Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy’s dad hands him his bus pass and an envelope of cash—that he tells him to put in a safe place—while his mom just smothers his face with kisses. Tommy wriggles away from her, making a face, and wipes his cheek off on his sleeve. He’s fifteen, not five.

His mom says, “You call us once you get in,” as she dabs at his cheek with a Kleenex.

“That’s more than enough, Carol,” his dad says, sounding fondly exasperated.

“I’ll call, Mom, I promise,” Tommy says, dodging out of the way of her wadded up ball of Kleenex.

“Go on, son,” his dad says. “Make us proud.”

“Yes, sir.” Tommy and his dad exchange stiff, awkward hugs. Tommy’s mom hugs him tightly and sniffs back tears, clasping him against her chest.

Tommy can see the bus in the distance, creeping closer, exhaust billowing out behind it like fog in some horror movie. Tommy stoops down, picks up his carry-on and tucks his bus pass and money in his jacket pocket.

His mom and dad step back on the sidewalk and grab one another’s hands. It’ll be just the two of them back home now, with Tommy off playing junior hockey and Missy at college. For just a second, a brief flash, his parents suddenly look much, much older and Tommy wonders if they’ll still be the same people—if he’ll still be the same person—when he sees them next.

Tommy salutes them with a tip of the fingers and boards the bus.

-

The Reagans, his billets for this first year, at least, are much younger than his parents. Sean Reagan—he insists that Tommy call him Sean, not Mr. Reagan, much too formal—is in his forties, and still young-looking, fit. His wife, Rebecca, is pretty and blonde, the kind of woman Tommy’s mom sometimes snidely calls a “trophy wife.”

Rebecca asks Tommy about his parents and his sister as they load his stuff into the back of the Reagan family station wagon. Tommy squeezes his luggage between the spare tire and a dismantled stroller.

The ride back to the Reagans’ is quiet and uneventful. Tommy takes in the scenery that floats by, as if on clouds. Lots of green, speckled with an occasional splash of brown-and-white—grazing cows, Rebecca points out. Tommy’s used to the city; being out in farm country with the Reagans will take some getting used to.

Tommy gives voice to this thought that’s been rattling around in his brain, and Rebecca turns in her seat to smile at him. Her lips pull back against her teeth, not quite a smile, and she gives his knee a squeeze.

-

That first night at the Reagans’, Tommy lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling. Tree branches scratch against his window like fingernails on a chalkboard. Shadows play at the corners of his vision; when Tommy turns his head to get a look at them, they vanish, like he’d spooked them into hiding.

Tommy’s not homesick. He’s fifteen. He’s a big boy now.

His bedroom door creaks open and, for a moment, Tommy thinks Henry, Sean and Rebecca’s little boy, has wandered into his room. He sits up in bed a bit and squints at the door.

Rebecca closes it behind her gently. Her long white nightgown flutters around her ankles.

She stands there, silent, her back against the door. She whispers loudly, almost theatrically, “Sean can’t know I’m here.”

Tommy’s not even sure she's speaking to him. She’s not even looking at him, she’s looking at the ceiling. Rebecca fixes him with her gaze—muted blue in the dark—and crosses the room to him.

Tommy scrambles back until his shoulder blades hit the headboard. Rebecca’s cool blue eyes pin him down, paralyze him.

Tommy can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage like a prisoner trying to break free.

Rebecca settles next to him in his bed and smiles her pretty red smile at him. Her hand finds its way to his shoulder, he can see the sparkle of her rings out of the corner of his eye. She rubs her hand down his arm gently. Still smiling that pretty smile that suddenly makes Tommy feel like he has hot lead in his stomach. Like he has a fist around his throat.

“You can’t tell anyone,” is what Rebecca tells him, still smiling, but it’s different now, sharp at the edges. She slips her hand away from his arm, finally. Flips her blonde hair behind her shoulders and reaches up to unfasten the top buttons of her nightgown. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

Tommy shakes his head, wants to say stop, wants to say, no. This is wrong but he can’t get the words out.

“Promise me.”

Rebecca puts a hand on Tommy’s thigh and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes copper. He wants to yell, lash out, maybe even strike her, but when he opens his mouth she leans in and takes what he never meant to give her.

-

Tom’s with the boys—out celebrating a solid win with a couple cold beers at a local pub—when he sees her. She’s older now, sagging, tired, almost unrecognizable, but he’d know her anywhere. He’d know that mouth, those eyes.

Looks like she fought gravity and lost, he thinks meanly, a warm, welcome stab to the gut.

She’s still beautiful though. Haughty, with her head held high, her blue eyes cool and blank, her blonde hair a bit more gray now. She’s sitting with a blond boy who could’ve been Tom when he was that age. She’s holding his hand in hers, cradling it almost. It’s probably her son, Henry. He’d be about fifteen now, wouldn't he? Same age as Tom.

Tom’s stomach tumbles, threatens to force up the beers he’s already downed tonight. He waves a finger in the air, signals for another. His teammates give him looks—hiked eyebrows, smirks because he's had, like, five already—but say nothing. It’s not unusual for Tom to go hard on an off-night. He’s usually good by morning skate anyway. He’s responsible, he drinks a lot of water, pops some Ibuprofen, never shows up hungover. He’s good. He’s responsible. He’s fine.

“She someone you know?” Reeder laughs and leans into Tom’s shoulder.

Tom doesn’t need to look to know who Reeder’s talking about. “Nah.”

“She’s looking at you like she saw a ghost,” Reeder says. He's not laughing anymore.

“She’s not my type.” Tom forces a laugh and downs a slug of his fresh beer. The bottle is slippery and cold. It feels good in his hand. Solid, safe. No one can notice how badly his hands are sweating now if his beer bottle is covered in condensation.

They can’t see how badly his hands are shaking if he’s holding a bottle like his life depends on it, either.

Ivan says something in Russian that Tom doesn’t quite catch; he’s learned some Russian over the years, being Ivan’s center, but not enough, apparently.

“What was that?” Tom asks, sure he doesn’t want to know.

“Maybe she a cougar.” Ivan enunciates with a studied, careful precision. He smiles at Tom, a gap-toothed, friendly smile. Nudges him under the table with his foot.

Tom squirms a little bit, bumping back into Reeder’s shoulder. “You should go over and find out then, Ivan,” he says smartly, but if Ivan goes over there he’ll probably launch himself across the table and tackle him around the waist.

But maybe it’s not her. That nagging little hint of doubt tugs at the back of his brain. It’s been almost ten years, Tommy. Maybe you’re just seeing what you want to see.

Tom drinks his beer aggressively. His collar suddenly feels too tight. I’m not ‘Tommy’ anymore. I haven’t been ‘Tommy’ since I was fifteen. He finishes off his beer and asks for another. Someone puts a hand on Tommy—Tom’s shoulder, squeezes gently.

“You okay over there?” Micheletti. His captain. Tom relaxes into his touch a little bit.

“I’m fine.” Tom pushes his empty bottle aside.

“You sure?” Micheletti asks.

Tom clutches at his bottle and shifts in his seat until he and his captain are mostly at eye level. “Mick, can I talk to you somewhere private?”

“Sure.” His captain sounds concerned now. He pushes his chair away from the table, legs screeching across tile. Everyone looks up at the sound, especially her. And the blond boy that looks so much like Tom did at his age.

Tom heads for the restrooms, ducks behind a corner and waits next to an out-of-order payphone. Micheletti follows, hands tucked into his pockets. Fatherly concern written in the lines on his face. Care, for Tom, his well-being. It makes Tom’s stomach jump into his throat, the care and concern. It makes him feel almost guilty. Like he isn’t worthy of it.

“What’s up, Anderson?”

Tom glances back over his shoulder. The woman’s table is empty now. She and the boy are gone. His chest feels less constricted. He feels like he can breathe now.

“That woman,” he starts. Stops, unsure of how to continue, unsure of what to say next. Tom doesn’t know if he can say what he needs to say. Doesn’t know if he can be honest with anyone, least of all himself.

“Yeah?” Micheletti prompts him gently. His hand lands on Tom’s back, between his shoulder blades, and rubs. Reassuringly.

“I’m pretty sure that woman, that she—“ Tom says, faltering, losing steam. “When I was a kid I moved a few hours away from home to play junior hockey. Lived with this couple and their kid. The wife, she… Her name was Rebecca. She was… I’m pretty sure that was her.”

Micheletti’s hand stills between Tom’s shoulder blades. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask Tom to say any more. It’s like he already knows.

Tom sweeps a hand through his hair, tugs at the damp strands hard until he yanks out a few. He flicks them off the ends of his fingers.

“You know some crazy shit happened to me in juniors,” Tom says. He leaves it at that.

The silence between them is heavy, like a smothering blanket. Tom can’t breathe.

“Christ,” is all Micheletti says.

“After a while, there were rumors. My parents found out, got pissed. I got bounced to another team in another city. Never saw her or her husband or the kid again. Far as I know, she got off scot-free.”

Tom takes a few deep breaths, lets them go slowly. The air around him feels less heavy now.

“Are you—you want someone to come back with you?” Micheletti asks. “Not sure you should be alone tonight, Tom.”

“I’ll be—” Tom’s about to say fine, but he stops himself. He hasn’t been fine in nearly ten years. “Actually, that’d be great.”

“I’ll let the guys know we’re heading out then,” he says.

Tom stays by the broken payphone. He can hear Micheletti’s voice carrying over faint music and his teammates’ mindless chatter. Someone cracks a joke about Tom going home with the captain that makes Tom grit his teeth and clench his hands into fists. He’ll fight that battle some other time. He’s got no fight left in him, not tonight.

Micheletti comes back for him a few minutes later, both their coats in hand. Tom grabs his coat and pulls it on. He feels Micheletti’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing, as if to reassure Tom that he’s still there.

-

Tom has this one particular dream sometimes, where he’s still in juniors. Still living with the Reagans. Trapped. Dreams of Rebecca taking him by the hand and pulling him quietly down the hall, tiptoeing past Henry’s sealed bedroom door, to the room where Tom stays.

He knows, in some hazy, gauze-filled space in his brain, that this is a dream because it never quite happened this way, not exactly like this. Rebecca had a certain way of doing things, a certain routine she never deviated from.

Then she’s shutting the door behind them. Pushing and pushing until the backs of Tom’s thighs hit the mattress and he tumbles back onto it. When he tries to pull away from her, he realizes he’s paralyzed. Rebecca crawls on top of him, tossing her head back and laughing like this is a game, and her weight is a heavy presence on his chest. The scent of rotting flowers claws into his nostrils.

Rebecca lifts her white nightgown up—always white cotton, fluttery like wings, that damn white nightgown imprinted indelibly on his mind—slowly, slowly—

That’s usually when he wakes, drenched in sweat, damp sheets tangled around his bare legs. When he and Katie were still together, she’d get him a glass of water and rub his back until he felt like he could get back to sleep. He really misses her sometimes. He hasn’t called her since the break-up. Figures he owes her that much, at least.

This time, when Tom jolts awake, it’s to a dark bedroom, to an empty bed. He stares up at the shadows that creep across the ceiling and counts his heartbeats, tries to steady his breathing. When he reaches over to snap on the bedside lamp, it’s gone, and he realizes he must have knocked it over while he was dreaming.

There’s a gentle knock on the door and Tom jumps nearly a foot in the air.

“Yeah?” he calls out, leaning out of bed to pick up the fallen lamp.

“It’s Mick.” Tom had forgotten Micheletti was spending the night. “You okay, Tom?”

“I’m fine,” Tom calls out, setting the lamp back on the nightstand. He turns it on and pale golden light fills the room. It’s almost comforting. “Had a nightmare. I knocked over a lamp. It’s nothing.”

“Okay,” Micheletti says. He sounds dubious, but not willing to push for more just yet. “I’m out in the living room if you need me. Just holler.”

He listens to Micheletti’s footsteps on the hardwood floor as he heads back down the hall.

Tom’s so grateful to have a captain—a friend—who cares enough to stick around and make sure Tom’s okay even if he’s not entirely sure why he might not be. It hasn’t always been like this, he hasn’t always had someone like Katie or Micheletti by his side.

Tom settles back in bed and holds a hand over his chest. He can still feel his heartbeat pounding, somehow, under his thin cotton t-shirt, through skin, blood, and bone. His chest is still tight, like there’s a band around it, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

Tom closes his eyes, takes a few more deep breaths, counts them out until he feels less like he’s going to pass out from a lack of oxygen.

There’s still that strange fluttering feeling in his chest, but he’s good now. He’s good.

-

Tom wakes up the next morning to the smell of bacon. He rolls onto his back and slowly rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Stretches and rolls his shoulders, works at getting the kink out of his neck. As his brain slowly boots itself up, he realizes his captain is in his kitchen, making him breakfast.

Tom gets out of bed and pads down the hall.

Micheletti is hovering over the stove with a spatula. He’s even got on Tom’s embarrassing KISS THE CHEF apron, the one with the fake lipstick stains that Ellsy got him last year for his twenty-fourth birthday. Tom leans in the doorway and stifles a yawn behind his hand. Micheletti notices him then and waves at him.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Like a baby,” Tom says, scratching at the center of his chest. “You?”

“Pretty good,” Micheletti says, turning his attention back to the frying pan on the stove. “Would’ve been better if your couch wasn’t as hard as a rock, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining last night.” Tom wanders into the kitchen and sits himself at the table. “See you found everything just fine.”

Micheletti snaps off the stovetop burner and loads up some plates with bacon and scrambled eggs. He brings the plates and some silverware over to the table and sets one in front of Tom before taking a seat across from him.

“How’re you feeling about…everything,” Micheletti asks, choosing his words carefully.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around me,” Tom says, picking up a piece of bacon. He nibbles at it daintily. The grease drips down his fingers. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Of course not. I’m your captain. I’m supposed to look out for you, though,” Micheletti says. He looks ridiculous in that KISS THE CHEF apron.

“So babysitting me’s a job to you?” Tom flashes a smile so Micheletti knows he’s not being serious, but he isn’t sure it takes.

“I don’t consider any of this a job, Tom,” he says. “Stephanie practically wants to adopt you. And Chloe already seems to think you’re her cool new big brother.”

Tom wipes his hand on the hem of his t-shirt. “Okay. I just don’t want you to think you have to, like, hold my hand or something because of last night.”

Micheletti cuts his bacon with a knife and eats it with a fork. Tom’s never met anyone else who does that, besides him. “I know. I’m looking out for you because I want to. We all are. Reeder, Ivan, and Yannick all blew my phone up last night wanting to know what’s going on, if you’re okay. If there’s anything they can do. Got a few more from some of the other guys this morning.”

It hits him then. Really gets him like he’s just gone down to block a shot and taken it off the chin.

Tom stares at his plate.

“We’re all here for you if you need us,” Micheletti says, around a mouthful of bacon.

Tom swallows back a lump of something in his throat at that. Probably bacon that went down the wrong pipe. Tom says, “Thanks, Mick,” mostly to his now-empty plate.

He hears Micheletti stop chewing and put down his fork and knife. He wonders briefly if he messed up this dynamic they’ve got going or something, wonders if he should apologize for getting sentimental. Then Micheletti’s chair pushes back from the table and he’s at Tom’s side, putting a steadying hand on his back.

Micheletti pulls his hand away. Gentle, careful. “Anytime, buddy.”

Tom gets up too and, before he can really sort through all his jumbled thoughts or the feelings hollowing out his chest, he gets Micheletti in a hug. He doesn’t have the words for what he feels. Maybe this is enough. He’s not sure.

After a few quiet moments, Tom pulls back and wipes his eyes on the collar of his t-shirt. He’s good, though. The hollow feeling in his chest is filling in, slowly. Micheletti looks on in a mix of concern and hope.

“Should probably…get ready or something,” Tom says articulately.

“Right. You go on, I’ll put everything away,” he says, gesturing to the kitchen table and the plates and forks.

When Tom comes back a few minutes later, they head out for the arena together.