Work Text:
As a child, Drake reads every book he could about the stars and planets, black holes, gravity, physics equations with mathematical symbols that make no sense to him, and won't until he’d learn calculus years later—but the concepts, the effects, are closer to his grasp. Relativity. Places where time gets pulled, tugged, shot forward like a cannonball. He can wrap his head around it. In time.
He doesn’t until he’s on the ice with a three-goal lead, pinned back in the zone on the PK, lunging for the puck as the opposing defenceman passes it to the side, Drake pulling back into position like a restless horse, about to block a shot, spur to the side. He stands; the puck skitters to his opponent who’s trying to screen the goalie, but the goalie grabs the puck and gloves it, whistling the play dead. Drake looks up at the clock, still a minute forty on the kill, and—he knows the planetary gravity isn’t shifted on a single rink in North Blue. The elevation for that to have an effect isn’t there; if it were it wouldn’t be noticeable.
But that’s it, the pull of time. And all of hockey is time, dilated, wrung out, moving forward at the pace it wants to, ceaseless, cruel in what mercy it gives. The numbers peeling off the clock mark how close the end is, tying a lead down tighter, pressurizing a knotted score like carbonation in a champagne bottle. Not fast enough when he’s winning, too fast when he’s losing, when it’s tied and his team is grappling for momentum—always out of whack when he’s on the bench and waiting for a shift.
Like when he’s fifteen years old on a senior men’s team, scrawny and unhappy to be there, unhappy to join in the line brawls that always happen, to accept the ill-gotten winnings (and yet he’s got no alternative), pushed off the puck a little less than he has been but too fast for them to catch him sometimes even when he can’t take the forecheck, building up muscles while the men his father’s age struggle to keep theirs, or use their size in place of strength and speed. Pulling legs over boards, wrapped knuckles, ice baths, grim lines on their faces, teeth shifted to space out twenty-year gaps.
Drake’s line is the first line tonight and he’s wearing the A. Jack, Queen, and King are off elsewhere; Kaido’s directions from the bench are minimal as ever. Maria has the start in goal, draping herself over the net before the puck drops like she’s lounging on a sofa, like she doesn’t need to worry about the puck getting into her zone. Like she doesn’t have to move from that position to stop the puck. She’s big; her kick saves are faster than any goalie Drake’s ever seen, and the pose does more in a handful of minutes to unnerve their opponents than a period full of Ulti’s incessant chirping.
Playing in front of a goalie like that makes defence so much easier, even when Drake’s linemates are determined to outshine him, or at least to try, to carry the puck over the line when it’s a dumb idea and to dump it when it’s even dumber, instead of passing or setting up a better play. He’s getting ahead of himself; maybe today Who’s Who and Sasaki will play in a more organized fashion. Maybe they’ll make crisp passes, set up Page One’s one timer and not squabble about point totals. Maybe Drake’s dreaming. It’s not good to zone out when taping a stick; he’ll miss a spot.
“You’ll get better shots with white tape today,” says Hawkins, one stall over.
His sticks are already taped and he’s doing his equipment, same order he always does. That he goes by routine shouldn’t be so noticeable, not in a room full of hockey players, all of whom are some degree stuck in the past, one foot in a black hole of when they ate one and a half gala apples fifty minutes before puck drop and laced their skates up wrong and got five assists fifteen years ago. It’s not even that Hawkins is like this with no rink or pair of skates in sight, but it’s the layers of logic and belief, like he’s taped the knob on his stick into the size of an apple.
“Your shots have a fifty percent chance with the white tape. Twenty with black.”
The numbers may mean nothing, but as soon as Hawkins says them, they can’t be unheard. Drake is a rational, logical person; as such, he can’t deny that hearing this could influence his subconscious. Make him try harder with the black tape to prove Hawkins wrong and mess up. Fifty percent, twenty percent, still a good chance he won’t score with either. Room for error. (Not that tarot cards do predict the future, or that they’re supposed to mean anything as specific as shooting odds.)
“Oh, hey,” says Apoo as he passes their stalls and points to the tarot card face up in front of Hawkins. “Cups is good, right?”
Hawkins is already shuffling the deck again, a refusal to answer. Drake looks at the roll of black tape in his hand. He has another stick to do, but no more tape; Hawkins catches his eye and picks up a roll of white. Drake holds out his hand, and Hawkins’s fingertips brush Drake’s palm as he sets the roll down, nails scraping skin nothing like the slice of a skate blade through the ice surface.
Drake doesn’t get the puck for more than half a second on the first shift; by his next Maria has already gotten in their opponents’ heads and he gets an o-zone start, Sasaki receiving the pass from the D and throwing it on goal. Drake skates in for the rebound, shoving along the boards until the puck comes free, off his skate; he kicks it in the direction of Who’s Who; again the puck goes on net. This time, Ulti grabs the rebound, passes it to Drake; he gets rid of it, quick wrister that sails wide of goal; one of the opposing players picks it up and Page One crushes her into the boards.
Drake doesn’t get another shot on the shift. The stick he’s using is the first one, with the black tape—he has shots go wide often enough. Maybe he should switch, but maybe it doesn’t matter; either way he has to pay attention, feel the pressure as it sustains like a chord on an organ reiterated, echoing through pipes, hop over the boards for his next shift and drive it, forget about the clock.
The puck skitters off his stick on his next shot, finds the goalie’s glove on the one after. Hawkins scores while Drake’s on the bench; Apoo gets called for holding and Drake clears the puck when he’s out on the kill twice, rolling it down just slow enough to make the change the second time. Ulti scores on a blast from the point at the end of the period, and Sheepshead halfway through the next; Drake goes out to take the next faceoff, corrals the puck as it rolls free, and breaks his stick on the pass.
Who’s Who carries the puck into the zone; Drake skates back for a new stick and gets the one with white tape. His sole shot on the shift gets blockered to the side, failure again, but that was supposed to be equally as probable as success, right? He shouldn’t blame his stick tape for not getting a better shot off. He doesn’t.
Ulti gets whistled for hooking and argues the whole trip to the box, lucky she doesn’t get more. Drake is out on the first PK unit, with Hawkins taking the faceoff, curtain of hair cloaking part of the shaft of his stick. Like a hanging tree. The opposing center skates around, chewing on his mouthguard, before getting into position; Maria taps her stick on the crossbar of the net.
Hawkins wins the faceoff. His move is ordinary, not on his off-hand, not flashing the tape, but it works. Drake controls, double-teamed, passing it back out to the side; it’s nearly intercepted but Hawkins gets there first, and Drake’s free enough to skate out beyond the blue line and he can feel the breakaway rush through his skates. Hawkins passes the puck forward, and they’re chasing; Drake pumps his legs, he might not be the fastest pure skater but he’s strong and he has momentum on his side. Hawkins might be catching up, too, but there’s no time to look for a pass, just keep skating, fake, try and get the goalie to commit.
Forehand, backhand, the goalie goes down and Drake roofs the puck; it rings off the crossbar and by the time Drake’s ears register the sound it’s fallen behind the goalie and into the netting. The lead’s up to four. A period and change to go, most of the two minutes to kill.
The four goal lead holds. Drake and Hawkins take separate routes back afterward. When Drake gets in, light soaks the floor outside the bathroom and the aroma of eucalyptus hangs in the air, suspended like the clock on a penalty shot. Drake could use a bath, too, especially if Hawkins is using the good stuff for soreness. He strips in the bedroom, pausing in the door of the bath to catch the bruises on his side. Not too dark, not when compared with his tattoo; they’re not worth complaining about or dwelling on. Beneath the bubbles, what Drake can see of Hawkins’s skin is all pale, not scraped or bruised, but that’s expected for him.
When Hawkins gets crosschecked into the boards, goes down hard, it’s the person who shoved him who yelps in pain, is slow to get up. Drake looks, when he’s behind the play, for a hook or a slash or a slew-foot, a grab and a takedown, but there never is one. It can’t all be sleight of hand, but it can’t be inexplicable either. It’s not something Drake would rather do; he’d rather avoid the crosscheck or hit back if he has to. But he wonders, stepping into the tub, one foot at a time, settling between Hawkins’s legs. Hawkins lifts Drake’s palm, turning it over in his hand.
It doesn’t matter. Luck, chance, a game played less than a minute at a time, a faceoff, a shift, puck to stick to skidding across or over the ice—it’s all broken down into physics and perception, through a visor and pads and rushing adrenaline.
“I was right about the stick tape,” says Hawkins.
His voice holds the smugness of a cat who’s convinced its owner to feed it two hours early, his breath exhaled against Drake’s earlobe.
“Maybe,” says Drake.