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More hockey AU backstory snippetage: the first time Ray and Ben actually spoke.
He'd gotten into the game for one miserable shift, just a minute, if that, late in the first when it still seemed like there might be some kind of point in letting Denny catch his breath. But it was over, now. It had been over, really, the minute they found out they were facing Edmonton in the third round. The fuckers had scored eight goals in each of the first two games, and Ray and the Hawks had known they were done for by the time they got back to Chicago.
One shift, and the best Ray could say about it was that he hadn't done anything spectacularly wrong, but never say he hadn't fought this losing battle right along with his team; he was drenched in sweat, his white home jersey almost transparent in spots. The crowd had thinned out enough that you could tell where the wives sat, grimly clinging to their seats til the very end. He could see Stella, sitting next to Annemarie, and mustered up a smile, in case she looked his way. He knew she'd be gone as soon as the buzzer sounded; she had finals this week, and it was a wonder she'd managed to get to the game. He'd joked about that, his Finals and hers coming at the same time, but she was too tired to joke with, lately. Ray gave up on smiling. The pose was too hard to hold, and he couldn't fool Stella anyway.
He shifted his grip on his stick, grabbed some water and swished it around his mouth as he stared blindly at the ice, not even registering the action anymore--no point, down three goals against fucking Gretzky the wonder boy with two minutes to go, just about to be eliminated--swept--in the conference finals. Gardie's stick swung into his field of vision, tapping against his, and Ray couldn't help smiling, accidentally swallowing half his mouthful of water, and batted back. What the hell, they'd had a good run, there was always next year, and what could you do about Gretzky? He wished the Isles all the luck in the world, and spit out the rest of the water, and the season with it. Done.
Gardie jostled him sideways, and Ray, without looking over, elbowed him back. They'd go out and drink tonight til they could say with straight faces that they were looking forward to golf season, and in the morning, once the worst of the hangovers passed, they'd be able to shave their beards. Ray itched his cheek against his shoulder and thought about that. He'd be able to kiss Stella without making her wince, starting tomorrow. That'd be nice.
Gardie, probably itching his face the same as Ray--he bitched about his beard all the time, though Ray thought it was sort of cool looking, with red bits that stood out bright as pennies, curling all over like the hair on his head--bumped his head against Ray's, and just then the buzzer sounded. There was a brief flurry as they all put their sticks away, and then they jumped over the boards to huddle up on the ice and commiserate with the poor bastards who'd taken the brunt of the doomed effort. They stood a while in quiet, touching shoulders, patting heads, clinging here and there to a neighboring jersey to keep from sliding away. The whole mass of them were constantly shifting; standing still on ice was a goalie's skill, and nobody else could pull it off for long. What they did not do was look down the ice, to where the only cheers in the Stadium were coming from the Oilers themselves, broken only the quick thuds of bodies as they banged together in celebration.
Finally, on some unspoken signal, the Oilers quieted, and the Hawks broke up, skating out to center and forming a line for the ceremonial handshakes. "Bon game," Ray muttered, shaking hands with the men he'd been losing against for the past week, "bon game, bon game." Denny, ahead of him, stopped a minute to talk to Gretzky, and behind him, Gardie punched him in the back, not quite hard enough to make him stagger forward.
"You're not in Montreal anymore, Ko. It's good game, not bon gom."
Gardie always said that, and always butchered the Joual the same way, even though Ray knew he could manage a little French as well as anybody who'd spent five years living in Canada. Ray figured he could stand to go through a lot more of these miserable handshake lines if he had Gardie behind him to punch him and remind him that it was okay to speak English on the ice.
He just bared his teeth at Gretzky, who seemed too pleased with himself to notice anything, but he said "Good game," to the next guy, loudly enough for Gardie to hear. The guy after that was Fraser, and Ray gave him a sincere half-smile. He'd spent at least half his shifts in the first three games trying to draw a penalty off the cool bastard. "Last chance to punch me," he said, shaking hands, and Fraser looked startled and then laughed.
"No need, I think. Would you like to do me, though?"
For a second, Ray thought he meant something other than what he meant. He wondered if Fraser's excited-pink cheeks would get pinker if he knew what Ray was thinking--Gardie would laugh his ass off for sure when Ray told him. He'd heard somewhere that Fraser came from the North Pole, and that when people said he was pure as the driven snow, they meant the really good kind. Santa stuff. "Nah," Ray said, "wouldn't want to ruin your big night. Buy me a beer sometime, we'll call it even."
"You have my word," Fraser said, looking Ray straight in the eye, and Ray got the funny feeling that Fraser was really, seriously, going to buy him a beer sometime to apologize for not punching him in the head. Freak. Ray grinned and gave his hand another shake, and skated on down the line.
He'd gotten into the game for one miserable shift, just a minute, if that, late in the first when it still seemed like there might be some kind of point in letting Denny catch his breath. But it was over, now. It had been over, really, the minute they found out they were facing Edmonton in the third round. The fuckers had scored eight goals in each of the first two games, and Ray and the Hawks had known they were done for by the time they got back to Chicago.
One shift, and the best Ray could say about it was that he hadn't done anything spectacularly wrong, but never say he hadn't fought this losing battle right along with his team; he was drenched in sweat, his white home jersey almost transparent in spots. The crowd had thinned out enough that you could tell where the wives sat, grimly clinging to their seats til the very end. He could see Stella, sitting next to Annemarie, and mustered up a smile, in case she looked his way. He knew she'd be gone as soon as the buzzer sounded; she had finals this week, and it was a wonder she'd managed to get to the game. He'd joked about that, his Finals and hers coming at the same time, but she was too tired to joke with, lately. Ray gave up on smiling. The pose was too hard to hold, and he couldn't fool Stella anyway.
He shifted his grip on his stick, grabbed some water and swished it around his mouth as he stared blindly at the ice, not even registering the action anymore--no point, down three goals against fucking Gretzky the wonder boy with two minutes to go, just about to be eliminated--swept--in the conference finals. Gardie's stick swung into his field of vision, tapping against his, and Ray couldn't help smiling, accidentally swallowing half his mouthful of water, and batted back. What the hell, they'd had a good run, there was always next year, and what could you do about Gretzky? He wished the Isles all the luck in the world, and spit out the rest of the water, and the season with it. Done.
Gardie jostled him sideways, and Ray, without looking over, elbowed him back. They'd go out and drink tonight til they could say with straight faces that they were looking forward to golf season, and in the morning, once the worst of the hangovers passed, they'd be able to shave their beards. Ray itched his cheek against his shoulder and thought about that. He'd be able to kiss Stella without making her wince, starting tomorrow. That'd be nice.
Gardie, probably itching his face the same as Ray--he bitched about his beard all the time, though Ray thought it was sort of cool looking, with red bits that stood out bright as pennies, curling all over like the hair on his head--bumped his head against Ray's, and just then the buzzer sounded. There was a brief flurry as they all put their sticks away, and then they jumped over the boards to huddle up on the ice and commiserate with the poor bastards who'd taken the brunt of the doomed effort. They stood a while in quiet, touching shoulders, patting heads, clinging here and there to a neighboring jersey to keep from sliding away. The whole mass of them were constantly shifting; standing still on ice was a goalie's skill, and nobody else could pull it off for long. What they did not do was look down the ice, to where the only cheers in the Stadium were coming from the Oilers themselves, broken only the quick thuds of bodies as they banged together in celebration.
Finally, on some unspoken signal, the Oilers quieted, and the Hawks broke up, skating out to center and forming a line for the ceremonial handshakes. "Bon game," Ray muttered, shaking hands with the men he'd been losing against for the past week, "bon game, bon game." Denny, ahead of him, stopped a minute to talk to Gretzky, and behind him, Gardie punched him in the back, not quite hard enough to make him stagger forward.
"You're not in Montreal anymore, Ko. It's good game, not bon gom."
Gardie always said that, and always butchered the Joual the same way, even though Ray knew he could manage a little French as well as anybody who'd spent five years living in Canada. Ray figured he could stand to go through a lot more of these miserable handshake lines if he had Gardie behind him to punch him and remind him that it was okay to speak English on the ice.
He just bared his teeth at Gretzky, who seemed too pleased with himself to notice anything, but he said "Good game," to the next guy, loudly enough for Gardie to hear. The guy after that was Fraser, and Ray gave him a sincere half-smile. He'd spent at least half his shifts in the first three games trying to draw a penalty off the cool bastard. "Last chance to punch me," he said, shaking hands, and Fraser looked startled and then laughed.
"No need, I think. Would you like to do me, though?"
For a second, Ray thought he meant something other than what he meant. He wondered if Fraser's excited-pink cheeks would get pinker if he knew what Ray was thinking--Gardie would laugh his ass off for sure when Ray told him. He'd heard somewhere that Fraser came from the North Pole, and that when people said he was pure as the driven snow, they meant the really good kind. Santa stuff. "Nah," Ray said, "wouldn't want to ruin your big night. Buy me a beer sometime, we'll call it even."
"You have my word," Fraser said, looking Ray straight in the eye, and Ray got the funny feeling that Fraser was really, seriously, going to buy him a beer sometime to apologize for not punching him in the head. Freak. Ray grinned and gave his hand another shake, and skated on down the line.