sam’s on the ice alone, circling the edge of the rink. he’s not doing much, it’s just him and the ice, one foot in front of the other as he makes his rounds, left, right, left, right, drift, spin, backwards, right, left, right, left. he had a bad game, a dumpster fire really. he hasn’t been able to connect as seamlessly with keels as the coaches had hoped. it leaves a bad taste to settle on his tongue as he skates out to center ice.
the team knew going into the new season that there were going to be some new challenges and subconsciously, sam had already gotten used to playing beside vinny. he kind of missed him actually, the way he would keep sam in line, encourage him when a play goes south and their celebration once they win a game.
he goes back to skating around the edges of the rink, arms crossed against his chest. there’s a lot he can do on his own, but the ache of a hit that landed too heavily during their last game—a 5-2 loss against the knights a day ago—still sits heavy behind his ribs. it might be psychological at this point, the bruising not as intense as it had been before.
with a rather depressing sigh, he heads back to the bench, lifting his head and blinking. misa is sitting there, leaning forward with his arms on the edge of the boards; he’s watching sam, his mouth turned down in his perpetual frown as sam skates closer.
“what are you doing here?” sam asks, swinging over the boards. he doesn’t land on the other side, opting to sit on them as misa tilts his head up at him.
“you weren’t there when i woke up.” he mumbles, “figured i’d check here before i called the calvary.”
sam offers up his fist, “good word.” misa rolls his eyes, but bumps their fists together. it’s quiet between them, misa’s gaze back on the ice and sam’s on misa.
he clearly just rolled out of bed, his hair sticking out from under his beanie and was still dressed in the clothes he fell asleep in; sam doesn’t pay much mind to the fact that it’s all his clothes and it hangs a bit more on misa. his sweater is pulled over misa’s knuckles and his eyes are still half-lidded, sleep still clinging on to him.
misa gives him a dry look, “can’t find my keys, and my car’s at ty’s, dumbass.” sam has his keys, hidden in one of the mugs at the top of his kitchen shelves. misa knows though, so really, it’s on him if he really did want his keys back.
he stands up, pulling the hood over the beanie. he shuffles until he manages to squeeze himself in between sam’s legs which is a precarious position given that the boards aren’t that wide. sam feels himself shift, body already drawn to the subtle warmth of misa’s body as he leans into him.
“you had a bad game.” misa whispers, and sam sighs. he’s gotten away with not talking about the game for the last twenty-four hours, but misa is as persistent as sam could be when he wants to.
“it was humiliating.” sam responds, he got benched for almost the entirety of the third period, the shame pooling in his gut and the instinctive urge to hide away growing as the buzzer had gone off, to top it off, it was a home game and the knights played them like a fucking fiddle.
he had left as soon as he could, keels easily taking sam’s media spot with a hand in sam’s hair and a the next game will be better, trust and sam tried to believe him.
“hey,” misa says, nudging sam lightly, “it happens okay? it’s our sophomore year, no one is expecting you to become the next cale makar.”
tears burn the back of sam’s eyes as he looks up, almost as if he can will the tears back. it’s a bit embarrassing, still crying over bad games even if it’s been a while since he last did. misa was the crier, tears quietly rolling down his face before he wiped them away and moved on.
maybe his sense of unease goes back to how he grew up with hockey, how it was never really the sport he wanted to play until he did, jumping from goalie to forward before he ended up as a defenseman. how his dad had little faith in his abilities to make it as far as he did; fourth in the ohl, eleventh in the nhl.
he carries his dad’s doubt with him in every game, every shift, every minute and stupid fucking turnovers and failed plays that haunt him until a new one takes place.
hot tears roll down his face and misa makes a little sound, reaching up and pulling sam close, tucking his head into his neck. this isn’t their usual thing, the bad days are far and few in between, they’re winning more often, loosing less and less, but when they do, they fuck it up so bad everyone wonders where they lost the plot, if the rebuild is worth it.
misa holds him until his body stops trembling and his ass starts to hurt from sitting on the boards for too long. misa tightens his grip for a second when sam moves to pull away.
“let’s go home.” sam mumbles, embarrassment flaring as misa watches him with soft eyes.
misa’s stomach suddenly growls and sam jumps at the opportunity to do something he knows he does well, something he hasn’t failed to do since he made it to the big leagues with misa: taking care of him.
he drives them to their breakfast spot, buys misa his usual and lets the little noises a satisfied misa makes while they eat under the warming sun. he takes them home, undressing misa until he’s just in sam’s shirt and boxers and ushering him into bed, making sure the black out curtains are closed and the ac is running before crawling into bed beside misa. it only takes a few minutes before misa is fast asleep again, curled up into sam’s chest, warm breaths ghosting his skin.
sam can fuck up a lot while on the ice, can loose the play right when he thinks he has it, but taking care of misa is a balm over the hurt, making sure misa is fed and content is the one thing he hasn’t fucked up.
misa makes a little huffing noise and sam falls asleep, nose tucked in misa’s hair.
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