Chapter Text
Brock’s not really paying attention to the drills.
He knows he should be, really should be. He's lined up along the boards, stick in hand, but his focus keeps drifting, pulled away for a few seconds at a time before snapping back. Pulled away.. Or pulled towards something, maybe. His eyes keep drifting a few feet too far to the left.
Brock has to keep catching himself, to look away. He’ll force himself to track the puck for a second, or shift his weight, or pick at the tape of his stick, or something to get his mind to stop getting stuck. But he’s continuously unsuccessful. His attention gets yanked back again and again, following the same white jersey. The same easy stride.
Matt glides across the ice, takes a pass cleanly, and Brock stays locked on him. There’s something about the way he plays- well, obviously right? He wouldn't be here if there wasn't something special about him. He’s just so fluid, so confident. So sure of himself without being cocky about it, like everything is already decided before it happens, he’s just the one to carry it out. And Jesus, it makes Brock’s stomach flip.
It’s not exactly a new feeling, but it’s not the same either. That’s the thing that’s been bothering him.
Because Brock is really, honestly not a very complicated guy. But maybe he’s just taken enough pucks to the head that his emotions never get particularly intense, and it takes more energy to ignore them than to just let himself feel. But this, this feeling is toeing the line of unfamiliar in a way that he can’t really wrap his head around. And as much as he’s not one to bottle up his feelings, this one feels like something that needs to be contained.
He hadn’t known Matt before, not really. In World Junior’s they’d been on the same team, won gold together, even. But they never really talked. Never hung out outside of practice the way Brock did with some of the other guys, and being around someone and knowing them aren’t the same thing.
Matt had been, well. Older, for one. A little more settled, somehow. A little more put together. Brock had felt so fucking young back then that it was hard to ignore certain gaps, certain differences. He’d just felt that Matt was a little intimidating, so he didn't go out of his way to talk to him. Or at least, that's what he told himself.
It was a good enough explanation, then. As to why he felt so off. Every time Matt got too close, or smiled at him like they were friends. It was easier to name it and then forget about it. To step around it instead of trying to figure it out.
So that's what he did.
Now, though. Well now they’re fine.
Better than fine, actually. They fall into a rhythm, on and off the ice, easy and calm. “Best of friends,” is what a reporter called them, back in April. Which Brock actually found strange at the time because they’d only played a handful of games together but it must've been evident that there was a connection. (Like it didn’t take two years and a completely different version of himself to get here)
Brock shuffles his feet, shifting back and forth from right to left.
Matt’s laughing at something- Kirill, probably- head tipped back, hair damp at the edges from sweat. He’s not wearing his helmet. It’s normal. It’s all normal.
Over the summer, Brock found himself thinking about this a lot. About this day. The first skate of the season. About-
About seeing Matt again. Again and again. Everyday.
A whistle sounds and bounces off the walls of the rink. Brock straightens slightly, like a kid caught with something they shouldn’t have. The drill resets, but he lags half a second behind. He’s leaving such a terrible impression.
Across the ice, Matt spins and skids, calling for the puck. Brock can only frown at himself.
-
The first game comes quick. Everything does, really, at the start of the season. It all bleeds together, one thing after the next. Brock has always enjoyed it, mostly because it’s enough to keep his head clear.
Or, it was. It used to be.
Anyway, warmups weren't that great. Most of the guys were already full of energy, talking over each other. Brock felt a little queasy, for some reason. Nervous like he would be if it were his first game. He just skated a slow loop, shooting a puck every few laps around the net.
But once the game actually starts, Brock feels fine. It’s a relief, really.
It’s a physical game right from the jump. They’re playing a little messy but Florida is playing rusty, which is worse. Brock is skating on the first pair with Brodin, and he settles into it quickly, doing what he knows how to do. His mind is still racing, so many thoughts in his head that they overlap and buzz with constant noise. But he doesn’t feel sick anymore, so. It’s something.
Late in the first, the puck comes loose at the blue line and Matt gets a hold of it. He doesn’t hesitate, just pushes forward, and Brock is fascinated by him. So much so that he forgets what he’s doing for a split second and almost misses Matt’s drop pass.
Brock has the puck. He has the puck because Matt passed it to him. He shoots it off his stick, clean and fast, because he has to do something. And it’s really just a shot to keep the game moving, but then.
But then. The puck goes in the net.
Someone’s yelling, grabbing at him, gloved hand patting his helmet, and then pulling him in.
“Hell yeah, Fabes!”
Matt’s arms wrap around his shoulders, and it’s all solid warmth. He’s grinning from ear to ear and there’s not much that Brock can do besides mirror him. He laughs a little, breathless. And for a second he lets himself lean into it, sinking into the way Matt’s grip tightens just slightly before he pulls back.
It all comes and goes so quick.
The rest of the game is honestly a blur. Brock’s shifts come and go. He plays well enough, riding the high of his goal. It’s only until he’s sat on the bench, with two minutes left in the third, that it all comes crumbling down.
Ekky gets the puck to Matt, Matt shoots, the shot is blocked. Brock has to do that thing where he forces himself to look away, and bends down to retrieve a rag so he can wipe some of the sweat off his forehead.
When he looks up again, one of Florida’s defensemen is surging forward just as Matt enters the crease. There’s half a second where Brock registers what’s about to happen, but not enough time for Matt to dodge the hit.
He goes down hard, skates slipping out from under him. And then there’s this sickening sound of his face hitting the post and his whole body collides with the ice.
Brock’s stick clatters to the floor as he leans forward, vision tunneling. He’s already on his feet before he can stop himself- which, he can’t just drop himself back on the ice. What’s he going to do, anyway? Rush over to Matt? Slam Florida’s defenseman into the boards until he blacks out?
Fiery anger spreads through his body and he’s forced to be frozen in place with it.
But it twists and turns inside him, into something worse. It makes his whole body feel coiled.
Matt pushes himself up after a second. One hand comes up to his face, and when he pulls it away, there’s bright red blood seeping into the white of his glove.
A fight breaks out soon after that.
Matt skates back toward the bench on his own, and adjusts his helmet with one hand, the other still swiping roughly at his mouth. He looks- Well, fine. Steady enough.
He’s ushered down the tunnel. But as he’s passing by, his gaze flicks up and catches Brock’s. He pauses. Then he smiles.
This confused, crooked little smile. It makes the cut on his mouth open a bit more, and Brock’s never had an issue with blood but he feels his stomach turn at the sight of it welling up on Matt’s bottom lip.
Brock is honestly not sure what happens in that last minute of the game.
But he’s pretty sure they win.
-
They end up at the hotel bar, that night. Brock doesn’t necessarily agree to it, but he doesn’t say no either, so. He goes. Following along with the rest of the team. (He’s always been a little too eager to please. Maybe it’s his fatal flaw.)
By the time they’re settled at a long table, there’s already a drink in his hand. It’s something he wouldn’t usually order for himself, so one of the guys must’ve gotten it for him. He spins the glass a couple times whenever he takes a sip and watches droplets run down the condensation.
Matt is at another table, leaning in toward something Jimmy is saying. Laughing softly, head tipped just enough that the light catches on the edge of his jawline. There’s a small bruise already forming there.
Brock stares. Looks down at his drink. Takes a sip. Looks up again.
He desperately needs to organize his thoughts. He starts with the obvious:
He cares about Matt.
Of course he does. He cares about all of his teammates. But-
But with Matt…
It's never occurred to him, at least not until now, that it’s never actually been the same as how he feels about everyone else.
He can’t stop remembering how much distance he kept in World Juniors. Because Matt was older, Matt was more outgoing, Matt was more settled, Matt was more put together. More, more, more.
Brock’s grip tightens slightly around the glass. Because, god, looking back now-
None of it fucking means anything. He’s made friends with people who are much more intimidating than Matt. And it never really felt like intimidation, it felt like. Well, like more.
His gaze drifts up again like it keeps doing, like it’s going to keep doing no matter how many times he tries to stop it. Matt laughs again, and Brock feels that same pull. It makes his chest ache. Actually ache.
Matt must sense something is up, because he glances over. Brock's emotions must be showing on his face because Matt actually looks a little worried. It makes Brock wonder if he looks like he just discovered something incredible, or fucking petrifying.
Brock downs the rest of his drink in one go. Then there’s another one in his hand. He wasn’t actually intending to get drunk. It just. Happens.
The second drink goes down easier than the first. Not because it tastes better (it doesn’t) but because he doesn't really care anymore. Someone says something to him. He nods, maybe laughs a second too late. The conversation shifts, then shifts again, the topic changes over and over and Brock misses all of it.
He presses the heel of his hand into his eye for a second, blinking hard when he drops it again.
Focus. He needs to-
He doesn’t even know what he needs to do.
Leave, maybe. Get out of here. Maybe get closer to Matt. Maybe never leave his side.
When Brock pushes his chair back and stands, the walls and floor tilt around him. He has to place his hand down on the edge of the table until it all settles back into place.
“You good, Fabes?” Someone says, somewhere to his left. He doesn’t turn to look, just nods once.
He reaches for his jacket on the back of the chair, and it takes a lot longer than it should to get his arm through the sleeve. It’s really annoying.
“Alright, buddy, you’re done.” A different voice says. Moose, he’s pretty sure. A hand lands solidly on his shoulder, steadying him. It’s definitely Moose. Brock huffs out something unintelligible even to his own ears.
“Let’s go, kid.”
“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s slurred and sounds so incredibly unconvincing. Moose is already attempting to steer him towards the exit, and Brock is starting to give in, because it’s better than falling flat on his face. But then someone else is by his side, a different hand on his back.
A little lighter, more familiar.
“Hey, I got him.”
Matt.
Moose’s hand drops away without question, and the two mutter under their breaths for a second before Moose steps back and returns to his seat.
Brock can’t help but lean into Matt, so solid and certain compared to how unsteady Brock feels. His arm is fully around Brock’s shoulders now. Strong. And warm. Has Matt always been this tall? Did he grow in the two years that Brock didn’t see him? Brock could nuzzle his face in his neck, if he wanted to. Not that he wants to.
“You good?” Matt asks.
There’s that same flicker of concern from earlier. Brock feels like he just caught fire. His mouth still isn’t really working so he just hums.
They walk a little slower than they probably need to. It helps that Matt is guiding him, because Brock doesn’t think he could even find the right floor on his own. He’s so drunk that he can’t focus on anything but Matt’s hand. Gripping gently or shifting to pull Brock back into him when he drifts too close to the wall.
“One second,”
Brock blinks, realizing distantly that they’ve stopped walking.
Matt’s more in front of him now, hand moving from his shoulder to his arm. “Don’t fall, alright?”
Brock nods quickly and it makes him dizzy. “I won’t,”
He pushes Brock back, places him so he’s leaning against the wall. And then every point of contact is broken. Matt is digging in his pockets for something. He finds whatever it is- oh, a keycard.
The room is dark and cold when they step inside. Matt flips the lamp on, the sudden brightness makes Brock squint as he moves further in, shrugging his jacket off halfway before it catches awkwardly on his wrist.
Matt laughs a little, and steps closer again. He reaches out, fingers brushing against Brock’s as he tugs the sleeve free, quick and efficient.
Brock exhales shakily. He needs to not be awake right now.
He doesn’t exactly register that there are two beds in the room, he just moves toward the closest one. He drops onto the edge of it, hands braced loosely by his sides. Matt follows, and then crouches slightly in front of him. Brock’s heart is beating so fast, it just might jump out of his chest.
“Lift your foot.”
Brock just stares at him for a second, his brain lagging behind the instruction.
“Oh. Right.”
Matt reaches for his sneakers, fingers moving through the laces carefully. Brock watches him because it’s apparently all he does now.
It’s stupid. It’s just Matt. It’s just-
Matt.
“Other one,” Matt says, glancing up briefly. He catches Brock’s eyes and god, it’s torture.
When the shoes are off, Matt takes Brock’s glasses and folds them carefully, setting them on the bedside table. Then he pulls at the sheets on the bed, and Brock collapses into them immediately.
Matt makes another amused sound. “Alright,” he says. He’s stepping back. Away. “I’m gonna-”
Brock’s hand flies up before he can stop it, fingers closing loosely around Matt’s wrist.
“Matty.”
It comes out whiny and pathetic. Brock can almost feel tears welling up in his eyes. He just doesn’t want Matt to leave. Fuck, it’s so embarrassing.
Matt just looks down at where Brock’s holding onto him, then back up at his face. His lip isn’t bleeding anymore. Brock sort of wants to reach out and brush his fingers against the small open wound.
“Yeah?” Matt’s voice is calm. Open.
Jesus, what is Brock trying to say right now? Hey Matt, I got this sickening feeling of despair when you got hit during the game, do you ever get those?
He’s not about to have some sort of drunken confession when he’s not even that drunk. He’s not dramatic enough for that, and he isn’t even sure what he’s feeling. Only that he’s pretty sure he’s been feeling it for a long time. Deep inside his chest, curled up and hidden but there. And he has no idea why it decided to show itself now, but it’s too late for him to push it back down.
He’s not even that drunk. But he’s drunk enough. Enough that the alcohol is still buzzing in his system, loosening everything just right.
“Just-”
His grip on Matt’s wrist tightens without him meaning to.
“Just… stay here?”
There’s a split second where Brock expects Matt to laugh at him. He knows Matt wouldn’t ever get angry with him, but he sort of wishes that he would. He sort of feels like he deserves it.
He’s bracing for it, for something. But Matt doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t pull away, either. He just. Looks at him.
Confusion flickers briefly across his face but it’s gone just as quick. Then his mouth tilts slightly at the corner and he huffs, not quite a laugh. But it’s better than yelling, so.
“Alright, Fabes. Whatever you want.”
Brock sighs. The relief is so overwhelming.
Matt moves, easing his wrist free from Brock’s grip, and steps around to the other side of the bed. There’s some rustling, like maybe he’s taking off his own jacket and shoes.
He pulls the covers back further and slides in, adjusting a bit before settling, turned slightly on his side. Facing Brock.
Brock stares at him for a second, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with this. Like he’s not the one who asked.
He’s fidgeting terribly and his heart is still going so fast, and Matt’s eyes are already closed. “Sleep, Brock.”
Brock has to listen to him. Has to shut his eyes, because he’s not sure he could keep looking at Matt without doing something.