Chapter Text
"Pass it!" Thomas screamed, voice raw against the whistling air. His hockey stick slammed the ice twice, sharp cracks echoing over the roar of the crowd. Ten seconds. The puck slid toward Gally near the blue line. I've got a wide open net, Gally, Thomas thought to himself. Tie the game.
Gally never looked his way. The senior's jaw clenched tight as he dug his skate into the ice, driving forward alone. Thomas watched in disbelief. Gally's shot was wild, flying too high and too fast. It clanged off the goalpost, a hollow sound that punched through Thomas's chest as if he'd been hit himself. The buzzer screamed, ending the game. 4-3 loss. Thomas's stick slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the frozen surface. His breath came in ragged clouds, mingling with the sharp bite of ice spray and stale sweat.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Minho skated past Thomas, slamming his stick against the boards before retreating to the locker rooms. His glare at Gally was venomous. Winston and Ben exchanged a look of resignation as they slumped toward the bench. Frypan, while leaving the goalie net, pulled off his helmet, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't meet Thomas's eyes. The crowd's cheers for the opposing team roared like static in Thomas's ears. He'd rather lose than let me win, Thomas thought. He could feel the phantom sting of his father's belt buckle. His knuckles whitened inside his gloves.
Thomas forced himself to stay. He shook hands with the other team's captain, a blur of smiles and sweaty palms, but he tasted bile with every polite word. When he finally pushed open the locker room door, the air hit him: ammonia, damp concrete, and simmering rage. Gally was already ripping off his pads, throwing them into his locker with a clatter. Minho stood inches from him, eyes narrowed to slits. "What the hell was that?" Minho spat. "Thomas was wide open!"
Gally spun around, chest heaving. "I had the angle! You think that rookie deserves the shot?" Thomas froze. Rookie? The word burned. He'd been captain since sophomore year. Coach Jorge's calm voice echoed in his head: Control the room, Hijo. Always.
Minho shoved Gally's shoulder. "Angle? You missed by fucking a mile! Fucking blinded by your damn jealousy!" Gally's face flushed crimson.
"Jealous?" Gally snarled. He surged forward, slamming Minho into the dented metal lockers. The crash echoed like a gunshot. Minho gasped as Gally pressed an arm across his throat.
"Hey!" Thomas shouted. He felt his own pulse hammering in his temples. Protect him. He lunged, only for a calloused hand to clamp his shoulder like iron.
"Easy, Hijo." Coach Jorge's voice cut through the locker room's electric tension. His grip tightened, anchoring Thomas. The coach stood like weathered stone: calm beneath his faded baseball cap, eyes narrowed. Gally froze mid-shove. Minho gasped against the lockers, knuckles white against the metal grille. The scent of sweat and anger thickened. Jorge didn't yell, he leaned in close to Gally's ear, his tone a gravelly whisper. "You pinning down teammates now? That what seniors do?" Gally's grip faltered. His eyes flickered, anger warring with shame. Jorge's knuckles brushed Minho's shoulder. "Get up, kid. Breathe."
Thomas remained locked in place, Jorge's hand still heavy on his shoulder. Blood roared in his ears. Protect him. The impulse had been instinctive, primal, a reflex honed dodging his father's fists. But Jorge's restraint felt like cold water. Shame washed over him. I'm Captain. I should've stopped it before it even started. He watched Gally step back, shoulders slumped. Minho rubbed his throat, coughing softly. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting, thick with accusations unsaid. Thomas's thoughts spun: Gally's rookie jab, Minho's choked gasp, the sour taste of defeat still coating his tongue. The locker room's fluorescent lights hummed like a taunt.
Jorge waited until Minho straightened, his glare still fixed on Gally. "Both of you," Jorge said, voice low but slicing through the tension. "Shower, change. Now." He didn't raise his volume, but the command brooked no argument. Minho stalked off toward the showers, muttering curses under his breath. Gally hesitated, jaw working as if chewing on words too bitter to spit out. Finally, he snatched his towel and followed without looking back. Thomas felt Jorge's hand lift. "You," Jorge said to Thomas, nodding toward the hall. "My office."
Thomas trailed behind him, boots scraping against damp concrete. His mind raced. I should've stepped in faster. I should've seen it coming. The coach's silence was worse than shouting, an accusation hanging thick in the air, heavy with the scent of mildew and old leather pads. He braced for Jorge's disappointment, the lecture about leadership failing when it mattered most. His stomach knotted while his father's voice echoed in his mind: "Weak. Always too slow."
Jorge's office was cramped. A concrete box plastered with faded team photos sat on the left side of his desk and a dented filing cabinet filled most of the space. He sank into his creaking chair, tossing his cap on the desk. Thomas hovered near the door, fingers digging into his palms. Jorge didn't look up as he shuffled papers. "Sit." Thomas obeyed after hesitation, the plastic chair groaning under his weight. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows.
Instead of the lecture Thomas expected, Jorge slid a crumpled sheet across the desk. Thomas recognized it: his English midterm, circled in angry red ink. D-minus. "Mr. Vince called," Jorge said, voice flat. "Says you're drowning."
Thomas's throat tightened. Not now. He pictured his mother's icy stare when report cards arrived, his father's belt already unbuckling. "Coach, I—"
Jorge cut him off with a raised hand. "Save it. You fail, you ride the bench the rest of the season. School rules." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Captaincy's not just about screaming passes on ice. It's about showing up. Everywhere."
Thomas stared at the failing grade like it was a fresh bruise. The locker room clash felt distant now, replaced by the cold dread of home. Bench me? Without hockey, his father's rages would have no buffer. The fluorescent light flickered, humming like trapped wasps. Jorge's gaze didn't waver. "Fix it," he said, tapping the paper. "Go talk to Vince tomorrow. Grovel if you have to." A ghost of his usual smirk surfaced. "Tell him I'll personally assign laps to anyone who laughs."
Thomas's fingers curled around the chair's edge. The plastic dug into his palms. "What about Gally?" The question escaped before he could cage it, raw and jagged. Jorge leaned back, chair groaning. "Handled." The word landed like a gavel. "Focus on what you control, Hijo. Starting with that D-minus." He jerked his chin toward the door. "Go shower. You stink worse than Frypan's gear."
"Yes sir." Thomas stood too fast. The word tasted like ash, too close to his father's demanded respect. He pushed through the office door without looking back. Concrete chilled his soles through worn boot treads. The locker room haze hung thick: steam, sweat, and the sharp tang of disinfectant. Minho stood hunched at his locker, toweling dark hair fiercely. Gally's space was cleared out, save for a stray tape roll. Winston and Ben murmured near the showers, cutting glances toward Gally's abandoned stall. Thomas kept moving, eyes fixed on his own locker. A phantom ache bloomed in his ribs where his father's boot had cracked bone last month. Bench him.*The words echoed Jorge's warning. Without hockey, home would be a cage with no reprieve.
⋆˚࿔
The bus ride home blurred: streetlights smearing yellow streaks across rainy windows. Thomas pressed his forehead to the cold glass. Behind closed lids, Gally's enraged face blended with his father's, both accusing him of weakness. The puck hitting the post echoed like a gunshot. He jerked upright as the bus hissed to a stop near his neighborhood. Rain slicked pavement reflected the bus's headlights. His house was crouched at the street's end, curtains drawn tight.
Thomas eased the front door open, the hinges groaning like a warning. The living room reeked of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. His father was sprawled across the sofa, one arm dangling, his fingers brushing an overturned bottle. Moonlight sliced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the ridge of his father's bruised knuckles. Thomas froze mid-step. Don't wake him. Silence pulsed louder than the distant highway hum. He could hear his own heartbeat, frantic against his ribs. The carpet swallowed his footsteps, but every creak of floorboard beneath felt like betrayal. His mother was nowhere to be found. She'd vanished again. Probably another "business trip." Her cold absence chilled the air.
He slipped down the hallway, past his mother's closed study door. From beneath it, the faint blue glow of her computer monitor seeped out. There she is. She was in her nightly ritual of emails and secrets. Thomas held his breath, picturing her inside: spine straight, fingers tapping keys, ignoring the wreckage in her living room. Her detachment was its own kind of violence. He reached his bedroom door, the knob cold in his palm. Behind him, his father snorted, shifting on the couch. Thomas didn't turn. He slid inside, pressing his back against the closed door until the cheap wood dug into his shoulder blades. Only then did he exhale, shaky and thin. Darkness enveloped him, thick and familiar. He didn't bother with the light.
Thomas peeled off his damp school clothes, the fabric clinging like guilt. The mattress groaned as he collapsed onto it, the springs digging into his ribs, a dull echo of past bruises. Outside, rain hissed against the pavement. He imagined it washing away the game's sour taste, Gally's sneer, Minho's choked gasp against the lockers. But the images stuck, sticky as sweat. He should've passed the fucking puck. He punched his pillow, once, hard, before settling into his bedding. He drifted away on the uneasy current of exhaustion, the damp scent of mildew from his bedroom window mingling with the faint tang of whiskey seeping under the door, sleep overtaking him.
⋆˚࿔
Morning came too soon, gray and damp. Thomas dressed in yesterday's hoodie, the fabric smelling faintly of sweat and ice rink disinfectant. Downstairs, his father still slept, mouth agape, breath sour. Thomas stepped around him, avoiding the spilled whiskey soaking into the carpet, and slipped out into the drizzle. At school, the corridors buzzed with chatter. It was a Friday night, students were probably wondering where the party would be that weekend. Thomas kept moving, his English textbook heavy in his backpack. Jorge's warning echoed: Fix it. Thomas slipped into the classroom.
Mr. Vince's English class felt like a refuge. It was warm and orderly, lined with chessboards and poetry books. Vince sat at his desk, grading papers, his expression unreadable. Thomas approached him, clearing his throat. "Sir? About my grade..."
Vince glanced up, pen poised. "Ah. Thomas Paige." His voice was low, gravelly. "Coach Jorge called." Thomas braced for a lecture, hands clenching at his sides. Instead, Vince leaned back, folding his arms. "You've got potential. But potential doesn't pass classes." He tapped a stack of papers. "I'll give you a shot at some rewrites."
Relief washed over Thomas like a wave.
Then Vince added, "On one condition. My chess club is growing, but it needs more members. I need you to start attending my chess club meetings."
Thomas blinked. Chess? He pictured drills, ice time, the sweet escape of hockey. He didn't have time for chess, nor had he ever played. "But hockey practice—"
Vince cut him off. "Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, right after school. Before practice." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather ride the bench?"
Thomas hesitated. The thought of wasted afternoons moving pawns twisted his gut. Then he pictured home: His father's unfocused rage, his mother's glacial silence, the whiskey stench clinging to the walls like mold. An hour of chess meant one less hour trapped in that suffocating house. Vince waited, calm as stone. Slowly, Thomas nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
⋆˚࿔
The lunch dismissal bell clanged through the halls, sharp as a slap. Thomas quickly left the classroom, shoving through the crowded halls, heading for the cafeteria. The hockey team's usual table near the window buzzed with Friday energy. Frypan waved half a sub sandwich in greeting. "Thomas! You hear? My place tonight. Parents are in Chicago." He grinned. "Whole team's coming. Even Gally promised not to sulk."
Minho snorted beside him, pushing cafeteria chili around his tray. "He sulked all morning." His gaze drifted across the room. "Hey, look who's eating alone. The Brit transfer." He nudged Thomas. "Newt, right? Vince's chess club star."
Thomas followed Minho's gesture. At a corner table, Newt sat angled away from the crowd. Pale blonde hair fell messily across his forehead, catching the fluorescent cafeteria lights. He was lean, almost wiry, shoulders hunched over a paperback novel propped against a milk carton. He wore an oversized knit sweater, made of wool, maybe, in a faded olive green that swallowed his frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Beneath it, worn corduroy pants ended in scuffed leather boots. The outfit looked deliberate, like armor against the sea of school hoodies and jerseys.
Gally's low snort cut through the chatter. "Fag," he muttered, chin jutting toward Newt. Ben chuckled nervously beside him. Winston rolled his eyes but stayed silent. Minho tensed.
Thomas ignored them all. His gaze locked onto Newt's hands as the boy turned a page, his long fingers tracing faded ink, deliberate and unhurried. There was a quiet precision to him, like watching a chess piece slide into place. Thomas hadn't known anyone who read actual books in the cafeteria. Or wore sweaters that looked like they'd survived a century. Something coiled tight in Thomas's chest. It wasn't curiosity, exactly. It was more recognition. As if he'd glimpsed a reflection in murky water: fractured, familiar, unsettling. He couldn't look away.
“What’s wrong, Tommy?” Gally’s voice sliced through the noise, loud and mocking. He leaned across the sticky tabletop, eyes narrowed. “You like what you see?” Ben snickered again, fist pressed to his mouth. Frypan shifted uncomfortably, taking a bite out of his sub.
Thomas didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed fixed on Newt’s hunched shoulders, watching the way he seemed folded into himself, untouched by the cafeteria chaos. It wasn’t about attraction. Not exactly. It was the stillness. The careful way Newt turned a page, like even paper deserved respect. Thomas felt the word burn in his throat before he spoke it. Safe. That’s what it was. A different kind of escape. Slowly, Thomas raised an eyebrow, his voice flat and low. “Is he gay or something?”
Minho slapped a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, leaning in with a sharp grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes,” he declared, loud enough for half the table to hear. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.” His knuckles whitened where he gripped Thomas’s hoodie sleeve, a silent challenge to the others. Across from them, Winston choked on his milk, coughing into his sleeve. Gally’s face darkened like storm clouds rolling in. He shoved his tray aside, rattling silverware. Minho didn’t blink. “What?” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He reads, wears nice jumpers. Probably thinks hockey’s barbaric.” He glanced pointedly at Gally’s grease-stained jersey. “Smart guy.”
Thomas barely registered Minho’s bravado. He’s gay. The thought ricocheted in his skull, sharp and sudden. Not judgment—just… weight. Newt existed outside the bluster and bruises of Thomas’s hypermasculine world. Like a chess piece perched on an untouched square. He’ll be at chess club, Thomas realized. Later. Today. His stomach tightened. Chess itself felt alien. It was slow, silent, nothing like the roar of pucks hitting plexiglass. He could picture Vince’s expectant stare, the clack of pieces on a board echoing like dropped pennies.
Humiliating.