Chapter Text
September 2013
Suguru spends the entire offseason pointedly ignoring what happened at the wedding, even when they go to Tampa to train with a few NHLers when Satoru is invited, and a guy that Suguru has maybe talked to three times his entire career so far nudges him in the ribs and says, "he a good lay or what?"
Suguru's heard it all before, on the ice. There's rumours, them in juniors, college, them on the road, them in the locker rooms. Other guys do it, apparently, even if the names don't filter through very often and the circumstances even less. Stress relief, or something. Not real as long as you can still look each other in the eye and go home to your wife and kids after, hey?
But from someone he doesn't play with? Someone he doesn't know? It's jarring. He'd pretended not to know, said who? with a blank look on his face, and the guy had the good sense to look embarrassed about it, not push any further.
The thing is that no one gives Satoru shit like that, because he'll give it right back. And Satoru, who’s pretty universally liked by journalists and staff, is not someone that you really want to make an enemy of: he makes playing against the Angels hell, if he doesn’t like you. He made an enemy out of one of the curses during the rivalry games last season and Suguru is pretty sure he ended up with broken ribs. It wasn’t even from Satoru, in the end, it was a pretty hefty hit from Pez that did it, but still. He did it in a way that meant he didn’t even take a penalty.
Suguru would ultimately call himself a lot more even-keeled than Satoru is. He’s not a big fighter. He got shit for not being good at it, until he dropped his gloves in their second game against Ottawa because their idiot player had gone for Oaks. Don’t touch the goalie. He needed reminding of the rules.
He got back into the locker room after the second period, and Pez was almost acting surprised, clapping him on the back. “He needed that, huh?”
And yeah, he did need it, he needed reminding, but-
Suguru often gets stuck between hating that he isn’t more like Satoru, and being proud of it. He doesn’t like how Satoru hides behind his own chirps and shit-talking to hide his weaknesses, and he doesn’t like how he plays dirty when it suits him. He doesn’t like that he rolls his eyes at referee decisions, and he doesn’t like the brashness. But where Suguru is level and calm, Satoru can channel all of that into the game. Make the stadium and the fans light up. Be beloved, mythologised.
So Pez’s surprise at Suguru stepping up to the plate to defend his own teammate? It made something crawl low in his stomach. He knows he’s not a big fighter. He doesn’t pretend to be. But some things cross the boundaries he set for himself and that was one.
So he’d stood at the edge of the room, looking at this guy doing training exercises and thinking about Pez and how out of place he’d felt in those moments despite his captain literally welcoming him in.
Suguru and Satoru are still living together in the new season. There was no point in moving out, and they work better together anyway. Satoru actually cooks if Suguru is in the house, instead of just ordering takeout. They keep each other in check.
Satoru is currently lounging on the couch eating carrot sticks. With hummus. Suguru still isn’t sure what hummus is, but Satoru apparently likes it.
The TV crackles and Satoru snorts.
“What’re you watching?”
“Cup finals,”
Suguru squints at the screen. He can only really tell the colour of the jerseys, but it’s not from last season. “What?”
“From like, ages ago,” Satoru says, crunching around another carrot and sliding it into his cheek. “My mom sent me a message about it. Something about me taking a similar penalty in the playoffs, or you, maybe,”
“You don’t like watching hockey,”
“Nah, I don’t,” Satoru pauses the TV and looks up, over the couch cushions, “you wanna do something else?”
Suguru does.
—
His phone doesn’t ring very often. The only person who ever really calls is Satoru, usually asking something inane like what he wants to eat, or could he please please please get something on the way home?
So when his phone rings as he’s hauling his bag onto his shoulders leaving the rink from training by himself, he groans, fishing it out his pocket without looking at the contact. "Yeah, hello, what'd you want?" He huffs down the line, "I'll be back in a bit,"
"Getou," the voice on the other end of the line says, and that's-- not Satoru.
"Oh. Yaga?"
"Yes. Are you around? Perry said he saw you earlier."
"At the rink? I mean. Um. Yeah." Suguru stutters, adjusting his bag on his shoulders, wracking his mind for something he's done wrong, some sort of fireable offense or breach of contract that he didn't realise he'd done. "Why? Is something wrong,"
"Nothing's wrong," Yaga soothes, and Suguru breathes out a sigh of relief through his teeth, away from the microphone, "just swing by before you leave. We're in the offices,"
"Sure, is now okay? I was just leaving, so," Suguru says, dumping his bag in the alcove by the door. He can't be asked to trek with it all the way up to the offices. There's no point. He’ll get it on his way out.
"Yes. See you in a bit, Suguru," Yaga says, and hangs up. Suguru looks down at his reflection in his black screen and frowns. If it's not bad--
He doesn't let himself carry on that train of thought, and walks along the hallway, before he takes the stairs two at a time. Knocks three times on the door. Holds his breath.
Pez is there, leaning against the desk where Yaga is sitting. "You can sit, you know," Pez grins. He's completely at ease, shoulders back. He has a tan, more freckles on his arms from the summer spent in Europe. Suguru sits.
"We want to make you an alternate captain for this season," Yaga says, matter-of-fact. "You've been dependable so far, and we get a lot of the younger players saying you've helped them. We think it'll be good for morale."
Suguru blinks a few times. "Me."
"Yes. Why are you so surprised?"
Why is he so surprised? He's only done one full season in the NHL. There are guys on the team who've been here five times as long, who don't have an A. There's guys with way more experience of winning and losing. "Uh. What about- anyone else?"
Pez raises an eyebrow, "you mean Gojo?"
Suguru hadn't really been thinking about him specifically, but now that he thinks about it- "yeah."
Yaga taps the desk. "To be honest, we considered him. He's a good player: you know he's good, you play with him more than most. The thing is that he's not good at smoothing things over, keeping things calm like you are. You're good with refs. Keeping 'em sweet, you understand,"
Suguru doesn't, but he nods. "Sure."
“Look.” Pez says, levelling with him, “hockey’s hockey. It doesn’t matter if it’s the NHL or the NCAA. You were a Captain there, and you were good at it. This isn’t any different. Everyone respects you. I want to give you the A, I think you’re a good fit,”
“Thank you,”
“Well, you can go,” Yaga says, “we just wanted you to know before the media.”
Suguru goes and laughs out loud in the car by himself, before fumbling around with his phone and hitting call.
“Hey, Satoru, you’ll never guess what Pez just told me,”
—
It turns out Pez had told Satoru that he was in the running for an A ages ago and he was ecstatic he didn’t need to keep the secret anymore.
—
The first game of the preseason is away, because of course it is. Hockey is always better at home, and last year, for his first game in the NHL, Suguru had had the privilege of walking out into the clutch of their own fans. This year, they’re all the way in fucking Carolina, about as far as they can go in the division.
It’s not the world’s worst place. It’s not even close to Suguru’s favourite place to play though: that’s New York, in either stadium, because even when they’re away versus the Curses the atmosphere is electric. Then there’s Toronto, because it’s sort of home and Satoru lit up when they played there, waving to his mom in the crowd. Suguru’s sort of biassed towards Edmonton because Shoko had come to that game, so he remembers it fondly. They’d lost in overtime and still gone out after, gotten thoroughly drunk and hazy.
Shoko had ended up with Satoru’s jersey on the plane back. None of them really know how she did.
Anyway: Raleigh. Which means their first game back, even if it counts for precisely nothing but momentum, which they’re not in dire need of so early on, is on enemy ice. They head into the season with zero injuries and a full sort-of healthy roster, which is a rarity on any team, but given that Suguru has been following the Angels since Satoru was signed, particularly for their team. They’ve gotten much, much younger over the last three years in particular though, and Suguru is one of the players bringing the average down.
Satoru, however, is bouncing off the walls of the away locker room. Not physically, obviously, but–
“They play good hockey,” he says, to Suguru, in Japanese, trying to hide his excitement. Satoru said once that he shouldn’t still be this excited to play, like a rookie wagging his tail at the captain trying to prove his worth. Satoru says he’s proved himself, made good on the first draft pick, and he feels like an idiot, still being this invested in every game.
Suguru would argue that as a professional hockey player, it’s sort of a requirement to be invested. “The roster’s changed a bit. They put that guy up on the second line, for this season,”
Suguru can’t remember his name, but Satoru can. “Miller? The super freckly one?” Suguru nods, and Satoru chews the inside of his cheek. “He was annoying on the penalty kill, at home, you remember?”
Suguru does. He considered getting a high sticking penalty just to teach him a lesson, then thought better of it. It’s always better to be outside of the box. “Yeah. Mostly clean though,”
“It’s more annoying when they’re clean,” Satoru groans, tipping his head back on the bench. “Then it feels like a skill issue,”
“Maybe it is,”
“Nah, never for me. Maybe for you-”
Suguru cuts him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs, never mind injuring him.
—
The Angels win a lot more than they lose of their preseason matchups. It doesn’t mean anything at all, because most of the teams they play against are either injured or struggling. They’re being tipped to win the semis already, and whilst Suguru thinks it might be slightly stupid to put that expectation on them so early, he can see it, too.
—
"I feel like Gojo and Getou are our good luck charms," Jack says, in the locker room at the first game of the actual season. They're away, again, but in New Jersey, and Suguru swears he can hear the crowd, even as Pez snorts.
"How? We lost in the semis with them both on the ice last season,"
"Nah. Since the kiss," Jack says, waggling his eyebrows. "We've not lost in overtime since the kiss,"
"We've only gone to overtime twice," Satoru huffs, from where he's sitting, shirtless, putting tape around his ankles. He has a specific way of doing it, the same since they were in high school. Suguru thought a lot of things would have changed when Satoru went to the NHL before him, but they haven’t. "Don't be stupid,"
"I'm just saying. It's gotta be black magic. The hockey gods like seeing you two together,"
"Aw thanks, it's because we're good, hope that helps," Satoru grins, not looking up. The guys laugh in scattered patches around the room. Suguru hopes no one notices how he's gone stiff.
"Yeah, yeah. And you're doing more black magic in the hotel rooms, right?" Jack grins, and one of his little rookie mates, another nineteen-year-old with no tact whatsoever, makes a motion with his mouth like he's sucking a dick. Oh. That's just fucking great.
Suguru remembers how Matty and company used to do shit like that back when they played in high school. He thought they'd matured since then. Obviously not. What was he even expecting?
"Yeah, like you and that forward from the Curses, right?" Satoru finally looks up, "training together in the offseason and all, right? You get a condo on the island? All to yourselves?"
"Oh, shut up," Jack flushes, "you think you're funny,"
"I am, actually," Satoru grins, "and smart, and fast, and good with a stick, and-"
"Alright, stop listing shit, we get it, Prince Charming," the rookie says from beside Jack. Suguru gets it, sort of, how it must be tiring to be compared to the new greatest all the time, have him in their team as a benchmark, but ultimately, the kids need to take it, too, if they're gonna dish it out.
"Alright, kid," Oaks laughs, ruffling at Satoru's hair as he walks past to go to his stall. He looks weird and small without all his padding on, like half a person. "Just whatever you're doing with him, keep doing it. I like winning, and I like not having to stop fifteen pucks in a period, so,"
"Yeah, yeah," Satoru says, going back to his tape, eyebrows lowered. When Suguru looks up to Pez, he's looking the other way.
—
They win: five goals to two. Satoru scores twice, once off an assist from Pez on his right, and once from Suguru on his left. The other three goals come from one of last year's rookies who gets his first NHL goal (that's incredible, everyone piles on him as he cries), one from Pez himself, and one from Suguru, who manages to hit a puck in past the goalie's arm and set the horns blaring.
An away win is always better than a home win, in Suguru's opinion. There's pros and cons for each. The atmosphere at a home win is so much more electric, like skating into their open arms and saying yeah, I did this for you, were you all watching? They belong to the fans at home: the fans belong to them.
But winning away is like tearing their opponent's throats out, staring down the blood and saying you wanna go again?
They can’t win every game. They both need downtime and they’ll probably both end up injured at some point in the season, but this– this is good. Winning is always good, even with the bruises.
Suguru leans back against the wall in the locker room and closes his eyes. It’s serene, after a win. His brain finally goes quiet. No more strategy churning like a hurricane. No more shouting to keep track of. No more sounds of blades on the ice. Just good old fashioned silence.
“See, told you it was them. You got something magic in ya, Getou, to give Satoru those goals tonight? He was on fire,”
Suguru cracks an eye open to see Jack again, beaming down at him like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke. He hasn’t. He’s about to tell him so, but Satoru appears behind him, giving him a shove that’s just a bit too hard to be friendly. “Just talent, baby,”
“Baby! You hearing this, Getou? Your boyfriend calling me baby-”
“Not my boyfriend,” Getou grins, lazily, “but you can suck my dick if you think it’ll give you something extra?”
The entire locker room laughs at that one. Suguru feels it swell in him. Look who’s in control now.
—
They have two days off before their next game: their first game at home. Suguru goes to morning ice and stays late. Helps a couple of the rookies with their precision on the shots, afterwards, trying not to notice their wide eyes and glances between each other.
Yaga gathers them all to watch tape of Tampa’s last game against Boston in the playoffs last year, and given that Satoru’s essentially a vet now, they get to pile in at the back, maybe pay a bit less attention than some of the newer guys. Satoru leans back against his chair, rocking in it slightly as he squints at the screen. Yaga’s explaining something about their completely overpowered first line and their powerplay tactics, but Suguru isn’t listening. He’s watching the way Satoru’s jaw flexes as his eyes flick across the screen, paying attention for once. Setting an example.
He wonders if they should have given him the A. He’s the better player, and everyone knows it; he has the silverware to prove it. The Calder in 2009, the Lindsay somehow last season, whilst Suguru was awarded the Calder four years too late. Always a step behind. Satoru had joked about just needing a Selke, thinking about brushing up on his defense, or switching to being a goalie for a Venzina. Suguru had laughed with him about it. But it’s not like he’s not heard the whispers about the leadership decisions, even so early in the season, it’s not like he’s not seen the journalists saying it shouldn’t have been him. That he’s still too green.
He’s playing alongside one of the future greats. It doesn’t matter how good he is on the assist, he’s not a specialist goal scorer like he is. He’s not–
Satoru hums, tapping Suguru’s shoulder. “Their second goalie isn’t great. He let that in so easy. We have this.”
Suguru takes a deep breath in and looks back to the screen. “Yeah, we do,”
—
Their first game at home is a shutout. A fucking shutout!
Neither he nor Satoru is on the ice when the third period ends with their four goals in hand to Tampa’s none, but Satoru watches Pez fly down the ice towards their offensive zone in the final seconds, fighting up until the end. Satoru is shouting from the other end of the bench, arms braced on the barriers, grin wild. Suguru joins him as the final five seconds play out, and the crowd rises to their feet with them. The gloves go flying as the team jumps on each other in centre ice, Satoru grabbing at Suguru’s wrist and tugging him towards his chest, “your goal in the second! It was so good, Suguru!”
They’ve just won four goals to none and Satoru got one of them. But he’s congratulating Suguru on his. His chest hurts, and there’s a bruise forming on his side from a brutal hip check in the first, but- “we won. Shutout!”
“It’s ‘cause of you!”
It isn’t. But Suguru can pretend.
—
There’s a bar, then a club, and then a VIP section, and Satoru attached to him at the hip the entire time, shouting in his ear, both of them buzzing off the win. Satoru buys him drinks for the assist on the goal in the second, and Suguru isn’t exactly complaining.
Oaks claps Satoru on the shoulder on their way out and grins, “don’t fuck him too hard, he needs to be on the ice tomorrow.”
Satoru just rolls his eyes and laughs. Suguru’s drunk enough that he can’t really feel anything about it until the next morning, when he’s watching Satoru cook eggs for them both in the kitchen with messy hair in just a T-shirt and his boxers.
Then he thinks about it, how they go home together, how they could be mistaken for a couple from a distance, how everyone on the team is taking the piss out of it. How the in-joke is that they’re fucking and Satoru lets it roll off him like water from a duck.
—
The winning streak can’t last forever. The dominance definitely can’t. They go on the road to play Boston, who drag them to overtime then a shootout, which they win, but only just. Washington plays a scrappy game and Suguru takes a beating trying to keep the puck in their offensive zone because the defense isn’t doing their fucking jobs.
Because he’s an alternate, now, he can tell them to get their shit together on the bench, shouting as Jack nods furiously. They still lose, two goals to one. Their goalie is annoyingly good, and even a combination of Suguru and Satoru on the powerplay can only get one goal in.
Satoru comes to his hotel room after and lies face down for a couple of hours whilst Suguru watches the tape back. “That was bad,”
Suguru hums an agreement.
“Who on defense is injured?”
“Nothing major.” Nothing to cause play that bad.
Satoru shifts, and looks up at him, cheeks still squished in the covers. “I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone, but Oaks’ heel- his achilles, I mean- is bad again. He didn’t even mean to tell me, I dragged it out of him. He’s trying to play through it and I told him he’s an idiot because we’ll need him way more in the playoffs, but-”
“I’ll tell Pez,” Suguru says, “you’re right. We can afford to have him off now, but not once we get to the cup run.”
“You think we’re in with a chance?”
Suguru looks down at Satoru, whose cheeks are flushed, whose hair is still fluffy from his shower. “Yeah, I think we can have a go at it.”
“Good,” Satoru grins. Suguru grins back.
—
Suguru thinks they might have tempted the hockey gods by admitting they have a run at the cup. Pez pretends to notice Oaks’ ankle, which isn’t hard because he’s favouring the right when he skates, and takes him off for the next few games, on a week-by-week basis. Their second goalie is a kid called Alek, but he’s not had as many starts and he’s definitely not as good as Oaks is.
Suguru gets another shot past him that’s saveable, and he groans. From somewhere across the ice, he hears the whispers from Jack and his little rookie mate, Louis, he thinks his name is. He barely starts, anyway, relegated to the fourth line. He doesn’t matter.
Suguru claps Alek on his shoulders on their way out of training, tells him to call Oaks for advice.
—
After their fourth loss in a row, they have three days off before they face the Curse at home.
Suguru isn’t an idiot. He knows they need to win this one, both for the trajectory of the team, their place in the standings, and to please the fans. Games against the Curse are always a little more important. This year they have two games back-to-back in the first half of the season, then another two after the All-Star break. Well. Satoru thinks he’ll be tapped in for All-Star, and if he is, Suguru will go with him. So not much of a break, really.
Training is tense. Satoru is out, resting because a hefty, dirty hit into the boards against Carolina in their last game had bruised the entire left side of his ribs. It had resulted in a penalty, at least, and Pez converted it pretty quick with a neat assist from Olly. The bruises were gnarly when Suguru went to the trainers to check on him, already blooming into black and blue. He’d still been trying to convince them to let him play in the third, the psychopath, snapping a piece of gum between his teeth in place of his mouthguard, until Suguru went over and told him they’d be fine. They weren’t: they lost in overtime, but Satoru is no use to them with broken ribs. He’d have to deal.
Satoru’s apparently been cleared for the game on Saturday, but he has to take it easy right up until the last moment. So he’s not here. And they’re running drills. And Pez has decided that now is the time to be tough. Suguru can handle it but without Satoru here, and with Oaks still out, he knows this game is going to be violent. Hard on them.
He lets himself breathe in the locker room, head tipped back against the stall, eyes shut. His knees and his thighs ache, he needs to ask for a massage probably, and he needs to ice his ankles again, and he needs to buy more tape. He wonders if Satoru bought some like he asked.
“Is Gojo gonna be okay to play?” Alek asks, pulling off his pads. He looks like he’s not entirely sure who to look at: Suguru or Pez. Suguru sighs.
“Yeah. He’s just sore. Still being annoying as fuck, so he’s probably fine already. Trainers are just being cautious,”
“Gojo? Annoying to live with?” Pez laughs as he sits down beside him, pulling off his jersey, “never would have guessed,”
“He never shuts up,” Suguru grins back, because everyone knows how annoying he is on the ice, how it carries over into everything he does. A few scattered laughs come from around the locker room.
“Bet he goes quiet around you, though, eh?” Jack sniggers, with Louis, and Suguru bites back a remark about them being assholes.
“Sure,”
“You’re shutting him up loads, yeah? Giving us that good luck for Saturday?”
“Is this you asking to suck me off again? We can make an arrangement,” slowly, Suguru stretches out his back, feeling the pain subside, just for a moment. Spreads his legs enough to take up a bit more space.
“Come on, as if he doesn’t need putting in his place,” Louis chips in, and Suguru feels a little cold all over at the implication. “He’s already got such an ego.”
“Alright, alright,” Suguru huffs, “I’ll tell Satoru you’re fantasising about him, yeah?”
Louis stutters and stumbles over his words and Jack laughs, shoving him around a bit, and the conversation moves on as the guys separate off, hit the showers, go home. Suguru waits until the room is mostly empty before he takes his jersey off, before he changes his clothes. The sweat is dry and tacky on his skin. He’ll shower later, at home.
When the locker room empties out, it’s just Pez left, who spent far too long in the showers, towel low on his hips. His hair is still dripping down his face, and he looks at Suguru completely level. “I could make them stop, if you really want them to, you know,”
“Oh, that’ll go over well,” Suguru bites out, “I’m sure that it’ll work,”
Pez shrugs, “it probably won’t, but at least they won’t say it to your face anymore,”
“I’d rather it be to my face,” Suguru grits out. “If it’s not to my face, it’s not a joke anymore, is it?”
Pez frowns, “is it a joke, now?”
If Suguru’s being honest with himself– no. Of course it isn’t. It’s ribbing, it’s taking the piss, but it’s not a joke. It’s not been one since Oaks’ wedding and it’s not going to be one ever again. Not for him, and probably not for Satoru either. But he’s taking that to his grave because he’d legitimately rather die than admit to another hockey player that there’s something else there. That there’s substance to the thing hiding just under the surface of their team.
“As soon as you tell them to stop joking about it, it’s not one anymore, is it?”
“It bothers you, though,”
“It doesn’t bother Satoru,”
“Does that matter?” Pez says, so perfectly calm and composed and captain-like that Suguru wants to kill himself. “You could tell them to stop. You can command more respect, be tougher, wearing the A-”
“Great. Thanks for the pep talk,”
“Sure.” Pez says. He’s still painfully neutral. “Listen. I don’t– are you and Gojo actually-”
Suguru stares at him. “You’re kidding.”
“No? Dude,” Pez laughs, and God, Suguru almost preferred him polite and emotionless, “you kissed in front of everyone at Elly’s wedding, you still live together, and– look. Even I’m a little jealous. It wouldn’t surprise me, that’s all.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “I don’t need relationship advice from you. Cheating on your fiance every time we’re on the road.” It’s a low blow, but maybe it’ll make him shut up. It doesn’t work.
“That has nothing to do with hockey-”
“Me and Satoru’s– our relationship has nothing to do with hockey–” Suguru rises back, tasting the lie on his tongue as soon as he says it.
“You’re both in the fucking locker room, Getou. You’re the entire basis of the two top offensive lines and our powerplay strategy. You know that.”
“As if this isn’t about us off the ice, our relationship.” Suguru spits out in response, “come on, you don’t like it when I say shit-”
“My girlfriend and our relationship is none of your business. We’re professional athletes, we both understand-”
Suguru folds his arms, raising his eyebrows. “Does she?”
“We met at the fucking Olympics , Suguru. She’s preparing for Worlds right now. She understands just fine.” There’s a heavy pause where Suguru can feel the weight of his own chest closing in on itself. Pez minces his name between his teeth, bastardised by the accent. “I’m saying your relationship shouldn’t be locker room talk either. Like mine isn’t, because I choose to keep it that way,”
“People still say shit, though,” slowly, he bites back the tension, “a kid from Philly said you were a cuckold.” He supposes he should have taken that as a hint at the time, about the state of their relationship. He hadn’t.
“I know,” Pez offers, “but at the end of the day all that matters is the game, and if there’s something going on between you two, then it affects all of us.”
They’d beaten Philadelphia five goals to three, that time. Suguru supposes he has a point. “There’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“There can’t be anything.” Suguru grits his teeth. “You know there can’t be.”
“You want there to be?”
Suguru snorts. This is a ridiculous line of questioning. Pez seems to give up, let go of it a little. He pulls his shirt on. “Look. There’s a reason you wear an A over Satoru. You’re a weaker player-”
“Thanks,” Suguru seethes. So much for feeling supported.
“But.” Pez says, “you’re more mature by a mile. You’re still a prodigy. There’s very few kids who come out of the NCAA like you have. Who get hat tricks,”
Pez stops speaking. Suguru says “thanks,” just to fill the silence. When he does, Pez turns to look at him, dead on. “So act like it. And stop picking fights with your captain because you think the team is looking at you different.” He pauses. “I’m on your side here. If the jokes are making you play worse or feel like– we need you and Gojo together, and if they’re hindering that, they need to roll it back.”
There was a lot going on in that statement. Suguru picks the easiest part of it. “You do look at me different.”
“Yeah, and it’s why I told them to make you my alternate,” Pez swings his bag over his shoulder, saying, “sometimes, it’s not a bad thing,” and walks out the door, leaving it swinging and Suguru alone in the locker room.
The first thing he feels is confusion, followed quickly by anger, burning through him like a wildfire, uncontrollable. How would he know? How would he know what it’s like, to have this happen to him? How would he know, liking girls and having a perfect figure-skater fiance like he’s supposed to, throwing it away out of his own volition?
But then again, what’s different about him and Satoru doing the same thing? It freezes through him as he turns, looking at the stalls, looking at the belongings the guys left behind. A couple of jerseys there, a roll of tape here. This is it: his team, his one shot. And he can’t waste it thinking about what they’re all saying behind his back, so he’ll let them keep talking in front of him. Then, at least, he’ll know.
—
The day before their first game against the curse, Theo texts him.
ALLY: do you wanna grab lunch or beers? Shoko too if shes in town
Me: she isn’t, but we still can.
ALLY: :(
ALLY: anywhere in mind?
Theo’s been playing for the Curse since the season before last. He was drafted by them originally, left to mature in the NCAA, though, so it was less of a scandal when he started playing for them than when Suguru betrayed Seattle for the Angels.
They end up in a bar, quiet enough that they can sit at the back. Theo is mostly the same as when they played together in college, blonde hair swept to the side, French accent colouring his words. Suguru thinks about maybe taking him back, but then thinks better of it. Not before a game, and not in Satoru’s house. Theo leans on his elbow, swirling his wine in his glass. He’s never really liked lager. “How’s it going, this season? You’re looking good. Kenny’s got us watching tape of you guys,”
He shudders at the mention of the Curse’s coach, but accepts the compliment all the same. Suguru isn’t sure if Ally means him (as in, his game), him (as in, his body) or the team. He decides not to ask: hooking up with a player from a rival team, even if it’s a pre-existing one, probably isn’t the best idea. Even though he did it last season, in the confines of hotel rooms. He’d ended up with a hickey on his collarbone, gotten ribbed for it incessantly.
“Ah, Satoru thinks we have a run at the cup,”
Something in Theo’s expression shifts, “I suppose. The journalists are quite confident about you sweeping the Eastern,”
“Are they?”
Theo hums. A smile tugs on his lips, “not if we can help it,”
Suguru takes a deep breath. “Where’s your hotel?”
Wicked, Theo grins.
“For after,” Suguru says.
“For after, if you want,” Theo nods. Because time is a flat circle, and Suguru likes the routine.
—
They get on the ice. They warm up. Suguru sticks to his four goals, gets them all past Alek. Satoru breathes in and out, three times fast, next to him as he steadies up to take the opening faceoff.
The Curse aren't playoff worthy, this year, probably. Maybe they’ll get a wildcard spot, but their defense is good, and they have a pretty damn solid first line, that could easily get one past their second goalie. They're sort-of mid rebuild, and they've got a few good picks for the draft come the end of this season, but right now, the Angels should win. Can win. Suguru looks over at their bench. Ally waves from where he’s sitting. Satoru rolls his eyes at it, in the corner of Suguru’s vision.
He always forgets Kenjaku is their head coach until he sees him, hands tucked behind his back, face set and stony as he paces. He's new to the Curse, and supposedly the organisation had paid a slightly obscene amount of money to have him there, because he's been highly rated for a while. He coached Minnesota's powerplay first, right when Satoru was starting, an assistant coach for Vegas for a couple of seasons, and now a head coach here. He always looks formidable on the bench, jaw set and eyes trained on the ice. Theo says he’s good. The best coach he’s had, by miles.
He catches Suguru's eyes from the bench. Nods. Suguru looks away, because he has a game to win.
—
They don’t win, but the game is winnable, and those losses are the worst to swallow. Kenjaku had been smiling when the game finished, reserved and relaxed, like he knew they could do it. Suguru had been on the bench, with Yaga, who swore as Satoru gasped for breath out on the ice, hand coming up to clutch at his side. Fuck.
Pez gives them a pep talk in the locker room, tells them they’ll make them pay when they play away in two days’ time. That they’ll watch the tape back. Satoru scoffs, then hisses in pain from the movement. From the stall next to him, Suguru taps his thigh.
Louis doesn’t seem too impressed, either. “Will Oaks be back, by then?”
Pez shakes his head. The room goes stale.
Suguru doesn’t end up in any hotel rooms, after all.
—
The feeling in the locker room after they lose for the second time, away, is awful. Suguru thinks it would be, anyway, but without Oaks and at the end of a gruelling rivalry game, it’s worse. Because of the shutout, three goals to none, it’s worse. Shaking their hands at the end makes his skin feel like sandpaper. “Can I just say what we’re all thinking?” Jack snaps, right as he sits down, and Suguru sighs, feeling it all the way through his chest. Not tonight. Tonight, he’s going to stand in the showers for hours, try to dull the ache in his bones, and then maybe text Theo and forget about the loss for a while.
“We’ll watch the tape later. We’ll review. There’s no reason to point fingers.”
Jack huffs, but leans back anyway. “Right.”
Alek looks the worst out of all of them, ruffled and flushed. The pressure got to him. It got to all of them. Playing injured isn’t easy. “We’re still second in the division. This is something to overcome, not to make a scene about.”
“He let too many through,” Jack snaps right back. Suguru would argue that two goals in three periods isn’t exactly too many when the defense was playing like shit, but that wouldn’t be a leader-appropriate statement to make, so he says nothing as Pez picks up where he left off.
“So did you, Jack, do I need to remind you you’re on defense?” Pez grts his teeth, “don’t push it. We’re a team, we lose together.”
“If Oaks was here-”
In the stall next to him, Satoru thunks his head three times against the wall, eyes squeezed closed. Suguru turns to him, quiet, disregarding the conversation that Pez has taken over now anyway. He switches to Japanese, both to separate themselves and to “You’re okay, that wasn’t your fault,”
“I know, but-” Satoru reaches down, undoes the ties on his skates. “I couldn‘t get past him, their goalie. Fucking– Haibara, man.”
“He’s been annoying since juniors,” Suguru agrees, laughing. It’s worse because he’s such a nice guy. “You’re playing with those ribs, too-” Suguru winces as the conversation across the locker room gets louder, with more of the guys joining in. “We’ll reset,”
“Suguru–”
“God,” Louis shouts from the other end of the room, slamming his skates down on the floor. “Can you two stop acting like fags for fucking– two seconds? The organisation passed over half this team to give you the A and all you did for it was suck his dick.”
Suguru wishes the room would stop. He wishes the guys would have gone silent. They don’t. Jack just makes a quip, straight away, and everyone carries on moving, “nah, if he did that we would’ve won, get serious,”
Suguru forces out a “fuck off,” but it’s shallow. Hollow. Weak. He looks down at Satoru, who’s just carrying on untying his laces, jaw set. He tosses one to the side, gets started on the other.
“He’s supposed to be a leader-”
Pez snarls. “Stop. He is. You lot need to learn to take a loss. It’s a rivalry game, not a fucking Stanley,”
“Everyone in this room knows I have a fucking point,”
“Then make it,” Pez says, and the stupid kid goes to open his mouth again, but yelps and jumps to the side as a skate goes flying right toward his face, clattering on the benches. He scrambles away, falling on his knees because he only has one skate on. Satoru, meanwhile, has stood up out of his stall, barefoot, holding his other skate in his hand in the middle of the room.
Once, in juniors, Satoru had thrown a skate at one of their teammates. Suguru can’t even remember who it was now. But it had been funny, a joke, and Satoru had his guards on anyway, lobbing it at the guy as he was putting them away. The team had laughed about it. The room had stayed in motion.
This isn’t like that. Satoru hadn’t put his guards on, for a start. He had just sharpened his blades during the intermission between the second and the third, with one of those block things, because he was frustrated with the way he was catching his edges when they failed to convert on the powerplay. Suguru had watched him do it, brows furrowed. That same skate with the sharpened blades had missed Louis’ face by mere inches. And Satoru has incredible aim. Suguru isn’t sure if it was on purpose, missing.
Now, the room stops. Now, everyone is silent.
“What the hell-”
No one touches Satoru in the stalls, or the locker room, because he hates it. Apparently, before Suguru got there, he’d punched a guy for grabbing him, because he doesn’t like the feeling of being boxed in. It was sort of the same in juniors, but apparently it's worse now. Satoru calls it being weird, a bit touchy, I guess . The trainers call it mild claustrophobia. Suguru knows that Satoru hates being put up against the boards, too, but he keeps it under wraps in training in case trades happen and guys use it against him.
So no one interferes with him now, as he visibly shakes.
“What did you just call me.” Satoru says, even keeled, upper lip curling, blue eyes set on the rookie. “Say it again.”
The kid looks to Suguru. And fuck it, Suguru likes seeing him scared, he’s sick of the one being fucking scared all the time. Scared of the fans or the management seeing inside him and terminating his contract, scared of his own fucking feelings, scared of ruining the team. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares Louis down. He looks back at Satoru, who towers over him like this. “I said you two were fags, and he must have sucked your dick for the A, ‘cause you have this whole team and Yaga in your pocket, and you can give him it,”
Satoru reaches down and grabs the kid’s jersey, yanking him forward as he yelps, arms flailing, and slamming him back down on his ass in his stall. The sound is brutal: violent. “You think I didn’t want that A for myself?” Which– yeah, fair enough- “when you can play like me and him, you can come back and say that shit about me.”
“Everyone’s thinking it,” Louis coughs, digging his own grave, and Satoru honest-to-God laughs.
“Yeah? Ask the audience.” He spins round, still clutching his spare skate. “You guys think that?”
Pez stands with his arms folded, jaw set, “Gojo. You’ve done enough,”
“Nah, he can fuck himself. You can all fuck yourselves. I’m the best player on this team, and there’s one guy in here who can keep up with me, who can actually pass. And I don’t care if you make jokes about us fucking or think we’re hooking up on the road or whatever. But you aren’t gonna fucking sit there-” he picks up his skate from the stall in front, then throws both of them back in his own, behind him, “and pretend like our goals on the powerplay didn’t basically single handedly get us seven games into the semis last season. Like he can’t lead.”
“Gojo. Stop. You want to play,” Pez spits out a threat, and Satoru laughs again, pushing a hand through the sweat in his hair.
“If you suspend me, we lose. If I walk- which I could, I could play anywhere- then this team is fucked.” He points at the kid in the stalls. “He needs to go back on waivers for talking about me like that.”
“You threw a skate at me!” Louis still isn’t done, apparently, even as Jack glares at him, trying to communicate to him telepathically that he needs to stop talking , “I could’ve-”
“You deserved it,” Suguru says, surprising even himself. “You’re looking for a fight. You got one. You couldn’t hack it. Shut up, now.”
The room quiets. Satoru huffs, picks up his bag from his stall, shoves his skates into it, and walks out of the room barefoot. Pez drags a hand over his face. “Getou, go after him, for God’s sake,”
Suguru stutters. He’s only proving this kid’s point if he goes now, why can’t Pez see that- “Perry-”
“Go. He’ll only listen to you, anyway,”
Suguru takes his bag and goes.
—
Satoru’s with the trainers, when he finds him. He’s hissing, arm suspended as they press down on his ribs doing– something. Suguru doesn’t know. “Hey.”
Satoru looks at him. His eyes are still wild. “Hey. They suspend me yet?”
Suguru shakes his head. He doesn’t know. They probably should suspend him for throwing a skate blade straight at a kid’s head, but God, Suguru still thinks he deserved it. Even if the skate had hit him, cut his face open, he would have.
“Nah. Not yet.”
“How would they even explain it,” Satoru laughs, empty, “yeah, the rookie called him a fag and he punched him, so we’re suspending them both. That’s a great look, isn’t it?”
“Maybe you’ll both get away with it.”
Satoru hisses again as the trainer retreats, murmuring something about painkillers. “I’m not kidding about them putting him on waivers. His stats aren’t good enough to be talking like that, I’ll walk if they don’t do something.”
Silence falls on them. Suguru watches as the trainer holds out a strip of painkillers. “Take one at a time, two a day for the next two days only. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, holding the packet and standing up with a wince. “Thanks.”
They look up as Jack knocks on the door. “Um. Suguru, they want you for media.”
“Tell them to fuck themselves,” Satoru grits his teeth, and Suguru puts a hand, instinctive, on his back. Satoru’s managed to get gum in between his teeth, chew, chew, snap, aggressive with it. Better than biting at his fingers or the insides of his mouth, Suguru guesses.
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
Jack stalls in the hallway. “I’m. I’m really sorry about Louis. I’ll talk to him, I swear,”
“Jack, just go-”
“It was meant to be a joke, it’s– he didn’t realise it would piss you guys off,”
“Oh yeah,” Satoru curls his lip, stopping short of a snarl, “calling me a fucking- calling me that is a joke. Nice one, you want me to laugh?”
Jack’s nostrils flare, nervous. “I really am sorry.”
Suguru steps in, now. “Jack, go. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Finally, he turns tail and walks off. Satoru limps forward and shuts his eyes. “I don’t wanna go to the hotel.”
“You have to drive back anyway, don’t you?”
He’d bought his car, instead of being on the team bus, because he was running late and missed it.
“Yeah, but if I do, I’ve gotta wait to take these ‘til I get home, anyway. I dunno, I just– I don’t wanna be in that room right now. I think Jack’s is next to mine,”
It’s only an hour or so down the road to get home, but in pain–
“I’ll drive you, as soon as we’re done with media, yeah?”
Satoru nods, popping out two of the pills, as Suguru raises an eyebrow at him, “Satoru. Just because you’re not driving-”
“What? They do fuck all, she’s never had broken ribs, an extra one won’t kill me.”
“It’s–”
Satoru spits out his gum, knocks them back, dry, and replaces the gum all in the span of a few seconds. “All it’s gonna do is knock me out.”
“I’ll see you after media.”
“Yeah. See you.”
—
Suguru goes through the whole thing in a haze. The journalists are plenty curious about their recent drop-off in performance, and Suguru has nothing to say that won’t give up their weaknesses. After this, Satoru is going to have to take games off, regardless of the verdict on his suspension, for his ribs. Because he can’t train high on codeine.
He showers, grabs his shit, makes his way out to the car, texts Pez that he won’t be on the bus. When he gets there, Satoru is already asleep in the backseat, still in his jersey. He doesn’t wake up, even when Suguru starts the engine, even when he turns on the radio to keep himself awake.
Once he gets them on the highway, he looks back at him. Maybe it did bother him. Maybe it’s time to put a stop to the whole joke. If it isn’t dead already, which– he thinks throwing a skate at a kid would kill it.
He pulls up into their driveway, and pulls out his phone to text Pez. You were right. No one should comment on us anymore.
Pez sends a thumbs up back pretty instantly. Then u back at the hotel yet?
Suguru sends back no, at the apartment, and locks his phone. He ponders leaving Satoru in the backseat all night, just to avoid disturbing him. Concern for his ribs makes him give in, though, and he nudges him awake. “Come on,”
Satoru barely wakes up, hazy. Suguru isn’t sure how strong the painkillers were, but he has a strong suspicion that they’ve gone straight to his head. He gets them both up the stairs, somehow, and manages to deposit Satoru on his bed, rolling his shoulders back from carrying his weight.
Reaching out for him, Satoru grabs at his wrist. “Can you stay.”
Suguru can’t deny him: he lies down next to him, letting Satoru curl into his body. He’s out pretty instantly, and Suguru listens to his breathing as he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. It’s another text from Pez: they’re sending louis down, bringing up a kid with some promise.
Suguru stares at it for a while and drops his phone blindly to the floor. Tomorrow.
Satoru hums in his sleep, shuffling closer. Suguru lets himself have it, in spite of everything else. The hotel rooms barely cross his mind.
-