Chapter Text
Tooru Oikawa lives for the ice. There is nothing more exhilarating than the feeling of skating out onto a freshly zambonied sheet. He always pauses before he does, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of the pure, undisturbed ice, yet to be tainted by the sweat (and occasionally blood), of himself and thirty-seven other individuals. His favorite sounds are the smooth schwicckkkk of sharpened metal gliding across the nearly frictionless surface, high-velocity rubber getting snared by flashing leather, and the roar of the crowd.
The rink is one hundred and ninety-seven feet long, ninety-eight and a half feet wide. Tooru’s domain is six feet wide, four feet high, about three and a half feet deep, surrounded by the crease, a semicircular area of roughly eight by six feet situated in front of that. Considering the total size of the rink, the space he is accountable for is marginal, and yet it is the most important area on the ice.
Standing at a little over six feet tall, it is Tooru’s job to take away as much of that six by four by three and a half foot space as possible. He is the last line of defense, and he thrives on this knowledge. He lives in the space between anticipation and actuality, needing to know not only where the puck, opposing players, and his teammates are, but also where they will be .
The game is fast-paced and anything can happen in the blink of an eye. He needs to make decisions at the drop of a pin and rely on his reflexes and perception to get the job done. Snap judgments are made based on the quality of the ice, the bounce off the boards, and the individuals in front of him. When he is facing a shot, time slows down, and he dials in, honing on whoever has possession while still tracking the movements of all the other bodies around him.
The outcome of the game weighs the most heavily on him out of anyone. There is nothing that brings him more elation than a win or blows a more devastating heartbreak than a loss. When the team wins, his best friend is always the first one to the goal. Tooru rushes out of the crease to meet him, and they hug, coming together in a tangle of limbs and padding. Afterward, he taps Tooru on the helmet, indicating a job well done. As the last line of defense, it’s Tooru’s job to stop the puck and his alone. It’s hard for Tooru to convince himself not to shoulder all the blame when they lose. Though his mind knows a game is a full team effort, and the loss reflects on the team as a whole, his heart tells him that the loss occurred because he wasn’t good enough.
Tooru has learned to feel a sense of relief when the rubber pings off the crossbar or the goalpost, his steadfast backups, though he also knows that this is also a sign he got lucky and needs to be sharper. He has often experienced the panic of not knowing where the puck is, unable to move lest it be jostled free from underneath him while he lays sprawled out on the ice, yearning for a whistle.
He follows the number one rule of goaltending, which is to never make the first move, always wait for the shooter. He has been in more high-stakes scenarios than he can remember. All the breakaways when the opposing team is on the power play. Games that are tied late, everyone else scrambling to score that goal that will give them the win, Tooru trying to prevent the other team from doing just that. He’s made difficult saves in every possible scenario. He is confident that he can make the save, and on the ice, there is very little that scares him. He is a rock, exuding calm, and because of that, the rest of the team believes that they can win too.
Despite how calm and in control he feels on the ice, Tooru is surprised to find that recently, whenever he is with his best friend and their first-line center, Hajime Iwaizumi, he feels the same anxiety he would feel if he were facing a three-man breakaway with all of his teammates down at the opposite end of the ice.
★★★★★
Tooru does not discover his love for hockey until he is four years old. The source of this realization, and his hero and personal idol, comes in the form of a Czech-born goaltender, the legendary Dominik Hasek, or “The Dominator”, as he comes to be known during his NHL tenure. Six-time winner of the Vezina Trophy, given to the goaltender judged to be the best at his position, and the Stanley Cup twice, he boasts the highest career record save percentage for the NHL. He is a six-time NHL All-Star. He earns the Hart Trophy, awarded to the most valuable member of his team, twice. He is awarded the Lester B. Pears award, received by the most outstanding player in the regular season, twice as well.
Awfully big skates for Tooru to look up to. He hopes to make at least a fraction of that impact on his teams.
Hasek’s unconditional manner of play, resulting largely from his extraordinary flexibility combined with excellent speed and reflexes, allows him to make all manners of unconventional saves. It is based on Hasek’s techniques that Tooru develops his own style of play.
It happens during the 1998 Winter Olympics, which take place in Nagano that year. The player who catches Tooru’s eye is not anyone on the team for his own country, but rather Hasek. The Czech Republic faces Japan and obliterates them 8-2, an all-around effort from the entire team, though Tooru doesn't pay much attention to the rest of the team, he's far more impressed by the goaltender. As far as he’s concerned, Hasek is the main reason the Czech-Republic team is able to excel.
What draws Tooru in just as much as Hasek’s athleticism is the calm and confidence he exudes from his net. Hasek is a veritable brick wall throughout the tournament, making save after save appear effortless. Whether it be flashing out with his glove or flopping down and sprawling across the ice, almost nothing gets past him.
Tooru watches with rapt attention as the Czechs make their way to the quarterfinals, rolling past the United States 4-1, before moving on to tackle Canada in the semi-finals. The Czechs win 2-1 in the shootout, Hasek sliding over to the left post to make the final save on Brendan Shanahan with his pad before being swarmed by his teammates.
In the gold medal game, the Czechs take on the perpetually dominant Russian team. The game is close, 1-0, to be exact. Tooru is a bundle of nerves as he watches with bated breath. He wants this for Hasek. Clutching a stuffed lion in his lap, Tooru hits Hajime on the arm with his free hand whenever Hasek makes a save, asking if he saw. In the final minute, Tooru grips Hajime’s hand tightly in his own as he holds his breath, too drawn in by the stakes to release it.
Twelve seconds left in the game, Russia ices the puck, and it appears Hasek knows the Czechs have won, jumping into the air as the puck sails past him, over the red line, before being tagged up. In his heart, Tooru too, believes that the Czechs have won. Still, he doesn’t let go of Hajime’s hand. Not yet.
The seconds after the faceoff tick down and the play remains in the Russians’ zone until a final clear at the last second. There is a brief pause and then chaos erupts. The Czechs have won the gold medal. Hasek rushes out of his crease and disappears underneath his teammates.
It is at this moment that Tooru knows this is what he wants to do. Letting out his own celebratory cry, he at last releases Hajime’s hand, flinging himself atop him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.
Someday, Tooru thinks to himself, that will be the two of them out there, winning gold medals together.
“I want to be a goalie,” Tooru tells his mom and sister, his voice full of certainty and eyes full of determination. To his surprise, Hajime also expresses an interest in learning to play hockey, though he wants to be a forward, more captivated by the flashiness of the goal scorers than the athletics of the goalies. They’ll argue about this over the years.
Armed with his newfound love of hockey Tooru begins following the NHL, and more specifically the Buffalo Sabres, Hasek’s team at the time. During this time, something catches his eye, even more enticing than an Olympic gold medal. The Stanley Cup, awarded to the winner of the NHL playoffs, and perhaps the most coveted trophy in all of sports. Weighing thirty-five pounds and engraved with the names of those who have earned the right to hold it, at the age of four, Tooru determines that this is his ultimate goal.
When Tooru is seven, he watches spellbound, as Hasek and the Detroit Red Wings storm their way through the regular season, winning the President’s trophy as the best team in the NHL. During the regular season, Hasek dominates his competition, posting an impressive forty-one wins. Over the course of the playoffs, Hasek records six shutouts, en route to the Red Wings defeating the Carolina Hurricanes to win the Stanley Cup. He becomes the first European-trained goaltender to do so. As Hasek is surrounded by his teammates, and receives the Cup, lifting it over his head, Tooru feels a flutter of excitement.
Observing the wordless joy on the faces of Hasek and his teammates, Tooru cements his goal. Someday, he will follow in the footsteps of his idol, and the Stanley Cup will be his.
★★★★★
Unaware that four years old would be considered a late start by many, Tooru fully dedicates himself to practice, throwing everything he has into hockey. Even with Tooru’s athleticism, for a while, hockey is hard. Weighing little more than his equipment itself, Tooru initially struggles to get back up to his feet after dropping down to his knees or sprawling across the ice to make a save. This often allows Hajime to send pucks sailing right over his shoulder.
Sometimes Hajime has trouble stopping as he approaches the net and he bowls Tooru right over, landing atop him. It’s frustrating. For both of them. But Tooru refuses to give up. Months are spent familiarizing himself with staying upright while precariously balanced on the thin blades of steel. With alarming speed, Tooru adapts.
Practice becomes second nature, the pads and stick become extensions of his body. Figuring out the rhythm he needs to follow is easy, it’s the execution that’s difficult. So Tooru practices until his tiny lungs are heaving with exhaustion and his muscles scream in agony, sweat dripping down his face. He waits for Hajime, who is doubled over at center ice, to make the next move. At only four years old, he is already full of the resolve to succeed.
When the time comes that Tooru and Hajime are actually able to join a team, Tooru proudly takes the number thirty-nine for himself, Hasek’s number. It is a number that will stick with Tooru for his entire career. He hopes to make it his own someday.
His first win is likely due more to luck than actual skill on his part, but it becomes the first stepping stone on his path to the Cup. The instant the game is over Tooru locates Hajime amidst the crowd of his teammates and strives to meet him. Elated they hug and fall to the ice, full of laughter and smiles. There are far more losses in those early days, with plenty of tears spilled, and the irony is that those hurt less than the ones he experiences as he grows older.
Over the years, Hajime serves as a staple when it comes to Tooru’s practices. Tooru knows that Hajime does not share the same love of the sport he does, his whole life doesn't revolve around hockey the way Tooru's does, and yet he stays at the rink until Tooru is ready to leave, peppering him with a variety of shots from all areas of the ice. After every shot, goal allowed or not, Tooru hunkers down between the pipes and stares at Hajime with steely determination from behind his mask, beckoning him to shoot again.
During the days when he is unable to be at the ice rink, Tooru straps on his pads and practices in his backyard, bouncing a tennis ball against the side of the house, snaring it with his glove on the rebound. He alternates between chest and ankle height in order to get a feel for the motion necessary to make saves by kicking out with the pad. When it comes to making saves timing and reflexes are everything. He develops his own conditioning routine, aimed at increasing flexibility and reflexes, and strengthening his core.
Even in the summer when the heat can be sweltering, Tooru leaves the pads on, the rays of the sun beaming down on him from overhead. Catch, save, release. Repeat the process. Most afternoons he can wheedle Hajime into joining him. From varying angles and distances Hajime will shoot the ball at Tooru, who stands in front of a makeshift goal in his backyard. Eyes narrowing, running through calculations in his head, Tooru detects the angle of the shot, then makes the decision on where he needs to be and what type of save he needs to make.
They grow older and both become skilled in their position. The difference between practicing in his backyard and on an actual sheet of ice is night and day. The moment his skate first hits the ice, Tooru knows he is home and he never wants to leave. No longer reliant on their parents for transportation, they are often at the community rink until it closes, both exhausted and barely able to stay upright. Tooru always insists he can go a few more rounds, even when it feels like his lungs are going to burst from his chest or his legs are going to give out. Hajime has dragged Tooru off the ice far more times than either can count.
Every time they practice Tooru insists on going through the same paces they have for years. Hajime wheels around the ice, shooting slapshots from center ice, wristers from the slot, backhanders from the side of the goal. Or any similar variation thereof. All of Hajime’s shots have incredible accuracy, but out of his arsenal, the wristers are the most lethal. He rolls his wrists so smoothly that if you blink you’ll miss it, thrusting the puck forward and off the ice with the blade of his stick.
In his own right, Tooru has become an even more formidable goalie than Hajime is a forward. It took several years to build up his confidence and abilities, after all, it takes a little more time for goalies to develop. Like most NHL goalies he has adopted the hybrid style of play, though, like Hasek, he also has extraordinary flexibility. This, combined with his razor-sharp reflexes and puck handling skills, will give him the edge he needs to go toe-to-toe with European and North American players if he has a hope of breaking into the league, given his comparatively smaller size. From within the crease, he exudes nothing but cool intimidation. Both he and the skaters know anything that is thrown at him, he’ll most likely stop.
Tooru’s goaltending thrives in middle school. Up until now he and Hajime have been playing on randomly pieced together community teams. This is his first exposure to other individuals who have a true passion for the sport, although none seemingly as great as his. Easily, he steals the starting position away from the other goalie. All three years, their middle school team makes the playoffs, largely due to Tooru’s performance in net. In their third and final year, they make it all the way to the semifinals before they are eliminated.
Within the prefecture of Miyagi, Tooru is starting to garner attention. As he steps into various arenas for games, whispers follow him. Tooru Oikawa is a force to be reckoned with. While it pleases Tooru to know that eyes are turned towards him, he knows this isn’t enough. Miyagi isn’t enough, nor is Japan. He needs to be good enough to be noticed outside of the country. He pushes himself all the harder so that he can be, to the breaking point and beyond. Hajime’s presence turns into the thing that grounds him, bringing him back from that point.
Entering high school, Tooru is brimming with confidence while harboring slight trepidation. Since he was four, his goal hasn’t changed. The Stanley Cup, that coveted and often unattainable holy grail of hockey. If Tooru is to have a chance to hoist the trophy over his head, press his lips to its surface, he has to be more than perfect. As a non-North American or European-born player, his chances of breaking into the NHL are almost non-existent. Tooru knows this, however, he has never been one to back down from a challenge. Already, he is focusing on what he needs to do during these three years to ensure he has a future after.
Three years to start building his case, and he needs to make it a strong one. Once he finishes high school, he’ll only be eligible for the draft for two years. After that, he’ll fall into the free-agent category, and while there are plenty of players, good ones at that, who go undrafted, something in the back of his mind hints that if he doesn’t get drafted, he’ll probably never be able to make it to the NHL.