described as a massive clusterfuck.

It had started with Alec in the towel, with him tossing clothes around his suite willy-nilly all night as if they were still in the locker room and not some place far more intimate. And it had progressed through their time on the couch, inching closer in ways not merely physical, but always interrupted by one needy teammate or another because that is Alec’s life.

Alec does not simply breathe hockey; he does not merely live it; he is hockey. And in his world, that means constantly mothering twenty-three adults that often act as if they are still in diapers.

In the end, the parade of draperies had at least given him the courage to offer the massage. Because if everyone else was allowed to touch so openly, what could it hurt to ask? Especially given how much physical pain Alec had clearly been in.

He had not meant anything by it, not overtly anyway. He had only wanted to help, to take care of Alec in the same way Alec had been taking care of everyone else all evening. But then Alec had grabbed his thigh, had turned into him, had run his hands over Magnus’ body in a way he can still feel if he closes his eyes tightly enough and holds his breath. And so, to put it plainly, Magnus had lost it.

The drunken whatever in the closet at the ball could easily be written off as happenstance. And it would be difficult but not impossible to platonically justify what had happened on Fake Thanksgiving, the lingering touches or their bout of actual footsie, as if people still did that in this day and age. But Vegas?

Magnus has no proper way to explain Vegas apart from an obvious that seems so much less obvious when linked to someone like Alec.

So he digs, utilizing his admittedly outdated detective skills learned from Murder, She Wrote, the only television show his grandmother allowed him to watch when he was young because she enjoyed sharing it with him.

In Jessica Fletcher’s world, there is always an answer. It may take the full hour to find it, but it is always there. And if there is one thing Magnus has learned over the course of a life that seems far longer than his age would imply, it’s that if you look hard enough, dig down deep enough, eventually you will find what you’re looking for.

Whether or not it’s what you’re hoping for? That is an entirely different plotline.

He’d even tried calling Cat about the situation to get her expert opinion. Their first game after Vegas had been a low point for him, seeing the break of both his point streak and the team’s win streak since his arrival. And so he had been in a fit of desperate confusion but not because of those factors as much as because every hit Alec took that night felt like it was ricocheting through Magnus’ own body.

All Cat had said when he laid out the facts was an infinitely unhelpful, “Yeah, he wants to fuck you,” before launching into a discussion of the ongoing Cold War between her two cats. One of which used to be his before he moved to Winnipeg and realized he no longer had anyone nearby to watch the Chairman when he was out of town.

As pointless as it had become, however, the conversation had at least served one purpose. It had proven to him that he is one hundred percent alone in this endeavor. Because there is simply no one that he can ask about this outside of the voices in his own head.

Not Alec, who often seems like a cornered, feral animal when faced with real life situations that don’t involve a stick and a puck.

Not his teammates, people like Jace who know Alec better than anyone. Because what if they believe he is straight? What if Alec is deeply closeted? What if this is his first foray into these types of feelings and Magnus inadvertently outs him while digging for his own selfish satisfaction?

He knows what that feels like, and he would never, ever wish that upon anyone, especially someone as kindhearted as Alec.

He cannot even count on his best friend, who seems to care very little for the fact that Magnus is slowly losing his mind. And so he pulls himself up by his very expensive, designer bootstraps and tries to make the best of an incredibly bewildering situation.

The main question surrounds this Lydia person. And Magnus may or may not have a very large, very detailed Venn diagram covering the inside back wall of his hallway closet that he is not entirely proud of bearing the title: “Beard, Bi or Both?”

It is covered in articles and pictures run off from the printer he bought especially for this occasion, documenting the two and a half year “relationship” between Alexander Lightwood and the Deadly Blonde. And it seems to be his only glimmer of hope these days, as if he thinks that if he can just figure that part out he may have a shot at maintaining what’s left of his sanity.

There are only two options in a situation such as this one: Either Alec is bisexual/gay and Lydia is his very supportive, very pretty beard. Or Alec is bisexual and at least partially in love with his very supportive, very pretty girlfriend.

Magnus is obviously hoping for the former, but he is also preparing himself for the latter just in case his luck continues to be as abysmal as it has been every other day of his life.

There are countless pictures of Alec and Lydia in public, holding hands and smiling. But there are none of them kissing that he has been able to find. No candids of them at clubs, making out on the dance floor, which seems to suggest a heavy lean towards the Beard side of the scale.

But then there is the fact that to his knowledge, Alec does not even go to clubs. And whatever his private life is, he seems to be very intent on keeping it exactly that: Private. A goal only helped by his dictator parents that even have the local reporters so terrified they refuse to ask any question that might get them blacklisted. All of which falls in the Both category, if not in the specifically Bi one.

His closet looks like it belongs to a crazy person plotting an assassination. But the stolen moments he’s able to spend working on the project seem to keep him going throughout the rest of each day as he buries himself so deeply in hockey that he’s almost become one with the ice itself.

Whatever Alec had meant by not now in their potential personal life together, Magnus is still right now his teammate, his linemate, his friend, and that is important to him. Which means apart from running around in mental circles, he has also spent the past three weeks being the best of those three things that he can possibly be.

Three weeks spent helping Alec and Luke corral the children at practice. Three weeks spent acting as a social buffer for Alec at team bonding nights. And three weeks spent scoring as many goals as humanly possible on their glorious line that, in spite of a few hiccups, keeps getting better and better as if they are all so in tune they’re practically psychic.

It is not entirely altruistic on his part, which is another thing he is not proud of. But his running theory is that if he can make other aspects of Alec’s life as easy as possible, maybe Alec will be able to find a way to open up. To him. And whether that ends in them becoming closer friends or something deeper, Magnus is willing to put in the work because he knows the result will be worth it.

After all, it is a simple fact of life that you cannot hold Alec Lightwood’s face in the palm of your hands and not be willing to do almost anything to keep it there.

~*~

Chants of, “Fuck Detroit,” ring through the arena as they take the ice, drowning out the music played to warm them up that is unnecessary tonight, thanks to the energy of the crowd.

It is like his first night here all over again, the surge of adrenaline saturating his system as he cycles through the lazy drills created to get their legs solid beneath them, their attention focused on the game. But they are unnecessary as well because the game is the only thing Magnus can see.

This is just the second time they have played the Wings since Magnus arrived, but he can already tell that there is something different about these games. And not simply because the home crowd hates them so much. There is an inevitability here, like two speeding trains, barreling down opposite sides of the same track. Only there is very little question when and how they will meet.

Magnus cannot see the future, but he can clearly imagine what it would feel like to take the Cup from Detroit. And he wants that, more than very few other things in his life.

Any person who straps on a pair of skates and plays the sport at any level, be it Beer League or NHL, dreams of hoisting the Stanley Cup. But Magnus has never wanted it as badly as he does this season, this moment, surrounded by a team that has finally managed to fit the cliché image he’s been sold all of his life.

They are a family. And after seven long years in the League, playing for teams that felt more like stiff gatherings of complete strangers, finding that sense of place, that sense of home here is almost a bigger revelation than what he has potentially found with the man at the center of it.

There is no doubt in his mind that the reason this team is so close is because Alec Lightwood is its captain.

The game is no less brutal than its predecessor, but whereas they managed to break through fairly easily before, the Wings have been able to figure out a way to gum up the works. And it is maddening for a team built on speed and fluidity to play against an opponent willing to sacrifice their own offense to play a solely defensive game, but that is seemingly what they are up against tonight.

Every shift is a giant defensive trap, geared toward forcing them to repeatedly dump the puck into the offensive zone and hope they can dig it out of the corners once again. And so by the end of the first period, a scoreless endeavor that felt like it lasted forty minutes instead of twenty, every single one of them is frustrated beyond belief.

Both Alec and Luke try and bring a sense of calm to the locker room during intermission, but things only continue to boil during another ruthless period full of stops, starts, and grueling hits. Which means that by the third, there is an overwhelming sense that things are about to explode.

It’s like watching a fuse burn, this game. Like trailing the spark from the lit match all the way to the stick of dynamite, waiting to blow. And it is barely a minute into the third period when that finally happens.

Magnus’ line is on the ice for the opening faceoff, one that Alec wins handily against Morgenstern because he at least is still levelheaded and focused even if the rest of his team is not. And for the first time all game they have been allowed to skate the puck into the zone thanks to the way Jace makes a move around the defense that seems almost like a pirouette.

The puck is on Magnus’ stick when it happens. Which means his attention is focused mainly on the net, on the overpowering desire to break the 0-0 tie, when something happens in his peripheral.

He does not see the full brunt of it, but what he does see chills him down to his very bones.

Alec is attempting to get to the crease, is trying to get in close enough for a tip-in or a goalie screen, anything to help Magnus score, when the butt end of Morgenstern’s stick rises forcefully, purposefully to his face. And thanks to his positioning, Magnus is close enough to hear it connect. To hear the sharp crack of wood on bone before Alec collapses like a felled tree, face down and unmoving.

There is a good chance that Magnus loses what little is left of his sanity when he sees Alec prone on the ice, pooling blood.

Alec is moving a moment later, is trying to regain his feet. But somehow that image is worse than when he was simply lying there, stunned to immobility.

He manages momentarily to get to all fours, but the second he tries to get his skates beneath him, he falls again. And all the while he is still just leaking blood from a wound that Magnus hopes is simply above his left eye and not in it because he is a stupid, stubborn man who refuses to wear a visor because he feels as if he cannot see the puck as well with one on and the team’s success is more important than his own safety. And somewhere within all of that, Magnus loses his tentative grip on reality.

He sees red like Alec’s blood, mixing into the red of his jersey, dripping on the ice. So his gloves are off a second later and he is reaching out a second after that, but it is not to help.

Magnus wants to hurt.

It feels good to twist his fingers in Moregenstern’s jersey, feels even better to make a fist and connect with his face. And though he does not particularly care if Sebastian engages in the fight or simply tries to turtle on the ice, he is still almost relieved to feel a fist slam into his own jaw because he needs to feel something right now other than fear.

He loses himself in the battle, in the feel of war, pressed to the edges of him as he tries to do anything in his power to erase the images from his head.

The way Alec’s head had snapped back from the hit.

The way his body had crumpled as if he had been shot.

The way he’d stumbled while trying to get back up, unable to steady himself but still trying because Alec is not the type of person to stay down.

Magnus will do anything right now to un-see those things, up to and including beating Morgenstern to unconsciousness if he has to. Only before he is able to get that far, there are hands on his jersey, pulling him back.

He turns around and shoves violently, unaware and uncaring if he is attacking a teammate or a linesman. But before he can get his hands back on Morgenstern, Jace is grabbing him again. Is dragging him away as Morgenstern takes a knee and presses both of his hands to his face as if he is trying to hold back the damage Magnus caused.

Jace does not stop pulling on him until they are at the penalty box, does not release him until he has been shoved safely inside. And now that he is away from the fight, Magnus is able to truly remember what started it all in the first place.

He scans the ice desperately in search of Alec, but he is already gone, off the ice, off the bench, hidden away where Magnus cannot see him and he is panicking at that. At wondering what exactly happened while he was on a break from the world.

“Give me a minute, will you Jerry?” Jace asks to the referee already circling.

“You got thirty seconds, Wayland,” the ref replies before skating a few feet away and then Jace is in front of him, blocking the door to the box so that Magnus cannot get out.

Jace grabs his head with glove-free hands, yanking on his ears to arrest his attention as he snaps the words, “Look at me,” directly into Magnus’ face.

His tone is softer when he continues as if he feels that gentleness is what Magnus needs right now when all he can think about is blood.

“He’s gonna be okay. I know you probably missed this part, given that you were busy beating the shit out of that fucking cock waffle, but he skated off on his own two feet, okay?”

Magnus’ eyes drift at that, to where the ice girls are cleaning up the bloody shavings left in Alec’s wake. But the loss of Magnus’ attention prompts Jace to tug on his face once more.

“Hey!” he shouts, forcing Magnus to look him in the eye again. “He’s going to be fine, okay? Nod if you’re processing what the fuck I’m saying.”

Magnus nods. But though he can clearly understand what Jace is telling him, there is no comfort to be found in his words because Magnus cannot see him. Cannot judge with his own two eyes if Jace is telling the truth. And the weight of that is so heavy it feels as if it is crushing his ribs to dust.

“Good,” Jace says in response to Magnus’ weak nod. ”Good. Just relax, okay? It’s going to be fine.”

“Wayland!” the ref shouts a moment later. And Jace is still mere inches from his face, so he can clearly see the way he rolls his eyes at the interruption.

“Shortest fucking thirty seconds of my life, Jerry!” he shouts back at the ref, but he does not remove his eyes from Magnus for a second. His voice low again, soft as he says the words, “Trust me,” before tipping Magnus’ head down and kissing the top of it before taking Magnus’ helmet from Jerry the ref so he can put it on his head, pat his shoulders and skate away.

Luke sends Raj to the box to serve Magnus’ minor penalty for instigating the fight as the rest of the team squares up for 4-on-3 play. But when he looks to the other box, Morgenstern is nowhere to be found. Which means he was lucky enough to be allowed to return to the locker rooms after the fight while Magnus is now stuck here for upwards of seventeen minutes like a caged animal.

His hands are shaking. There is blood on his knuckles, he cannot seem to get his hands to stop shaking and all he can seem to think is maybe I should have fought harder. Maybe he should have done more damage, been more violent, because if he’d been given a game misconduct instead of merely a ten-minute one, he’d be free right now.

He’d be with Alec, back in the locker room, in the trainer’s office, holding his hand.

As it stands he is stuck, and for potentially two minutes of that time he is stuck with Raj, which does not help his mood any. Especially when Raj takes a seat so far away from him he is practically hugging the side wall of the box as if he is afraid Magnus’ ire will spill over onto him with no one else readily available to attack.

He needs to get out of here.

Thanks almost entirely to Raphael, the three-man PK unit manages to kill off the first two minutes of Magnus’ penalty. But almost as soon as Raj is released to join the now 4-on-4 action for the remainder of the five-minute fighting penalties, the Wings score. And less than a minute later, they score again.

Somehow, Magnus cannot seem to find it in himself to care about that, even though he knows that it is all indirectly if not directly his fault. Because while the game might have been all he could see earlier in the night, now all he can see is Alec.

Where is he?

How is he?

How long until he can see him again?

When the fourth line winger that had been serving Morgenstern’s fighting penalty is allowed out of the box, Jace skates over to his side of the ice, removing his glove so that he can make the okay symbol with his fingers. And it is not much, and not nearly what Magnus needs right now, but it does manage to loosen the vise around his chest ever so slightly.

There is less than three minutes left in the game when Magnus is released from the box, and they are now down by three goals, an insurmountable lead in a game like this one. Which means Magnus feels even heavier than before as he is finally allowed to take a seat on the bench with his teammates.

Luke’s hand is on his shoulder instantly, his voice low but strong when he leans down to say directly into Magnus’ ear, “He’s fine. Needed a bunch of stitches and they’re doing the concussion tests just as a precaution, but he’s fine.”

Magnus almost sobs in relief.

It is not their first loss since the trade, but it is their worst, and Magnus carries the brunt of that as they all file back down the hallway to the locker room. But it is something that he shoves aside for later as he waits impatiently through the post game speeches and team rallying moments until he is free.

He should stay at his stall, wait for the reporters that will no doubt wish to speak with him after tonight’s display. But after a tight nod from Luke telling him that he is allowed to go, Magnus does just that.

He goes.

The trainer’s room is not far from the locker room, and yet it feels as if it is miles away. Magnus’ legs shaky beneath him as he makes his way there, skate free but still wearing the majority of his uniform because he could not even spare the time it would take to remove it. Once he arrives outside the door, though, he freezes.

Alec is not alone, and though he can only see her back, it is clear from the way they are standing that it is Lydia that is with him.

He is sitting on the edge of a metal table, his chest bare, splashed with his own blood as Lydia holds one of his hands in her own while using her other to trace over the new stitches just above his left eye.

Alec is smiling softly at whatever Lydia is saying, his eyes sleepy almost, drifting away as Lydia leans in to kiss the wound and Magnus turns away at that.

It feels as if something is snapping inside of him, but he is too turned around in his own mind to know what that might be just yet.

What he does know is that he needs to get laid. That is the overriding sense he is feeling as he emerges from the showers fifteen minutes later. There is too much adrenaline still pumping through his veins right now, too much pressure to sustain, and so if he does not find some way to release it there is a fair chance that he will spontaneously combust.

Aside from Alec, Magnus has not had intimate physical contact with anyone since that night in New York. And he can still hear Alec’s words in his head, can still distinctly make out the plea in his voice the final time he had said not now, but at this moment Magnus needs something. Anything. So though he likes to think of himself as a patient man, the truth of the situation is far less idyllic.

It does not take long for him to find a willing participant, once he actively looks. But as he rests his back against the wall of the bathroom stall in the club whose name he has already forgotten, his fingers twisted in the dark hair of the man kneeling before him whose name he has forgotten as well, the only thing he can seem to think about are hazel fucking eyes.

The nameless face is perfect, is exactly the type of guy that would have had Magnus begging for at least six hours in the past, if not more. Dark hair, blue eyes, the combination he has always loved, especially on men, only it seems as if somehow Alec Lightwood has wrecked that for him.

He ruined an entire eye color. How is that even possible?

Though the blowjob works in the strictest sense of the term, it does nothing to settle him inside. And so even though the nameless face is quite literally pleading to go home with him a short while later, Magnus takes his leave because he can see the score clearly already, written in the color of blood all across the wall.

He is broken. Alec has broken him. And until he can figure that out, there is little to no chance of repair.

He returns to his hotel a few hours later, alone, drunk, and miserable. And he is tired enough that when he opens his closet door to put away his coat, the sight of his wall of shame sets him off.

Before he is done, every single scrap of his three weeks of work is torn to shreds, stuffed into an overflowing wastebasket. And it does not make him feel better necessarily, but it does make him feel less like a walking corpse and so he will take it and try to be grateful.

He is about to head to the shower to wash the feel of Mr. No Name off when there is a sharp knock on his door. And it is late – far later than he would expect to have company – but there is enough desperation in the knock to get him to answer it.

“Is he here?” Jace bites out frantically as if he assumes that Magnus will know what he is speaking of.

“Is who here?”

Jace rolls his eyes. “Alec.”

Magnus sees Jace’s eye roll and raises him one arms-over-chest grip. “Why would Alec be here?”

“I don’t know, I thought you two were,” he starts to say before evidently thinking better of wherever the hell he was going with that. “Forget it. When was the last time you saw him?”

Magnus’ mind flashes back to Lydia and Alec, fingers entwined, Lydia’s lips pressed to Alec’s wound, and he feels momentarily as if he is going to be sick.

“After the game,” he says.

Prompting Jace to bite out the word, “Shit,” before he is literally shoving his way past Magnus into his room without so much as a come on in.

He is not certain how Alec has managed to go so long as Jace’s friend without murdering him and burying him in the desert.

Jace is on his phone a second later, not even bothering to explain to Magnus, whose room he just invaded, what is going on. And he is pissed, pure and simple, but in spite of his better judgment he is also curious. So instead of tossing Jace out like he knows he should, he remains still and listens.

“Hey, Iz. Yeah, I’m with Magnus. He hasn’t seen him either.”

He pauses briefly to let Isabelle speak before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning, “No, I did not check under the bed, grow the fuck up would you? He’s not here. You sure you don’t know what happened at the meeting?”

This time when he pauses, Magnus comes to the stunning realization that he is already holding his breath.

“Yeah, and asking your parents will only throw up more red flags. Fuck, this is bad, isn’t it? I feel like this is really fucking bad… Well fuck, Iz, maybe you should be more melodramatic. Just… put Lydia on, would you? I need to talk to someone with fucking sense.”

What is bad, Magnus wants to ask. Wants to scream. But for some reason, he is still just frozen.

“Hey Lyd. When was the last time you saw him again? At the stadium too? Fuck, that was,” he lowers his phone so that he can check the time. “That was three and a half hours ago. The fucker could be halfway to Canada by now. I think… yeah, I think I need to call Ty at CPD.”

He pauses just long enough to roll his eyes once more.

“Yeah, he’s the guy that fixes my tickets, you got a problem with that?”

Every time Jace stops speaking, Magnus’ heart cinches further up the back of his throat.

“What do you think I’m going to ask him to do, go out with bloodhounds? I’m going to ask him to ping his cell or whatever the fuck they do on those TV shows. And, might I add, we wouldn’t be having this problem if you’d convinced him to get Find My Friends… Me? How the fuck was I supposed to convince him to do it? The asshole already thinks I’m stalking him. If I’d asked him to put that app on his phone it would’ve just confirmed it.”

He lets his phone drop to his side this time, running a palm hard down his face as Lydia’s voice echoes dully from his cell.

“If I was stalking him, would I even be talking to you right now?” he asks once he rejoins the conversation.

“All fucking joking aside, I am seriously reconsidering putting that LoJack in his SUV… Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be telling me how unethical that was if it was helping us find his dumb ass right now, would you? You know what, whatever. I gotta go call Ty. Just, call me if you hear anything, okay? Yeah. Sure. Bye.”

Jace is heading towards Magnus’ door at that, searching through his phone directory for the number of this Ty person. And Magnus is so painfully confused right now that he doesn’t totally realize that Jace is actually talking to him again when he stops just outside Magnus’ still open door.

“What?” Magnus asks through the pounding in his head.

“I asked if you were coming.”

“Coming where?”

“To find Alec, dipshit.”

“Oh,” Magnus says because that is the only word he can think of. But Jace’s hand is flat on his chest when he goes to take a step into the hallway.

“Um, it’s fucking freezing outside. You might want to bring, I don’t know, shoes? And a coat?”

Magnus looks down at his bare feet and even barer arms before nodding and retreating back inside to grab the shoes and coat Jace had mentioned. And then he is leaving. With Jace. To find Alec. Because that is apparently what his night has become.

When they get downstairs to the curb, Magnus takes one look at Jace’s jet black Maserati and immediately moves to head back inside. Because he may have never had the pleasure of driving with Jace, but given that he is a maniac in all other areas of his life, Magnus has zero desire to be inside that type of a car with that type of a person.

Jace is grabbing his arm, though, a gesture that makes Magnus’ hackles rise before Jace is quite plainly shoving him inside the vehicle the same way he’d manhandled him into the penalty box earlier this evening. And at some point they are going to have to have a discussion about this, about how Jace is not allowed to touch Magnus without his express permission. But right now he goes along with it because Alec is evidently in some sort of trouble. And regardless of what happened earlier, that is still of great importance to Magnus.

“Alec had a meeting with the elder Lightwoods tonight,” Jace says, apropos of nothing as he peels away from the curb.

“Oh,” Magnus says as he tightens his seatbelt as much as it will go.

“No one knows what it was about. All we know is that he fucked off and disappeared as soon as he got out of it.”

“Does he do that often? Fuck off and disappear?”

Jace snorts and turns his eyes to Magnus when he really should be focusing them on the road. “You kidding me? I mean, emotionally yes, he’ll run until his ass is on fire. But you should know better than anyone by now that the dickhead’s middle name is Responsibility. He’s been in the middle of taking a fucking shower and still answered me by the second ring before.”

“So this is abnormal?” Magnus asks in an attempt to not allow himself to think about Alec in a shower.

“Yeah, it’s abnormal as shit.”

Jace’s phone rings then, and despite the fact that it is illegal to speak on one’s telephone while driving in the city of Chicago, Jace still does it, keeping only one hand on the wheel and even less eyes on the road.

Magnus really hopes that he does not die with Jace Wayland in a fancy Italian sports car tonight.

“Hey, Ty, yeah, you got him? Sound-Bar. Perfect. Thanks buddy! I owe you!”

He pulls a screeching U-turn at that, one that makes Magnus’ life flash before his eyes, before they are heading in the opposite direction toward whatever bar Alec has apparently fucked off and disappeared to this evening.

“I wanted to thank you for tonight,” Jace says as he presses his foot even harder on the gas, prompting Magnus to cling to the handle above the door generally used for hanging suits.

“For going after Morgenstern like that. I mean, I was on my way to do the same thing, and I think you seriously pissed off Raphael. He’s been fucking itching for a reason to kick the shit out of that guy all season. But that was real solid of you.”

“You’re welcome?” Magnus says because Jace is looking at him now, which means he is expecting some sort of response. But the words come out as a question given that he is still not entirely sure what is even happening here.

Jace reaches out and shoves him. “Man, though, you really kicked the shit out of him. Rumor mill has it you broke his nose, which is just, like, fucking golden. You’re one scary SOB when you’re pissed. Remind me never to fuck with your shit.”

Something heavy settles in Magnus’ gut when he says that, the words your shit burning a path through his veins as the implication burrows into his mind. Which is why he says, “I would have done that for anyone,” even though he knows that is not strictly true because he is not entirely comfortable with Jace implying that Alec is somehow his shit.

Magnus is not a fighter. In his seven years in the league he can count on one hand how many fights he’s been in, and the other three were all to defend himself, not others.

“Yuh-huh,” Jace says as he finally returns his full attention to the road. “Right, right, I got ya, but either way man, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he repeats, but this time the words only come out as a sigh. Because talking to Jace is not unlike talking to that light pole he tried to hit on all those years ago.

It takes them fifteen minutes to reach the bar, a quarter of an hour in which Jace does at least eight things that make Magnus fear for his life. And he is so grateful to place his feet on solid ground again that it takes him a moment to realize that Sound-Bar is in fact a club, complete with the sound of pounding bass music and a line wrapped halfway around the block.

Evidently Alec goes to clubs after all.

In a twist that would surprise no one in the entire city, possibly the country, Jace and the bouncer are on a first name basis. Which means they are able to gain entry to the club quickly. But once he is inside, Magnus is struck with the realization that one would be hard pressed to find a place less suited to Alec Lightwood than this.

It makes his heart sink. Because if Alec felt the need to come here to get away, it is obvious that his goal was to hide in plain, techno-beated sight. And Magnus is not sure he wants to discover what exactly Alec’s parents did to make him feel that way.

“You go left, I’ll take right!” Jace screams over the music currently rattling Magnus’ bones. “Text if you find him!” And then Magnus is left alone to wander the dim, strobe-lit establishment full of writhing, sweaty bodies in search of what is surely one very sad, very out of place Lost Puppy Giant.

He is not sure if he should be surprised that he is the one to find Alec first, but he is a bit shocked by how quickly he does it. It is almost as if his feet just know where to go, like there’s some part of him that can sense when Alec is near and is constantly pulled in that direction. And it might be a little unsettling to him if not for the fact that at this particular moment it is a great help.

He looks awful, Magnus can tell that even from ten feet out in a poorly lit room. He is leaning over the bar, holding his head up with one arm in a way that tips his face into the light behind the bar itself. And between the stitches, the initial bruising, the swelling, and the copious amounts of alcohol he has likely already imbibed, he is almost unrecognizable as himself.

There is a rather large part of Magnus that would like to wrap Alec in his arms, carry him out of here, take him some place safe. And that part has the rest of him in a veritable stranglehold as he slides into the thankfully open stool next to Alec and waits for Alec’s eyes to focus enough to recognize him.

The way his presence dawns on Alec, visibly relaxing him and pushing a small, warm smile across his lips makes Magnus’ chest ache. A pain that feels almost unbearable when Alec leans forward, runs a hand up Magnus’ thigh, presses the uninjured side of his face to Magnus’ shoulder and sighs his name like he has been lost in the desert and Magnus’ name is water itself.

“It’s time to go home, Alec,” he says as he risks pressing his lips to the top of Alec’s head because he simply cannot help himself right now, his arms wrapping around Alec’s body like he is trying to shield him from anything that may wish to cause him harm. But as even the smallest of actions have consequences, he is not terribly surprised that his cause Alec to lean in further, to wrap his arms tightly around Magnus’ waist, yanking him off the stool so that they can be plastered to one another.

In. Public.

This is not going well at all, and there is still quite a lot of land to cover before they are safely outside. And even there they are not necessarily safe, Magnus knows that full well. That even an abandoned alley seemingly free of any other forms of life apart from rats is not secure. But none of that changes the fact that he needs to find a way to get Alec out of this place and into an automobile of some sort before his level of inebriation allows him to do something he will most likely regret.

“Come on,” he groans as he hefts Alec off his stool, unwrapping Alec’s arms before draping one of them over his own shoulders for balance in a way that reminds him of Vegas. Of ill-fitting suits only here, now, there seems to be nothing ill fitting about either one of them. For a short while, though, things seem to be working well. Magnus is moving, Alec is moving, and to anyone not capable of reading minds all they would see is one sober friend helping a very drunk friend out of the club. But then…

Then Alec leans his head in again. Then Alec’s lips begin to work at Magnus’ neck. His tongue. His teeth. Then Alec is folding around him, is letting go of Magnus’ shoulders in favor of grabbing his hips. And before Magnus can even get a proper handle on any of that, Alec is dragging him into the middle of the dance floor.

There are a few things he is thankful for right now. Not many, but a few. The first of which is that, thanks to Alec’s injuries, he likely has more anonymity than he would otherwise enjoy. Because most people, when faced with that amount of facial deformation, are conditioned not to look much beyond it. Which means instead of seeing Alec Lightwood, Captain of Your Chicago Blackhawks, all they are likely to see is someone that has presumably been in one hell of an altercation.

That’s one thing.

The others are smaller than that, and include such facts as: Magnus is glad that he left his jacket in the car, not knowing how long they would be inside searching, because even in just the t-shirt he’d been wearing beneath it he is sweltering in here. Or, Magnus is glad that they are packed into the crowd like sardines, because even if someone were to recognize them, the likelihood that they’d be able to get a cell phone into a good enough position to photograph them is slim.

That is about it, though, because anything else he might be grateful for right now is tempered by the fact that there are a few hundred people surrounding them. Which means he cannot even begin to enjoy the way Alec is back at his neck, or the way Alec’s thumbs press down beneath his waistband, swiping over the sensitive skin just above his hips. He cannot melt into the way it feels to have Alec’s body pressed against his like a dream literally sprung to life because the only thing he can focus on is please do not let anyone film this.

They need to get out of here, but Magnus can tell that his own attempts are half-hearted at best, the way he is moaning the words, “Alec,” and, “stop,” in a way that Alec likely cannot even hear as he tips his head to give Alec free access to his neck. And for the second time this evening, Magnus loses himself, except now the only blood on his mind is the stuff pumping so hard through his veins he feels as if he is about to pass out.

When Alec grabs his hips and lifts Magnus just enough to drag him down his own thigh, Magnus realizes two things:

One: Alec is far too good at this for it to be his first foray into these types of feelings.

Two: If Magnus does not somehow find a way to extricate them from this situation, something very, very bad is going to happen.

So Magnus finally acts, in the way he should have all along. And the first step is to remove Alec’s hands from where they are trying once again to get inside his pants.

Once that is complete, he reaches for Alec’s head, cupping his face gently, making sure to avoid any parts of it that may cause pain as he lifts it up and shakes it slightly in the hopes of jarring Alec loose.

Alec Responsibility Lightwood, where are you?

“Alec,” he hisses, but there is something in Alec’s eyes that startles him, a darkness that Magnus can remember from the first day they met. And then Alec is grabbing his head, is leaning down, moving in, and Magnus has wanted this so badly that he almost lets Alec do it.

He almost lets Alec kiss him.

Before their lips touch, though, Magnus comes back to himself enough to hold him back, shaking Alec’s face a little more violently this time as he snaps the words, “Not now,” across his lips.

Not. Now.

It tears apart his insides to say that, to say those words, but he needs Alec to hear him right now and those are the only words he can think of that might hopefully break through the spell.

They work. In the most painful way possible, they work. And so a moment later Alec is pulling back, is looking down at Magnus with nothing but hurt and confusion in his eyes. And it is basically torture, seeing him this way, but it has given him the space he needs to finish his job and so he does it.

He puts Alec’s arm back over his shoulder for balance and walks him the rest of the way out of the club.

He texts Jace once they are outside, safely tucked around the corner in case Alec has any other bright ideas. He seems out of it now, though, as he sits on the curb with his face held in his hands. And Magnus would like nothing more than to be able to go to him, put his arm around him, offer comfort. But frankly he is too rattled to even touch Alec at the moment and so he keeps his distance.

Jace pulls up in Alec’s SUV a few minutes later, his eyes a little crazy as well like crazy is simply the order of the evening as he jogs around to help Magnus lift Alec off the curb.

“We gotta put him in here. I don’t think he’ll fit in the back of Giovanna,” he groans as they lift a mostly resistant Alec between them.

“Is Giovanna your car?” Magnus asks.

“Yeah.”

“You named your car?”

“You kidding me?” Jace asks as he reaches out to open the back door of the SUV. “I name everything. Wanna know what I call my-”

“No! I do not!” Magnus shouts as he lets go of Alec so that Jace can finish maneuvering him onto the bench. But Jace is simply smiling like an idiot when he turns to look at Magnus again.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, man. I was gonna say my condo.”

“No, you were not,” Magnus replies with absolute certainty. Which only causes Jace to laugh deeply and grip his shoulder.

“You’re right. I totally wasn’t,” he says before Magnus shakes him off rather violently.

“Why are you like this?” he asks as he wraps his arms around his stomach in the hopes of stemming off some of the cold.

“Why am I like what?”

The, “Nevermind,” that slips from Magnus’ lips is little more than a groan, though, as he wonders why he even bothers with Jace.

Once they establish that yes, Magnus knows how to drive a car even though he is from California and yes, he knows how to get back to Alec’s place, they split up again. And even though Alec is safely an entire car seat row away from him, as soon as Magnus closes the driver’s door he feels trapped again like he is back in that box, facing down seventeen minutes of hell.

His car smells like cheap Mexican food, that’s the first thing that registers. But any sense of bemusement over Alec’s ghastly food choices, given how impeccable his tastes are when actually cooking, are swallowed up as soon as he is dumb enough to look in the rearview mirror.

Alec’s right leg is bent at the knee, leaning against the back of the seat while his left foot rests on the floor in a way that pulls his body open towards the front of the car. And the way his arms are up, one flung over the top of his head while the other forearm rests across his eyes, tugs on his shirt, exposing far too much skin for Magnus’ comfort.

He rolls all the windows down as soon as the car is on, half to try and sober Alec up and half to cover up the way that he is shaking, as if he can somehow convince himself it is only because he is freezing. But Alec is moaning lightly in the backseat, is moving his lips in a way that suggests there is something interesting going on inside his mind, something Magnus wishes he could be part of. And it is almost enough to make him crack entirely.

To make him pull the car over, climb into the backseat and join him. But propriety and decorum remind him that anything done with a person in this state of intoxication would fall under the heading of taking advantage and so he drives, his entire body shaking all the way.

When Alec moans his name, Magnus almost jerks the car off the road. And it strikes him for not the first time in their acquaintance that there is a fair chance that Alec is going to be the death of him in one way or another.

He feels as if he can breathe again when they reach Alec’s parking garage. All he needs to do is hand Alec off to Jace and then he can leave, can hail a cab, go home, and bury himself in something less dangerous. But as with everything else this evening, simplicity is not in the stars for him.

It starts with Jace hauling Alec up to a sitting position inside the SUV, with him asking Magnus to crawl in the other side and hold Alec up so that he can literally pour a large cup of coffee down his throat. And Magnus is about to ask how Jace managed to get coffee and still beat them here but then he remembers his own white-knuckle grip on the bar above the door in Jace’s car and swallows the question.

Jace holds the back of Alec’s head tightly, refusing to let go until Alec has swallowed every last drop in the cup, calling out soothing words like, “C’mon, buddy, all the way,” as Alec swats his arms at Jace feebly while trying to escape his grip.

It’s almost painful to watch, but given Jace’s reaction to the situation it is also likely something they have done before. And so Magnus lets his worries go.

Alec chokes a little at the end, coughing out stray bits of coffee as Jace helps him out of the vehicle. And he still seems dazed as he regains his feet, but the coffee already seems to be helping judging by the way Alec sounds vaguely like Alec when he asks, “Where am I?”

“You’re home,” Jace replies as he takes his position under Alec’s left arm. “Or almost home, anyway. Just a short elevator ride and then we’ll have you safely tucked in bed.”

“We?” he asks right as Magnus is hopping out of the backseat. And any thoughts he had about Alec actually remembering what happened inside the club are clearly answered when Alec’s eyes land on him.

He looks completely befuddled, his voice bearing strong traces of the same emotion when he asks, “Magnus?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Magnus replies because he is a bitchy idiot as he leverages himself under Alec’s right shoulder.

But Alec does not seem to be deterred from his confusion as he begins to ask, “Why are you… oh fuck, hold on.”

He is vomiting at that, leaning over to try and find a place to do it that is a little less peopled. And the way Jace literally jumps away from him, forcing Magnus to hold Alec up on his own or risk him face-planting in his own puke, makes him want to punch Jace in the face.

“What?” Jace asks in response to the way Magnus glares at him as he helps Alec to a crouching position. “I’m not letting him ruin another pair of shoes. The cheap ass still hasn’t replaced the last pair yet.”

“Get it all out,” Magnus says soothingly while still glaring at Jace, one of his hands rubbing soft circles in between Alec’s shoulder blades as he continues to wretch onto the pavement.

“Are you all right?” Magnus asks when it appears that Alec has finished. And the look on Alec’s face when he turns his head to nod at Magnus is almost enough to break his heart.

He is ashamed. Deeply, deeply ashamed.

“Here,” Jace says a second later as he shoves a stick of gum in Alec’s face before smiling at Magnus and adding, “See? I’m helpful.” All of which are actions that do very little to curb the way he still feels like decking Jace right now.

“Would you just help me get him up?” he asks, unwilling to hide the anger in his voice.

But Jace either doesn’t pick up on it or doesn’t care, because his voice is just as chipper when he reaches down to help and says, “Sure thing, Mags.”

“Do not call me that,” Magnus replies as the pair of them complete their Alec Lightwood bookends once more.

“Aw, c’mon, why not? Raphael gets to call you that.”

“That is because I have known Raphael since I was twelve. You and I do not have that luxury.”

Luxury, Magnus thinks. What a poor choice of words.

“You’re no fun,” Jace says with an actual pout on his lips. And Magnus is too tired to even bother responding to him at this point.

All he wants to do is go home.

Jace seems to have no shortage of requests for him, though. Could you get the door? Could you help me get him to his bed? Could you take off his shoes while I get some water? And he knows what he is doing. For some reason, Jace is doing everything in his power to make sure that Magnus does not leave right now. The only thing he cannot figure out is why.

Magnus is just finishing removing Alec’s boots when Jace returns with an opened bottle of water with a bright pink bendy straw stuck in the top. And as Jace takes a seat next to Alec on the bed, lifting his head up far more gently than he had with the coffee so he can place the straw in Alec’s mouth, Magnus sees that as his opportunity to leave. Except a second later Jace is asking, “What happened, buddy?” and Magnus…

Well, Magnus is curious. And he’s made it this far into the evening already, hasn’t he? He’s already passed through every fiery trial the night has thrown at him. So he deserves to at least know what started all of it, right?

Once he has finished drinking half of the bottle of water, Alec tips his head back into his pillows, shuts his eyes, and says in the most miserable tone Magnus has ever heard, “They want me to get married.”

That… was not what Magnus was expecting.

“Maryse and Robert?” Jace asks, and Magnus is relieved at how confused Jace sounds because at least he is not alone here.

Alec nods his head slowly. “They said I’ve been dating her long enough. That it would be a good image boost for the team. That we…”

He pauses, opening his eyes to look briefly at Magnus before closing them again and rubbing his palms over his face as he groans the words, “They said that we need something to… deflect right now, and that an engagement is the perfect kind of PR the team needs.”

“Is this because of me?” Magnus finds himself asking, the question leaving his lips before he can really even form it properly in his head.

Alec says, “No,” at the same time Jace says, “Yes.” A response from Jace that prompts Alec to smack him hard on the shoulder.

“What?” Jace bites out as he rubs the area where Alec hit him. “I’m just trying to be fucking honest with the guy. Might be something you could try with him sometime, ass face.”

Magnus is only half paying attention to them at best as his mind searches through the last few weeks for problems he may not have noticed. Because the post game questions have been easier of late, more focused on hockey, less on his sex life. And sure, one of his male exes had done a piece with a gossip rag about a week ago, but that story had only been in the news cycle for a few days and none of the beat reporters had even asked him about it.

He’d thought it was because it was no longer news, because he was no longer news. But then he remembers the first game he was here, the way Isabelle and her parents had worked to snuff out the fire of Alec’s tirade before it could be made public, and it makes him wonder how many fires the Lightwoods have been putting out for him since he joined the team.

“If they were so worried about the PR surrounding me, why would they make the trade?” Magnus asks as he feels sick to his stomach for not the first time this evening.

“Honestly?” Jace asks as he turns to face him. “They want a Cup more and they got you for a fucking steal. They never met a bargain basement sale they could pass up, and they never invited a problem that they couldn’t bitch about afterward.”

“No offense, Alec, but your parents are assholes,” Magnus says bitterly, but the way Alec is looking at him makes him feel as if he just called Alec an asshole as well.

He wants to explain himself, wants to make it very clear to Alec that this is in no way his fault. But he’s not sure he would even be able to find the words to do that tonight, and is even less sure that Alec would be able to hear them in his current state. And so he lets the issue hang where it is and hopes that they will be able to find a way to rectify it sometime in the not too distant future.

“I gotta go call the Phone Tree, you mind sitting with him for a minute?” Jace asks as he rises from the bed. And Magnus is nodding in spite of how much he still wants to escape because he’s in this, apparently, for however long he’s needed.

He sits on the edge of the bed as soon as Jace is gone, resting his back against the headboard and stretching his legs along the edge of the mattress as he asks, “How are you doing?” to what appears to be a mostly passed out Alec.

“Depends. Is the room actually spinning?”

“No,” Magnus replies with a small, sad laugh.

“Then not good.”

“You know, you probably shouldn’t be lying on your back right now, in case you pass out. You don’t want to risk puking again in your-”

Before he can get the word sleep out, Alec is rolling onto his side.

Correction: Alec is rolling onto Magnus’ lap.

Instead of moving away like he probably should, Magnus actually sinks down further into the bed, giving Alec a more comfortable way to lay on him. And as Alec wraps his arms around his waist, resting his head on his stomach like Magnus is his new favorite pillow, any shot he had at leaving evaporates in front of his eyes. And he doesn’t just mean tonight.

He is broken, and Alec is the only glue left on the shelf.

“How much do you charge for drunken cuddles?” Alec asks softly a short while later.

“For you, Alexander?” Magnus says as he twists his fingers lightly in Alec’s hair. “They are free of charge.”

Alec squeezes him tighter at that, a response that only makes Magnus ache more deeply before the next words out of Alec’s mouth shatter his heart as effectively as a sledgehammer.

“Would you stay with me? Please?”

Magnus sighs, trying not to allow his voice to sound as raw as it feels when he replies, “Of course, Alec. I will stay as long as you want me to.”

“Thank you.”

Magnus rests his head back and shuts his eyes, his voice sounding distant even to him when he says, “You’re welcome. Now rest.”

Alec seems to follow his advice, judging by the way his breathing slows incrementally until he is likely sound asleep. And Magnus is just about to join him in that when Jace returns.

“You okay here?” he asks as he pulls a blanket from a nearby chair to cover where he and Alec are wrapped around one another. “You need anything before I head out?”

“I am fine,” Magnus lies. But what he needs right now Jace cannot supply, and so in this instance his claim is also technically the truth.

He assumes that is the end of it, that once Jace gets up to leave he will simply be gone. But he stops at the door instead, pausing for a few long seconds before turning around and saying, “I’m glad you’re here. And not… not just because of hockey.”

He pauses again, this time to absently scratch at the paint on the doorjamb before saying, even more quietly than before, “You’re good for him. And I just… I hope he’s good for you, too.”

Magnus finds that he is holding his breath again when Jace looks up at him, but he has no words in his vocabulary to respond to what Jace just said. So instead he just sits there in silence while Jace runs his fingers back through his hair, smiles, nods, and says, “Goodnight,” like that is simply the end of this.

“Goodnight,” Magnus replies with a tight nod of his own before Jace is heading out once more. And Magnus…

Magnus doesn’t know what to make of that, so he just adds it to the ever-enlarging list in his head of things about his life that no longer make sense. Every single one of which stems from the man currently passed out in his lap.

The one he is already fairly certain he will never be able to let go of.

#Malec #Magnus Bane #Alec Lightwood #Jace Wayland #holding the stick fic #hockey au #hockey fic

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