Dave Strider does not drop the gloves.
He’s a rookie in the NHL, so of course he’s not expected to, but even rookies scrap now and then. Especially when a guy on the other team is taking liberties. Sometimes you just gotta let these older guys know you can’t be pushed around, that you belong in the big show, not in the minors, not back in the NCAA. A five minute major isn’t that bad a punishment when it’s your reputation on the line.
But Dave Strider doesn’t drop the gloves.
Karkat had been on his line before the national league of course, they’re both penguins now but also usa hockey is do or die, they’d played on the world juniors during their NCAA years. IIHF rules means no fighting, period, you get a game misconduct, and in a tournament where every game mattered? Could cost a gold medal? Nobody fought, ever. NCAA too, it was two games missed if you even tried it, so Strider’s reticence towards putting his dukes up wasn’t out of place.
It’s the major leagues though, and still Strider hadn’t even hinted at it, even as defenders were spitting in his face, screaming their heads off at him for the bullshit play he pulled off. He just smirked that infuriating smirk and skated off, even when the other guy threw his gloves off like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Dave Strider’s gloves stayed on his hands.
So of course tonight, Strider was pulling his usual stunts, staking through Philadelphia defenders like they were children, not grown men, flying down the ice with the puck on his tape, from a pass from Vantass that was sure to see the back of the net within seconds. A mighty slam hit him in open ice, and Strider went ass over teakettle, flipping over the orange defenseman and landing flat on his face on cold hard ice. Karkat felt his mouth go dry and his eyes closed for a moment, before cold fury filled him and it only took a few strong strides before he was on that orange motherfucker and beating the hell out of him, screaming obscenities, spittle flying from his lips, blood spraying from a cracked nose and split knuckles.
Dave Strider could only stare, slack jawed and leaning on another teammate as they helped him off ice. His helmet was askew and blood trickled from his mouth, from where he scraped it on the ice. It took three refs to pull Vantas off, and he was in the sin bin for a five minute major.
After, Dave could only ask “what the hell made you do that?”
Karkat scrunched his face at him, his usual expression after Dave said anything, “You think I’m gonna let that lowlife pull a cheap shot on my center? Fuck you talking about, moron. Let’s get you a hat trick, right fucking now, show these idiots not to slewfoot my fucking teammate.”
And in the celly’s after each of Dave’s goals, he made sure to pap his glove on Karkat’s helmet, grinning as large as he dared, seeing a matching expression in the troll’s pointy mouth. Thanked him for his excellent passes, he truly couldn’t score without him.
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