the thing is, i do not have any interest in a hockey player who falls in love. i am interested in a hockey player who is utterly destroyed by the boy standing across the ice from him. the boy he met when he was 17 maybe, at juniors. and then 18 at the draft. who he hated because they were competitors. who he hated so much that he couldn't even think about anything else. until he didn't know who he was if he wasn't competing against him. wasn't fighting against him. wasn't thinking about him. wasn't pressing him into the boards. wasn't holding him too long in the handshake line. wasn't sneaking into hotel rooms with him. and having hushed conversations in corners. and less hushed conversations in beds where they were soft and young and childish in a way they could never be on the ice. until the day they stop. because, well, it's not like this can go on forever, right? because we've been playing this sport since we were three and we will keep playing it until our bodies are so broken they have to scrape us off the ice. because this is our life. this is our whole life. this sport. and it has no room for boys who are soft and young and childish. who hold each other a little too tight. so now this hockey player stands on the ice and he looks at this boy and he aches like his whole body is bruised even though the game hasn't started yet, even though no one has touched him. and he wonders "if we had different dreams, in a different world, do you think it would have been us? i know you have kids and a wife now but - but do you think it would have been us?"
later, after the game, a reporter will shove a mic in the boy's face and ask him about the goals he scored and the goals he didn't. about the hockey player who's been his rival since they were 18.
the reporter blinks. "sorry?"
"since we were 17" smiling in a way that feels like a sob. "he's a fierce competitor," hand rubbing against a stubble rough jaw, thinking about something that started long before he could grow a proper beard. "he's my favourite guy to play against, someone you miss when he's not there," another smile that the reporter has to look away from. "he has beautiful hands." he can't say what he wants to, of course. which is that he looks forward to these games more than any other. counts down the days. marks them on the calendar. because there are pieces of himself that he gave away when he was too young to know better. that he asked the hockey player to keep. and he has, because that's the kind of guy he is. because no one ever taught him how to put shit down. so when they go out there on the ice together, the boy gets to be whole again, for a little bit. he gets to be whole.
"Thank you" the reporter says.
And the boy nods. "Of course."