Sometimes, there comes a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment where your whole life changes in an instant. Sometimes, it happens so quickly that you can’t even pinpoint when it happened or, hell, what happened. To this day, Holden still couldn’t put his finger on the moment he’d finally managed to white-knuckle his way into a life like this. One minute, his dad had been convincing him to throw games, citing his mom’s need for treatment as a reason for Holden deliberately falling in a college game that would have had his NHL career absolutely cinched. The next, he was walking around the Olympic Village, with a bowl of nothing but warm Nutella in his hand.
He’d already sent Celia a selfie of him beaming at the camera with an obnoxious ring of chocolate around his mouth. He’d have done anything to have his best friend here in Milano with him, knowing the two of them would have a fucking time going around the block and eating everything they could in sight - although Celia would probably be a bit more delicate about it all, politely picking at her favourite kinds of rabbit food while Holden devoured anything his nutritionist scrunched up her face at.
Celia wasn’t here though. Instead, Holden was making his way around the Village alone. Team USA was full of good guys (well, almost. He wouldn’t trust the Tkachuks as far as he could throw them), but he doubted there was a player among them willing to go out of their way to spend some extra time with the media-branded Bad Boy of Hockey. Even the nicer guys gave him a wide berth, albeit for different reasons: Swayman didn’t like to take himself out of the zone, even after a game like today where they’d crushed Latvia like it was nothing, Quinn was still fucking… talking to ghosts or some shit, and then there was…
“Percy. Shit.” Holden blinked, coming to a stop when he rounded the corner onto one of the terraces and realised the bench he’d been gunning for was already occupied.
Snow crunched under his feet as he tried to redistribute his weight, leaning back so Percy wouldn’t spook if he thought that Holden was coming anywhere near him.
He and his Olympic teammate hadn’t talked much past basic pleasantries since they’d touched down in Italy. Of course, on the ice, they’d talked a lot, through passes and assists and clearing each other for body-checks. A language they could both speak fluently and easily. Managing basic English around each other was different and Holden continued to stand there, Nutella-covered spoon raised halfway to his mouth, not a single word leaving him.
Quickly, he cleared his throat, returning the spoon to his bowl. He desperately tried to collect himself. The Bad Boy of Hockey did not blush in front of old best friends with kissable faces.
“Sorry, man. Didn’t think anyone would be around at this time. Thought you’d be celebrating with the rest of the team,” he said.
He knew the rest of the players would be off somewhere raising the banner. Some people might have likened the USA beating Latvia in an easy win to Colorado crushing Nashville on a day ending with a y. But any win was a win worth celebrating when it was on the Olympic stage. Nobody had asked him to come along, but he’d been content with his own means of celebrating. Until now.
Just for something to do, he shoved another spoonful of Nutella into his mouth.
“You tried this shit yet? It’s somehow better than what we have at home,” he said, even though the words stuck like glue around the stickiness of the chocolate.