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Chapter Text

John Hall has a very particular pre-game routine and the most important part is the first step. Eight hours of sleep. He has blackout curtains over his bedroom window, he keeps the radio on for the white noise, and he goes to bed at exactly ten p.m. the night before game day. 

It would be perfect.

If the fucking fire alarm wasn’t going off at  for the third time this month. 

He shuffles out of bed and slides his flip flops on his feet. He grabs his hoodie from the end of his bed. Boston University Terriers men’s hockey, it has the logo on the chest and his number embroidered on the sleeve. He’s the captain, and if his team loses to Boston Fucking College tomorrow he’ll find whoever started this fire and rip every single one of their limbs off of their body and throw it from his tiny balcony. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, he wears contacts most of the time.

Other tenants are shuffling down the stairs and Hall joins them, bags under his eyes. He thinks about how comfortable his bed is, how annoying it’s going to be to get back to sleep. He mentally adjusts, if this takes an hour to clear up he’ll have to set his alarm for 7 instead of 6 in the morning and then that’ll throw off his morning run, if he makes oatmeal instead of eggs and toast for breakfast he’ll probably be able to make it to his lecture on time. 

He stands in the parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets. It’s cold because it’s fucking January and who the hell starts a fire in January for anything other than warmth. He sees the building manager talking to the firemen. He sees another figure with him, slim build wearing blue flannel pajama pants and a matching button up flannel pajama shirt. He’s talking to the fireman. He turns his head slightly and Hall sees a flash of dark brown hair and an easy smile. 

“You!” He shouts. 

His rage overpowers his exhaustion, he grabs pajama boy by the back of his shirt and pulls him towards him. 

“You did this, Murray, you bastard!” he shouts. 

“Woah,” it takes Murray a second to realize who he is, but there’s no way he doesn’t recognize him once he gets a good look at his face. No reason the freshman scoring leader on the Boston College Eagles doesn’t recognize the captain of the Boston University Terriers, the team that’s been at their throats all season, the team that they’ll no doubt be playing for the frozen four, the team that they’re literally willing to kill for the Beanpot. 

“What the fuck is your problem, man,” Murray holds his hands up. 

“You did this,” Hall repeats. 

“What?” Murray’s eyes are heavy lidded, he looks like he’s stifling a yawn. And of course he does, Hall’s watched his interviews. Murray’s an expert in making people like him, gregarious and funny and a charming smile. 

Pure evil. 

“We’re playing each other tomorrow and you start a fire? Obviously you did this to throw off my schedule!” Hall’s shouting by now. The fireman and the building manager are standing slack jawed. 

“Haller,” Murray says, he drawls out Hall’s nickname, an infuriating smirk on his face, “You think I started a fire to throw off your pre-game. You think I’d stoop that low?”

“I wouldn’t put it past BC,” Hall spits, “Your just pissed off because we won the last game, you’ll do anything to win.”

“You won that game because your fucking goon slew-footed our captain!” Murray says, insistent, he still has that amused little smirk on his face. 

And Hall just wants... he wants to grab him by the shirt collar and wipe that smile off of his face. He’d drop the gloves if they were on the ice. 

Hall lunges forward, he only wants to punch him a little. Murray dodges him easily and snorts when the fireman restrains him. 

"Nice one, Haller.”

“You don’t get to use my nickname, Robert.” Hall spits Murray’s first name at him. 

“My friends call me Robbie,” Murray shrugs, “Besides, I didn’t start the fire, you idiot. I was going to bed just like you. Or did you forget that both teams need to sleep?”

Hall says the only thing he can think to say, “I can’t believe I have to share an apartment complex with an Eagle.”

“Drama queen,” Murray has his hands crossed over his chest. 

The fireman eventually lets go of him when he promises he’s not going to commit aggravated assault. 

“This is going to ruin my entire pre-game,” Hall groans, he sits down on the curb of the parking lot, splaying his hands behind him. 

“It’ll only take like an hour for them to let us back in. It’s not like you lost your mind last month.”

“We didn’t have a game the next day last month,” Hall sighs. 

“You’re really high strung, huh?” Murray says. 

“No shit. Real observant,”

“Observation is a first year pre-requesite at BC.”

Hall can’t believe that an Eagle just pulled a reluctant laugh out of him. He shakes his head and looks down at the ground, kicks the rock in front of him. 

“I’ll take it as a compliment that you’re so nervous about playing us,” Murray says. 

“Not nervous,” Hall says. 

“Whatever you say. You’re basically having a fit because your superstition got interrupted.”

“What part of getting a solid eight hours is superstitious?”

“I’m just saying would you be so upset about it if we weren’t playing each other tommorow?” Murray brushes his hair out of his face, he has a curly mop on top of his head. Murray’s gotten distracted by his hair tumbling out of his helmet on more than one occasion when they played each other... because it’s annoying, obviously, he should just get a haircut, or at the very least cut his bangs so they don’t flop in front of his eyes. 

“I’d be upset about my sleep getting interrupted no matter what team we played.”

“Even Northeastern?”

“Ehh, maybe not them.”

It’s Murray’s turn to laugh with the enemy. Hall thinks about the lease he signed, desperate to get away from the dorms and the all night partying, willing to drive to school every morning and jog downtown instead of on campus. He wonders if Murray ended up in this particular building for the same reason. 

“It’s fucking cold,” Murray complains. 

“I’d offer you my sweater if I didn’t think you’d burst into flames. And if I was wearing a t-shirt on underneath.”

“You’re probably rocking a six pack under there,” Murray reaches over and pokes at Hall’s stomach, he’s right but it doesn’t stop Hall from being annoyed and swatting him away. 

“Fuck off."

“Hey, come on,” Murray smirks again, Hall wonders how his teeth can be so straight after playing hockey his whole life, “I’m just sayin’ I bet you look good under there.”

“You coming on to me, Robbie?” Hall asks. Maybe he wanted it to sound like a threat, maybe he wanted it to sound like a joke, but it comes out curious, maybe a little bit interested. 

“Only if you want me to be, Haller,” Murray’s smirking, but he doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet Hall’s eyes. 

They don’t say anything for the next few minutes. Hall looks up and sees the building manager talking to a few other tenants, someone’s getting impatient with the fireman but they’re being thorough trying to figure out what started the fire. 

“Are you wearing fuckin’ Hartford Whalers pajamas?” Hall finally says. 

He’s finally awake enough that he notices the white and blue of the checked flannel pants, he sees the logo on the breast pocket and he snorts. 

“Lemme guess, your a Rangers fan.”

He is, but that’s not the point. 

“What’s it matter, I’m not the one wearing kiddie pajamas.”

“They come in adult sizes,” Murray shrugs. 

Hall can’t imagine wearing team branded pajamas for anything other than a rookie prank at this point in his life and here’s Murray acting like it’s the least nerve wracking thing in the world. 

“You look stupid.”

“Not as stupid as a guy wearing his own hoodie looks, aren’t you supposed to give those to your girlfriends?” Murray pokes fun. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Hall snaps. 

“Oh,” Murray answers.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Murray speaks again to cut the tension. It feels teasing but not in the way the conversation had started, gentler, more observant. 

“I wear contacts to play.”

“I’ll make a note of that, see if we can blind you tomorrow.”

“Bastard.”

It’s nearly five by the time the fireman agrees to let them back in the apartment. It’s still dark out but Hall’s awake and he will be for the foreseeable future, he figures he might as well just get a head start on his morning. 

“Heading to bed?” Murray asks. 

Hall shakes his head, “Not much point now.”

“Right,” Murray says, “I’ve got coffee. And I live across the hall. So if you want to stop by and... have a coffee,” Murray picks his words carefully, “Or whatever else,” he says, then he shrugs to make the invitation clear. He bites his bottom lip and Hall can’t stop looking at it. 

“Oh whatever else,” Hall repeats. He feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him and he won’t ever tell anyone that Murray’s knocked anything out of him other than maybe a tooth the next time they play each other. 

“So whatever else it is then,” Murray says as they walk past the firetruck. Murray gives a polite wave to the building manager as they pass. There’s a glint in his eye, something devious, something charming, something that says he wants to find out first hand what Hall has under his sweater.

And John Hall can’t say he minds the thought of that.

_

So they fuck. Which Hall was expecting when he went upstairs. The look in Murray’s eyes, the smirk, the way he had put his hand on the small of his back when he opened his door the way that Murray had started to get out two mugs for coffee only to be backed up against the wall by Hall, only to set down the mugs and put his hands on Hall’s waist and pull him into his bedroom. They didn’t kiss though, Hall didn’t let that happen. 

And Hall was expecting that, because he wanted it. What he neither expected nor wanted was to wake up three hours later still in Murray’s apartment, still in his bed, feeling vaguely warm and comfortable. He’s not supposed to be comfortable, this isn’t something that’s supposed to bring him comfort. This is something that he should get out of his system now while he has the chance. 

But he can hear Murray humming in the kitchen and the radio is on and Hall has to walk past the kitchen to get out of Murray’s place and back across the hall, back to safety, back to his own space. 

“Do you want coffee?” Murray asks, seeing Hall appear in the tiny kitchen, still wiping the sleep out of his eyes. 

“No.”

And then he leaves. Because they’re not doing this. Because Hall doesn’t want to learn what kind of music Murray puts on while he does the dishes, he doesn’t want to learn how Murray likes his eggs in the morning or how much sugar he puts in his coffee. That’s not what this is and Hall has a game to play. A game to win, a game to get ready for. 

So he walks across the hall and acts like nothing happened. Because as far as he’s concerned, nothing happened. 

He looks at his clock when he gets inside, sees that if he cuts his run short, he can stay mostly on schedule. 

He’s not deluded enough to think he can make the NHL, but he could play. Maybe in the minors, maybe in the east coast league before he looks for a job as a scout, maybe an equipment manager. So he takes his classes seriously, because he’s going to graduate with his finance degree and he’s going to make this work. 

He shows up to class in his track pants and a BU t-shirt and he’s five minutes late to his seminar but that’s not enough to throw off the entire plan. 

He eats dinner in the dining hall with the team like he does before every game, he sits at the head of a long table where the captain has always sat and he eats his chicken and steamed vegetables and answers a couple homework questions.  

“Haller?” Someone shouts from the end. 

Hall looks up. 

“Did you see the beanpot schedule’s up?” the sophomore defenseman asks. 

Hall shakes his head, “Who we playing?”

“Harvard, and then whoever wins the BC/Northeastern game.”

“Piece of cake,” Hall says, he’s found that his own confidence bolsters the team’s confidence. 

“Psshhh, Harvard,” someone says. 

“Bunch of fucking pussies,” someone else says. 

Hall just nods in pseudo-agreement and looks back down at his homework questions. 

“You know BC’s gonna wipe the floor with Northeastern,” Someone says. 

“Oh yeah, and then we’ll wipe the floor with them.”

“Give them a taste of the ass pounding we’re going to give them tonight, a little sneak preview for the beanpot.”

Hall, for the most part, just lets his team talk, he’s not the type of captain to really care about much other than what’s happening on the ice. 

He stands up, he hasn’t finished his broccoli but he doesn’t care, because at the mention of BC, he realizes he has to leave. Because all he can think about is Murray, the shape of his lips and the calluses on his hands, the way he was rough with his touch like Hall wanted him to be. 

“I have to drop my stuff off at home,” he says, “I’ll see you at the game.”

And he tosses his book bag over his shoulder and books it out of the dining hall. 

He has to find a way to get Murray out of his head. Murray knew this would happen, this has to be why he invited him upstairs, slid his hand under Hall’s sweatshirt over his abs and smirked. What a fucking asshole. 

And he runs to his building and throws his school books onto his couch and takes the world’s coldest shower and it does absolutely nothing to help. So he has no choice but to get dressed and run back towards campus for the game. 

Murray’s always doing stupid shit. Their teams have only played each other once, but living across the hallway from him, Hall’s gotten a lot of insight into just how fucking annoying Murray is. In the first game they played, he kept talking to the referees, not complaining, just chatting between plays. He comes home from the grocery store every week at the exact time Hall leaves for his seminar on Tuesday, and then there was the business with the fire alarm. Hall’s still not entirely convinced that he didn’t have something to do with it. 

Hall plays on his team’s first defense pairing and he was expecting Murray to be on his team’s second line, it’s where he’d played the first time BU and BC had played each other this season. But he doesn’t, he lines up to take the faceoff and John’s just glad he’s not a centre so he doesn’t have to look him in the eye before the puck drops. He’s got a grin that lights up his big brown eyes, and Hall needs to look away. He’s got a job to do. He’s a defenseman, he hits hard, he gets the puck, he sticks up for his boys. 

Murray is entirely different. Hall’s never heard of him getting into a fight, he shies away from the hits as much as he can, and he zips past the other team’s defense. And it pisses Hall right the fuck off. He can handle assholes, and he can handle goons, when he can’t handle is Murray picking apart their defence and scoring the first goal of the game with a wrist shot that floats right past their goalie. 

What he especially can’t handle is how much of a distraction Murray seems to be making himself. He takes his helmet off and runs his hands through his sweaty hair before getting off his own bench for another shift. Hall shakes his head, because he knows what it’s like to run his hands through that hair, to tug on it in a heated moment. 

And Murray chirps like an absolute madman. And they’re good chirps too, not the kind that get malicious and make you want to call up a priest and confess all your sins and maybe check in on your mom. They’re the kind that you’d laugh at if they weren’t being shot at you and your guys. The kind that don’t leave the ice. Except he doesn’t chirp Hall, he leaves him alone and it feels entirely deliberate, just another thing meant to drive him crazy. 

And it works. Because the Terriers lose and John has to lead his team off the ice while the Eagles are still celebrating and looking smug and Murray is in the middle of all of it, grinning. He won. So John goes back to the dressing room looking dejected and annoyed and he lets someone else give the postgame pep talk because that’s never been his strong suit anyway and he changes into his track pants and hoodie and walks out of the dressing room and he sees Murray, he’s leaning against the wall talking to a short looking woman with a notepad and a tape recorder and Murray tries to meet Hall’s gaze but Hall doesn’t even look in his direction for more than a second, instead he walks right past him towards the small but dedicated group of college hockey reporters who want to go over the loss with him.

And he hates that part but it’s his job and the reporters know him by now so it’s not too painful. And then he goes home, because sometimes they’ll get together and drink at someone’s house or the older guys will hit up a bar, but Hall doesn’t feel up to it tonight. He lost, so he’ll stew in it on his own. He walks home, his legs are tired and he’s sore but it’s a feeling he likes, it reminds him of how hard he works. He eats the leftover steak and potatoes in his fridge and sits down on the couch. He tries to watch something on TV but he keeps pacing around the tiny living room. He makes rice and steamed vegetables and eats that, because maybe he’s hungry and that’s why he’s restless. When that doesn’t help, he starts doing pushups in the middle of the living room, until he collapses onto the rug because his arms won’t hold him up anymore. 

Robbie Murray is… something. Hall wouldn’t call him pretty but he can’t stop looking at him either. He’s all soft edges and smiles and his laugh feels like a gift and he’s so entirely stuck in John’s head. He gets up, grumpy about the way this entire day is gone and he’s fully intending to march across the hallway and give Robert Murray a piece of his mind and maybe also punch him. And he throws his own door open and stomps across the hallway, not even bothering to put on shoes and he bangs on Murray’s door as hard as he possibly can. 

And then Murray opens it and he has a smirk on his face and his hair is all messed up and he’s wearing his dumb fucking Hartford Whalers pajama pants and a black t-shirt and he looks… he looks like Murray and he’s still living in Hall’s head. 

“Thought you’d be back,” he says, the cocky asshole. 

“I-” Hall starts and then realizes that he doesn’t know what he was going to say. 

“You wanna come inside?” Murray asks. 

Hall just nods, words stolen from his mouth. 

Murray shuts the door behind them and Hall stands with his hands in his pockets. 

“You’re an asshole, you know that,” Hall says. 

“Am I?” Murray asks, raising an eyebrow like that’s news to him. 

“Yes,” Hall says. 

“You didn’t seem to think that when you were moaning my name last night.” 

And Hall takes a step forward and he puts his hands roughly on Murray’s shoulders and he slams him against the wall. Murray looks startled but the smirk comes back quickly, he’s smug, always has been. And Hall is staring at him and Murray’s staring back and then Hall breaks and he drags Murray into his own bedroom. 

And it’s a Thing. Or it becomes one. When the Terriers win, Hall goes out with his team, he parties, he gets drunk. People hand him drinks and girls ask if he’s “really the captain,” and, “ohmygosh that’s so cool!” When they lose, Hall goes home, gets restless and walks across the hallway and bangs on Murray’s door. And he tris to piss him off and then they have sex. They don’t kiss and Hall always leaves before Murray gives him a chance to find out how much sugar he puts in his coffee in the morning. 

_

The Beanpot doesn’t really count for much in the NCAA standings. It’s a tradition between the four schools in Massachusetts, Northeastern, Harvard, Boston University and Boston College. Aside from the finals, it’s the biggest game of the season The terriers have won it for the past two years and the last thing John Hall wants is to be the BU captain who breaks that streak. It’s for bragging rights, and the trophy and the glory, and Hall wants all of those things.

Hall feels like he’s holding his breath all day, which is normal for a game day. He has an arrangement with a girl in his stats class, she gives him his notes on game days and he gets her tickets whenever she wants them. She hands him her notes at the end of class. 

“See you tonight,” she smiles, “You’re going to kick some ivy league ass.”

“I sure hope so,” Hall says, and he smiles the way you’re supposed to smile at girls who are clearly into you. 

It’s Harvard tonight, it’s not even the final. But the only thing worse than losing in the final is losing in the first round and having to play in the stupid consolation game. Playing for third place is nobody’s dream. 

The team has a steak dinner, courtesy of their head coach who smokes a cigar at the coach’s table while the team eats dinner. 

Hall is quiet because that’s his thing. He's stoic, tall and intimidating. That’s just how he is, how he moves through life, how he gets through it. He prefers to listen, or at the very least pretend he’s listening while he shoves green beans into his mouth. He’ll be on edge until he gets to strap on his skates and take the ice. 

“They’re a bunch of little bitch boys with daddy’s money,” Hall hears one of his teammates saying from across the table. 

“Don’t they all have scholarships?” Someone asks. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that they’re little rich bitch boys,” the first guy responds. 

Hall just puts his head down and thinks about the best way to defend against Harvard. 

The team gets on the bus outside the restaurant for the 15 minute drive to Harvard’s rink. Hall keeps his head down like always. He thinks maybe it should be of more concern, that he’s been here for four years and he can honestly say he doesn’t have friends, only teammates. His D partner, Tito leans over the back of his seat and Hall shakes the thought out of his head. 

“So what’s the plan, big man,” he asks. 

“Just play actual defense and that’ll stump them,” Hall says, “Just get in the way.”

“Maybe rough a couple guys up?” Tito asks. 

“I’ll take care of that part,” Hall says. 

“You got it, bud,” Tito responds. 

Hall calms down the second he’s in the dressing room and he’s even more calm when his skates hit the ice. And when he throws the first punch of the game, he feels completely and entirely at ease. 

He just wants to get something going so he, “takes issue,” with an open ice check that knocks Tito on his ass. All it takes is a simple, “you wanna go?” and they’re going, gloves off fists swinging. And Hall spits blood when he heads to the penalty box, just happy he dragged the other guy down with him. Happy that they seem rattled, happy that his team seems fired up. That’s a captain’s job, after all, to fire up his team. 

He cheers BU’s first goal from inside the penalty box and he cheers harder when Tito drops the gloves 30 seconds later and ends up joining him in the penalty box. There are whoops and hollers in the dressing room and all the guys are ready to go out, ready to be the next guy to throw a punch. 

There aren’t any goals but that doesn’t mean there’s no shortage of things for the crowd to cheer for. Hall soaks it up, the way the crowd hates the Terriers, the way they boo and cheer any time one of his players gets slashed. He relishes in it every time he silences them by stealing the puck or cross checking a forward without getting caught. 

The third period is the same, everyone wants the honour of throwing the next punch. Scoring becomes secondary. It feels like they’re skating around looking for excuses to take each other’s heads off. 

And John finds one, late in the third. One of the Terriers’ centres is lined up for a faceoff and the defenseman he’s standing next to keeps elbowing him, and John looks up at him, raises his eyebrow. The guy raises his eyebrows back and the second the puck hits the ice, their sticks and gloves go flying and the guy launches himself at Hall and they grapple with one another and Hall gets and elbow in and hits the guy on the chin and the guy comes back swinging and he feels him busting his cheek open. And he grins, unhinged and fully ready to go. And he notices that he’s not the only one fighting. Tito’s dropped the gloves too. 

Later that night, someone’s going to describe the fight to him. He’ll see his own picture in a newspaper, swinging his fists, blood dripping from his cheek. And they’ll tell him all about the great line brawl they had. And Hall will be at the centre of it. Tito’s going at it with another defenseman, someone tries to jump in to defend the defenseman from Harvard but one of the Terriers hauls him out by the scruff of his neck and they start whaling on each other. The coaches have to settle their benches, lest the line brawl turn into a bench brawl. 

Hall feels the energy in the building when both team’s goalies skate out to centre ice and drop their respective gloves. 

He’s nursing a beer in someone’s basement and he wonders how they even finished the game. There’s a bandage on his cheek and his knuckles are bruised and bloody and there’s loud music and beer pong and he’s hanging out at the fringes like he always does at these kinds of things. 

And he’s standing with the girl who lets him borrow her notes and she’s giggling at every word he says and he doesn’t really know how to get out of it and she’s nice enough, her hand on his shoulder. 

Someone else grabs him by the shoulder, pulling his attention from her. 

“Man, some fuckers from BC just showed up,” he says, “Should we go teach ‘em a lesson,” his teammate says. 

Hall considers it for half a second before shaking his head, “Save it for the game. They just beat Northeastern, didn’t they? We’ll  get them then.”

“Yooo! Haller said no fighting!”

“Aww fuck!” Someone shouts. 

“Save it for tomorrow night, he said.”

Hall wanders upstairs and he sees some of the Eagles still wearing their jerseys near the keg. And he sees Murray, and he tries not to see him. It doesn’t work, because Murray’s running his hand through his hair and he looks up sheepishly across the room at Hall and it’s… well it’s something. 

And Hall walks towards them. A couple of the eagles puff up their chests but Hall waves them away. 

“Save it for the ice,” he says and he makes a point to stand, calmly, while he fills up his red solo cup. 

He leans against the wall, someone’s doing a kegstand but it’s not Murray, because Murray’s standing shoulder to shoulder with Hall. Closer than he would be if it weren’t dark and smoky in the house. 

“You got yourself pretty roughed up there, huh?” Murray says. 

“Read all about it in the Herald tomorrow,” Hall says. 

“I’m more of a Globe guy myself,” Murray says and he takes a slow sip of his drink and Hall’s trying really hard not to look at his lips. They’re slightly parted, wet and redder than they should be. Hall hasn’t kissed him. Not out of some delusion that not kissing makes whatever they’re doing any less gay, but because he thinks if he kissed him he would’t be able to stay away. He wouldn’t be able to end this when he has to. 

“Can’t believe you don’t want to take my head off tomorrow,” Hall says

“I’m not a fighter,” Murray says

“You’re a hockey player,” Hall says. 

“Those aren’t synonyms,” Murray walks away after that.

They don’t do this when Hall wins. 

____

It’s a long walk from the suburbs back to his downtown Allston neighbourhood near campus. Which is fine, it gives him time to clear his head. 

“Hey,” Hall jumps, he’s not expecting to hear Murray’s voice. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Murray says, “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. 

“Are you fucking following me?” Hall sneers. 

“No,” Murray says, “I’m going home, you dumbass.”

“Right,” Hall says, “Well as long as no one sees us.”

“Hmm,” Murray huffs, “You afraid they’ll think you’re switching sides?”

And Hall wonders if those words are supposed to have a double meaning. 

“I always pick the winning side.”

“Well then we better get you an Eagle jersey,” Murray says. 

“We’ve won the last two years, I don’t plan on stopping now,” Hall says. 

“Well, I wasn’t here the past two years,” Murray smiles, mischief in his eyes.

And god, he’s such a fucking freshman about it all, cocky and arrogant. He acts like he’s invincible, nothing Hall does seems to rattle him. 

Everything Murray does rattles Hall. Every time he puts his hands on him, it’s a revelation, a new realization. They don’t do this when Hall wins. 

“I’m not gonna try to fight you,” Murray says, “You asked, but I don’t fight.”

“Why?” Hall asks, “It’s hockey.”

“The goal of hockey is to score isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Hall says. 

“Wouldn’t have been able to tell based on the shitshow you played tonight.”

“It’s necessary,” Hall says. 

“I don’t think so,” Murray says, “I don’t like it. It feels wrong.”

“You certainly don’t mind shoving me around,” Hall says. 

“S’different, you like it,” Murray says. 

“Fuck off,” Hall answers. 

Murray’s smirk returns, “No one can hear us, it’s the middle of the night, we’re in the middle of nowhere,” he says, “No one’s gonna know.”

“Fuck off,” Hall says, all the more insistent. 

Murray just rolls his eyes, “Anyway, I don’t fight. Wouldn’t want to fuck your face up any more.”

Hall groans. 

“You think that makes me a bitch or something?” Murray asks. 

“Maybe,” John  says, “M’still deciding.”

“Well I don’t,” Murray says, “And if it does, then I guess I’m okay with that. Don’t care what anyone has to say about it.”

“That’s awful brave,” John says. 

“Brave?”

“Yeah, brave,” John says, “Fighting’s not brave. Not smart either. It’s just swinging your fists and hoping something lands. At least you’ve got a code.”

“You goin’ soft on me, Haller?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry,” Murray says, “Forgot.”

“Don’t forget again. We’re not friends.”

“I’d never confuse us for that" 

Hall doesn’t say anything after that, just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Murray keeps quiet until they get up the stairs and part ways in the hallway. 

“Good night,” Murray says. 

Hall grunts something before closing his door behind him. He takes a deep breath, locks his door and leans against it. It’s physical, what’s happening with Murray. The way Murray flirts with him, the way he teases him, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s a joke, he does it to get under Hall’s skin. And god does he ever do a good job, because whenever Hall thinks about him, he loses his breath. The same way he does after a fight, but without the satisfaction. It’s the adrenaline with none of the resolution. 

He goes to bed. Tomorrow’s a new day, a new day with a game, the second half of the tournament. He gets up and he loads up on protein, puts leftover steak in his omelette and washes it down with a glass of milk. And he jogs and he does his homework and then it’s time to go to the rink. It’s a matter of comfort that his days are so repetitive. There can’t be any surprises if everything always stays exactly the same. 

Tito is waiting for him with a burrito for dinner at the rink. They sit in the stands and eat dinner. 

“You ever think about how this is the last one we get to play.”

“No,” Tito answers, “Just gotta do it. Kick some ass, take some names, hopefully they remember who they are.”

“Right,” Hall says, kick some ass, take some names. Simple. 

Hockey is simple. He’s never thought too hard about it, until now that is. He can’t get what Murray said out of his head. He can’t get Murray out of his head. Can’t get what he’d said himself out of his own head. Fighting’s not brave, it’s not smart either. It’s flailing around and hoping something hits. But that’s all he can do, hope it hits. 

They head into their locker room, Hall wants to get in there before the Eagles show up and Murray gets back into his head. 

The locker room is boisterous, it always is. Especially when they play BC, especially when there’s a trophy involved. 

“Motherfuckers,” someone shouts, “There is a case of beer in the back of my truck, and I really want to drink it after we win. So let’s fucking win.”

Hall shakes his head fondly. He wonders what, if anything, Murray gets to say to his team before a game. 

“Kick some ass, boys,” Hall taps Tito on the back of the shin pads and they all run out onto the ice. 

Hall loves this feeling. Knowing that in two hours they’ll have an answer, there’s a definitive outcome. They either win or they don’t, and that’s comforting. 

The Eagles have Murray take the faceoff. Hall doesn’t hate him so much that he doesn’t keep up with his stats. Murray’s on a scoring streak, he’s tearing it up. It’d be stupid not to start him. The game stays locked. The Terriers score first but the Eagles come right back with a goal of their own. They trade goals until it’s 4-4 in the third and both sides are getting frustrated. The hits are always hard, but they get harder as things get more and more tense. Finally, Hall’s sitting on the bench and his coach taps him on the back and gives him a look. 

“Go get something started.”

So when Tito and Hall skate out for their shift, Hall ‘takes issue’ with a hit and he starts swinging, hoping something will land. His knuckles are still bruised from last night, his face is still sore. His helmet comes off in the scuffle and the other guy grabs him by the jersey and lands a punch on his face. Hall spits and his face breaks into a grin. He feels his fists connect with flesh as he struggles to stay on his feet. The fight ends when both of them tumble to the ice and the referees get in front of him. 

When John Hall fights, he does it with all his energy, all his focus. Once it ends, he comes back to himself, he hears the crowd cheering, he hears the clapping from his bench, the jeering from BC’s, he hears the referees blowing their whistles, feels a hand on his back as he’s escorted to the penalty box. He looks over his shoulder and sees his coach smiling approvingly, sees his bench lit up and fired up, and that’s really all he wanted out of this. The BC bench look just as fired up as his team, all standing up, cheering for their own guy. There’s one person sitting down, and he’s looking at Hall. There’s a sour look on his face, disapproval maybe, jealousy. And frankly, John Hall doesn’t care. He did his job, he played his game, and Murray’s just going to have to deal with that. 

Murray comes over the boards for his next shift, and like clockwork, he sweeps the puck out from the faceoff circle and retreats. He’s slow, but he’s smart. Hall can see him thinking about his next move before he makes it, he only wishes he knew what the move was. Murray fakes out the other defenseman and Hall grits his teeth as he watches from his own bench. Murray scores. He does it like he’s proving a point. He drops to one knee and glides across the ice. He flies by his own bench and high fives his teammates. Hall doesn’t miss the pointed look in his direction as the Eagles go up by one. 

“Cocky bitch,” Tito mutters and then he spits on the bench. 

“Kick his ass,” his coach tells him. 

And those are pretty explicit instructions. Fuck up Robbie Murray. 

He shakes his head. 

“We need a goal,” Hall grunts. 

“Since when do you turn down a fight, Haller?” Tito asks. 

“Since now. Maybe someone else should get punched in the face for this fucking team once in a while,” Hall snaps. 

He changes with the second pair right defenseman before anyone can say anything. 

John Hall thinks he’d kill a man for this team, to win. That’s what a captain is supposed to do. 

Not Robert Murray though. Not him. 

The next goal comes for the Terriers, and the next one, and the next one. And they win 7-4. They celebrate on the ice, a slew of profanities fills the ice as they skate the trophy around the rink in front of the crowd. The BU fans whoop and holler and the BC fans boo and John Hall soaks it in like the douchebag captain they think he is. He brings his lips to the trophy and when he does he makes sure he’s looking over at BC’s bench. He’s going to be smug about it, because Murray’s smug, Murray’s an asshole and Hall won. He can rub it in a little bit. 

Somebody throws a beer at him the second his feet hit the tile in the locker room. 

Murray downs it in four gulps and lets out a scream that could be mistaken for a wild animal but is actually his own cry of victory. Tito pours the first half of his second beer down his throat before John snatches it out of his hand and downs the rest of it down his own throat. 

“That freshman’s gonna be a problem one day,” Geoff says. 

“Not if we someone beats the shit out of him,” Harry shouts from the other side of the room. 

“Haller, you should’ve,” Tito says. 

Hall shakes his head, “What would’ve been the point?”

“The point would have been giving that little pest what he deserves,” Tito answers quickly. 

Hall shakes his head again. 

“Come on boys, I’m a hockey player not, Iron fucking Mike, alright, cool it.”

He takes another swig of his drink. 

“Don’t go soft, John,” Tito says. There’s something in his tone that makes Hall afraid. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, because it’s sure as shit not Tito. 

The thing to know about John Hall, is that he keeps more than one version of himself. He has a very particular routine and he turns in his homework on time, sure, but there’s a period of about twelve hours after every home game set aside to “just get fucking wasted.” That version of John Hall is outgoing and funny and sometimes he has to convince a freshman to get out of a tree, but it’s all in good fun. That is the John Hall who has everything together.

He likes that version of himself, especially because that version of himself does not sleep with Robert Murray. That particular and strange desire is reserved for a different John Hall, the one who’s feeling a little bit reckless, a little bit mopey, the one who just lost a game. There’s captain John, and the John who speaks in his seminars, and John who wakes up early and goes for a run. He thinks the John who wants to sleep with Robert Murray is a new one, but he can’t quite be sure. 

It’s fine. As long as that John stays separate from the other ones, then there shouldn’t be a problem. 

The party is at Tito’s place, he lives with Geoff, and Winger and Harry in a place in the suburbs. You know it’s their place because they have a BU flag hanging from the second floor window and there’s always an empty can of beer on the lawn from some party. 

He has a good time, he gets drunk, but not so drunk that he won’t be able to walk home. He complains about a professor to this girl he’s pretty sure is in one of his courses and he puts his arm around her shoulder and smirks self-satisfied when she leans in to laugh at something that wasn’t particularly funny. 

Tito and Winger probably blackout by 2am, but it’s nothing they can’t fix with bacon and a strong coffee in the morning. 

Hall leaves parties early. He always has, and he thinks he always will. He always tells Tito he’s heading out so no one comes looking for him. At 2:30, he slips his jacket back on and starts to open the front door. The girl he remembers talking to grabs him by the arm just as he steps out onto the porch. 

“You’re not going to ask me over to yours, I thought we had a connection,” she said. Her teeth are perfectly straight. Murray has one crooked incisor on the left side of his mouth. That’s not something Hall wants to be thinking about right now. 

“You’re awful forward,” Hall says. 

“You don’t like that?” She has a mischievous look in her eye. 

“I’m not opposed to it,” Hall says. 

“Where do you live?”

“Near Allston,” Hall says. 

“Wanna split a cab?”

“Uh,” John says. He always walks home from this kind of thing. It clears his head. He also thinks that this is the kind of thing he should do. It’s what a hockey player does. You play a game, you win the game, you get drunk, you get laid. Whatever he has going on with Murray is something else entirely, it doesn’t count. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” John says, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Annie,” she smiles wide. Her hair bounces a little bit when she moves, she has it tied in a high pony with one of those scrunchy elastic bands. It’s Boston University red. 

Annie goes back inside to call the cab and meets John back on the porch. She shivers a little bit. She’s wearing a short skirt and a BU t-shirt that he’s pretty sure she cropped herself.  Hall hands her his jacket without being asked. She lets it hang over her shoulders. She’s small, nearly a foot shorter than John, and she’s slight. Really, she’s very pretty and there’s no reason that Hall shouldn’t want to do this, no reason he can think of except for Murray. 

“I don’t know much about hockey, but I couldn’t stop watching you all game.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you’re the captain, so that made sense,” she giggles

He gets in the cab with her and gives the driver his address and she sits close to him in the back of the car with that too-good-to-be-true smile. She doesn’t feel real in the way that Murray feels real. He grits his teeth. That’s not a thought that this version of Hall should be having. 

He opens the car door for Annie and he pays for the cab despite her protesting that they were going to split it. She gives in easily and without a fight, Hall wishes there was a little bit of a challenge. 

He almost asks her if she wants coffee on the walk up the stairs. He bites it back. 

“So what are you studying Annie?”

“Business,” she says, “I want to open a diner, so I figured I should learn how to keep the books.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

“And what about you, what are your dreams?” they’re rounding the corner of another flight of stairs. 

“Hockey,” John says, “Coaching maybe. Scouting’s good too.”

“I don’t know how any of that really works, but it sounds good for you. I can tell how much hockey matters to you.”

“Yeah,” John says. He knows exactly how much of himself he’s willing to give up in order for it to stay in his life. 

“You’re a man of few words.”

“Sorry,” John says. 

“Don’t be, it’s cute.”

“Right.”

He gets his key ready to unlock the door at the top of his stairwell but before he can, the door swings open. 

Robbie’s wearing a pair of dark pants and a slightly lighter denim jacket on top of a white t-shirt. He looks surprised to see John. John thinks he sees fear in Murray’s eyes. He looks good, John thinks immediately. The shirt is tighter than John would wear for himself, but it looks good on the other man. The jeans are well fitted and the jacket makes his lean frame look just a little bit wider in the right places. John sees an enamel pin just above the pocket of the jean jacket, it’s black and it has a symbol on it that John can’t make out from where he’s standing. He looks startled, and then he looks John dead in the eye, no fear anymore, just defiance.

“Evening, Murray,” John says. 

“More like morning,” Murray answers. 

“You heading somewhere at this time?”

“Out,” Murray answers. He narrows his eyes at Annie, tilts his head to the side, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I’m Annie,” Annie says, “I haven’t been around,” she says. John kind of hates how sweet she is, how warm her smile feels. The fact that she’s kind and the fact that she’s beautiful, means that John has no excuse not to like her. He has no excuse for staring at Murray instead of her.

“Well I’m heading out,” Murray says, “See you next game,” Murray says. 

“Yeah,” Hall says. 

Murray holds the door open for Hall. Hall sees another pin on Murray’s shirt, this one is shaped like a heart, it’s purple. John walks through the door with Annie behind him. 

“Who was that?” she asks. 

“Neighbour,” John says. He feels like he’d be telling a secret if he reminded her that he played for BC. He feels like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to. 

Annie puts her hand on his shoulder while he unlocks his door. 

“I’m sorry,” John blurts out the second both of them cross the threshold. 

“What?” She asks, eyebrows furrowed, she looks genuinely concerned. 

“I can’t sleep with you,” John says, “If that’s what you want, I can’t?”

“Oh, are you with someone, she asks?” and again, she’s genuinely concerned. She’s the nicest person John has met all day and he’s furious at himself that he can’t make this work. 

It takes John half a second too long to say, “No.”

“Oh,” Annie says, “Did I do something,” and now she looks confused and hurt and she’ll think he doesn’t think she’s pretty and that’s not true. She’s gorgeous and he can see that. Murray’s face swims around his head. 

“No!” John says quickly, “You’re great and I think you’re beautiful, I just can’t right now. It just… it’s nothing to do with you, I’m so sorry I wasted your time. You’re more than welcome to stay,” John says, “I won’t make you go home alone in the middle of the night,” he thinks that would just be cruel. 

“Oh. Okay,” she says. 

“I swear this isn’t about you,” John says. 

The version of himself that wants to sleep with Robbie Murray was never supposed to be seen by anyone else. 

“I believe you,” Annie says. This would be so much easier if she wasn’t so god damn nice. 

“You can take my bedroom,” John says, “I’ll grab some blankets and sleep on the couch,” he says, “The bedroom door locks if that’s… you’re welcome to lock it.”

“You’re a lot more polite than the other hockey players I’ve seen around.”

“I’m a captain.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m an example for the rest of the team. Can’t walk around being an asshole.”

“Well, I think you’re a fine example. Definitely not an asshole.”

“Even after I wasted your time?”

“Eh, I wouldn’t call it a waste.”

“Well,” John says, “Thanks.”

When he wakes up on the couch, Annie’s gone. There’s not on his fridge, piece of paper torn from the notebook he leaves on the kitchen table. 

It was good to hang out with you, call me if you ever change your mind, or if you just want to talk. I can always use more friends. 

She left her number on the bottom of the note. John wishes it were tempting. 

_

The ECAC championship should have had his name on it. Instead, Robert Murray skates around the ice holding the trophy. He hasn’t talked to him since that night in the stairwell, hasn’t knocked on his door, hasn’t even tried. He’s thought about it, even walked out into the hallway, ready to knock. But he hasn’t done it. 

Robbie’s grinning as he passes the trophy off to a teammate. He scored the winning goal. One day, Hall might be able to admit that it was a beautiful goal, perfect in just about every way. Today he’s pissed about it. He lets the cloud of what if hang over his head as he mopes back to the locker room. 

Tito doesn’t have to say anything. Hall knows what they’re both thinking. That was it. John Hall never gets to put on this jersey to play a game ever again. He graduates, and when he does, he won’t be a captain, he won’t be a Terrier. This won’t be his team. He doesn’t know what he is without that structure. 

He goes home. The team throws an end of season party and he’s invited, but he can’t face them. He should have blocked that shot. He should have laid down in the middle of the ice and blocked it with his face. Whatever it took. 

He goes home and he eats dinner. He’s lost without a game or a practice tomorrow. Tomorrow there’s nothing, because today, they lost. He was tired in the third, got behind Murray and couldn’t stop him from there. He wonders if the fact that he fought in the first has anything to do it. He wonders if Murray is smug about it. He puts on his glasses to watch the 11 o’clock news and it’s nothing important, it’s just noise to fill space. He falls asleep on the couch, TV on.

The knock on his door is loud and insistent and when he doesn’t immediately get up, there’s more. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and rubs his eyes. He throws open the door, he thinks maybe it might be Tito trying to convince him to do something dumb. 

He’s standing eye to eye with Robbie Murray. His hair is messed up and he’s still wearing his jersey on top of a pair of jeans and he’s… he’s putting his hands on the side of Hall’s face and Hall is looking at him and he’s out of breath from the simple touch. 

“You won, what are you doing here?” Hall asks. 

“You only ever knock on my door when you lose,” Murray says. So he noticed the pattern too, “I figured it worked in reverse too,” Murray says. 

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I need to kiss you, right now,” Murray says. 

He takes another step forward and Hall’s door swings shut behind him. 

When Hall nods, Murray pulls his face forwards. John almost stumbles in his haste. Murray’s lips taste like beer and sweat and his hands are rough. This is not a nice kiss, it’s not a kind kiss. John is shoving him and Murray is shoving back, like if they push hard enough their lips will somehow be closer together. John gasps and Murray’s tongue is in John’s mouth and he lets out the most embarrassing moan of his life. Murray moves one of his hands so that he’s holding him firmly by the back of the neck, thumb pushing against his hairline, it feels better than it should, better than John wants it to. 

They pull apart for a second and they’re both breathing heavy and Hall knows he can’t have this. Murray is looking at him with the same look he had that night in the stairwell and John’s afraid. He’s afraid of how that look makes him feel, the things it makes him want to do. He’s afraid of what could happen if he lets himself be looked at like that.

 John shakes his head, and he kisses him again. Hot and searing and sloppy. One last time.

“I need you to leave,” John says. His voice trembles, “Now,” Hall says, his voice firm. 

Murray just nods. He takes one more step forward and he leans in, but Hall turns his face away and shakes his head. 

“I can’t.”

Murray leaves. John locks his door. He sits back down on his couch and wishes something was different. He doesn’t know what he wants to be different, but whatever it takes to not have to feel this way. 

He decides he needs to get out of Massachusetts. 

Chapter Text

Hall’s professional career lasts for about three hours. That’s what he’ll tell people when they ask, because that’s how long his skates were actually on the ice in Halifax. He didn’t get a lot of ice time in the first place, and then he hurt his knee. He tried to keep playing, but his coach sat him down. Hall still remembers the conversation.

“This is an East coast minor league team that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. How much of yourself do you really want to give?”

If he was being honest, the answer was still “all of it” He thinks the answer will always be, “all of it.”

In the end he didn’t get to make that decision for himself. They benched him, and then they scratched him. He collected what was left of his salary and didn’t re-sign. 

He picks up a copy of The Hockey News Magazine at the airport before he leaves. He’s not going back to Massachusetts. There’s nothing for him there. There’s a job in Minneapolis, an assistant coach for a prep school. He took the job on the same phone call it was offered to him, he doesn’t say no to hockey.

_

Hockey’s good to him, it always has been. Hockey gave him a purpose, it gives him a team, it gives him friends, or what passes as friends. So he doesn’t mind when people joke that he’s “married to the sport,” some of the kids at the prep school in Minneapolis asked him if he had a girlfriend. Before Hall could answer, the head coach piped in. 

“He’s married to the puck, boys. Maybe some of you should steal some of that focus, maybe then we wouldn’t be 0-4.”

There were giggles. Hall looked away from them. It should have been embarrassing, but it felt safe. 

He moved on, a stats keeping job for a div III school, another assistant coaching job with a prep school, more stats keeping until he finally broke into scouting. He goes back to Massachusetts for a job at Merrimack, figures it’s safe there for him by now Three years after graduating, he feels like he’s starting to land on his feet. 

_

The job at Merrimack isn’t that bad, honestly. He gets to travel, so he’s not in New England that often anyway. They send him off to high schools to watch kids play, but occasionally he gets sent off on a trip to a div III school to see if anyone playing there could hack it in the ECAC. He never thought he’d go back to Massachusetts, but it still feels like home. It’s been long enough, the reminders aren’t there anymore. 

It’s cold in Wisconsin, which is where the hockey coach at Merrimack sent him this week. He doesn’t mind, cold reminds him of hockey, and hockey is what puts gas in his tank and keeps him going. 

He shivers when he walks into the rink, he can smell the ice and he can hear the sound of warmup. He walks past the concession stand where some kid is selling coffee and soft pretzels, as far as shitty jobs go, Hall has always thought that rink concessions has gotta be one of the worst. He’s dealt with a lot of hockey parents in his time, but he can imagine how much worse they are when you’re the only thing standing between them and their first cup of coffee. 

He shows the ticket taker his credential. By the first intermission, he’s sure that the entire team will know there’s a scout in the building. He climbs the stairs and finds a seat in the very last row. He has his notebook and pen in his pocket, a photocopy of the roster in his hand. He has a couple stars next to a few names, but he has an open mind. He’s good at this, finding the hidden gems that other scouts miss. 

“I usually sit there,”

He’s never been to this rink, the cold plastic chair is unfamiliar to him. That voice though, that voice is so very familiar. He looks up. Robert Murray is pointing at the chair right next to him.

“Uh. Hi,” Hall says, uselessly. 

“So you gonna move or do I have to crawl over you?” Murray asks.

Robert Murray. Former Boston College Eagle. That’s what Hall’s brain provides him, he doesn’t know how else to think of him. 

Hockey’s a small world, it’s not like Hall thought he’d never see Murray ever again but he wasn’t expecting to see him in Wisconsin. Nobody goes to Wisconsin unless they have to, which John hall does. 

“Right,” Hall says, he moves a couple seats into the row so that Murray can sit next to him. He leaves two seats between himself and the aisle so that Murray doesn’t have to sit right next to him. Murray ignores the two seat buffer and sits next to Hall anyway. The seats are so close together that their thighs have to be touching. 

Hall bites his lip and does his best to stare directly ahead, only looking at the game. 

“What are you doing here?” Hall asks. 

“I’m the one who should be asking that,” Murray says. The small boyish smile on his face looks the exact same as Hall remembers, “I work here,” Murray says. 

“What, like a coach?” Hall asks. The competitive fire that burned between them when they played in Boston re-ignites. How did Murray beat him to a coaching job? He briefly wonders if his post-grad gig as a division one scout meant he outranks Murray since he only coaches division III. He doesn’t have to wonder long because Murray’s laughing at him. 

“God no,” Murray snorts, “Fuck that. You’re the one who’s gonna be a coach. I’m doing sport science. My research is with the hockey team.”

“Nerd,” Hall says. 

Murray shrugs, “You’re the one with all those fancy numbers,” he points at Hall’s notebook. 

Hall rolls his eyes, he points at the columns as he speaks, “Assists, Goals, Total Points, plus-minus, jersey number.” 

“I still think you’re the hockey nerd out of the two of us. Just because I’m smarter doesn’t make me the bigger nerd.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” 

“You can take it that way,” Murray shrugs, he relaxes back into his seat, his shoulder brushes up against Hall’s. 

Hall leans forward, looks at his notebook. They’re quiet. Murray is not his friend. He never was. He never will be. Whatever they did before, that’s done. Hall doesn’t do that. Besides, they weren’t friends back then either.

Murray gets up some time in the first to talk to someone on the bench. Hall briefly considers moving seats, but he decides that that would be letting Murray win. Murray comes back after his conversation. He sits in the same seat, shoulder touching Hall’s. Hall pulls away, Murray doesn’t even flinch.

If he looks at Murray he thinks he might never stop. If he looks at Murray he thinks he might ask him to leave and to take him along. If he looks at Murray he thinks me might ask what they meant to each other. 

Nothing. They meant nothing to each other. Hall knows that.

“Who you scouting for?” 

“Merrimack,” Hall answers, he’s still hunched forward, not looking at Murray. 

“Yuck,” Murray says, “Fuck Merrimack.”

“At least I’m not in Wisconsin.”

“You are right now,” Murray’s eyes twinkle mischievously. He’s always looked kind of like a boy who just got away with something. 

“Whatever, games startin’“ Hall mumbles. 

Sometime in the second period, Hall puts a star next to one of the players’ names. He likes the way he plays, sees some raw talent. 

“You don’t want that kid,” Murray says. 

“What’s it matter to you. He’s having a good game.”

“It’s not his game,” Murray’s chewing on his bottom lip, “He’s got off ice issues. Doesn’t listen, he’s got talent but he won’t accept coaching. Isn’t exactly...just trust me on it. He’s...” Murray looks down at his feet, he holds his wrist in his hand, rubs it like he’s remembering some sort of pain. Something about the way his eyes drop tells Hall that it’s not exactly physical pain, “Just trust me on this,” Murray mutters.

“Why do you care?” Hall asks, his voice is quiet.

“Why don’t you just listen to me, Haller?” 

“You still don’t get to call me that,” Hall says. It’s instinctive, he snaps.

Murray rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair.

“Christ,” Murray says, “Are we still rivals, are we still doing that? Do we still hate each other.”

“Well I can’t say I like you all that much,” Hall says. 

Murray snorts, “Yeah, you say that often enough,” Murray rolls his eyes. 

Hall ignores him. They’re not kids anymore. There’s no screwing around to be done, they don’t have the same old excuses. There’s no rivalry, no real hatred, and without that, Hall doesn’t know where he stands, how he can keep denying himself Murray. His knee is still pressed against Hall’s thigh. The chairs are small and close together, but Murray’s not trying to move away. 

Murray’s looking straight ahead when he starts talking. He’s watching the play, and to anyone looking, that’s what they’re talking about. 

“I have a place,” Murray says. It’s quiet. Hall can hear the smirk in his voice, “You can come over, have coffee,” Hall looks over and sees the all too familiar curl at the corner of his mouth. 

“Coffee,” Murray says again, “Like that night with the fire alarm.”

“How could I forget,” Hall says, he means for it to come out dry and sarcastic, but that’s not how it sounds, there’s a lump in his throat as he speaks. 

“You wanna get out of here,” Murray says. 

“I should stay for the third.”

“Scouts always leave after the second,” Murray coaxes. 

Hall considers. 

“My car’s outside.”

Hall takes a breath and nods, he stands up. Murray stands up with him. He follows Murray through the rink, out the side door. 

“I’d accuse you of taking me out back here to break my kneecaps if we still played against each other,” Hall tries to crack a joke, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. 

Murray turns around, he’s not laughing, just looks sad. He shakes his head. 

“I’ve never wanted to hurt you, John,” he says, “I never did either.”

He unlocks his car before any words can fall out of John’s mouth. 

“She’s a little old so we have to wait for her to warm up,” Murray says, “But we can sit inside to keep ourselves from freezing,” he opens the passenger door for Hall and then climbs in the driver’s side. 

“Okay,” John says, he’s shivering, even if the heat doesn’t work, he’ll take the shelter from the cold. 

Murray looks over at him. When they were still in college, that would have been all it took, Murray would have been on him already. But Murray looks down at the dash, he’s contemplating something. Then he shakes his head. He turns on the radio. Hall thinks about grabbing his hand, he doesn’t. 

“Alright, my place then,” Murray says. 

“Coffee,” John says. 

“Coffee,” Murray agrees. 

John thinks about that last time they had spoken. How well Murray’s lips had fit against his, how out of breath he had been for the next three hours, how he had been shaken for at least a day after. He thinks about how Murray had just said it, how he had outright told John exactly what he wanted, and how John had given it to him simply because he had asked. He’d do it again. He can’t do it again. 

Hall doesn’t ask him for a kiss, and Murray doesn’t try to give him one. 

He was planning to go back to the hotel, to look over his notes and the roster and watch some of the game tapes he brought with him. Hall never flies without a plan. Except, of course, when Robbie Murray is involved. He didn’t plan for this. He never does.

_

Hall leaves Murray’s apartment before the sun comes up, before he can look too closely at the place Murray calls home. It’s small, he knows that, a bachelor pad where the bed and the kitchen table are ridiculously close to one another. It’s neat, like Hall remembers Murray’s place always being. The dishes are still piled high in the sink though. There’s a record player that Hall makes out as he’s putting on his shoes and slipping out. 

“What, no round two?” Murray props himself up on his elbows and gives Hall a cheeky grin. 

Hall shakes his head, “I have work to do.”

“Okay, man. Well. If you’re ever in Wisconsin,” he shrugs and flops back against his pillow. 

The last thing John Hall notices before he leaves, is that Robbie Murray does not have a coffee pot. The absolute fucking nerve of this guy. 

_

Margie is nice, she works in admin, and one of the assistant coaches at Merrimack sets them up at a work thing. She’s got big hair and kind eyes and clear brown skin and she talks with her hands. Hall thinks she’s great. 

The talk for the entire party, standing in a corner, Hall with a beer in his hand, Margie with a glass of wine in hers. He asks about her and she tells him in a smooth and kind voice. She asks about him and he answers shortly, always finding a way to redirect the conversation to whatever she wants to talk about. It’s not that he’s hiding anything from her, it’s just that he doesn’t think there’s much more to him than meets the eye. He’s a hockey scout, he doesn’t know what else to say. 

When it’s time to leave, Hall offers Margie a ride home. She accepts and when they get to her address, she asks if he wants to come upstairs for another drink. 

Hall shakes his head. 

“How about I take you out some time. I’d like to get to know you,” he says. 

He thinks maybe, if he gets to know her, he can make this work. The way it hadn’t worked with Annie all those years ago, and the way it hadn’t worked with Lizzie, or Jean or Melissa. The way it only ever seemed to work with… well, he won’t admit who it worked with. 

Margie’s face lights up and she smiles, “I would like that very much,” she says, and then she leans across the centre console and kisses him on the cheek, “You know where my office is. Come say hello and we can get lunch soon.”

“Will do,” Hall says. 

He watches until she gets inside and closes the door behind him.

He takes a deep breath. He wants this to work

_

Margie asks John on their fourth date if he’s “the kind of boy who likes to wait.” They’ve been out to lunch, and then dinner the next night they’d both had off. After another trip out west, he takes her to a basketball game. She’s wearing a pair of  tight jeans and a Celtics t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She leans in when he has something to say, but most of what he has to say isn’t anything all that important. They talk about basketball, and they talk about her sisters coming into town next weekend. She takes a sip of her beer, hot pink lipstick stains the cup, she looks over at him and smiles. Hall smiles back because that’s polite. She looks back at the play. 

He offers her his jacket on the way back to his car. She takes it. He thinks this is the kind of thing he’s supposed to find wildly attractive, because he’s heard his friends talk about how hot their girlfriends look in their clothes with a vague air of possessiveness. Hall just thinks she looks less cold than she did before.

“Are you the kind of boy who likes to wait?” Margie asks on the walk back to his car. They’ve parked a few blocks away to avoid some of the traffic. 

Hall looks puzzled, mostly because nobody’s called him a boy in a few years. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s been nearly a month, and by my count this is the fourth date. By now most boys would be trying to get me undressed, but you’re giving me clothes and you haven’t so much as tried to kiss me,” she says, looking at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved. 

And well, this was fun while it lasted, because this is usually the point where Hall has to cut things off. He’ll pull out the old standbys. It’s not her, it’s him. She’s a nice girl but he has to focus on his work. He told one girl that he was converting to catholicism and wanted to try celibacy. Jean had called him an asshole, said he’d lead her on. Lizzie had thrown a bread roll at him across the dinner table they had been sharing. He remembers Annie, sweet Annie who had left her number on his refrigerator and told him to call. He never did.

Margie’s looking at him with big brown eyes and a confused but sympathetic look. He realizes he hasn’t said anything.

“Would you like me to kiss you?” he asks. 

Margie thinks for a second. He’d asked Melisa the same question and she’d said yes. That had bought him another couple of dates with just hand holding and soft chaste, closed mouth kisses.

“Only if you want to kiss me, John,” Margie says. 

“Why wouldn’t I want to kiss you?” Hall says. It’s all he can think of. 

“Well that’s your business,” Margie says. 

Hall feels judged. 

“I guess I should just kiss you,” Hall says. 

Margie still looks confused, but she stands on her tiptoes and she kisses him, soft on the sidewalk. She pulls her lips away from his and looks down. He has his hand on her back and she turns so that he has his arm around her. 

“You decide when the next right time to kiss me is, okay? I did the work that time,” the smile is still there. He notices that her lipstick didn’t smudge. It must be good. 

They drive home listening to the radio, talking about work. He walks her to the front door of her building and he doesn’t kiss her. She looks back at him, eyes turned down, smile just a little bit smaller. 

If this was a test, Hall thinks he just failed. 

_

“So what happened with you and Margie?” The assistant coach at Merrimack asks Hall during one of their monthly meetings. 

Hall shrugs, “Fizzled out.”

He’d tried to call her, to schedule another date before he had to end it. She hadn’t picked up. Hall thinks it might have been a favour. 

“Ah, happens,” the assistant coach says with a boys will be boys kind of smile on his face. 

Hall shrugs, “Work keeps me busy. Women don’t like that.”

“Don’t I know it, Haller,” he claps him on the shoulder. Hall laughs with him. 

They talk about scouting, Hall hands over his notes, his assessments. The assistant coach nods thoughtfully. 

“That kid from Wisco, how do you feel about driving down to Worcester State to see them play tonight. I think he could add something if he’s willing to transfer next year.”

Hall says yes, only giving passing thought to the way Murray had held his wrist and looked down when Hall put a star next to the kid’s name. Fuck him. Robert Murray doesn’t get to tell him how to do his job. 

He’s not at the game, which Hall should be thrilled about, but he spends all of the intermission and a solid chunk of the second period looking for him near the bench. The kid, Dylan has some anger issues to work out, he takes penalties that he doesn’t need to, but that can be coached out of him easily. Other than that, he’s way too good to be playing for Stevens Point in Wisconsin. 

_

Dylan Ranger is a piece of work. It takes Hall longer to realize than he should, but in his defense, he’s not a coach yet, he just comes to most of the games. They recruit him in the summer, offer him a scholarship, and help with relocating to Andover. He doesn’t once say thank you for any of it. 

Hall decides that Dylan Ranger is kind of a dick one day when he’s watching practice. The kid keeps shooting high on their goalie, almost hitting him in the head. He scoffs when someone tells him to stop. 

Hall’s not particularly close with the boys on the team, or with anyone really, but he hears snippets of conversations here and there. About how Ranger was late to team breakfast again , about how his aggressive pursuit of Phoebe, the captain’s girlfriend, was getting old fast. 

Hall walks through the hallway past the dressing room on the way to the coaches’ office before a game. He sees Ranger leaning against the cinderblock wall, he has Jamie Ingram, the team’s trainer cornered. He’s saying something, Hall sees the grimace on her face, he sees Ranger smirking in the self satisfied way he always seems to be. Jamie looks like she wants to run, she looks uncomfortable. Hall keeps walking, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Come on Ingram, you’ve gotta let me-” Hall doesn’t catch the rest of the sentence as he rounds the corner into the office. 

It’s the second game of the season, they’re playing Quinipiac. Ranger had two goals in their first game. The coaches praise him for noticing Ranger and he takes it. 

He walks through the hallway on his way back to the stands. 

He’s standing with his back to him, but Hall recognizes the lanky build and the sandy brown hair. He’s about to turn around, to take another route to his seat, but Murray sees him. He nods at him, doesn’t say anything, but the acknowledgement is enough to throw Hall. This isn’t right. He’s supposed to be in Wisconsin, slumming it in Division III hockey for a research project or whatever the fuck it is that he was doing there. He’s not supposed to be here. Hall came back to Massachusetts because he thought he’d outrun whatever this feeling was. 

Hall makes it to his seat without having a breakdown about it, and without saying a single word to Murray. Ranger scores in the first, he has an assist in the second. He takes a penalty that leads to a goal but he scores on his next shift. Hall considers him forgiven by the coaching staff. 

Hall doesn’t have to stay late like the coaches and the statskeepers and the team. He just heads out into the parking lot to get into his car and go home. 

“So, Ranger, huh?” Murray is leaning against his car when he gets to the parking lot. Hall doesn’t think it’s all that strange anymore. Murray pops up. That’s just his thing. 

“He’s a good player,” Hall says. 

“Mmm,” Murray says. Hall feels like it’s vaguely disapproving. He doesn’t take it personally. 

“You have a problem with him?”

“A couple,” Murray says. 

Hall nods, “Well. He’s not the nicest person, but. Hockey. The hockey is there,” Hall says. 

“Yeah, sure is,” Murray says. 

“So what are you doing here?” Hall asks. 

“I’m in Connecticut now,” Murray says, “More school. Still working with the hockey team.”

“Oh, uh, cool,” Hall says. 

“So. Are we doing this?” Murray nods his head toward Hall’s passenger seat. 

Hall feels his throat get tight, he wants to. 

“We shouldn’t,” he says. 

“Is that a no?” Murray challenges. 

“No,” John says, “Come on.”

Murray smiles. He gets into the passenger side of the car. 

Hall pulls out of the parking lot, worried that someone might see them even though they haven’t done anything wrong yet. 

“We kicked your ass,” Hall says. 

“You did,” Murray doesn’t take the bait. Hall doesn’t like that, he wants something to fight Murray about, a reason to hate him. It’s easier that way, when the sex felt like violence. 

“Ranger’s an asshole, Haller,” Murray blurts at a stoplight. 

“Don’t call me that,” Hall snaps, instinct.

“Got it. He is.”

“I know that,” Hall says, “I’m not his fucking dad, not his fucking coach. It’s not my problem.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

Hall thinks about Jamie in the hallway, he shakes his head, “It’s not my problem,” Hall says. 

“Could be,” Murray says, “One day. Kid tried to fight his own teammates, tried to put his fist to my face when I broke it up.”

Curiosity gets the better of Hall, “What was the fight about.”

“He wouldn’t stop picking on this one rookie. Small kid, not all that physical, speedy though. He was a freshman so Ranger thought that meant he could push him around whenever he wanted, thought it meant he could fuck with him. The guys had enough of it when he nearly killed the kid. Zipped him into an equipment bag, left the bag under the showerhead. Kid couldn’t breathe, could’ve drowned, could’ve suffocated. The guys say he threw the first punch, but even if he didn’t he deserved the black eye he got, and you know I don’t ever say that.”

“Jesus,” Hall says. 

“So I jumped in, he took a swing at me, and ended up punching a hole in the drywall. That wasn’t even the worst part. He said Alan, the kid he’d been torturing, said he was a pansy and he was doing him a favour by toughening him up. Said maybe someone should toughen me up too. I walked into the rink every day thinking maybe today was the day he wouldn’t hit drywall, that I was going down instead of that rookie.”

“Fuck,” John says, “And I… It’s like I invited him here.”

Murray shakes his head, “It’s fine, you didn’t know.”

“You tried to tell me.”

Murray shrugs, “When have you ever listened to me?”

“I should have,” Hall says, “There’s… what can I do now,” he takes one hand off the steering wheel and runs it through his hair, “Fuck,” he curses under his breath. 

“John,” Murray puts his hand on Hall’s shoulder, “It’s okay.”

“Don’t call me that either,” Hall snaps. 

He pulls his car into an empty parking lot. It’s late, they’re the only one’s there under the yellow glow of a Walmart sign. He’s trying to catch his breath. 

“Hall,” Murray says, “I’m right here.”

“I know you are,” Hall says, “That’s the problem,” Hall mutters. 

“What?” 

Hall shakes his head, “Never mind.”

Murray’s presence makes him like this. He’s convinced he makes him feel things that he’d be better off ignoring, think things he’d be better off not, and want things he shouldn’t. 

“He seems more in line than he was. Your captain, he’s a good kid. He won’t hurt anyone again. He won’t hurt you.”

Hall swats his hand off of his shoulder. 

“Why would I be worried about him hurting me?” Hall mutters. 

He turns and sees Murray looking at him, big stupid eyes looking all big and stupid and understanding. 

That’s when Hall takes a deep breath, shaky and it feels wrong. 

“He would never know about me.”

Murray nods. Hall wonders how Ranger figured out about him. He remembers the pins on his denim jacket. The loose way he holds himself, the kindness in his eyes. All signs of weakness that Hall has beaten out of himself. 

“Yeah,” Murray says. 

John Hall knows that if he wants to keep hockey, then he can’t keep Robbie Murray and all the things he brings with him.That door stays closed. Because he can’t love the game and love a man at the same time. 

He realizes that this might be the first time he’s admitted that to himself, that he loves Robbie Murray, in whatever strange sort of fucked up way they love each other. He loves him because this is the best he’s ever let himself have. He loves him and he can’t. He won’t ever say it. 

“We can do this one more time,” Hall says. 

Murray looks at him, head turned a little bit. 

“I’d let you kiss me again,” Hall mumbles. 

Murray looks at him, like he’s trying to read his face. 

“Do you want me to?”

Hall looks over his glasses, he nods. He doesn’t say it. 

Murray looks at him, head turned to the side. Hall thinks for a moment that he won’t do it. He’d have every right to, Hall thinks. Hall isn’t a very good person to do this with, Murray should do better. He could if he wanted to. 

Maybe Murray takes a second to make up his mind, but he does it. He leans over the centre console and Hall closes his eyes when he feels Murray’s hand resting against his cheek. He presses his thumb to the underside of Hall’s chin, and John moves with him, trying to press into the touch. Murray keeps his thumb light as he pulls John towards him. At first, the kiss is just a brush, their lips together. It’s like blocking a shot in the third period of a big game. He knows it’s the right thing to do in the moment, it feels good right now, but he knows he’s going to feel something unpleasant in the morning. 

Murray’s hands are soft, they always have been. Hall doesn’t know how he manages it with hockey being so much a part of both of their lives. John surges forward into the kiss. Murray slows him down, his other hand on the other side of his face. 

“Don’t rush,” Murray says. 

John is going to try. Because he wants this, he needs this, it’s the last time he can have this. He remembers the other times even though he tried hard to forget. It was always fast, aggressive, occasionally a little bit rough. He came out of Murray’s apartment with bruises and bitemarks and messy hair. It was sex fueled by hatred and later desire. 

This is something different entirely. Murray’s hand slides down to rest on the back of John’s neck. John lets himself get pulled into Murray’s lap. Murray moves the seat back and he finally opens his mouth and lets John slip his tongue against his own. Murray lets out a soft moan, but he still doesn’t let John go as fast as he’s angling for. 

“You want this,” Murray says, voice husky and low. 

He’s said things to that effect before. It’s always been a taunt, said in the heat of the moment, a sentence designed to get John to beg before Murray pushes his face into a pillow. There’s no pillow this time, no shoving. It’s just Murray’s words, they hang in the air as John proves his point, trying to deepen the kiss, trying to grind down on Murray’s hips. Murray puts one hand on John’s waist, holding him still and sturdy. 

Murray pulls back, John’s eyes are still closed. 

“Look at me,” Murray says. 

John opens his eyes slowly. 

“I want you to look at me while I look at you, can I ask for that?”

God. 

John pulls back, he looks at Murray, at the way Murray’s looking at him and it’s almost too much. Murray looks at him like he’s more than just the sum of his parts. John doesn’t think there’s anything about him that warrants being looked at this intently and for this long. John feels his cheeks burning, Murray presses his fingertips to them. 

“Please,” John manages to croak out. 

He puts both arms on Murray’s shoulders and brings their lips together again. He feels Murray relax under him and he nods. It’s an awkward maneuver, Hall tries to climb into the backseat without kicking anything while also pulling Murray back with him. He sits in the middle seat, Murray climbs back next to him. Murray kisses him again, hand braced on the back of his neck and John leans back, letting himself be enveloped by Murray’s body. 

He’s allowed to have this. One more time. The list of things that John Hall can’t want is long, but right not, it doesn’t include Robert Murray. It will tomorrow, but right now he lets himself have all of it. 

He lets himself inhale the smell of Robert, his sandalwood and cedar cologne mixed with a little bit of sweat. He feels Robert’s hands exploring his back. His breath hitches when he pulls his shirt over his head and John doesn’t even try to hide it. He lets himself laugh and marvel at the fact that Robert Murray walks around with condoms and teeny tiny single use packets of lube in his backpack. He lets himself say his name, his first one, just a small, tiny, whispered whine, “Robbie,” as he closes his eyes and digs his nails into his back. 

He knows why he can’t have this, especially with Robbie Murray. He wants too much, likes this too much, likes him too much. 

Two weeks later, John Hall hasn’t seen Robert Murray again. He accepts a job in Russia. Getting out of Massachusetts didn’t work, this time it’s going to be different. 

Chapter Text

“What’s this?”

“It was my mom’s.”

Robbie Murray’s hands settle above him, resting on the pillow above their heads. 

“Was?” John asks, his hands drop the thin silver chain. 

“Oh god,” Robbie laughs, “She’s not dead. She just got a new one when she gave this one to me.”

He looks down at the necklace and tugs at it so that there’s a pendant hanging over his chest. It’s a locket, John realizes. Robbie opens it with his fingers. Delicate. 

“It’s nice,” John says. 

“Thanks,” Robbie says, “Not too girly for you?” He teases. 

“Well I’d never wear it,” John scoffs. 

“Course you wouldn’t.”

“I should head out.”

“Course you should.”

Hall shakes his head, he runs to catch the bus to the rink. His notebook is tucked under his arm, pens in his pockets. There’s snow and wind whipping around and Moscow is nice but he’s been freezing since he got here.

_

John’s head is tucked underneath of Robert Murray’s arm and he’s floating in and out of sleep. He can feel their warm sweaty legs pressed up against each other, but he can’t find it in himself to care about that. Robbie runs his fingers through John’s hair and John’s eyes flutter closed again. He feels safe. 

“We really appreciate the application, John. You’re absolutely qualified and you should keep looking for the right position.”

“But this isn’t the right position,” John sighs. 

The ECHL GM hands him his resume and application back over the desk and nods. 

“We’ve gone with someone with better references,” the GM tells him. 

Hall nods. 

“You have a wealth of experience,” he continues, “But your references didn’t really tell us much about you other than that you’re a hard worker who loves the game. And no offence, we’ve got thousands of those kinds of guys.”

Hall nods, “Thank you for your time.”

He has to catch the bus to the rink anyway, equipment won’t manage itself. 

_

“For a guy who doesn’t fight, that was pretty violent,” Hall teases. 

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Murray answers. 

John thinks for a moment and then nods. It’s why he only ever comes here after a loss. It’s why he makes sure to poke and prod and antagonize before they fall into bed.

“See no one wants to get punched in the face,” Murray says. 

John shrugs, “Part of the game isn’t it,” he says. 

“Why does it have to be?” Murray moves a strand of John’s hair out of his face, “You should try talking things out.”

“On the ice? What? Should I just stand there and say excuse, me but I can’t help but notice you just slewfooted our freshman, please apologize, like that?”

“Yeah, why not,” Murray laughs. 

John laughs with him. 

“If I didn’t fight, I wouldn’t have a place on the team. Sucks, but it’s the way it is.”

“Don’t your knuckles ever get sore.”

John moves his hands so they’re not near Murray. 

“I’m gonna head out.”

“Toughen up O’Malley,” Hall shouts from the bench, “If you can’t take a hit, I’m sending you home.”

The small boy clenches his jaw and straightens up. The next time the other boy hits him in the checking drill, he stays on his feet. 

“That’s how we do it, boys!” Hall shouts again. 

Coaching high school isn’t ideal, but it’s progress, and these are good kids. He can make something out of it. It’s hockey, and not being around hockey is like not being around air. The next day, O’Malley’s the first kid at practice after school. 

“Hey Coach!” He says, he’s small, probably a full foot shorter than Hall is right now. He looks up from his white board and nods. 

“Look!’ He holds his fist up, turns it so his knuckles are facing Hall. 

“What the hell happened to you kid,” Hall notices a bruise on the side of his face. 

“Got into a fight,” O’Malley says. 

“Looks like you got your ass kicked,” Hall says. 

“Yeah, but maybe one day I won’t. Maybe one day I could fight, my dad says you were a fighter. He went to BU, says you were in a fight a night! Maybe I could fight for the team.”

“It’s high school hockey O’Malley, that’s 10 and a game. They’ll send you home before your fist hits flesh, if it hits flesh. Now go do a lap before the other guys get here,” Hall looks back down at his playbook and the schedule he set for practice. 

There’s a twisting feeling in his stomach as he wipes an X off of his whiteboard and moves it closer to the faceoff circle. He doesn’t know what it is or where it came from, but he doesn’t like it. 

_

“I don’t think we should do this again,” John says. 

“You said that last time too, and yet…” Murray runs his index finger up Hall’s shoulder. 

“And yet,” Hall sighs, “I’m serious this time… I’m.” He sighs again, “This isn’t me.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Hall sighs. The longer he keeps this up, he thinks, the more he’s going to want this. The more he wants it, he thinks, the more other people are going to be able to see it on his face. 

Murray shrugs. 

“I should go.”

“Yeah,” Murray says, “See you around.”

“I’m moving for a job. I understand if you don’t want to wait around for me”

“Oh John,” Phoebe sighs, “Where’s the job, maybe I’ll come visit.”

“Florida.”

“Oh that’s bullshit, there’s no way they play hockey in Florida.”

“New team. It’s a head coaching job.”

Phoebe sighs, she looks at Hall over her beer, she runs her finger along the rim of the glass. 

“John, be honest, are you running away again?”

“What do you mean?”

“You always run,” Phoebe says. 

Phoebe is the first real relationship Hall has had since, well probably since middle school. They went out for three months, and then Hall took a job out of state for a few months. He told Phoebe they could do long distance, thinking she’d scoff at his offer of post-cards and one phone call every Friday. She’d been waiting when he got back. She waited when he went to Hungary for the U18 tournament as an assistant. And she’s here, seemingly willing to wait again. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know exactly what I mean, hun,” she says. 

“You’re great, Phoebs,” Hall says. 

“But,” Phoebe says, “But what? I know there’s about to be a but here.”

Hall sighs, “Florida’s far away.”

“Are you going to tell me the same thing you did last time. You’ll call every week? Send me a letter once a month? Leave me here,” she takes a bite of a breadstick, gestures with it, “That’s the plan right. So you can just tell everybody you have a girl back home?”

Hall shakes his head even though she’s telling the truth. 

“John,” She rolls her eyes, “You drive me crazy.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Would you even care if you came back and found me in bed with another man? Would you actually care.”

“Course I would,” Hall says. 

“I don’t feel like you see me, John,” Phoebe says, “Or care all that much. You care about hockey. That’s your one thing, and that’s okay. But I don’t appreciate being strung along.”

“Phoebs…” he sighs for what feels like the thousandth time. 

“My mother loves you. And you’re sweet and a real gentleman and you’re handsome, and always on time. But it feels like I’m dating a mannequin sometimes. I have to ask you to hold my hand, or give me a kiss and I get that you’re not a physical person but once in a while it’d be nice to feel like you want to touch me or even look at me. Christ, it’s like I have to lure you into bed most nights.”

Hall swallows a lump in his throat. 

“I don’t think we should keep seeing each other.”

Phoebe nods, “That’s apparent, yes.”

Hall looks into his drink. 

“I hope Florida works for you, really I do.” She takes her purse off the back of her chair and stands up. She doesn’t look back. Hall finishes his beer and orders another. 

_

“You might want to get a turtleneck there, Haller,” Murray stands behind him and whispers in his ear. 

Hall jumps. 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Hall’s first instinct is to hiss, his second instinct is to pull his collar higher over his neck. 

They don’t kiss, and this is the first time Hall’s let him… leave a mark… Christ, it’s a hickey John, why can’t you be an adult about this? His hand rests above the hickey and he clenches his teeth. 

“Fuck off,” Hall says. His teammates are ahead of him, about to head onto the ice for warmups, both Hall and Murray are dressed for the game. 

“Just looking out for you,” Murray says, and then he turns on his heel and heads towards the ice. 

Hall feels like his heart is hitting his ribs. He adjusts his neck guard . 

“Haller! You coming?” Tito shouts at him. 

“Yeah I’m coming, Tito!” He shouts. 

Hall misses the net on his first warmup shot. He can feel someone’s eyes on him. He doesn’t want to check if they’re Murray’s. He turns, slightly to the other end of the ice, he sees a glint of silver from under his jersey. Hall hates that he knows what it is. 

_

“Hey Coach Haller,” One of his players approaches him after the morning skate, “Are you nervous about tonight?”

He is. But he won’t tell the kid that. Fuck, he’s not even really a kid, he’s only a couple years older than him. But he wants to keep the separation, between coach and player, between John and Coach Haller. 

“No,” Hall says. 

“Oh,” The kid says, “Yeah, smart. You’re a good coach. First game of the season though. We’ll be good.”

“We’re good,” Hall says, “Shower off, get a meal. Be back here for game time.”

“Yes sir,” the kid says. 

He watches the kid walk down the tunnel. He waits until he’s gone to step off the bench and let out a shaky breath. 

That night, after they win their home opener, Hall goes to the bar with the coaching staff. That’s part of the job in his head. He’s never been good at making people like him, and he wants people to like him here. He can nurse one beer and talk with the boys. They go over the power play and they flirt with the bartender and in 10 years, when someone asks one of the assistants what they thought of John Hall, he won’t have anything to say other than that he was nice, and he was around. 

_

“Do you think you’ll play hockey forever?”

“I don’t think I’m good enough,” Murray answers. He seems surprised that Hall’s initiated their strange version of pillow talk this time. 

“You’re good enough. You’ll get better.”

“How can you tell.”

“I’ve just got a feeling.”

“I dunno,” Murray says, “I don’t know if I’d even want to.”

“What?” Hall can’t understand a world where someone doesn’t want to play hockey forever. 

“I dunno. Playing here is… fine. Just, I’m not sure. I still have time to decide. Why do you ask?”

“I guess I have to decide what to do with my life soon.”

Murray nods, he rests his head on Hall’s chest. 

“I’m not really good at anything else.”

“Aren’t you graduating with honours?”

“You saying I should be an economist?”

“I dunno.”

“I always thought I’d play for as long as I could. Try to at least.”

“Then what?”

“Scout. Coach maybe?” Hall sighs, “I just can’t imagine not showing up to the rink every day. I love that feeling more than anything else.”

Murray nods, “I get that. Hockey’s good. Just… I wish it could be good for everyone.”

“Hmm?”

“Nevermind.”

_

John Hall leaves Florida, just like he leaves everywhere eventually. He leaves with a conference final under his belt and a glowing reference from the front office. He finds himself in Boston, not to stay, God no, not to stay. Just for a weekend, he’s on the coaching staff for a minor league team in Michigan, they asked him to make the trip to Boston while they played the Bruins because the regular assistant coach has the stomach flu. He’ll visit his mom after he sends his reports in. 

“Hall,” Murray sounds surprised. 

Hall looks up with a start, it’s raining outside the arena and he’s waiting to see if he can get a cab back to his hotel. Murray’s standing with a group of friends. 

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Murray waves at them and then jogs over to Hall. 

“I thought you didn’t like the Bruins?” Murray says. What a greeting for a guy he hasn’t seen in years.

“I work here,” Hall says, “With the other team.”

“Right,” Murray says, “Good for you.”

“Yeah,” Hall says. 

“We got free tickets,” Murray says, “Professor offered ‘em up to the group who got the highest mark on their term paper.”

“Oh,” Hall says, “You’re still in school?” It’s been so long since Hall’s been in school.

Murray shrugs, “I decided to go back this year. Masters in coaching actually.” he says. 

“Oh,” Hall says.

“Right,” Murray says, “You don’t have an umbrella,” Murray points out. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Hall sneers. 

“I do,” Murray says. 

“You bragging about that?” Hall surprises himself with how quickly he falls back into a snappy banter.

“No,” Murray says, “Where you heading, I can walk you.”

“It’s fine, I’ll get a cab.”

“They’ll charge you an arm and a leg, this time of night.”

Hall sighs. 

“Where you staying?” Murray’s grin was always infuriatingly genuine. 

“Four Seasons, two blocks away.”

“Easy peasy,” Murray holds his umbrella up in front of him and makes a show of opening it and holding it over Murray’s head. 

Murray starts walking and John matches his pace as they walk out into the rain. Hall’s keeping his distance, a healthy six inches between them. 

“Your shoulder’s getting wet,” Murray says. 

Hall grumbles. 

Murray moves closer to him. Hall doesn’t move away. And then their shoulders are touching and Hall remembers too much about him, about them. About who they were and who they thought they could be and what could still be. And Hall, despite his better instincts, holds his arm out for Murray to take. And it’s not strange for two men to do that if they’re sharing an umbrella, not that anyone currently running from the rain would really notice. It strikes him, how after so many years, he still very much wants to kiss him.

“You think you’re ever not going to be in school,” Hall’s trying to make conversation but it comes out judgey. 

Murray’s always been good at piecing out Hall’s intentions though, so he just answers normally. 

“Well I’m not planning a PhD if that’s what you’re asking.”

Hall laughs, “You’re smart enough for it.”

“I’m tired of writing papers.”

“So what’s the plan?” Hall asks. 

“Coaching, I hope. I wanna get back on the ice. Behind the bench. You were right. All those years ago. It is the best feeling in the world, walking into the rink. Feels like the right time to get back,” he smiles as John tenses up, Murray’s just broken some kind of unwritten rule, that they never talk about those conversations, “Are you still coaching?”

“Scouting too,” he says

“How’s that.”

“A little lonely,” John admits, “It’s a lot of travel, not a lot of predictability. I was in Florida last season, Russia a couple seasons before that. ”

“Hm,” Murray says, “Yeah, I can see how that would be lonely.”

They both get quiet as something goes unsaid. 

Hall realizes that the rain has lightened up significantly since they left The Gardens, but he doesn’t want to let go of Murray. He does it anyway. 

“Well, this is your stop,” Murray clears his throat. 

Hall steps under the awning and out from under Murray’s umbrella. And for a brief moment, just after he makes eye contact with Murray, he thinks about inviting him upstairs. Replaying their messy fumblings from college, just one more time. That’s the danger though, because he kept telling himself, “just one more time,” over and over again. 

“It was good seeing you,” Hall says. 

“Yeah,” Murray answers. 

“and thanks,” Hall says. 

“No problem.”

And then Hall walks into the hotel. But he doesn’t go to his room until he watches Murray walk away. Down the sidewalk in the rain, with his free hand in his pocket. A braver man would run after him. But John wants to be practical, not brave.

_

“You’ve got bags under your eyes.”

“M’tired.”

Murray touches his fingertip to the smooth skin under Hall’s eyes. 

“Midterms and stuff. Had to talk Tito out of proposing to this girl he’s been seeing for a month last night, then I had practice this morning,” Hall shrugs. 

“You should sleep,” Murray says.

“I’ll sleep tonight,” Hall says. 

“I feel bad for keeping you up,” Murray says, there’s some teasing to it, but it’s mostly genuine.

“I came to you,” Hall yawns. His eyes are slightly unfocused, everything’s a little fuzzy, he’s not sure if it’s because he’s tired or because he took his contacts out before he walked across the hallway. 

“I’ll never fault you for that,” Murray says. 

“Don’t let your ego get too big,” Hall mumbles into his pillow. 

“You weren’t talking about my ego being big 20 minutes ago,” Murray smirks. 

Hall swats his hand away, snorts, then he grabs his hand again and slowly runs his hand over Murray’s knuckles. 

Hall yawns again. 

“I should head out. Don’t wanna fall asleep on you,” Hall says. 

“Wouldn’t mind that.”

“Mmm,” John grumbles, he presses his head against Murray’s chest and lets himself have this for a couple minutes. 

When he wakes up, it’s pitch black in the bedroom. He looks over at the alarm clock and it’s 4am. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

He gathers his clothes and puts them back on as quickly as he can before slipping out of the apartment. 

_

It’s the planning that gets him hired at Samwell. It’s the fact that he looks at that shitty team at that shitty little school and sees a way to turn it into something. It’s a head coaching job, and it’s everything he’s wanted for so long, finally coming to him. It sounds dumb to say, and some of his coworkers laughed at him when he did, but he really thought that if he didn’t get a head coaching gig before he turned 35, that it was over for him. 

The first thing he does when he walks into his office for the first time is hang up a bulletin board. On it, he pins three sheets of notebook paper. Year one plan. Four year plan, eight year plan. They’ll work in quadrennial, building around a core that can stay together for four years, but also stay competitive and be replenished after boys graduate. 

The plan for year one is simple. Establish a culture, evaluate the current roster, and recruit like their lives depend on it. Samwell’s hockey program is still young, it’s only five years old and it had been run kind of like a club until Hall got here, they had never been competitive. 

He sits down in the chair behind his desk, puts his hands behind his head and smiles. Head Coach John Hall. He likes the sound of that.

Well, he does until he gets to the first practice. It’s a shitshow, to be plain and simple. Their goalie is facing the wrong direction for a solid half of the scrimmage, they don’t play defense and absolutely no one is communicating. John Hall has his work cut out for him. The first purchase he makes as the head coach of Samwell Men’s Hockey is a couch that he puts in his office so he doesn’t have to go home after long work days. 

__

“Use my shower,” Murray says, he’s lying in his bed, still hasn’t put his clothes back on. 

“Yeah, okay,” John says, because he can’t think of a reason not to. He needs to wash the sweat and… other stuff off of himself before he goes to class, and Murray’s offering so he might as well. 

“I uh, kinda also have to get ready to head out,” Murray glances at his alarm clock, “Is that okay? If I join you I mean, is that okay?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Hall says, “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Okay,” Murray says. 

Murray gives Hall a few minutes in the bathroom by himself. He stands under the spray for a minute, letting the water hit his chest. The shower curtain moves and Murray moves under the spray of water with him. 

Hall uses Murray’s body wash and then moves out of his way. They’re careful in the small space. 

Hall feels Murray’s hand wrapping around his waist. He looks down, sees Muray’s hand resting just above a nasty bruise. 

“Took a hard check last night,” Hall says. 

Murray nods and just as quickly, his hand is gone. 

_

Heh. Annie’s. That’s kind of funny. Hall doesn’t spend a lot of time on campus outside of the rink. He drives to work, stays for 16 hours and then he drives home. Today though, today he felt like he needed a walk. 

It had been a shitty day. He had to tell three of the kids on the team that they were cut, and although he wants Samwell Men’s Hockey to get better, he doesn’t take any pleasure in ripping a dream away from some 19 year olds. 

He walks into the diner. 

She looks older, they both do now, there are some wrinkles around her eyes, but unmistakably, it’s Annie. Annie from all those years ago at that house party in Boston. Annie who followed him home, who didn’t panic when he told her that he couldn’t sleep with her, Annie who’d left her number. Annie who he had never called. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“You,” she smiles. 

“Hi,” he says again. He blushes, her smile is too warm. 

“I remember you,” she says softly, “BU, captain of the hockey team, took me home from a houseparty in Allston.”

“You said you wanted to open a diner.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” she says. 

“It’s a nice place,” he nods. 

“Thanks,” she says, “The college kids are in here all the time.”

“I can imagine.”

“So, can I get you anything?” she asks. 

“Coffee,” he says, “Two sugars. And um. I’m sorry I never called you,” he says, voice quieter. 

“Oh don’t worry about that,” she says, “It was ages ago, nearly ten years now.”

“Eight,” Hall nods, “Eight since I graduated.”

“And a head coach already,” Annie smiles.

“How did you know that?”

“Kids leave copies of the Daily in here all the time, made headlines when you got hired.”

“Right.”

“Good to see that we both kept those promises. Diner owner, hockey coach.”

“Yeah,” Hall says. 

She pours him his coffee, he hands her a five and drops the change in the tip jar. 

“If you want to catch up some time, I’m always here,” she says. 

“Thanks,” he says, “I’ve gotta get back to work, but some time.”

He doesn’t know yet if he’s telling the truth. 

_

John Hall was hired on August 14. The team’s first practice was is on September 23. On March 9th, they play their last game and fail to qualify for the playoffs. He can’t say he was expecting much, but it stings, he has to admit that.

His assistant coach, who’s actually just a fourth year sport business manager who hands him his whistle when he needs it, knocks on his door after the last game. 

“It’s been an honour working with you, sir,” he says.

“Right, you’re graduating,” Hall sighs. 

“Yes sir,” he says. 

“So what’s the plan for next year.”

The assistant looks at the ground, “I’m really sorry sir. I have a job lined up. I’d love to come back, but I move the day after graduation.”

John looks at his desk, he nods, “Alright then,” he stands up, walks over to the door and he shakes the assistant’s hand. 

“I guess your last job is going to be putting together one hell of a transition report for whoever they hire next.”

“Thank you sir.”

_

No. No. No. Fuck No. 

“You hired him without consulting me?” John’s sitting in the office of the athletic director, mouth hanging open. There’s a resume sitting in front of him. 

“You told us, and I quote ‘just hire someone who gets the job done, I really don’t give a fuck.’ What were you expecting when you said that?”

Hall lets out a frustrated sigh, “You hired an Eagle, man,” is all he can think to say. 

“Is that what this is about, a rivalry from 10 years ago?”

It’s not.

“Eight. And yes.”

“John, he was the best available candidate. He’s been hired. I wish you the best of luck in recruiting.”

Hall’s lips form a tight line and he nods curtly. It’s clear that this meeting is over. 

_

“You’re warm,” Hall mutters. 

“Mmm, go back to sleep,” Murray says. 

This is the last time they did this, the last time they ever will do this. The last time Hall lets himself feel Murray’s lips on his skin. Murray’s arms are wrapped around Hall’s torso. Murray’s always been smaller than him, but he feels so secure in his arms. 

“Can’t,” Hall says, “Awake now.”

“Try,” Murray says. He runs his thumb over Hall’s eyelid. 

A lazy spark goes down Hall’s back and he leans back into Murray’s touch. . 

“Okay,” Hall yawns. 

He feels the press of Murray’s lips on the back of his bare shoulder, skin pressing against skin. 

I love you. Don’t say that. 

_

Hall has a cup of coffee in his hand, Dunkin, not Annie’s. He hasn’t been back to Annie’s since they talked a few days ago. 

He sees him, leaning against the wall. His figure is unmistakable, too familiar. He has a Red Sox baseball cap pulled over his hair, he’s wearing a Samwell hoodie and a pair of track pants. He looks up. If he feels anything when he sees Hall, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have a key yet,” he says. 

“Right. We’ll get you one made by the end of the day,” Hall says. 

“Great,” Murray says. 

Hall pulls his key from his pocket and unlocks the door to his office. The second desk, the one for Murray has already been moved into the room. He’s had his own desk for a year, but his side of the room looks just as empty as Murray’s. 

“Boys get here at 9,” Hall says, “Schedule’s on your desk. Put it there last night.”

Hall sits down in his own desk chair, takes a long sip of his coffee. 

Murray plops down in his desk chair, he kicks his feet up on the desk and starts reading the schedule. 

“Pretty heavy on the cardio,” Murray says. 

“That’s how we figure out who stayed in shape over the summer and who didn’t.”

“And what do we do with the ones who didn’t?”

“They have a week to get back into shape and if they don’t, then we replace them at walk-on tryouts.”

“Kinda harsh.”

“Nothing’s a given on my time.”

“Duly noted. Do we get a lot of walk-ons”

“A couple dozen every year. Everybody wants to be a hockey player.”

“Gotcha,” Murray says. 

Hall looks at the roster in front of him, he has notes upon notes of every returning player and every recruit, he has notebooks upon notebooks sitting on his desk. 

“I’m gonna toss on some skates and wake myself up,” Murray says. 

“Mmm,” Hall acknowledges. 

And just like that, Murray’s out the door. 

He waits until it’s closed to let out a deep sigh. 

On the other side of the door, Robert Murray does the same. 

_

“You run a tough practice, John. Thought it couldn’t get worse after wind sprints on the first day, but apparently not,” Murray says after their second day of training camp. 

Hall ignores the second half of the sentence, “Hall. Coach Hall. Coach. Call me one of those,” Hall says. 

“Yes sir,” Murray says, voice laden with sarcasm. 

“Sir works too,” Hall’s expression remains stiff. 

Murray snorts, Hall ignores him. 

They work well enough together on the ice. Murray plays a nice coach to Hall’s tough one and he fills in the blanks where Hall is lacking. Hall’s never been particularly close with his players, he’s an X’s and O’s kind of coach, someone who draws up plays, not provide moral support. Murray has eyes for the game, but he can give a guy the little extra push that makes him finish a drill strong instead of collapsing onto the bench. Guys go to him for help with equipment and advice on form and life and that suits Hall just fine. He thinks it does anyway.

Training camp starts on Monday and ends on Saturday and Hall has spent more time at the rink than he has in his own apartment. Murray too. It’s strange, Murray doesn’t leave until Hall does, he sits at his desk, sometimes watching video on the desktop he insisted on bringing into the office, sometimes jotting down a note to himself, Murray’s pretty sure he’s seen him reading a novel or two since getting here. 

Every night, Hall’s the first one to get up, usually around 10 or 11 when no one but the students are on campus anymore, he yawns, he picks up his keys and grabs his jacket and by the time he turns around, Murray is standing by the door expectantly waiting for Hall to lock up. 

It’s a strange routine, a weird little dance that they’ve been doing. 

If Murray remembers the people they used to be, he doesn’t show it. 

He walks in on Sunday morning when walk-on tryouts are scheduled, Murray is already sitting on the bench with a tray of coffees in front of him. He recognizes the logo from Annie’s diner. 

“I’m the coffee guy now I guess, I don’t know your order yet, so I guessed, it’s black,” Murray says, but there’s cream and sugar in the bag.”

“Thanks,” John says, he steps onto the bench. 

John takes his cup of coffee from Murray’s hands, he jerks his hand away as Murray’s fingers brush against his. He takes a sip. 

“I knew you’d drink it black,” Murray rolls his eyes, “Nothing changes,” Hall feels his heart jump up into his throat at the acknowledgement that Murray had seen him drink coffee before, that he knows how he takes it.

John tenses up, he turns to Murray, “We’re not friends,” he says. He feels the need to remind him, in case he’s gotten confused after all the late nights in their office

“Woah,” Murray steps back.

“We’re on the same team now,” Murray says. 

“That doesn’t change-” Hall sighs, cuts himself off, lowers his voice, “We’re not doing this again, okay?” he says quietly, doubly ensuring that Murray knows what’s going to happen here, more importantly what’s not going to happen here. 

“Do what?” Murray says, it’s a joke but he also looks bitter, he looks mean. 

“Yo Robber!” The team’s athletic trainer’s walking towards the bench. 

Murray hands him his coffee and bumps him on the fist. When did Murray have time to make friends? Why is he making friends? Friends enough to have a nickname already? 

Whatever. John Hall doesn’t care about Robert Murray. 

“Morning, coach,” the trainer nods a greeting in Hall’s direction. 

“Morning.”

The walk-ons show up and Hall makes sure to stay away from Murray. Hall works with the defensemen more than the forwards. Hall runs them hard, wants to be absolutely sure that any kid he gives a spot on this team has earned it. Nothing is given. It’s hard. And Murray just keeps fucking smiling, he’s chirping the rest of the coaching staff, giving out tips to the boys trying out and he’s doing it with that stupid distracting smirk on his face. 

Three hours of tryouts later and Hall is back in his office. Murray walks in, a smile on his face like he’s just been laughing with someone else. 

“So that defenseman,” Murray says. Hall knows exactly which one he’s talking about.

“He was fine,” Hall says, “He was joking around a lot.”

“You gonna hold that against him?”

“I want guys who take this seriously.”

“It’s a game, Haller,” Hall has decided to stop fighting the nickname battle. They’re adults, it’s not worth it. 

Hall rolls his eyes. 

“I’m gonna get you to have fun,” Murray says. 

Hall raises an eyebrow. 

“Come on, you and me, let’s get out on the ice, play a little pond hockey, one on one.”

“I have stuff to do,” Hall says. 

“20 minutes,” Murray says.

“15.”

“25”

“This is not how negotiating works.”

“Okay then, 20.”

“Fine,” Hall says, he picks up his skates from the corner in the office.

They tie their skates sitting next to each other on the bench in silence. Shoulders just barely not touching.

Murray jumps over the boards, grabs a puck on his way and drops it to the ice. 

Hall rolls his eyes and jumps onto the ice behind him. 

“Pond hockey rules?” Hall asks. 

“Half-ice, carry it to the blue line before you can shoot,” Murray agrees. 

“Got it,” John hip checks Murray and steals the puck from between his feet. 

“Woah! Interference!” Murray yells, but Hall’s already skating up the ice and scoring the first goal. He retrieves the puck and passes it to Murray. He chases him down, defending the net. Murray fakes left, shoots right, and gets it past Hall. 

“ahh, not a goalie,” Hall says and scoops the puck out of the net. 

They play back and forth, getting more and more serious as it goes on. 

“Next goal wins,” Murray says, they’re tied and John has the puck, he agrees. Murray shoves him as he carries it out to the blue line but he pulls the puck close and slides it around his feet. Murray switches to defense, skates backwards in front of the net. Hall winds up to take a shot. Hall dives in front of it, which is objectively stupid but it makes John laugh and he suspects that was Murray’s goal all along. He holds off on the slapshot, readjusts and lifts the puck over Murray and into the back of the net. He lets out a small whoop and cellies a little excessively. Murray’s still on the ice, laughing to himself. 

“Fair’s fair,” Murray says, and sits up. 

Hall extends his hand to help him up without really thinking about it. Murray takes his hand and pulls himself up. He’s still smiling, he has that stupid little mischevious look in his eyes that has historically made John Hall do dumb shit. He looks away, clears his throat. 

“Well, I have some roster decisions to make,” he takes a step back, realizes how close they’re standing to each other. 

“Yeah,” Murray says, out of breath from sprinting on his skates, from laughing. 

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Coaches meeting at noon.”

“I get the schedule too,” Murray says. 

“Right.”

_

Hall starts leaving the office earlier. Something about being in there, alone, with Murray makes his hair stand on end, it makes him feel uneasy. He won’t go home though, he still has work to do. That’s how he ends up staking claim to a booth at Annie’s. The diner is only open until 10, but Annie lets him stay while she wipes down tables and counts her till at the end of the night. She brings him coffee, and sometimes when it’s not busy, she sits down across from him. She talks about her day and business and some of the kids that come in, and Hall doesn’t have to say that much in return, he just lets her talk. 

The roster needs to be finalized by tomorrow, he’s been through three cups of coffee and Annie just keeps refilling them for him, wordlessly passing him by. 

The dinner rush is over, there are only a few kids now, studying, eating fries, heads pressed together as they hunch over textbooks. Annie slides into the booth across from him. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, “There something wrong with your office that’s got you holed up here?”

“Um,” Hall says, “Not really. Change of scenery’s nice.”

“Mhmm,” Annie says, she sounds a little doubtful. 

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Hall says. He realizes that he’s trying to convince himself, not Annie. 

“I don’t mind you bein’ here,” she says, “Honestly, I like the company,” she says, “Just  wondering what this booth has that your office doesn’t.”

“It’s more what this booth doesn’t have,” Hall mutters, “Nevermind,” he says quickly. 

Annie doesn’t press him on it, she just keeps looking at him and when Hall doesn’t say anything else Annie gets up and checks on the other tables. Most of them are gone within fifteen minutes and Annie starts counting her till. She pulls the cash tray out of the register and sits across from John. 

He’s dying to say something. It’s depressing as hell, but Annie’s the closest thing he’s had to a friend since college. Not to say he’s a total outcast, but he had coworkers, not friends. He’s dying to say something about why he’s here, not in his office, why he hauls himself off the ice and packs up his things the second practice is over, the second their meetings are over, why he can’t seem to bear to breathe the same air as the guy he’s hated for so long, as the guy who was what? A fuckbuddy at best? An outlet? Hate sex?

He wants desperately to let go of those feelings, but he never can. Because he’ll never tell anyone what happened between him and Murray. 

“It’s just weird,” Hall says. 

“Hmmm?” Annie says, she looks up from counting her quarters without losing her place. 

“The assistant coach. It’s strange. We’re just um, very different people

“And that’s…”

“Not a good thing or a bad thing I guess,” Hall sighs, “Just a thing. It’s easier for him to have relationships with our players, or coworkers, I’m just not… wired like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being shy.”

“I don’t think I’m shy.”

“Reserved then.”

“Yeah, that’s it, I’m reserved. Thanks Ann.”

“Anytime,” she says, “I know your vocabulary is limited, least I can do is lend you some words.”

Reserved, that’s what he is. Nothing wrong with that. He works with Murray just fine. They meet in the morning and the post the team’s final roster and they drink their coffee and they talk in the coaches meetings and Murray always looks so god damn happy and it’s like he never takes anything seriously and Hall wonders how that can be possible. How can he do his job so well when it never seems like hockey is the most important, most all-consuming part of his life. How can they work so well together when they are so fundamentally different?

He complains to Annie, more frequently than he had. He complains through the preseason and into the regular season and through the exam break and into the new year, and Annie nods like a good friend, she interjects to ask a question, but she doesn’t challenge Hall when he grumbles about how Murray isn’t taking this seriously enough. 

They’re winning. Not as much as Hall wants them to, not every game, but this team is performing better than they did last year, and fuck, the only thing that’s really changed is Murray’s presence next to him, behind the bench. 

He’s in the office one night after a game, looking through his notes. Murray stands up from behind his desk before Hall does, he never does that. 

“I’m heading out early,” he says. 

“Oh?” John asks. 

Murray pulls his denim jacket, the denim jacket that Hall remembers seeing him wear in college, over his shoulders. There are more pins on it now. Hall’s never bothered to read them but he has an idea, an idea as to what they might mean. 

“I’ve got a date,” he says. 

“Oh,” Hall says, “What’s her name?” he asks, telling himself that he’s being polite. 

“Sean,” Murray says. 

“Oh,” Hall says, “I’ve never met a woman named Sean.”

“Neither have I,” Murray says, “I’m meeting him downtown.”

“Oh,” Hall says and his eyes go wide. 

“Don’t look surprised, John,” Murray says, “There’s a reason I took this job, a reason why I decided to come here . One in four,” he says, and then he looks at Hall, it’s a pointed glance, “Maybe more.”

“Right,” Hall’s lips form a tight line, “Have a good one then.”

“Will do,” Murray picks his keys off his desk and just like that, he’s gone.

Annie’s counting nickels when she looks across the booth at at Hall. 

She’s been stealing glances at him all night.

“We should go out tonight,” she declares. 

“What?” he asks. 

“We should get a drink,” she says, “You’ve looked sour all night, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Oh,” Hall says, “Annie, I don’t-”

“Come on,” she says, “As friends, it’ll be fun.”

And so he reluctantly agrees. She finishes closing the diner and he slides his papers into his bag and they take her car to a sports bar downtown that John’s never been to. He hates how Murray’s words echo in his head. One in four. Why he decided to come here. The pointed glance. 

The place is pretty crowded for a Thursday but they get a spot at the end of the bar and they look up to watch the basketball game on the screens. True to her word, she pays for the first beer and orders herself a gin and tonic. 

“You know a lot about the students,” Hall finally says. 

“I mean, more than you probably,” Annie nods, “I listen to them.”

“Right,” Hall says, “So you know some of the inside jokes and the sayings, maybe?”

“A few of them, sure” her hands curl around her drink, she takes a small sip. 

“So would you happen to know what they mean when they say, well um, when they say One in four, and eh, maybe more ?” he clears his throat. 

Annie looks away from the screen, she looks over at him, he hopes he doesn’t look like he’s pleading. 

“Well,” she starts, “I’ve heard it,” she says. 

“Right,” Hall says, “And what does it mean?”

“I think it’s something the gay students say,” the word rolls off her tongue so easily gay. And hey, it’s a new century, it’s legal now, he could marry a man… if he ever wanted to. But hockey always feels 20 years behind and in his 30 years, he’s never said that word out loud. The slurs, sure, he’s said the slurs. But he’s never said that. 

Annie continues, seemingly unaware of how wide Hall’s eyes have gone. 

“They’re talking about demographics I think. How about one in four kids on the campus is something other than straight,” she says, “and maybe more. There was a survey a few years ago that said something like that, one in four. I guess it’s a little bit of an inside joke. Nice that the campus is accepting,” she says. 

Right. Hall thinks. He wonders if the campus extends to Faber, to his office. 

“Why do you ask?” she says. 

“Um,” Hall says, “Heard someone say it, was just sort of confused.”

And of course. Robbie Murray is gay. Pins on his denim jacket, John Hall’s hands on his body, dick in his mouth, date with a man, Robbie Murray is gay. He never said it when they did the things they did, but he was never as cagey about it as Hall was. One in four. Pointed glance. Maybe more. 

“On the hockey team?” she raises her eyebrows, “If there’s one place I’d think that rule wouldn’t apply,” she says with a cheeky smile. 

The bartender hands Hall another beer before he realizes his was empty. Annie requests another gin and tonic. 

“I’ve never heard of it,” Hall says, “Not in hockey.”

“But it has to exist?”

It does. 

“Maybe,” Hall says, “I’ve never seen it,” he says a bit too vehemently. . 

Annie just nods, quietly sipping her drink. 

“Can I get something stronger?” he asks the bartender. 

“Oh are we doing shots?” Annie teases, “ah college, well, I’m in too.”

They end up drinking rum and chasing it with Annie’s gin and tonic and Hall feels a little bit warmer, a little bit lighter. 

Annie’s not a sports fan, that’s one of the things he likes about hanging out with her. She asks him about the basketball game, he points out a few of the players and she nods and asks questions of her own. It’s nice, he’s having a good time, reserved or not. 

“Isn’t that your friend?” she turns to look at the other end of the bar. 

Hall turns. 

Murray’s standing at the end of the bar. He has his arm resting there. Another man, shorter than he is, blonde and round faced, is standing between his arm and the bar, Murray’s laughing at something as he hands him his drink. Their heads are so close together, touching like it’s nothing, smiling like they’re friends. Looking at each other like it means more. 

“We need to go,” Hall says. 

“Pardon?” Annie says. 

“Leave. I need to leave,” Hall says. 

“Don’t you want to finish your drink?” She asks. 

Hall finishes his beer in four long gulps and slams it down on the bar. 

“Let’s go,” he says. 

“Okay,” Annie says. 

She holds onto his arm as they walk out the door, almost like she’s afraid he might bolt or fall over, or try to bolt and then fall over. 

He gets into the passenger seat but she doesn’t make a move to drive away, she just sits in the driver’s side looking at him expectantly. 

His breath is shaky. Touching like it was nothing, smiling like they were friends, looking like it meant more. Robbie’s hand on the back of his neck, Robbie’s legs tangled with his, Robbie’s lips on his mouth. Robbie. 

“I am incredibly messed up,” Hall says. 

Annie doesn’t respond. 

“We used to…” Hall starts, “It was just an outlet. It was physical… every time we lost in college I showed up at his door and he was always there and he was so consistent and I wanted…. Oh fuck. I wanted it.”

“John?” she says.

“He-” Hall cuts himself off, “I-We-us. Him it was… it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. I wasn’t supposed to be… it was supposed to be…”

Annie’s studying him, trying to figure out what he’s trying to tell her. 

“Maybe more…” he trails off and then he points a finger directly at his own face. 

“John,” she sighs, and it sounds sad. 

“I’m strong. I always had to be strong. Had to be the captain and then the coach and I had to start the fights and if I didn’t start them I had to finish them and I couldn’t be… I couldn’t want… and now he’s here and I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh John,” she says, she puts her hand on his shoulder, he flinches away, but then changes his mind and let’s her narrow fingers curl around his arm and hold him steady. 

“We were just… I don’t know what we were, but he was… he was never like that, like me and I couldn’t be like him, just standing there with some guy laughing, touching, looking. I was never allowed to look. But I look. I want to look. At him.”

“Does he know?”

“I don’t know,” Hall sighs, “Should he?”

“What do you want?”

“Hockey,” Hall says. That’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’s ever been told he’s supposed to want. 

“You can have both, you know that, right?”

“No I can’t,” he says. 

“Why?”

“It’s not the right place for… both.”

“Says who?”

John doesn’t know. It’s unspoken.

“You’re allowed to want more than one thing.”

“These things have to be separate.”

“What makes you happy, John?”

“Hockey,” he says. 

“Does it?”

“Yes,” he says. He means it, “It always has.”

“We’re both 30,” Annie says. John doesn’t know what she means. 

“What?”

“I just don’t know how long a person can go, denying something they want, something that might make him happy.”

“I wouldn’t make him happy,” John says. 

“How do you know.”

John doesn’t. 

He just sighs. 

“We should go home,” he says. 

“Okay.”

Samwell Men’s Hockey has a winning record, barely, but it’s winning. They’re 8-6 after the winter break and Hall is determined to keep their win total higher than their loss total. Murray for his part, also seems to want that. 

Murray comes to work every day with that grin on his face. If he saw John rush out of the bar, he doesn’t say anything about it. They play their Saturday night game and the SMH is 8-7 and Hall feels like his plan is falling apart. John Hall doesn’t like it when he’s not in control.

It’s clear that he’s avoiding Murray, painfully clear now. He leaves the room when Muray walks in. He vacates the office when they’re alone together. Every time he slides into the booth at Annie’s, Annie shoots him a look of pity, he probably deserves that. 

They make it to the playoffs only to be knocked out immediately. The guys are bummed, especially the seniors, but none of them had the same expectations as Hall. None of them feel so crushed as he does. 

“Sorry coach,” one of the seniors says as they leave the ice. 

Hall just sighs, “You left it all on the ice. That’s all I ever asked.”

Murray’s watching him, listening to him. The boys shower, Hall thanks them for their time and their effort, it’s the same speech he made last year. It doesn’t feel like he’s getting anywhere. 

Murray doesn’t follow him into their office. Hall has a minute to hang his head, run his hands through his hair, he puts on his glasses and pulls the five year plan out of his top desk drawer he reads it, knows it needs adjusting. 

The door opens, softly, slowly, Murray walks in. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits down. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“My contract ends at the end of the year. I won’t ask them to renew it,” he says, “I’m looking at other positions.”

“What?” Hall says, he can’t help the ounce of hurt and confusion that finds its way into his voice. 

“Me being here… you clearly don’t want it. I’ll solve your problem for you,” Murray says. 

“I-”

“We work together. The team was good, I did everything you asked, ran every drill, finalized every lineup, and it worked. But I can see that me being here makes you uncomfortable…”

He stands up, leans against his desk and sighs. 

Hall stays sitting. 

“Where is this coming from?”

“Hall,” he says. He doesn’t try for a nickname, John notices, “You’d rather work in a shitty diner than in the office with me. I know why.”

“Why?” Hall challenges. 

“Because of our history,” Murray says, he says it firm, “Because me being who I am makes you uncomfortable, because it reminds you of what we did together. And I understand if you don’t want to remember, if you regret-”

“No,” Hall says suddenly. 

“No?” Murray asks. 

“No I don’t regret,” Hall says, and he’s never even thought that to himself, let alone verbalized it. 

“Pardon?”

“I don’t regret any of it,” he says, “I… I’d do it all again. If I could go back, I’d do it the same.”

“The exact same?” Murray asks. 

“I woulda…” he trails off, his voice gets lower, “I would have kissed you more.”

Murray looks pale, his eyes wide, hands shaking like that’s not how he expected this conversation to go. 

“Please don’t leave,” John says, “You… you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had and I don’t regret any of it.”

Hall stands up, finally, he leans against his own desk, facing Murray. 

“I don’t want to put your career at risk.”

“I’m… I’m good here,” Hall says, “One in four. Me. You. Us.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” John admits. 

“You said it was the last time. I accepted that, because I knew that you didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t want me the way I wanted you.”

“You wanted me?”

“Of course I did,” Murray says, and it sounds angry, “Of fucking course I did, John. I opened the door every single time. I wanted you. You didn’t want me that way, so I took what I could get.”

“And what if I did?”

“You never told me that.”

“I never told myself that.”

“John,” Murray says. 

“Robbie,” Hall says, “I didn’t want them to hire you because I knew I’d see you. And every time I see you, I want you again.”

“How do you want me?”

“All of you,” John says. 

“You’re the smartest guy I know, kind and good at hockey and…”

“And?”

“Beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”

“I was there that night at the bar, with a friend and when I saw you, I made her leave with me because I couldn’t look at you without wishing… without wishing that I was the guy on the date with you.”

And John wonders where this all came from, because he’s saying these words and they feel so true, but he’s never thought them to himself, never admitted them, “It’s not fair to you,” John says, “I’m not brave like you. Not brave enough to put a pin on my jacket.”

“You don’t have to be,” Robbie says. 

“You are.”

“Different kinds of brave. I’ve never fought anybody.”

“That was never brave.”

Robbie sighs. 

“So. I don’t know what to do here,” John says, “Or what you want and you don’t have to want anything. But just, please don’t leave.”

Robbie takes a step forward, John matches it. They’re standing about a foot apart. 

“Do you really mean that?”

“I do. I really do.”

“Okay,” Robbie says. 

John takes a deep breath. 

“I would like to kiss you,” he says. 

And that’s the first time he’s said that. Not, “I’d let you kiss me,” not, “I’m at your door so please fuck me,” not, “You can kiss me but this is the last time.” No. I. I want to kiss you. 

Robbie doesn’t answer with words, another step forward and he’s in John’s space, one hand resting on his shoulder, one on his cheek, tilting his head slightly, pressing their lips together, soft and warm. Not like they have to hurry, not like they have somewhere else to be. Soft and there in their office. 

When John pulls away to take a breath, he says something else that surprises him. 

“I’ve been in love with you since I was 22.”

“That’s a long time.”

John nods. 

“You’ve loved hockey for longer.”

“Someone told me I can love both.”

“Who?”

“She makes good coffee.”

Robbie laughs, he looks at his watch, “She’s still open. Let me buy you a coffee.”

Chapter Text

“I was just about to close up,” Annie says when John walks into the diner. 

“I can go,” he says. 

“No, you come in,” She says, “I’ll get you some coffee while I close.”

“I’m buying,” Murray comes around the corner, stands slightly behind John. 

“Oh!” Annie says and it sounds pleasantly surprised, “Sweetheart, Johnny hasn’t paid for coffee from me all year, it’s on me,” Annie says. 

“Oh, well thank you very much,” Robbie says. 

John smiles a little to himself. That’s Robbie. Polite and charming and… John’s… his, well his something. 

“It’s a bit late, isn’t your season over, hon?” Annie asks as she gestures at one of the booths for them to sit in. 

“Ended tonight,” John says. 

“Right,” she nods, “Yes I heard about that. Sorry.”

“It was a good game,” John says. 

He watches Annie watching them as she goes behind the counter and retrieves two mugs and a pot of coffee. She pours it for them and then picks up her rags and a spray bottle and continues wiping down the tables. John knows that she watches them as she works, not quite sure what’s going on, what brought John and this man that he nearly cried over in her car just a few weeks ago into her diner. 

“You make good coffee,” Annie, Robbie shouts to her after he takes his first sip. 

“I made that pot four hours ago, come back when it’s fresh so I know you’re not just saying that to be polite.”

“I will,” Robbie says and then he turns to John. 

They don’t know what to say, sitting in silence just looking at each other over their coffee cups. 

John lowers his voice as he starts to speak, “I’m sorry that it took… sorry that it took you almost leaving for me to,” he takes a sip and a breath, “For me to admit how I felt,” it’s a whisper. 

Annie’s in the back now, but John knows she’ll be listening. 

Robbie shakes his head, “I can’t say it hasn’t been strange. That it didn’t hurt all those years, not knowing where we stood. But I can’t let it be all your fault, I never said anything either.”

“If you’d said anything before tonight I don’t think I would have handled it better.”

Robbie nods. 

“It’s just been,” he sighs, “For so long the only thing I’ve known has been hockey. It’s the only way I’ve ever really been able to imagine a future for myself. And well,” he sighs again, “It didn’t match. Hockey and… having feelings for you. And I-I hate to say it, but choosing hockey always made sense to me.”

Murray nods, “I don’t have enough fingers to count the amount of times I thought about leaving because hockey doesn’t seem to like who I am,” Robbie says. 

John sighs. 

“It’s not hockey I guess,” Robbie says, “The game, the sport. Ice doesn’t care, feels like the only place that doesn’t care sometimes.”

“It’s the guys on the ice,” John says. 

“And standing around it, on it, watching it.”

John nods. He understands that. He was that. Maybe a part of him still is that. 

“I’ve never thought about leaving,” John says, “Does that make me wrong?”

Robbie shakes his head, “No, John,” he says, “I know how you feel about hockey. This sport, I feel the same way. It’s your whole life.”

“Should it be?”

“Maybe not. But who ever told you that?”

“Only ever you,” John says. 

Robbie looks a little bit surprised by that. 

“And…” he starts, “And who are you?” John asks. 

“I’m me,” Robbie says, “But that’s not what you're asking, is it?”

John shakes his head.

“I’m gay, knew since before college.”

“I-” John takes a shaky breath, “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say it.”

Robbie nods. 

John looks across the table. Robbie slipped on his jacket before he left, they’re sitting close enough that he can see the pins on his jacket now. There’s the black one, with the upside down pink triangle, another one that John thinks is from a political campaign, a much older, much more worn one with a peace sign on it. There’s a purple one too, with much darker, wavier purple letters that says There are more of us than you think. John swallows hard looking at it. 

“You’re a lot more…” John clears his throat, “You still wear that jacket.”

“I do,” Robbie says, “People know about me,” he says, “It’s nobody’s business, but hiding it, especially once I got to Boston, hiding it felt suffocating.”

“So if I still wanted to hide?”

Robbie shakes his head, “There’s a difference between hiding and being private.”

John bites down on his lip. 

“My family wouldn’t…”

“That’s okay,” Robbie says, “Mine’s not keen on it either. Mine don’t get a say I told them that. But that’s your business, do what’s right for you..”

“What are we even talking about?” John asks. 

Robbie shrugs, “We don’t have to be anything.”

“And if I wanted to be?”

“I’d like that a lot,” Robbie says.

John runs his hands through his hair. He’s still wearing his contacts, glasses left in their office. 

“I wouldn’t be able to… like take you home to my family or hold your hand or anything that you deserve.”

Robbie shakes his head, “That’s not what I need from you, John.”

“It’s not? But that’s-”

“What straight people do,” Robbie finishes his sentence for him, “I don’t need us to pretend that we’re straight people or try to be normal like they think we should be. I promise you that.”

John clears his throat. 

“Feels like we’re doin’ things a little backwards.”

“What?”

“Like, we slept together before I even let you kiss me.”

Robbie laughs, “Jumping into bed? That’s par for the course with me,” a strange sort of smile on his face. 

And John’s been vulnerable tonight, so why not keep going. 

“You’re the only…” he trails off. 

Robbie’s hands still on his coffee mug. 

“Really?”

“When else was I supposed to? With who else?”

“I thought maybe… I guess I don’t know what I thought.”

“You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I could.”

Robbie nods. 

“Boys?” Annie’s voice cuts through the tension, “Are we still having a heart to heart or can I count my till?”

And John laughs, “Count your money, Annie.”

They finish their coffee quietly, glancing out the window, glancing at Annie, mostly glancing at each other. 

“Heck of a first date,” Annie says when they’re all getting up to leave. 

Robbie and John laugh as they walk Annie to her car and when she gets in, John turns to Robbie and says, “Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“A first date?”

“Would you like it to have been?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes,” Robbie says, and the simplicity of the answer cuts through something in John Hall 

“I’d like to keep talking if you…” John trails off. 

“Yes,” Robbie says. 

“We could go back to the rink or if you’re comfortable, I’m only a five minute drive away.”

“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable,” Robbie asks. 

John feels a blush creep up his face, “Well, you know…”

Robbie just snorts, “I’ll let you know if you make me uncomfortable, John. It’ll take more than just being at your place.”

“Right,” John says, “Right, yeah. Of course.”

So they walk back to the rink, John keeps looking up at the cloudy sky, and then, sneakily looking over at Murray. 

“So you never said,” John mumbles as they walk, “Are you going to stay?”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Why does what I want matter?” 

“It just does.”

“I do,” John says, “I want to keep coaching with you and I want you in my life.”

“I think this is the most honest you’ve been with me, ever,” Robbie says. 

“With anyone. Myself included.”

Robbie just looks sad, looks down at the ground, “I’m sorry anyone ever made you feel like you can’t tell yourself the truth.”

And John has to stop walking, because he feels like he’s the one who should be apologizing. Because he’s the one who didn’t get his shit together, because he’s the one who kept this all so locked up, because he was so afraid when Robbie was so not. 

“I should be apologizing to you.”

Robbie shakes his head, “We’re all just… products of circumstance,” Robbie finds the right words, “A product of the environment. We can’t know better until we know.”

“We can apologize if we hurt someone.”

“Maybe,” Robbie says, “You weren’t hurting me, maybe making me like, yearn and shit, but it wasn’t hurt. I could see that there was… something. Like maybe you were the one who was hurt. I could tell that you wanted to fuck around, I wanted to fuck around too. You never lead me on or anything.”

And that knocks the wind out of him. John Hall has never considered himself someone who could get hurt. He’s been lucky, to play hockey for so long, to be good at it, to keep getting the next job and working his way up. He’s been strong and always moving forward. He was the captain of a division I team, a championship division I team. He was respected and he had a full ride at a division I school and yet… Looking back, he can see where that hurt that Robbie’s talking about was. He can see where something was missing. Where he was… not lying, but leaving something out. 

“Shit,” John says, his voice is hoarse and the air is cold and Robbie is standing about a foot away from him, just looking, nothing but understanding in his big beautiful brown eyes and John doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve being looked at like this. 

“It’s okay to be private, John,” Robbie says, “That didn’t hurt me, it won’t hurt me. But it did hurt to know that you couldn’t even tell yourself, not because of what that meant for me, but what it meant for you.”

John laughs bitterly, “You always were the smart one,” he says. 

“Ha,” Robbie says, and he takes a step towards John. 

He still has that extra inch on John, “I can see you thinking, you haven’t stopped all night.”

John shakes his head, “It’s a lot to process,” he says, then he reconsiders, “But not... at the same time. Like I’ve always known so now that I feel like I’m… allowed,” he clears his throat, “Is allowed the right word?”

Robbie shrugs and gestures for him to keep going. 

“Like now that I’m allowed, it just comes out of my mouth before I’ve even thought about it and maybe that’s because… I trust you, more than maybe anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Why?” Robbie asks and he looks like he genuinely can’t conceive why that might be. 

“You never made me feel wrong. No matter what it was.”

“Oh,” Robbie says, “I guess that’s just…”

“You’re just a good person,” John says before Robbie can deny it. 

“Jesus, John,” Robbie says, and he takes a step forward and he cups John’s cheek without really thinking about it. 

His hands stall as he hesitates, looking down at John rather than in his eyes. John reaches out, puts his hand on Robbie’s cheek and gets him to look at John and there’s something so soft in his eyes. Something soft and vulnerable, something that John wants to hold in his hands. John presses his cheek to Robbie’s, his head turns slightly, he kisses Robbie on the cheek. 

“You’ve got all my cards now, Rob,” John says, “You can have ‘em. I told you. I loved you when I was 22 and I think I love you now.”

And then Robbie’s kissing him, his lips gently brush against John’s. It’s soft and their hands are on each other’s cheeks and John squeezes his eyes shut, a tear spilling out that he hopes goes unnoticed. John slides his hand over Robbie’s face to the back of his neck to pull him closer. 

“I think I love you too,” Robbie says. 

“You don’t have to just say it because I said it,” John says. 

Robbie shakes his head, “I think I ended up here for a reason.”

“It’s cold,” John says and he leans forward, resting his forehead on Robbies shoulder, “Come on.”

They walk shoulder to shoulder as they head to John’s car in the parking lot at the rink. Not hand in hand, that’s not something that either of them is going to chance. 

John starts to open Robbie’s door for him, but Robbie brushes him off. 

“Don’t try to be a gentleman now,” he says.

John feels the blush on his cheeks deepen as Robbie opens the passenger side door and slides into the car. John watches quietly as Robbie does up his seatbelt and looks over at him. John spent so long being embarrassed to look at Robbie Murray, wondering what his lingering gaze meant. Now he just looks. He wants to, so he does. 

“You can turn on the radio if you want,” John says. 

So Murray does, he reaches for the dial and settles on a station, he keeps the volume so low that Hall can still hear him breathing. 

“I don’t know as much as you,” John says, “It took me fuckin’ ages to figure out what that stupid triangle on your jacket meant.”

Robbie lets out a loud laugh and rolls his eyes. 

“What?”

“Nothin’” Robbie says, “I think it’s cute that you're oblivious.”

“No one’s called me cute since I was four years old.”

“Get used to it,” Robbie says. 

“I will,” John answers. 

“Good.”

It’s quiet, John listens to the droning of the night hosts at the radio station, he’s aware of Robbie’s eyes on him as they drive to his apartment downtown. 

“Uh, I usually offer you coffee right about now,” John says when he opens the door.

Robbie kicks off his shoes, “Let’s skip that part or we’ll be up all night.”

And Robbie takes him by the hand and pulls him towards the bedroom. He’s never been here before, but he seems to know where John wants to be lead. 

He remembers college, he remembers those brief encounters after, how he had closed his eyes and wished he could stay in those moments forever. It wasn’t just sex, though that was undeniably part of it, but it was the way Robbie treated him. Like he was worthy of the attention. It was harsh and rough and fierce, and it still is a little bit of that as Robbie muscles him onto the bed and climbs into his lap and starts unbuttoning his dress shirt. The attention is there though, the care not to leave a bruise that actually hurts. It’s the way that Robbie runs his mouth, like he always has, teasing and tantalizing and,

“You want this so bad”

And John’s ready to admit to himself that he does, he wants this and he wants more as his hands tug at the sheets. 

Robbie’s head is resting on John’s thigh a little while later, fingers trailing through the hair on his calf. 

“Missed you,” John finally manages to say, “I know you’ve been here, but I missed you anyway.”

“Yeah,” Robbie says, “Yeah I get that.”

__

It goes like this. John Hall tells Robbie Murray that he loves him and Robbie Murray takes him seriously. Dates that look like friends catching up in a bar, dates that are actually technically work, but end with Robbie spending the night curled up next to John in his bed. It’s going to Bruins games together when the Rangers are in town. And Robbie learns what John Hall eats for breakfast and he brings groceries to John’s place because now they cook dinner together every Thursday night. 

They spend the summer in the tiny office they share and Robbie insists on getting a couch so that he can “get his beauty rest while we try and build a championship team”. It’s a lot of John laughing harder than he ever thought he would at work. 

It goes like recruiting kids for the program and learning how to make vodka sauce after what the boys on the team called the Taddy tour. It’s Robbie falling asleep on the couch while Hall watches video for hours on end. It goes like having the worst season that Samwell Men’s hockey has had since John Hall arrived. It’s meeting Annie’s boyfriend, and then her next boyfriend, and having brunch when she declares that she is going to marry the diner and swear off men for the rest of her life and then meeting her next boyfriend at a bar. It goes like hitting the cinder block wall with his bare fists after everyone has left the rink. It’s Robbie Murray putting his hand on his shoulder, we’ll get ‘em. It’s Robbie pulling him into their office and closing the door and bringing his arms up around him and resting his head on John’s shoulder. 

“I still love you,” he says. 

It’s John clearing his throat, emotion welling up as he squeezes his eyes shut and holds Robbie like he’s the most important thing in his life. He is. 

It’s making it abundantly clear that if Samwell University wants to extend his contract, then they’re going to extend his assistant coach’s too. 

It’s Robbie’s lease coming up and John sheepishly looking up from the morning newspaper, looking at his boyfriend across the table and saying, 

“You’re already here every day… so.”

It’s Robbie’s getting his own bedside table rather than a pile on the floor next to the bedframe and it’s sitting on the floor, side by side, trying to put it together. It’s Robbie patiently reading the instructions while John insists he knows what he’s doing. It’s Robbie laughing that night when the nightstand collapsed under the weight of a single glass of water, Robbie grabbing some paper towels and John sullenly muttering something about a bag of screws that “should have been spare parts.” Robbie throwing the instruction manual at his face, I’m not saying I was right but, well… look. 

It’s another first round exit and Robbie unplugging John’s computer, pulling him onto the couch and cradling his head in his arms, it’s John feeling dumb about the whole thing, even as Robbie showers his forehead in kisses, it’s a stupid thing to be so cut up about. 

“I know it’s just hockey, Rob, but it feels like the whole world sometimes.”

“I know,” Robbie says and he gently takes John’s glasses off of his face and sets them on the arm of the couch so that John can close his eyes and relax against Robbie’s arms. 

It’s Robbie turning 30 and John chirping him about it all morning and Robbie getting progressively louder in his reminders that John is three years older than he is. It ends in a kiss in the kitchen before they meet Annie and a few other friends from Samwell for lunch. John gives Robbie a gift at the table with everyone else, it’s just a bag of the coffee grounds that Robbie always wants to pick up at the grocery store, but grumbles about them being to expensive, and a mug that says Hockey Dad on it, everyone at the table laughs. 

Later that afternoon, it’s another box, waiting on the kitchen table, it’s messily wrapped in newspaper, which is just proof that John did it himself. 

“I wanted to give you this one at home.”

It’s Robbie sitting on the floor with the box in his lap and tearing through the paper, John sitting on the floor across from him, waiting in anticipation. It’s Robbie’s eyes going from excitement, to surprise, to shock, to glassing over in awe. He pulls the green material out of the bag and he looks down at it, slack jawed, open mouthed, wide eyed. 

“I just… the first night we, y’know… you were wearin’”

“Hartford Whalers pajamas, I remember,” Robbie says, “I can’t believe you-”

“Of course I remembered,” John says, “You were very memorable.”

“How did you even find this?” Robbie asks. The Whalers were relocated to Carolina nearly a decade ago by now. 

“I know some people,” John says, a shrug. 

Actually it took no less than 13 phone calls and a lot of promised favours, but that’s not what matters. 

“This is amazing,” Robbie says and he holds up the jersey in front of his chest, “I really love it.”

“Well I really love you, so.”

John sometimes finds himself struck by how easily he can say that now. It’s always been the truth, but now he’s telling it to Robbie, and that, he thinks, is fucking incredible. 

It’s letting him mom call Robbie his roommate even though it’s painfully obvious that they share a one bedroom, that John hasn’t mentioned a girl in nearly five years. 

It’s disagreeing about hockey things, refusing to leave the office until they found a compromise, and not once fighting, never once crossing a line. 

About three years into the relationship, John Hall realizes that the only thing he’s afraid of anymore, is the idea of living any part of his life, from this moment forward, without Robbie Murray. 

_

“We’re shit,” Coach Hall hears one of his players commiserating after a 7-2 loss. 

And well, he can’t say he disagrees. With a new year came a new losing streak and he can see the hope slowly being siphoned out of the kids, especially his seniors. 

“What did you say?” Hall turns around, sees Murray standing in the doorway of the dressing room. 

“Said we’re shit, Coach.” the kid answers. 

Hall doesn’t say anything, but Murray steps into the dressing room and he’s shaking his head. 

“You played like shit,” Murray says, “ You’re not shit. That’s an important fucking difference,” he says. 

Hall smirks to himself, as the players shift from side to side getting ready for whatever Coach Murray has to say. 

“ You’re not shit, you played like shit,” he repeats, “You’ve all got it in you to not be shit, none of you are shit, and you know why that’s an important difference?”

“No, sir,” the captain pipes up, he’s graduating this year. Hall knows how awful that must feel. Four years and the best you’ve done is a frozen four appearance where you got your asses summarily handed to you. 

“It matters because if you believe you’re shit, then you’re going to play like shit no matter what and I don’t want you playing like shit.”

The captain clears his throat, he nods. 

“You heard the coach,” he stands up, “Showers,” he says. 

Murray nods, joins Hall in the corridor. 

“Nice speech,” Hall says. 

Murray rolls his eyes, “Nobody calls us shit, not even us.”

Hall chews on his bottom lip, “Do you mean it.”

“We’re not shit,” he says, “We’re playing like shit, we’ll fix it. That’s what you make all that money for doing.”

_

Coach Hall gets wind of an argument that had happened at team breakfast the day before a game that they lose 2-1. Something stupid inconsequential, one guy doing something that got under another guy’s skin for no reason. 

It bothers him more than he wants to admit. Because he’s been hearing stories like this for months now. He’s been noticing the tension in the locker room, how the players look like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world when they show up for the games. 

There’s a fight at practice and that’s when John Hall knows his team is in trouble. A check into the boards that’s a little too hard, a grunt, a fuck you!, a challenge, and then the sticks hit the ice and his first and second line centres are throwing punches. John can see the team splitting right then and there, he can see the fractures and the battle lines. He can see which boys are going to pick which side after practice. 

“Knock it the fuck off,” he shouts as he grabs one player by the back of his practice jersey, Murray has the other boy restrained by the arm. 

“Off the fucking ice, now!” Hall shouts, “Gally, you change in the visitor’s room, Coach Murray will drop your shit off for you. Cool off,” he orders. 

The rest of the team stands silently as they watch Coach Murray stand between Gally and Joey as they walk down the hallway. 

Coach Hall looks at his team and he shakes his head. 

“On the line,” he says, he kicks the pucks they had been using to practice to the side and he blows his whistle. 

He skates them back and forth, red line to red line, until he’s certain that their legs feel like they’re made of soup. Murray reappears, stands on the bench while John blows the whistle, giving them hardly enough time to rest between wind sprints. 

“That’s enough,” he finally says, a few of the guys fall against the boards and rest their heads there, catching their breath. 

“Where are Gally and Joey,” Hall says when he joins Murray, standing behind the bench. 

“I sent them home,” he says. 

“Good,” Hall answers, “Gives us time to figure out what to do with them.”

Murray nods as he unlocks the door to the office and they step inside. 

“Suspend them?” Murray asks. 

“From the team?” Hall asks. 

“I don’t know, is that what you were thinking?”

Hall nods, “That’s the only thing I’m thinking.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened.”

“I know that two members of this team started throwing punches.”

“You don’t wonder why?”

“No,” John says, “Honestly I don’t. I don’t care why,” he says.

Murray just nods, John can see him holding his tongue. 

“Two week suspension, next guy to throw a punch in practice is off the team, no warning,” he decides. He says it with a finality that Murray doesn’t question. 

Murray just nods, looking past Hall rather than directly at him. 

_

It doesn’t get better. Hall can see it in his dressing room when he goes in to read the lines, he can see it when the first line center stops passing to the winger. He notices the dressing room shift as guys seem to take a side. Hall doesn’t know what the problem is, just that it’s a problem that he wants to fucking stop. 

He watches them crumble around him, a team fractured by what? A disagreement between Gally and Joey? Hall thought they were better than that, he thought he put together a better team than that. It’s poison in the locker room, Gally and Joey are both seniors, the other players look up to them. He can see the freshmen reluctantly taking sides, quietly trying not to rock the boat as friendships end. 

“You’re tired,” Robbie says quietly as they get home after a game. 

“No shit,” John says, and then quickly, “Sorry, you’re not my problem, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” Robbie  says. 

“We’ve lost four of the last five. I don’t know what else to do, more practices? Do we change the lines?”

“Have you considered that maybe it’s not a hockey thing?” Robbie asks. 

“My job is to worry about the hockey things.”

“But when the people stuff affects the hockey stuff, shouldn’t we worry?” John asks, he takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack.

“I’ve never been good at that,” John mumbles, walking into the living room.

“You were a captain once,” Robbie heads towards the kitchen.

“That was different.”

“How?” Murray raises his voice from the kitchen, John hears the refrigerator open.

“Dunno. Those guys were my friends, it was easy to tell them to cut the bullshit,” Hall sits down on the couch while he talks, Robbie comes back from the kitchen and hands Hall a beer. 

He sits down, takes a sip of his own beer and furrows his brow. 

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What that I’m not friends with them, I don’t think they want to hang out with a guy who’s pushing 40 over someone their own-”

“No that’s not what I mean,” Robbie says, “Do you think they’re friends with each other. ” 

“I don’t know,” John says, “Always thought they were.”

“Maybe we should,” Robbie says. 

“I want them to be a team, not friends.”

“Well right now, they’re not either.”

“We’ll figure it out,” John says. 

_

They miss the playoffs entirely. John feels his seat getting hotter as they sit down for their performance reviews in June. He drones on about how building a program takes time, how the plan has to change every day, but it’s still very much on track. He talks about how ticket sales are up and this season was an anomaly. He promises the recruiting class is only going to get stronger, he talks up the goaltender who they’ve gotten a verbal commitment from. He gets a curt nod from the director of the Athletic department and another meeting to sign his contract. 

He’s tired when he walks through the door to the apartment, hangs his coat on the door. Normally Robbie would be greeting him the second he heard the door open, but it’s quiet. He sees the blue glow of the TV. He sees Robbie’s silhouette, knees pulled up to his chest, brow furrowed. 

“Hey,” John says quietly, “What are you watching?”

John looks up and sees Sportscenter, he puts his hand on Murray’s shoulder. It’s NHL draft coverage, makes sense, but he can feel the somber tone. 

“And folks we’re just learning that Jack Zimmermann will not be participating in tomorrow’s NHL draft and that’s about what we expected to hear after tonight’s news.”

“What’s going on,” John says. 

Robbie looks up at him, there’s a hurt in his eyes. It’s not a personal hurt, a general hurt, a more empathetic hurt than anything else. 

“Zimmermann,” Robbie says, “You know the kid, not Bob.”

John nods, “He was supposed to-”

“They found him in a hotel room, rushed him to the hospital. They’re not saying much because he’s still a kid, but…”

John sits down on the couch next to Robbie, hand still on his shoulder. 

“I’ve never met the kid, but…” Robbie trails off. 

“I know,” he says, “He’s what, 17? That’s…” he doesn’t know what to say, he shakes his head. 

Hockey feels small, when you work in it for long enough, your world starts to shrink. Even if you don’t know someone, you know someone else who does, you heard a story about him. And when something bad happens, it hits everybody. This is without question, something bad. 

“He was supposed to go first,” Robbie whispers. 

John puts his hand on Robbie’s shoulder. It feels almost voyeuristic to keep watching. 

“Can’t believe they’re talking about what this means for the fucking Aces,” Robbie mutters. 

John puts his head on Robbie’s shoulder, lets him squeeze his hand. 

“We’ve just received a statement,” the sports desk anchor says, “From the Zimmermann family, Bob Zimmermann himself,” he starts to read, “Tonight, my son Jack was admitted to the hospital. We appreciate the support that we have received over the past few hours, but we ask that you respect our privacy at this time. We expect Jack to make a full recovery and be back on the ice when he’s ready. We’re taking time as a family and obviously, will not be in attendance of the 2009 NHL Entry Draft.” the anchor takes a breath, “Well folks this is certainly an unprecedented circumstance, we’ll go over to…”

John stops paying attention to the TV when Robbie starts to talk. 

“Can’t imagine,” he’s muttering. 

Over the next few weeks, John Hall hears every rumour. Overhears one of his players I played AAA with Zimmermann, always knew he was a headcase. There are rumours about drugs, about prescription pills, and booze, and of course, about Kent Parson. John wishes he was braver to stop them from gossipping about the poor kid’s sexuality. He thinks about how terrifying that would have been when he was 17, how terrifying that could be now. 

_

In June of 2011, John finds an email in his inbox. He’s sitting across from Robbie’s desk. His eyebrows furrow. 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]  

John, 

I’m not sure if you’re the right person to be sending this to, but I hope this email finds you well. My name is Alicia Zimmermann, you might know my name from a lot of different things, but the most important thing you should know about me is that I’m a mother and I spent some of the best years of my life at Samwell University. 

You work in hockey so you’re surely aware of what happened to my son, Jack last June. Jack doesn’t know I’m sending you this email, but I’m writing to ask about your hockey program. I know that my son’s name carries baggage, but I assure you that the way his character has been spoken about by certain people over the past year is a gross misrepresentation of the person that my son is. He’d work hard for you, he’d play well for you and he would never give you anything less than 110%. I’m not asking for special treatment because of our last name, but I am asking you to at least consider my son as part of this year’s recruiting class. 

I believe in second chances and I hope you do too. 

Take care, 

Alicia Zimmermann

John’s breath catches in his throat as he reads the email. Without thinking, he logs into a scouting website and puts in Jack Zimmermann. He watches iso-cam footage from the CHL All-Star game in 2008 and he likes what he sees. This kid is a talent, a big one. He likes the promise of Zimmermann’s strong work ethic, he likes the way he skates, with purpose. The thing he likes the most though is his mother’s question, I believe in second chances and I hope you do too. He looks across the room. Robbie’s chewing on the end of his pen, feet on the desk, reading something on his desktop. Where would John Hall be without second chances. 

To: [email protected]  

From: [email protected]

Mrs. Zimmermann, 

Thank you for your email. I’d like to set up a tour of the campus and a meeting with Jack before we set anything in stone. Please let me know what your availability is. 

He looks across the room at Robbie and clicks on the email

FWD: [email protected]  

To: [email protected]  

From: [email protected]

Mrs. Zimmermann, 

Thank you for your email. I’d like to set up a tour of the campus and a meeting with Jack before we set anything in stone. Please let me know what your availability is. 

He looks across the room at Robbie and clicks on the email

Trust me on this. 

_

Jack Zimmermann’s college tour is a week later. Alicia shakes Coach Hall’s hand, and then Coach Murray’s, Jack extends his hand to both coaches after his mother takes the lead. 

Hall notices how close to his mom Jack stays. He’s heard this kid described as sullen, before, but what he sees right now is a 19 year old who doesn’t know where to stand or what to say. 

“We can head straight to the rink,” Hall says, “I’m sure that’s what you’re here for.”

Jack shakes his head though, “I care about everything else too, sir,” he says quietly, “I’d like to see the whole campus.”

“‘Course, well, let’s get going,” Hall says. 

Murray stands next to him as they walk together, they point to the dorms. 

“Usually we try to get the housing department to put guys from the team in the same building.”

Jack nods, doesn’t seem all that interested, so they move on. 

“The dining hall’s a lot better than when I was in college. They have a meal plan for varsity athletes, gives you more swipes everyday,” Hall explains, trying to sell Zimmermann on the campus from a hockey perspective, he knows that’s what he’d be thinking about if he were 19. 

Zimmermann just nods, seeming just as disinterested as before. 

“This is the library,” Murray points to the old brick building. 

Hall watches Zimmermann perk up. 

“Can we go inside?” he asks. 

“Don’t see why not,” Murray says and he pushes forward.

Jack follows him, Hall watches Alicia’s cautious smile grow. 

“So you’re an alum?” Hall asks. 

“Theatre and film acting, Class of ‘86,”

“I went to school in Boston, so pretty close, Class of ‘84.”

“Maybe we went to the same parties,” Alicia Zimmermann has a calming air that seems to follow her, it’s a stark contrast to her son. 

He looks ahead, he sees Robbie showing Jack some of the study spaces, he listens in on their quiet conversation. 

“What are you thinking of majoring in, son?” Murray asks, he’s about the same height as Jack, Hall has to look up. 

“History,” Jack says quietly. 

Murray nods, “You’ll love the archive then.”

“Oh?” Jack asks. 

“You’ll get a tour in your first class,” Murray says. 

Hall watches Jack, he thinks he sees a glint in his eyes. 

“Jack’s still not sure about all of this,” Alicia says quietly to Hall on their way to the rink, “So thank you for doing this. I can see him warming up to it.”

“He’s a good kid, hell of a player too,” Hall says. 

When Jack laces up his skates at Faber, Hall already knows this kid is getting an offer. When he takes the ice, he sees a new four year plan falling into place. 

Jack Zimmermann signs his offer letter that day in the office, his mother wraps him in a hug that he looks embarrassed and comforted by at the same time. They leave with Hall’s phone number if they have any questions and a “see you in September.”

“You’re thinking again,” Murray says when the office door closes behind the Zimmermanns, “I can smell rubber burning.”

“Fuck you,” Hall says with a chuckle, “That kid’s the future,” he says. 

Murray looks thoughtful, but doesn’t say anything more.

_

Jack Zimmermann is on the ice for the first time at Samwell University. Hall can’t help but notice the way his shoulders are hunched in on themselves. Hall tries not to pay attention, hopes he works through it. It’s walk-on day. They recruit, but as a varsity team, they’re obligated to give any student with the right equipment and the 15 dollar registration fee the chance to try-out for the team. It’s rare that they’ll find anyone who can really compete for a roster spot this way, but there are a few spots that can be filled, Hall keeps his mind open. 

Byron Knight played high school hockey at Andover, that’s not the greatest sign. Generally high school hockey isn’t as competitive, and kids will struggle to make the jump to the NCAA, still, he takes the ice. Hall watches the way the other walk-ons and recruits avoid Zimmermann, he hears a few whispers, but it’s mostly sideways glances and shuffling away from the kid. Except for Knight, he stands next to Zimmermann while Hall gives the agenda for the day. He gives Zimmermann a glance when Hall asks them to pair off for the first drill and he picks up a puck and returns to Zimmermann with it. 

Hall doesn’t watch much more of them. Zimmermann could have the worst practice of his life and still make the team, and well, Hall sees Knight skating, it’s not NCAA level. 

He runs a handful of skating drills, but mostly, he’s looking for skill and vision. He can teach a shitty skater to get better, but it’s a lot harder to teach a 20 year old how to look for passing plays. 

He hears Knight’s voice a lot, he seems to narrate what he’s doing to Zimmermann (whose voice Hall hears infrequently). He takes a sideways glance at Zimmermann, notices his shoulders are a little looser, he’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look miserable. 

Hall doesn’t talk to the players during the water break, that’s their time, but he does listen and he hears one of the seniors say, 

“Zimmermann!”

Jack looks up. 

“Me and some of the boys were wondering what the hell you’re doing here ?” Hall doesn’t hear too much antagonism in it, it’s more self deprecating than anything. This is a liberal arts college that’s never won anything, Hall would wonder what the hell Jack was doing here too. 

“Playing hockey,” he hears Knight’s voice instantly. 

“Well no shit, but shouldn’t you be out in Vegas?” he continues. 

“Or in Montreal depending on who you asked about Parson,” a junior chimes in. 

“Fuck Vegas,” Knight says, “Our dining hall has like, way better chicken tenders.”

“You’re a little shit disturber,” the senior says. 

Knight shrugs, “Hey man, if you know someone doesn’t want to answer your question, don’t fucking ask.”

“Fuck you,” the senior says, and skates away. 

Hall looks at Jack out of the corner of his eye. 

“Thanks for that,” he whispers. 

“Got your back,” Knight answers. 

Jack nods. 

The walk on ends in a scrimmage, Knight skates like bambi on ice, but he has decent hands and he communicates well. It’s not worth teaching the kid to skate though, Hall’s decided. He has a few names written down to think about and look into as he dismisses the boys and heads to the office with Murray. 

“Wanna grab lunch?” he hears Knight saying, and he knows he’s talking to Zimmermann, good kid, not a hockey player. 

“Anyone in mind?” Hall says when he sits down behind his desk. 

“Byron Knight,” Murray answers without thinking.

“Fucking, what?” Hall does a double take. 

“You heard me,” Murray says. 

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not even a little bit,” Murray says. 

“He can’t skate!” Hall protests. 

“I know that, but…” he runs a hand through his hair. 

Hall picks his glasses up off of his desk and puts them on. 

“Look, we’ve been saying it for a while, these guys don’t like each other, they’re not friends. Look at the way they treated Zimmermann, Knight was the only one who treated him like a person, like just another guy. Everyone on this team needs to feel like just another guy if we have a chance at this. I like this kid.”

“Rob, I don’t know…”

“We put him on the fourth line, he plays five minutes a night, we teach him how to skate.”

Hall frowns. 

Robbie walks across the office, he puts a hand on John’s shoulder. 

“When you sent me the email about Zimmermann, you told me to trust you. I’m asking you to trust me now.”

John presses his lips together, god help him, he trusts Robbie Murray with this. 

“Invite him to the first practice.”

Robbie nods. 

_

John Hall thinks he made a mistake on the first practice. 

“Hey, Shitty!” he hears Zimmermann’s voice, he turns and sees him looking expectantly at Byron Knight. 

“Excuse me?” Hall says, he’s trying to take it seriously now, the whole team as friends thing that Murray’s pitching. And he knows how much Robbie Murray hates it when anyone calls his team shitty, he doubts he’ll like getting onto the ice and hearing someone call a teammate out. Maybe he can cut this off right now, maybe Zimmermann just slipped up. 

“Jack what did you just call your teammate?”

“Oh!” Knight looks up and over at Coach Hall and skates over immediately, “No sir, that’s um, well, Shitty’s my nickname on account of my initials being B.S. Jack wasn’t…”

Coach Hall raises an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

“Yes sir,” Knight says. 

“Well… Shitty,” Coach Hall says, “Start stretching, practice is going to be a hard one.”

“Yes sir,” Shitty says. 

“Does Zimmermann have a nickname yet?”

“Just Jack,” Shitty answers. 

“Alright, Jack and Shitty, noted,” Hall says. 

They make it 20 minutes in without incident. One of the seniors flips the puck at the goalie, Johnson. He grimaces.

He laughs at him.

“Hey!” Shitty’s shouting before Hall or Murray say anything. 

“Don’t be a dick, we’re a team.”

“It was just a joke, don’t be a bitch about it.”

“That’s fucked up, man,” Shitty says, “One, trying to emasculate me isn’t going to work and there’s nothing wrong with being a woman, women fucking rock. And two, it wasn’t fucking funny,” he says, “You should apologize.”

“Okay, fuck, Sorry, Johnson,” the senior reluctantly apologizes. 

Shitty skates over to Johnson and pats him on the back. 

“Thanks, Shitty. You’re gonna be important to this team,” Johnson says. 

“Uhh, thanks, brah,” he says and taps him on the back of the leg with his stick.

Shitty trips over the blue line during their first drill, but John Hall is determined to keep this kid around. Robert Murray says he told him so. 

Shitty Knight comes to every practice ready to ride or die for Jack Zimmermann, ready to kill for the freshmen, ready to talk back to the seniors if they say anything even slightly fucked up. And it starts to trickle down, the freshmen start speaking up too. John Hall gets word of study dates with some of the freshmen, he hears about a team breakfast where more than three guys showed up. He hears the phrase got your back getting repeated over and over in the locker room, he sees it showing up on the ice. 

Shitty Knight doesn’t score a single goal all year, but the coaches wouldn’t bench him for anything. 

John Hall has to stop himself from hugging Robbie Murray too hard when the team makes it to the frozen four for the first time since either of them arrived. He still hugs him. It’s the joy on the boys’ faces that overtakes Hall with pride. There’s excitement in the locker room as they talk about who they’ll be playing, there are hugs and fistbumps and the music is blasting so loud that Hall has to bang a stick against a metal door to get their attention. 

“Just wanted to say you boys played like a team out there. A damn good team. Don’t celebrate too hard, but do remember to celebrate.”

“House party!” Someone bellows, and Hall takes that as his cue to leave.

Murray’s finishing up talking to a reporter after the game as John walks towards their office. He says goodbye to him and opens the door for John. The door clicks shut behind them, and Murray’s wrapping his arms around Hall. 

“We did it,” he’s saying with his face buried in the fabric of John’s suit jacket. 

“Not done yet,” John says. 

“I didn’t mean winning the game,” Robbie says and he rests his head against John’s shoulder, “Can you hear that?”

And John listens, he still hears screaming and hollering and music coming from the dressing room. 

“You’re right,” John says, “I think they like each other.”

Robbie just grins and presses a kiss to John’s mouth, both of them still smiling. 

“You were right about Knight.”

“I know,” Robbie says. 

_

When they lose in the first round of the Final Four, Coach Hall feels his heart sinking. He thought… 

It felt like they had something special, like it was their year, it was lightning in a bottle, it was whatever cliche you want to throw out there, no matter what, he felt like they could win it. 

Robbie meets his eye in the final 30 seconds of the third. They’re down 4-1, there’s no way they score three goals. He sees Rob swallow hard and shake his head, he looks down, looks away. All John can do is watch the last shift, Zimmermann is doing everything he can to will a goal to happen, but the other team’s defense sticks to him and he has no chance to make anything happen. They all hang their heads when the final buzzer sounds and the other team starts cheering and celebrating, they’re going to the final. 

Samwell Men’s Hockey will not. 

John waits outside the locker room for five minutes before he walks in, he’s not sure what he can say to make the loss sting less. He’s expecting silence when he opens the door, expecting commiseration, a broken team. 

Instead, he sees all of his players, standing in a circle around the logo in the middle of the floor. They have their arms around each other, heads cast downwards as they quietly speak. John doesn’t know what he’s expecting to hear but it’s not. 

“No way man, sour patch kids do not go in jungle juice.”

“Okay but hear me out, what if we made it in the bathtub, easy to rinse down after.”

“Not a bad idea, Knight.”

“There’s a lot of vodka at the house, we’ll pick up some mixers on the way back.”

“I’ve got a 24 pack in my dorm room that I’ll bring.”

“I don’t drink a whole lot-”

“Don’t worry about that, Jack, we’ll make a rum and coke, hold the rum.”

They don’t notice Hall standing in the doorway, but he feels strangely moved as they make binge-drinking plans for later tonight. 

“Does it feel like sacrilege to anyone else to plan a party after we lose.”

“The party’s not for this game, dumbass, Shitty already said.”

“End of season party. Emphasis on the season, not the end.”

One of the players looks up, it’s Jack Zimmermann. He looks John Hall dead in the eyes and nods. There’s more, they both have more to give. They’ll get to give it. They’re happy to be here. 

John Hall closes the door behind him, silently shutting it, not saying a word to any of his players. Walking back to the office with a small smile on his face. 

Robbie looks up from the couch. John is quiet as he sits down next to him, he takes his hand in his and puts it in his lap. He kisses the back of his hand and squeezes. 

“What’d you say to them?” Robbie asks. 

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“They were already saying everything important themselves.”

“Like what?”

“That sour patch kids don’t go in jungle juice and the party starts at 11:15.”

Robbie laughs, “That’s… okay. Yeah, I like the attitude,” Robbie laughs. 

John rests his head on Robbie’s shoulder. 

“Why do you stick around?” he asks. 

“Where did that come from.”

“End of season crisis, humour me.”

“I like Massachusetts, I like this team.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I love you,” Robbie says simply. 

“But why?”

“Why do you love me?”

John nods, “You’ve had a long time to think about it. I’ve know you nearly 20 years now.”

“Well, I wasn’t in love with you for half of them, so note that.”

John elbows him. 

Robbie just laughs, “There’s a lot about you worth loving. I’ve liked you for a long time, I liked you a lot in college. But I think that night at the diner, when you just started realizing everything, that’s when I knew. You told me you loved me and I realized I wanted to say it back.”

“I still love you.”

“Yeah, you tell me every day.”

“Making up for lost time,” John says. 

“Lost time?”

“Yeah, maybe I could have been telling you for 20 years.”

“Well, we’ve got time.”

“How long.”

“The rest of it.”

John Hall used to joke that he was married to a sport, he lived for it, would have died for it. He woke up thinking about hockey and he fell asleep watching it on his couch after spending 16 hours working in it. People will see the way John Hall gets up in the morning, the way he grins when someone mentions his team, or going to the rink, but it’s not just about hockey anymore. He knows if he had to choose, he’d give hockey up in a heartbeat. 

John Hall has a very particular routine that starts and ends with Robert Murray lying next to him.