Chapter Text
Frank Nazar sits behind the wheel of his car, humming along to whatever song is playing from the radio. He reaches into the fast food bag beside him, grabbing a handful of fries before shoving them into his mouth. Chewing, he finds himself in a state of bliss.
Though he probably shouldn’t have been eating and driving.
Frank has never been a good driver. That’s the painful truth. He knows it, his parents know it, so do his friends. He never cared though.
Though his skills were less than subpar, Frank found a love for driving. The space of the vehicle carried the welcomed weight of familiar people–the memories lining the walls made it feel like a second home. It was sacred.
In no time, the love he felt travelled to his stomach when he realized he could travel to any food joint he wanted whenever he wanted. Hence, the large bag of McDonald’s sitting in the passenger seat of his car–most of it was already gone.
The journey he took to get to this point, however, was a long one. Though maybe he was too distracted to realize just how long it was.
Frank can’t multitask. He can’t handle two thoughts at once, not in the way other people can. And it reflects in the way he drives.
At the age of 16, maybe 17–back when he still had his learners permit–Frank was backing out of his driveway. That was until he heard the familiar jingle of the ice cream truck. Sure, he was almost an adult but one is never too old to enjoy ice cream.
This thought distracted him though, and the once beautiful, round shrubs that lined the front of his house were then split down the middle, leaving a comical and almost cartoonish looking tire mark in its wake. His mom was less than happy with him and in the midst of the yelling and threats to take away the keys to his car his mom shouted: Did you even check your mirrors?
The answer was no. He didn’t. He didn’t even glance in the direction of any mirror. Ask him to do anything else and he can do it no problem. Three point turns was a walk in the park, revving the engine was practically a given, but mirrors? Unheard of. Even at 22, Frank hardly checks them. He always ‘put it in the hands of God’ despite not being very religious, if at all. But he supposed it was better than nothing–especially since God always seemed to be on his side.
So, when Frank got in the car today he figured it wouldn’t be any different.
Thunder rumbles what feels like the entire foundation of Frank’s car, the rain making it almost impossible to see the road as his windshield wipers work overtime. Despite the weather and the fact that his wipers might fly off his car at any given moment, Frank is in a good mood. He’s currently in Chicago to watch the upcoming Blackhawks vs. Redwings game. He’s practically vibrating in his seat from how excited he is.
Frank has been a Redwings fan for as long as he can remember. He tries to go to as many games as he can–whether they were home games or away, you’d find him at almost every single one. So, when Frank saw the tickets on sale he simply couldn’t help himself.
The closer the date of the game approached, the more overly ready Frank became for the match at the United Center. Especially since he knows a certain Blackhawks player, Connor Bedard, puts on a good show.
Still vibrating from the sheer joy only a hockey game could bring him, Frank hums and taps his steering wheel to the beat of the song playing from the speakers. Quickly, he glances towards the digital clock and catches the numbers 10:36 pm.
Currently, he’s cruising down I-80. Rain still pelts the roof of his car, slightly blinding him from the view of the road. He’s on his way to the hotel he booked for his stay in Chicago, and considering the amount of driving he’s done, he’s more than ready to knock out.
The faster he gets to the hotel the better, so briefly glancing at the lane beside his car and seeing the odd car or two, Frank puts more weight on the gas. He’s not worried about the harsh weather–in fact he believes he’s a good enough driver that rain will do little to affect him.
Looking down at his GPS on the screen, Frank notices that the blue tooth connection had somehow managed to disconnect. And only then did he realize that sometime between now and the past maybe ten minutes, Frank had no clue where he was going.
With a large, annoyed sigh Frank takes one hand off the wheel and starts mindlessly taping at the screen. With no luck, Frank figures he just has to deal with it.
Grumbling from the effects of his defeat, Frank grabs his phone from the cupholder and opens the GPS.
Frank, ever the multitasker–note the sarcasm–takes his eyes off the road. He’s not too worried, though. Frank makes the educated guess that the few cars around him aren’t worried either, too busy with their own trek home.
After successfully setting the GPS back up, Frank continues driving with the occasional glance towards the directions. The good vibe is pleasantly restored, he managed to multitask to the best of his abilities, and he's back on track. Safe and sound.
Glancing once more towards the GPS, Frank sees the exit in which he has to take rapidly approaching. He has to merge lanes so, finally planning to utilize his mirrors, he looks towards it–only to realize the mirror was completely covered with leaves. At this, Frank shrugs. He’s made it this far without using his mirrors, what’s one more time? So with a quiet murmur of “let’s do this” and way too much confidence, Frank turns on his blinker and goes to merge–failing to hear the loud incessant honks of the car in the next lane over.
Making contact with the car, Frank yells a loud “Oh shit!” as his shoulder made contact with the window. Desperately steering the wheel in an attempt to gain control, the wheels of his car slip on the wet road.
He barely hears the honks of the cars around him, too focused on trying to get out of this safely. As his car continues to spin, he catches a brief look towards the other car–finding it in the same predicament he is in, and for a split second he has the humorous thought he was driving a bumper car. He didn’t have time to laugh, though.
After what felt like hours of comical, uncoordinated donuts in his poor excuse of a car, he finally comes to a stop on the side of the road. He sits for a moment before snapping back to reality.
Stepping into the horrific weather, Frank assesses the damage. His bumper is ruined, and the chilling thought of his mother’s wrath makes the blood drain from his face.
With his good mood now completely ruined he lets out an aggravated yell.
“Fucking Chicago weather!” It’s barely heard over the loud rain and thunder but the passion behind it was there nonetheless.
Looking around, he notices the other car a few feet from where his own car had ended up. As if snapping back to the reality of what just happened, and the fact that he wasn’t the only one affected, Frank starts to make his way over.
The closer he gets the more he starts to panic. Thoughts of “What if I killed this guy” and “Please don’t kill me” ran through his head like mantras. Though it was entirely his fault, he really didn’t want to deal with a lawsuit.
Arriving at the car, he spots the Chicago Blackhawks bumper sticker. ‘Great’, Frank thinks. ‘Not only did I hit a car, but I hit the car of a guy who supports the fucking Blackhawks.’ With a small, timid chuckle Frank comes to find this whole ordeal ironic.
Making his way to the driver side window, Frank knocks on the glass. His mind works overtime now, rehearsing what he’s going to say in hopes he can avoid a trip to the courtroom. He doesn’t have much time to think about it before the window is lowered.
Frank, about to open his mouth to spew the endless apologies, pauses. Through the dark and the rain catching on his eyelashes, Frank takes note of the guy's appearance. The man has light brown hair, slightly tousled from what Frank can only assume was from his own journey towards the side of the road. His eyebrows were pointed inward, obvious annoyance settling over what Frank thinks were normally soft features. Frank notes the way the man’s jaw clenches, and unwillingly swallows out of nervousness.
The man turns his head to look out the window, and all at once Frank is hit with familiarity. Connor Bedard, of all people, makes eye contact with him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Connor shouts, and Frank finally gets pulled from the odd trance he was in.
“You do not look like your pictures.” Frank mutters, quite stupidly actually.
Caught off guard, Connor recoils. “Excuse me?” He spits and tilts his head, “Are you a fan or something?”
Frank awkwardly coughs, before he manages to muster up a reply. “I’m actually a Red Wings fan. I’m from Michigan. Gotta rep my home state y’know.” Frank gets quieter towards the end of his sentence, realizing the look on Connor’s face hints that he’s far from amused.
“Right, right.” Connor clicks his tongue and, through narrowed eyes, looks Frank up and down. He’s sizing him up, assessing him almost and Frank can’t help but gulp under his gaze. Sweat forms on the back of Frank’s neck at the thought that maybe Connor was checking him out. Regardless, the nerves start to form and Connor continues to look at him.
Clearing his throat, Frank manages to form another sentence. “Well,” he pauses, “I’m Frank.” He winces, not sure if he was meant to introduce himself after hitting the guy but he supposed it was too late to back out now. Reaching forward with the intent of shaking Connor’s hand, Frank aims for the window. But, through the darkness, cold, and sheer nerves Frank misses the opening–instead hitting the bottom of the window. He quickly retracts his hand, embarrassed, and mutters ‘nevermind’ though he doubts Connor heard it over the loud rain.
Silence is what Frank is faced with after that. He debates shouting a loud apology followed by a plea to not sue before bolting back to his car and driving away. He doesn’t think he’s been more embarrassed in his life.
Just as he’s about to make his great escape, the silence gets interrupted by a laugh. It’s sudden, but it’s loud–louder than the rain–and full.
Connor’s laughing at him.
This might be the one and only time Frank genuinely considered sudden death.
Slightly uncomfortable and extremely embarrassed, Frank can’t help but join in on the laughter. Not because he found it funny, but because he figured he might as well save his dignity while he still had the chance.
His fake laugh, which he thought was pretty good if you asked him, was actually horrendous. It was awkward and sounded way too forced to be real. And Connor, still laughing, found more amusement in his pain than Frank thought he should have.
To Frank’s surprise, Connor’s laugh seemed fuller than before. Sacrificing the last of his dignity and far too scared for the answer, Frank asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Dude,” Connor said seriously–at least he tried to. Small laughs slipped past his lips as he tried to regain his composure, “You’re a mess.”
Frank pauses and purses his lips. ‘Alright, thanks,’ he thinks sarcastically. God, this interaction couldn’t get any worse.
“You’re something else man,” Connor continues before pausing, almost as if he was debating his next words. He then says, “You’re lucky you’re attractive, otherwise you’d just be an idiot.”
Frank blinks and repeats over and over again what he just heard. ‘You’re lucky you’re attractive.’ Frank chose to ignore the second part of that sentence, hyperfixating on the part that, for some reason, made his stomach flip.
And after a beat of silence, “Sorry, did you just say that I was attractive?”
Whatever smile Connor had on his face completely vanished at the question. “What are you talking about?” His voice dropped slightly and back straightened. You wouldn’t have thought the man was laughing a few seconds ago by the way he looked now. It was as if a switch had been flipped.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Frank blankly stared at Connor. Again, Frank debated apologizing quickly and walking away but something rooted him to his spot. Before he could even think of permanently shutting his mouth, Frank says, “Well, you said I was lucky I was attractive.”
Connor avoids eye contact, finding a great interest in his wheel. “Yeah, no,” Frank is taken aback by the blunt tone of his voice. “I didn’t say that.” He’s lying, Frank knows he is. He doesn't confront him about it though. “You’re hearing things,” Connor continues. “Did you hit your head on the way down, or something?”
Frank blinks again and, with a small sigh, lets it go. “I’m fine,” a beat passes, “Thanks for asking.” Frank’s tone is flatter than before, the lighthearted air that once existed between them now an uncomfortable weight that made its home on his chest. He moves to cross his arms, in hope to relieve himself of both the weight and the cold that’s starting to make its way deep into his bones.
Connor lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright then, how about this. I leave, you leave, we both leave. I don’t have time for this alright? I’m spent, and I have a game tomorrow.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, still avoiding eye contact with the man as his window.
Frank is relieved Connor isn’t considering a lawsuit, but he can’t help but ask, “Are you sure? I mean, you don't want to talk about insurance, damage, anything like that?”
Through the humor of the situation Frank forgot who he was actually talking to. Connor Bedard, player for the NHL, first round pick. This guy has money–he most likely isn’t troubled by things like insurance. Still, it’s not everyday you run into someone like Connor. So consider Frank thoroughly thrown off guard when Connor tells him to just drop it.
Before Frank has the chance to say anything else, Connot rolls his window up. Frank backs away slightly when he hears his car start, and practically has to run backwards at the speed of light to avoid his foot from meeting the back tire of Connor Bedard’s car.
“Alright man, jeez.” Frank mumbles, followed by the tenth sigh in the last 20 minutes. Watching the car drive away, he finally makes his way to his own vehicle.
Opening the door to his car, he rushes in. He’s annoyed at the feeling of his wet clothes, and even more annoyed that the water may ruin his seats. He tells himself, for his own sanity, that it doesn’t matter and starts his car.
Finally back on track towards his hotel, he realizes, with a groan of anger, that this isn’t the last time he’ll see Connor. He’s going to his game for Christ's sake. Neither man will have enough time to forget about the interaction by the time of the match tomorrow.
Frank tightens his fists on the steering wheel, clenches his jaw, and lets out a heavy breath.
As a last resort, Frank prays to any and all Gods that he and Connor won’t cross paths again.