Thrown Off the Ice

TAKING IT APART (2016)

Chapter 1

Let’s be clear: Mike knows from the get-go that it’s a stupid fucking idea. He just doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

The kid gets called up to the Oilers when Steinberg breaks his foot halfway through the season. And he is a kid: eighteen, baby-faced, smaller than everyone else on the roster at 5’8" and clearly determined to make up for it. He introduces himself to Mike before his first game with a outstretched hand and a shit-eating grin, radiating that specific kind of confidence that teenage boys the world over seem to have: cockiness overlaying self-consciousness.

I’m Liam, the kid — Fitzgerald — says, either not realizing or not caring that he’s interrupting Mike’s pregame routine.

I know, Mike says.

You’re Mike, Fitzgerald says, providing himself the introduction Mike didn’t. We might play on a line together, so I thought I’d introduce myself. So. Hi.

We probably won’t, Mike says. They’ll slot you in where Steinberg was. You’re way too fucking tiny for the checking line.

I’m not tiny, Fitzgerald says, sounding offended. I’m concentrated.

That what they’re calling it now? Mike asks. The kid’s practically getting a crick in his neck trying to meet Mike’s eye.

Yep, Fitzgerald says. You’ll see.

*

They put Fitzgerald exactly where Mike said they would, but on an icing call he ends up playing a shift with the goon squad. He wins the face off, shakes off a hit that should have put a guy his size right on his ass, throws a hit of his own on a player almost the size of Mike. Nearly bounces off him, but the intent was there.

Fitzgerald’s breathless on the bench after that shift, cocky grin wiped off his face, hair plastered to his forehead under his helmet. Clearly struggling a little, but he made his point.

Concentrated, Fitzgerald repeats.

Yeah, you’re still not goon squad material, Mike says.

Fitzgerald frowns at him.

That’s a fucking compliment, kid, Mike says.

I could be goon squad material, Fitzgerald argues.

Typical rookie: of course he wants to be good at everything from the get-go. What Fitzgerald’s got is the kind of potential you don’t see in the guys mired on the fourth line, the kind of potential Mike’s never had in his life. What Mike does have is eight extra inches, a shit-ton more weight, the ability to throw that weight around. To throw a punch, to take one. It’s not the kind of thing to aspire to. No one grows up dreaming of being an enforcer.

Mike can’t help but grin at him, this pint-sized destroyer. Mike knows he was that young, once, but he doesn’t think he was ever that young. Okay, kid, Mike says, placating him, and unexpectedly, Fitzgerald grins right back.

Mike thinks, in hindsight, that might be where the trouble starts.

*

With the team as injured as it is, especially the centers, it looks like Fitzgerald’s going to be playing for the Oilers for awhile. He may be a rookie, but he’s got a gift for face-offs that even most vets don’t have: Fitzgerald’s a true natural center, which requires as much instinct as practice. If he keeps playing like he has, he just might take someone’s job out from under them, some poor fucker getting shuffled straight from injured reserve to healthy scratch. Steinberg may as well take his sweet time healing.

The coaching staff appears to share Mike’s opinion, because rather than staying in the call up limbo of a hotel room, Fitzgerald’s quickly installed with Darryl Rogers, alternate captain and designated child minder, apparently. The role suits him — Rogers is younger than Mike, but he’s got that fatherly vibe down pat already. Mike has no doubt that once he gets married to his fiancée there are going to be plenty of Rogers spawn in the world, so maybe the two of them are getting started early on the whole parenting thing.

Edmonton has no shortage of young guys on the team right now — when you’ve got a ton of injuries on a team that’s shit even when they’re healthy, there isn’t much harm in giving your rookies a proper audition. Mike would like to make that clear: Fitzgerald’s got other teenagers he could hang out with. Hell, guys under twenty-five make up most of the roster. Mike, at thirty, is practically an elder statesman.

And yet on their first road trip, Fitzgerald sits his ass down in the seat beside Mike’s on the flight out. Mike usually gets two seats all to himself. He takes up a lot of space, even considering the larger seats the charter offers, and he’d rather read a book or a magazine than join the cards or video games or general time wasting he’d inevitably get roped into if he was sitting beside someone else.

Mike eyes him. There’s no shortage of seats, so it’s not like Fitzgerald doesn’t have other options. Maybe he lost a bet with one of the other rookies: ‘go sit with the grumpy enforcer, hope he doesn’t eat you’.

Can I help you? Mike asks when Fitzgerald doesn’t immediately explain his presence.

I’m good, Fitzgerald says, shooting Mike a cheerful smile. He puts headphones on a few minutes later, falls asleep within ten. He isn’t the pain in the ass Mike expected he would be, dozing beside Mike, so Mike has no excuse for getting distracted every other page, looking over to find Fitzgerald still asleep, his mouth slightly ajar and fingers loosely interlaced, a picture of peaceful repose.

Fogart approaches halfway to Dallas with a marker in hand. Unless you’re coaching staff or known to retaliate bigger and better, it’s never safe to fall asleep on the road. Fitzgerald should know better — Mike’s sure he’s been involved in even dumber shit recently, considering he was called up from a team entirely comprised of teenage boys. Not that Juniors is a far cry from the NHL sometimes — plenty of guys haven’t grown out of that juvenile bullshit. Fogart, for example.

Don’t you fucking dare, Mike says. He looks back down at his book, idly flips to the next page, and when he looks back up, Fogart’s retreated.

Fitzgerald continues to sleep, unmolested, and Mike watches him, reconsidering: if he realized the seat beside Mike was the only safe place to take a nap, he’s smarter than Mike gave him credit for.

Fitzgerald sleeps until they start to descend, and Mike doesn’t seem to take in a damn word of his book in that time.

*

Mike likes Texas. Texas means warm weather instead of the fucking permafrost of Edmonton winters, and Texas means steak. To be honest, every road trip means steak; it’s a pretty standard order when you’re trying to keep the weight on despite the season’s best efforts to bleed you, though that applies more to most of the other guys than to Mike: Mike’s job is to get on, throw some hits, maybe a few punches, depending on the game, and get the fuck off the ice so the hockey players can play.

That doesn’t mean Mike’s not going to order steak, though. He’s sure as shit going to order steak: they’re in Dallas, he’s not a heathen.

Fitzgerald grabs the seat next to him at the steakhouse, which Mike raises an eyebrow at but shrugs off. Maybe he’s making the rounds, trying to charm the entire team one by one. He seems to be uniformly successful at winning the guys over so far, so maybe he’s looking for a stiffer challenge. Mike’s not easily charmed.

Order me a beer? Fitzgerald asks.

Nope, Mike says, and ignores Fitzgerald’s pout. If that’s his goal, he could have gone to any guy twenty-one and over who wasn’t Rogers and gotten a better chance of a ‘yes’.

I’m legal in Alberta, Fitzgerald says.

Uh huh, Mike says. And that’s relevant in Texas because?

I’m just saying I’m legal to drink, Fitzgerald mutters.

Not here you aren’t, Mike says. You trying to get me in trouble with Rogers?

Yeah, this is an undercover sting, Fitzgerald says, and Mike tries not to laugh, because it’d only fucking encourage him. You afraid of Darryl, Mike? he adds, sweet as anything.

As far as plays go, there’s just about nothing subtle about that one, trying to get Mike’s back up so he feels the need to prove he isn’t afraid of shit. It might work on a younger guy hopped up on a mix of macho bullshit and fragile masculinity, but Mike’s not biting. Darryl Rogers is already protective as shit of his rookie, and Mike’s not interested in locker room disharmony. If Fitzgerald wants to mistake that for fear he can go right ahead.

Go bug Jacobi, Mike says. He’ll probably buy you a drink after making fun of you for awhile.

Fitzgerald pouts, but he doesn’t go off to whine a drink out of Jacobi. There’s a definite sulk in his voice when he orders Sprite, and Mike has to hold back laughter at that too, though that wouldn’t so much encourage him as much as push him even further into the sulk, so Mike doesn’t know why he bothers.

Halfway through dinner Fitzgerald reaches for Mike’s beer. He’s telegraphing every move, not trying to be sneaky at all, like he’s asking to get put down. He just laughs when Mike raps his knuckles, hard, but he holds his hand to his chest after, the fingers of his other hand brushing over the red mark Mike left. It must sting. Mike didn’t pull the hit as much as he should have.

Mike drinks the rest of his beer before the kid gets any more bright ideas, because he’s got his eyes on Mike now, not looking away, and that sure as shit doesn’t promise anything good.

My hand hurts, Fitzgerald finally complains.

If you’re trying to get a sympathy beer you’re shit out of luck, Mike says, and has no idea why that only makes Fitzgerald smile. The kid’s comprised half of obvious tells and half of shit Mike can’t figure out. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, but it does.

*

Mike doesn’t really know what he expected with Fitzgerald — didn’t know he was even supposed to expect something — but it was not Fitzgerald becoming a permanent fucking fixture at Mike’s side.

He’s fucking everywhere: knee jostling against Mike’s during the pregame speech, stretching himself out beside Mike on the plane, squirming into the seat beside him at dinner. Rogers looks momentarily confused at that one, and then just shakes his head, because Mike bets he’s already far too used to whatever shit goes on in Fitzgerald’s brain. He chats Mike’s fucking ear off for the entire trip from Dallas to Nashville, because apparently that quiet sleeping thing was a one-off. Fitzgerald makes a space for himself wherever Mike is, and Mike rolls his eyes and lets him.

Mike has no idea why the kid’s attached himself to him. That isn’t some ‘woe is me, nobody likes me’ bullshit — Mike isn’t the most popular guy in the room, but he doesn’t strive to be. He’s thirty to Fitzgerald’s eighteen, brute force to his skill, and his patience for idle chatter has sat at around zero for the last five years.

Mike isn’t nice to Fitzgerald the way most of the team is. Doesn’t dote on him like some of the older guys do, as though he’s their hyperactive little brother, or — in Rogers’ case — adopted son. Doesn’t play stupid, noisy games with him like some of the young guys do, guys Mike tends to avoid so he doesn’t have to deal with the too loud, too cocky bullshit that surrounds them.

Mike isn’t the most popular guy in the room, but Fitzgerald’s already pretty damn close, seems to have decisively won over the majority of the room by being the kind of annoying that circles right back into endearing. So again, the fact that Mike’s suddenly inherited a full-time shadow is downright inexplicable.

Mike has his theories. Maybe Fitzgerald looked around the room to find the person least likely to be friendly, decided he liked a challenge, and proceeded to focus all his charm on him. It’s not inconsiderable, his charm, though he’s more charming when he isn’t trying to be; cycling through bravado and insecurity like every kid his age does, playing with the big boys and trying to keep up. Mike’s been doing this shit for over a decade, and that’s something that’s never changed, is probably never going to change. Mike figures Fitzgerald will get bored of trailing him around within a week, start hanging out with the guys willing to entertain him, be entertained by him.

But weeks pass, Fitzgerald stays close, and Mike starts wonder if it’s something else, hero worship or some misguided way to get the enforcer on his side. If it is, it’s something he should shut down, but it’s funny, the way Fitzgerald gravitates to him like he’s magnetized, and it’s sort of sweet in a dumb puppy kind of way. Mike lets it happen, lets Fitzgerald chatter in his ear about whatever’s caught his attention, amused by the enthusiasm he still has about everything: kid goes sightseeing in every city they hit, gushes about how cool it is to be on a private plane, gets wide-eyed every time he steps onto the ice for warm-ups. Everything about playing in the show’s apparently exciting to him, even the same buffet lunches all the fucking time.

He’s like an annoying little brother. Mike’s heard that description of him plenty from the vets, the same vets who tuck him under their wing like he needs protecting. Mike has a younger brother of his own, but Tom doesn’t have shit on Fitzgerald when Fitzgerald’s on a hyperactive tear, mouth going a mile a minute, babbling about utter bullshit Mike tunes out half the time. Annoying little brother should fit.

But unlike Tom, he’s also — Mike fucking hates to admit it — cute. Mike hates that he’s cute, and that he knows it, all toothy smiles and puppy dog eyes when he wants something. And more than that, Mike hates that he doesn’t think of him like an annoying little brother at all. That the more Fitzgerald makes himself a fixture at Mike’s side the more Mike wants him. Wants him all awkward in his skin, full of poorly contained enthusiasm and cockiness. Wants those quiet moments when he seems sort of shy, like he realizes how much he can be, how exhausting.

The thing is, Fitzgerald isn’t Mike’s type at all. Mike prefers people who aren’t so innocent, men closer to his own size and women that are the furthest thing from breakable, but Fitzgerald’s little kid hero worship is endearing, and Mike can’t help but want to shake some of that innocence out of him, knows he’s awful because all he wants to do is get Fitzgerald onto a bed and make him fucking cry.

Mike’s never claimed to be a good person — fuck, he wouldn’t even claim he’s a decent one — but it’s the flight home after a long road trip that makes him feel like a shit one. Fitzgerald’s grabbed the seat next to Mike, as per usual. He’s chatty enough that Mike doesn’t have a hope in hell of ignoring him, so he’s left his book in his bag for once. Mike’s not really paying attention to what Fitzgerald’s saying, just listening to the wash of words — something about his Juniors team — watching Fitzgerald’s hands move when he says something emphatic, which is half the shit he says.

Mike finds himself getting caught on the trio of freckles on the side of his throat, the Oilers logo on his shirt pulling too tight over his chest, like maybe he’s put on muscle since he got it, the small red nick on his chin. Probably cut himself shaving. Mike’s genuinely surprised he needs to shave.

Fitzgerald’s got a bruise on his hip, deep and ugly, has been favoring that side and bitching about it to anyone who’ll listen, and when he gets a little too enthusiastic about some tangent, he bumps it on the arm rest, goes abruptly quiet except for a sharp, pained inhale. And Mike — Mike wants to put his fingers on that bruise, press until Fitzgerald can’t hold noise back, until he’s loud all over again.

So yeah, Mike’s not a good fucking person.

You okay? Mike asks after a moment.

All good, Fitzgerald says, and his smile is like fucking sunshine.

*

Mike doesn’t know if Fitzgerald is psychic or just getting even stupider with bravado, because right around the point where Mike realizes he sort of wants to break him, the kid starts flirting with him. It’s easy to ignore at first, as easy as it had been to ignore Fitzgerald latching onto him in the first place, at least right up until he started following Mike around so often the team started calling him Mike’s duckling.

This is Fitzgerald’s forward offensive all fucking over again. Fitzgerald sits closer and closer, and if he keeps it up the team’s probably going to start calling him Mike’s lap dog. They’re a bunch of oblivious idiots most of the time, but the fact that Fitzgerald’s muscling into Mike’s personal space on a near constant basis is going to get noticed. Mike should honestly stop it there, take him aside and tell him to quit sitting so close, that he likes his personal space and he wants it to be acknowledged.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell Fitzgerald to back the fuck off. He’d like to think it’s because he knows Fitzgerald’s harmless, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t even close to the reason.

The first sign of danger is Fitzgerald all fucking over him, though that might be an exaggeration. It’s knees nudging, arms brushing, nothing huge, probably just a malfunctioning sense of personal space, the way Fitzgerald sits with plenty of others. No big deal, except Mike lets him. That’s the fucking problem.

But then, sometime after Mike notices the proximity, Fitzgerald starts talking to him all drowsy eyed, taffy slow instead of the manic pace he usually goes at. Mike finds himself vaguely worrying for a couple days that Fitzgerald’s wearing himself out. He knows the schedule’s rough, the games rougher, how big an adjustment it is when you get to the pro level.

You feeling okay? Mike asks, when Fitzgerald doesn’t get his pep back.

Fine, why? Fitzgerald asks.

Dunno, Mike says. You sick or something?

No, Fitzgerald says, scowling fiercely, stomping off in a teenage sulk, and Mike remains confused for the rest of the fucking day until he puts it together. He’s not stupid, and Fitzgerald’s not subtle: Fitzgerald was attempting fucking bedroom eyes. Fitzgerald’s got some fucking ridiculous seduction plan and he’s using it on Mike, because — Mike honestly has no fucking clue why he’s using it on Mike.

Of all the people to flirt with on the Oilers, Mike is possibly the worst choice. Hell, even the married guys would probably be a better bet. Mike fucks guys sometimes, but it’s not exactly something he advertises, and his very appearance should scare Fitzgerald right off. Mike’s got eight inches and probably a good sixty pounds on him. Mike beats the shit out of people for a living. And there’s Liam Fitzgerald, flirting with him like it’s a good idea.

Mike doesn’t know what this is to Fitzgerald, doubts it’s anything genuine. It’s probably just him pushing at another limit, bored with the last line he crossed, seeing how much he can get away with. Fuck, for all Mike knows the rookies have a bet going on how far Fitzgerald can take it before Mike smacks him down.

Fitzgerald’s intention is irrelevant anyway, because Mike doesn’t rise to the bait. He stoically endures Fitzgerald’s clumsy passes, pretends he doesn’t even notice, dimly amused by how much that seems to piss Fitzgerald off, makes him redouble his efforts. Mike doesn’t know if Fitzgerald thinks he’s upping his game or what, because all his attempts are so bad that Mike thinks he got them from Cosmo or from a virgin’s idea of what seduction is, or something. Hell, he may still be a virgin. Mike is an awful person.

Mike is an awful person because that doesn’t make any difference to him: not the potential virginity, not the age, nothing, because as clumsy as Fitzgerald’s attempts are, they’re cute. He’s cute.

Fitzgerald still has that doe-eyed innocent look about him, but Mike’s seen him on the ice, seen what he can do, and he knows the kid’s as vicious, deep down, as the rest of them. He’s got big blue eyes and hair constantly falling in his face and an ass that’s spectacular even compared to the average hockey player, and Mike wants him so much his teeth hurt, but Fitzgerald has no clue what he’s playing with, so Mike keeps his goddamn hands to himself.

The point is, Fitzgerald does his pseudo seduction, Mike puts him in the ‘no, not ever’ box, and that’s it. Or it would have been if Fitzgerald had just left it the fuck alone.

Chapter 2

The Oilers win at home the night Mike fucks everything up; a blowout that nets Fitzgerald a goal and an assist and Mike his first goal all season, which puts him in a pretty good mood. Hell, it puts the whole team in a good mood, the rout strewing around points for most, with eight goals between them.

A win like that calls for the sort of team celebration that’s gotten less common as the season’s advanced and the Alberta freeze has sunk into their bones. Most of the team fills tables at their customary bar that night, and when Fitzgerald squeezes in beside Mike in a booth, a spot he can’t take without pressing himself against Mike from knee to hip, Mike just smiles at him, full of good, goal scoring cheer.

They order a couple pitchers for the table, Rogers looking critically at Fitzgerald when he pours himself a pint.

He’s eighteen, Roge, Mike reminds him. He’s legal.

Rogers rolls his eyes but doesn’t press the issue, and Fitzgerald beams at Mike like he just defended his honor or something. Mike shouldn’t have said anything. He doesn’t need any more reminders that Fitzgerald’s legal, if just barely.

Fitzgerald may be pressed up against him, but it’s easy enough to ignore him at first. Mike talks over the game with Rogers, who is an actual adult, while Fitzgerald chatters away with the rest of the rookies.

Fitzgerald, of course, cuts through that relative peace sooner rather than later. His hand lands on Mike’s