you know how he thinks, what plays he makes, his preferences in sticks and skates and helmet brands, his pregame rituals, superstitions, his playing style.
you may know other things, too.
how his gloves feel behind your helmet as he covers the back of your head to shield you from the glass's impact. you might also know how his sweaty skin feels against yours, pulled into a tight-grip hug after a particularly well played game.
he's smiling at you, flushed down to his chest, tape tearing over his game-worn pads, and he looks proud. you definitely don't smell good, and neither does he, but you still tuck your face under his chin.
your nose presses against his pulse, feeling the hot and erratic thump of his heartbeat. he smells like cold sweat and the ice and man, but you don't pull away. and neither does he.
youâre smiling hard, and so is he. your face hurts with the childish excitement you both feel at the simplicity of winning another game. playoffs are far into the future. the cup is even further.
but he isnât. heâs as close as you want him to be.
in the end, itâs not something you did after all. (even if youâd been suspecting it to be.) in the end, you donât raise the cup with him.
you donât get to smell that post-game sweat and the sweet flash of his teeth you know so well. you donât get his attention, the saccharine taste of his mouth, and you donât get to pass that puck to him againâin the same way you know heâd sense your presence and that puck flying towards him without a glance.
2,252 miles away, you still know him.
except now, you use that knowledge against him.
you donât talk again. he wonât even talk about you. and itâs jarring. you know the way he shuts down conversations means his voice is about to waver, except now itâs when heâs talking about you instead of with you.
you fit into the new locker room. you donât tuck yourself into another teammate. and you trade blue for gold, white for black.
you toss a puck at him for warmups during the last minute, leaving at the same time like you used to when you were still draped in blue with him. you run down the hall before you can see him glance your way. if he did or didnât, you donât know. (you kind of want to)
after the game, youâre sweaty. thereâs no one to press your skin to, and sure, you can smell the sweat of any guy in the locker room, but itâs not his and youâve never wanted to do that before anyway.
so you drag yourself to your feet, grinning and bouncing across the arena to the home locker room, where you know every corner and hidden crevice where the guys shoved their tape or lost a mouthpiece.
you peek over reporters, trying to see past them for a glimpse of dark brown hair so that knot in your stomach can settle from that guilt through a phone call. and because you know him so well. you know where he sits. and where he is.
âI want to see Auston.â