For this WIP Wednesday, may I present: Lamplighters' version of "The smoking area is over there."
Jonathan escaped the boisterous celebration of Team USA’s 5-3 win over Chicago as soon as his gear was packed up, going through a quick cool down before taking an even quicker shower. He then told his coach he was getting some air before ducking out a side door. Games always fully occupied his mind, drowning out his atonal, often dissonant thoughts like a stereo turned to max volume, and he needed a moment alone to recover. He took out his mp3 player and put in his earbuds. The grungy opening of Metric’s “Help I’m Alive” started playing, the steady beat that came in beneath the hypnotic synth helping to ground him after the intensity of the game. He closed his eyes, slumped back against the cold concrete, and drew in a deep breath.
The tarry, burnt stench of cigarette slammed him into high alert. Jonathan ripped his earbuds out and swung toward the scent, his heart hammering in his chest at the possibility of seeing his father.
Lonnie came to watch Jonathan play on occasion, which meant every game in the Great Lakes Region came with the threat of having to talk to him. That was especially true with Jonathan being eligible for the NHL draft this year. He planned to play in the NCAA to get a scholarship and more experience, but Lonnie was eager to convince him that would be a waste of time. He kept calling or messaging about it, and their deal meant Jonathan had to remain civil in addition to playing hockey as long as Will was a minor. The few times he hadn’t, Lonnie implied that not only would he quit paying child support, he would sue Joyce for custody or call child protective services.
Seeing Harrington standing by the door with a newly lit cigarette held between his fingers shifted Jonathan’s alarm into irritation. He glared at the other player as he exhaled a lazy stream of smoke.
“Isn’t there a designated smoking area?” Jonathan scowled. He stopped the mp3 player and tucked it into the safety of his pocket.
“Probably.” Harrington sauntered past Jonathan to lean against the wall beside him, completely unbothered by the challenge. He brought his cigarette back to his lips. “Are you going to tell on me?”
A few biting retorts were kept clenched between Jonathan’s teeth. He knew he should just go back inside, but he ceded too much of his life to give any of it to an asshole like Harrington. There was also nothing to be gained from starting a fight.
Harrington took another drag of his cigarette. Amusement glinted in his eyes as he blew the smoke out the curve of his smirk. Reluctantly, Jonathan noticed how attractive Harrington was with his thick, dark hair disheveled from being washed then left to dry naturally. The unkempt style softened his strong, classically handsome features. It was his expressive eyes and mouth that were truly captivating, though, and Jonathan caught himself cataloging the shots he would get if he had his camera.
Of course, Harrington’s looks were completely ruined by the fact he was an arrogant prick.
“You’re an amazing player,” Harrington commented after a few moments of smoking in silence.
“I know,” Jonathan replied. If Harrington was trying to get under his skin, he was going to have to do better than a backhanded compliment. He wouldn't be here if he wasn’t an amazing player.
“Seriously, man, after we played back in November, I asked my coach to show me some tapes of your games. The way you dangled that Russian player?” Harrington chuckled to himself and tapped his cigarette to ash it before taking another drag. “Fucking dirty.”
Jonathan eyed Harrington as he waited for the follow up. Being a smaller player–both in height and muscle mass–caused Jonathan to rely on his ability to outsmart and outmaneuver his opponents. That tended to bruise egos more than any physical hit, leading to snarky chirps meant to diminish his skill, and it wouldn't be a surprise if Harrington hadn’t gotten all of his out on the ice.
“You’re going to play in Worlds again, right?” Harrington asked instead.
The IIHF World U18 Championship was in Belarus this year. It would be the first time Jonathan left North America since the previous year had been split between North Dakota and Minnesota. He played in British Columbia, Canada before that for the World U17 Hockey Challenge, which was at least international. Not that it mattered, since he doubted there would be time for him to see much beyond the arena and hotel.
“Another gold for the US, then. I’ll have to figure out how to watch,” Harrington said once it became clear Jonathan didn’t plan on adding anything else. “Are you going into the draft this year?”
“No.” Jonathan shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark, denim jacket.
“That makes sense.” Harrington nodded, seeming to leave a pause as bait that Jonathan had no intention of taking. He finally gave up. “College?”
“Yeah.” Jonathan decided to give Harrington at least the bare minimum, since he seemed intent on making small talk. “Michigan. Boston was another option, or Minnesota, but–” He shrugged. “Michigan is closer to Hawkins.”
“So this was probably the last time we’ll play each other.” Harrington took a last drag from his cigarette. The smoke rolled past his lips, and Jonathan found himself once again taking mental snapshots of the moment. “Shame.”
He flicked the remnants of his cigarette onto the pavement then started to head back inside.
“I’m still going into the NHL,” Jonathan called after him. He wasn’t certain what in Harrington's tone or words managed to hook him, but he couldn’t let him just walk away. It might've been the absurdity of the assumption. University of Michigan produced plenty of first round draft picks, and advancing to the NCAA was one of the USHL’s advantages.
He kept himself from suggesting Harrington would benefit from going into the NCAA himself to develop his awareness. He was almost as easy to fake out as the Russian player he laughed at. Of course there was still nothing to be gained from fighting, but that didn’t stop his desire to.
Harrington stopped at the door, turning to look at Jonathan. His gaze was suddenly heated as it traveled down Jonathan’s body before raising back up to his eyes. Jonathan’s pulse quickened. He thought of Harrington not letting his hand go on the ice after the first time they played, and started to defensively coil. Harrington’s head titled in consideration. He moved closer, making a snarl catch in Jonathan’s throat like a cornered animal. He tried to back away only to feel the cold, solid wall behind him.
“Are you?” Harrington asked casually once he was fully in Jonathan’s space.
Harrington’s eyes flicked down to Jonathan’s lips. Something in Jonathan trembled in a way he blamed on reflexes conditioned to win faceoffs.
“I look forward to it,” Harrington stated with a smirk.
He offered Jonathan an expectant pause. The most he got was the tightening of Jonathan’s jaw. Harrington eventually huffed a soundless start of a laugh then turned away to go back inside the arena.
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