For some reason everyone thinks Shitty’s a good fighter but he’s really just...not.
They’re playing Harvard when one of the forwards from the other team says nice pedostache, man, while they’re still in the circle and Shitty drops his gloves before the puck even drops, grabs the little shit by the neck of his jersey and the kid grabs him by the arm, and they spin around on their skates for about ten minutes, Shitty yelling SAY IT’S A PORNSTACHE, SAY IT’S A PORNSTACHE, BITCH, until they basically topple over out of exhaustion.
“He’s really more of a lover,” Lardo says when Coach Murray shakes his head, handing Shitty a water bottle and a towel when he gets back to the bench.
The ref didn’t even penalize either of them. It was just that sad.
Jack doesn’t fight. He doesn’t fight because he’s the captain and one of the star players and he doesn’t need the penalty minutes or the injuries. Also if he gave in to every asshole who thinks they know something about him he’d spend his entire life with bloody knuckles.
He doesn’t fight, but when he hears the center from the other team ask Bitty when he’s going to let him have a taste of his pie, Jack checks him so hard on his next shift the guy goes airborne, lands on his back with the wind knocked out of him.
“Alright, dude,” the guy laughs when he can catch his breath and Jack extends his arm to help him up. It was a clean check, but still. His self control probably should have been better. “My bad, eh? Nice check.”
Jack just nods and skates off, pretends like he doesn’t notice the bright flush beneath Bittie’s face guard when he sits down on the bench.
Ransom’s only marginally less terrible at fighting than Shitty is. There are a couple of truly embarrassing videos of him up on hockeyfights.com of him getting his ass pretty much handed to him in Juniors that he’s tried to delete from the internet several times with no luck.
The good thing is now he mostly gets left alone because he skates around muttering biology terminology to himself as he lays checks and slings wristers and everyone kind of thinks he’s insane and is too afraid to fuck with him. There’s a rumor going around that he bites.
It was Holster’s idea.
Holster always has the best ideas.
Off the ice Adam Birkholz is a card carrying, flower-crown wearing, tofu eating pacifist.
On the ice is a different story.
One time Ransom gets boarded by some goon from Yale and has to be helped off the ice by the trainers and Holster loses his shit, wails on the guy till he knocks his helmet off, until he feels the guy’s nose break beneath his knuckles and blood sprays everywhere and the ref has to pull them apart.
He sees Ransom in the locker room when he gets sent back, following the trainer’s tiny light with his eyes so they can see if he’s concussed or just shaken up a little.
“Fuck, bro,” Ransom says when he sees him, blood all over the front of his jersey.
Holster just shrugs and slides onto the table next to him, presses up against Ransom, touches their foreheads together. “Got your back.”
The trainer huffs a little but she doesn’t make him leave. She knows he wouldn’t anyway.
“Oh my word,” Bittie says, raising a hand to his mouth as Chowder beats the other team’s defenseman with his stick.
“He did tell him to stay out of his crease,” Ransom says.
“I heard him,” Holster nods as Chowder knees the guy in the chin with one of his pads and calls him a very, very dirty word.
Bitty gasps. “Oh my word.”