Chapter Text
“The roof collapsed,” Christian tells Mark on Tuesday morning.
It’s only an hour before practice, and Mark is halfway through the process of getting ready. He pauses in the threshold between his bedroom and en suite, toothbrush in hand.
“The roof collapsed?” Mark echoes.
“Yep,” Christian replies, sounding both pissed off and entirely resigned to the fact of the matter. Mark supposes that one sort of has to accept that something like a roof collapsing is out of your hands. Force majeure, and all that. Although —
“So no practice, then?” Mark ventures, attempting to keep the hopefulness out of his voice. He evidently fails, because Christian scoffs.
“I’ve found another ink for us to use,” Christian says. “Other side of the city, I’m afraid. Seb’s got the address, he’ll forward it to everyone.”
“Right,” Mark replies stiffly, trying to figure out how he’ll finish getting dressed and make it across the city in time.
“We’ll meet an hour later,” Christian adds, as if he’s a mind-reader. Mark’s not wholly convinced Christian’s not.
“Right-o,” Mark says, and before he can add much more, the line goes dead.
The rink is much swankier than the one the team trains at.
“Christian said it’s mostly used by figure skaters,” Seb says as they survey the ice, watching as the Zamboni trundles its way around the rink. Its mechanic whirring is a sort of white noise in the still-early morning, echoing ambiently in the hollow building. “We’ll probably be sharing the ice with them for a while.”
“Pfft,” Mark says. “How long does it take to fix a roof?”
“Long,” says Fernando, seemingly materialising out of thin air. Mark makes a concentrated effort not to jump. “It’s a roof, Mark.”
Mark sighs, tracing the Zamboni’s exit. He’s not sure why he’s so put off by the idea of having to use a different rink. It must be some latent sense of territorialism, he supposes. That, or the fact it's a forty-minute drive away, as opposed to the typical comfortable ten.
Sebastian and Fernando are quick to make their way back onto the ice, leaving Mark standing beside the ever-stoic Kimi. Mark turns to regard the Finn, eyebrows raised. “What d’you make of this anyway, mate?”
Kimi shrugs before he too heads to the ice. Mark’s not sure what he expected.
It’s not until the end of practice, as Mark is skating off the ice, that he notices a blonde man hovering by the side of the rink.
“Ross didn’t mention there’d be hockey players here today,” the blonde says. He addresses no one in particular, but since there isn’t anyone but Mark within earshot, he assumes the man must be talking to him. “I’d have turned up early if I knew.”
“Yeah?” Mark asks, and because he’s hopeless, adds, “You like what you see?”
“Oh,” the blonde replies, as if it's obvious. “Very much so.”
“You’re one of the figure skaters, then?” Mark says, quickly shuffling the conversation along before he can say something stupid like you’ve got a very nice face.
“Yep,” the blonde says, popping the ‘p’ like bubblegum. That grin is still on his face, toothy and disarming. It’s as if belongs there permanently. It suits him, Mark thinks. It doesn’t look forced in the slightest.
Mark takes a moment to skate closer so that only the perspex screen separates them. It’s just him on the ice now, his teammates having wholly abandoned him. From the sidelines, he can see other skaters preparing to come on. Presumably, the blonde is about to too, unless he really was just here to ogle the hockey players.
“Sorry for nicking your rink, mate,” Mark says, “Our roof collapsed.”
The blonde blinks and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, as if to prevent that ridiculous smile from growing any wider. Unfortunately for Mark, it has the added side effect of being stupidly attractive.
“Your roof collapsed?” the blonde asks disbelievingly, amusement tinkling in his voice, incredulity lending it a certain pitchiness. His voice cracks around the vowels ever so slightly, and Mark could swear there lies within it just the faintest wisp of a lisp. “How?”
“Well, I didn’t ask ,” Mark says as he finally steps off the ice. He can see the blonde properly now. They’re similar heights, the other man all lithe, sinewy muscle, his shoulders a little narrower than Mark’s own. The lycra leaves little to the imagination, and Mark suddenly feels very, very stupid.
“Shame,” the blonde replies. “I like a good bit of gossip.”
He pauses, regarding Mark for a moment before sticking out his hand. “I’m Jenson.”
“Mark,” he replies, taking Jenson’s hand. The blonde’s grip is firm, but not uncomfortably so; his fingers are long and his palm is soft, pale skin rendered cold by the air in the rink. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, mate,” Jenson says, smiling widely as he slips past now, stepping out onto the ice like a duck taking to water. It’s naturalistic. He doesn’t take even a second to right himself; he just glides away, slicing his way across the rink.
Mark lingers a second, by which point Jenson is already on the opposite side of the ice. That’s his cue to leave, he thinks.
He heads to the changing rooms and makes a pointed effort not to look back.
It turns out that Mark has very little actual idea as to how long it takes to fix a roof. Fernando said it was stupidity on Mark’s part, but Mark likes to think that as regards construction work, he just has a very optimistic disposition.
All this is to say that, by Thursday, the roof was still very much collapsed. And, according to the contractors, it might remain that way for at least another month.
There was nothing wrong with this new rink. The ice was - well, ice - and the facilities were perfectly fine. But it was the little things: a different receptionist, a different Zamboni guy, a different peg in the changing rooms.
“It’s weird, mate,” Mark says to Fernando as they warm up on Thursday morning. “It throws me off.”
“Maybe you are crazy,” Fernando replies with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “It does not bother me.”
“Or maybe I’m just more of an elite level athlete than you are,” Mark grins playfully, amusement only growing as Fernando shoots him a very unimpressed look. “Sports psychology, and all that. I notice the little things because I’m functioning on a higher level than you.”
Fernando pauses, features schooled into a masterful expression of impassiveness. “I hope that we practice on opposite teams today,” he says evenly, “So that I may hit you with my hockey stick. Very hard.”
Mark pretends to look scandalised (even if he is, actually, a little scared; he fully trusts Fernando to follow through on this threat) as Sebastian sidles up to them. “Why is Fernando hitting you?” He asks curiously, looking between the two of them.
“Because he is an elite level athlete,” Fernando says simply, “And he is very annoying.”
Sebastian laughs harder than is necessary - Fernando’s not that funny - and Mark shoots him a glare. “I’ll pay it forward and hit you too, if you’re not careful.”
“I didn’t realise hockey players were so violent,” pipes up a voice from behind them. It’s immediately familiar to Mark, who turns quickly to regard its owner. “Is that why you all wear that bulky kit?”
Once again, Jenson’s leaning against the edge of the rink, that disarming smile spread across his face. He’s got a worn-looking fleece on, zipped up to just under his chin. There’s an unruly quality to his hair, as if he’s just rolled out of bed. Which, speaking of —
“Did you get here early, just to watch?” Mark asks.
Impossibly, Jenson smiles wider. “Yeah,” he says around a laugh, “I set an alarm and everything.”
“Who’s this?” Seb jumps in, before Mark can say another word. The younger man’s looking at Jenson with great interest and Mark, for some unknown reason, feels pretty miffed about it.
“This is Jenson,” Mark says, inexplicably reluctant to introduce the two. Seb waves at Jenson, and Jenson waves back. Fernando just stands and watches, a cryptic look upon his face.
“Don’t let me distract you,” Jenson says, gesturing for them to get on with it, all but shooing them off. “I’m just an observer.”
“Alright,” Seb grins, once more speaking before Mark can get a word in edgeways. “I’m Sebastian, by the way.” He adds, before taking off, a still silent Fernando following him. Mark, meanwhile, hesitates.
“You should probably go too,” Jenson says, shifting his gaze from Mark’s face to just over his shoulder, mouth turned down in a grimace. “Your man over there looks annoyed.”
Mark twists to glance over his shoulder, settling on a rankled looking Christian. He quickly snaps his gaze back to Jenson, desperate to avoid any and all eye contact with his coach. “He always does,” Mark murmurs, “That’s just how Christian’s face is.”
Jenson snorts, “You probably shouldn’t let him hear you say that.”
“Probably not,” Mark acquiesces. Again, he hesitates, before adding, “I expect a review from you, after practice. If you’re going to shamelessly watch, you could at least give me pointers, mate.”
“Fair enough,” the blonde nods, pushing away from the edge of the rink and slipping his hands into his fleece pockets. “I’ll watch you carefully.”
Mark tries not to get all caught up in that notion; tries very hard not to imagine Jenson’s eyes following him around the rink. “Alright,” Mark says simply, saying nothing more as he quickly extracts himself from the situation.
Jenson’s gaze burns his back and Mark feels warm all over.
Practice is a mostly uneventful affair. When Christian asks for team captains, Fernando is quick to volunteer. The Spaniard makes a pointed effort not to pick Mark to join his team, and instead spends much of the session looking menacingly between his hockey stick and Mark’s kneecaps. Sebastian thinks it’s hilarious; David rolls his eyes and calls them all children.
On the odd occasion that Mark looks towards the bleachers, he notices that Jenson is, in fact, watching.
“Is he your friend?” David asks at one point, as he skates up to Mark, making the Aussie jump.
“No,” Mark says quickly, defensively, before realising that it’d actually be less weird if he’d said yes. Naturally, David quirks an eyebrow. “He’s one of the figure skaters,” Mark explains, “He seems to have some sort of a weird obsession with watching us practise.”
“Not sure it’s us, mate,” David replies, eyes twinkling with mirth. “That one’s only got eyes for you. He’s not looked at a single one of us.”
Mark’s eyes narrow, even as his heart races in his chest at the revelation. “How would you know that?”
“‘Cos I’ve been looking at him,” David says simply, like Mark’s an idiot. “He’s attractive, inn’he?” Mark stays silent. David grins, and takes the option to strike. “Why’s someone like him obsessed with your ugly mug?”
Mark glares at David fiercely, hoping that by some miracle he might be able to melt the spot of ice that David is standing on so that the man falls into a hole in the rink and gets stuck. For forever, preferably.
“What’s his name?” David asks, because he, apparently, lacks any sort of sense of self-preservation. Mark doesn’t plan on telling David, because he doubts the older man can be trusted with such information, but clearly the universe has it out for Mark because Sebastian skates by at that very second.
Predictably, Sebastian can’t help himself. He immediately pipes up, “He’s called Jenson.”
“Jenson!” David calls out, his stupid big mouth pulled wide in a stupid big grin. He waves an arm like a man stranded out at sea, watching as Jenson glances up from his phone to look at them. The blonde blinks, bemused, looking to Mark for an explanation. All Mark can do is shrug. “Come over here!” David beckons.
“He’s not a dog,” Mark snaps, but his point is undermined somewhat by Jenson immediately standing up and pottering over.
“Alright?” Jenson asks — less by way of greeting, and more like he’s actually concerned. He keeps looking between Mark and David, as if unsure who to give his attention to.
“I wanted to meet our newest fan,” David says teasingly.
Jenson snorts at that, the corners of his mouth quirking, like he’s trying to smother a proper smile. He relaxes though, as if eased by David’s good-natured ribbing; like he’s entirely comfortable with having the piss taken out of him a little. It only serves to make him more attractive, Mark thinks.
“Oh, right,” Jenson nods, “Yeah, big fan.”
“Who’s your favourite player?” David asks, cutting right to the chase. Mark glares at him, again, even harsher this time. He doesn’t want to melt the ice anymore. He’d much rather prefer to just set David on fire instead.
“Yeah, who’s your favourite?” chimes in Sebastian, which is exactly the last fucking thing Mark needs. He shifts his glare from David to Sebastian. The younger man doesn’t so much as acknowledge Mark. He’s far too busy staring at Jenson.
“I like the slightly scary one,” Jenson says, pointing somewhere further down the rink. They all follow the direction Jenson’s gesturing in, until their gazes land on Fernando, who is very deliberately not looking their way. There’s a mixture of contemplative and amused noises, even if the hum Sebastian lets out is tempered by disappointment.
Mark’s quick to flick his gaze back to Jenson, and when he does, he finds the Brit’s eyes on him already. There’s a look on Jenson’s face, borderline unreadable, and yet suggestive of the fact that he’s lying. I don’t like to play favourites, his expression seems to read, but if I had to pick, it’d be you.
Somehow, Jenson gets assimilated into their little group.
It happens partly because Sebastian won’t leave the poor man alone, and partly because Mark is just as bad. If Mark wasn’t already so acutely aware of his proclivity for patheticism, he’d have thought that there was some sort of magnetic aura to Jenson, so helplessly drawn to the Brit is he.
Luckily for Mark, though, it seems that Jenson enjoys talking to him. In fact, what’s more, Jenson often gravitates to Mark — completely of his own volition. There are times that they’ll all be stood about, talking as a group, and Jenson will shift to stand beside Mark. Typically, their shoulders touch. Usually, Mark can feel the warmth of Jenson’s body against him, even from so minor a form of contact.
It’s absolutely maddening.
But it goes on. Days become weeks, and small brushes turn into meaningful touches. A high five becomes clasped hands, a handshake becomes a hug. Before long, Mark knows how it feels to have Jenson in his arms - if only briefly - and it’s enough to get Mark hooked. It’s all he can think about: how warm Jenson is, how easily he slips into Mark’s hold.
Like an addict, Mark is unsatiated, and his daydreams become bigger and more fanciful. Enough is never enough, and Mark begins to wonder how it might feel to hold Jenson tighter, for longer, and with more intent. He thinks of other things, too, but it doesn’t bring him any sense of pride to dwell on it.
And so it goes on.