“You’re the only one I trust to do this.” Jamie/Tyler, Hockey RPF
They don’t talk when they get out of the center, gear bags slung between them. Tyler doesn’t even wait for the who’s-driving argument, drags his bag into the back and gets in on the passenger side. It was a hell of a loss, just like they’ve been having a hell of a season - good moments, missed opportunities, windows left wide open for the other team to dive through. It was the kind of game there was nothing to be said about; the only thing to do was to show up the next day and the next and try to be just a little bit better.
Jamie drives to Tyler’s, parking in his stupidly enormous garage; they get into the house and say hi to the dogs, and there’s nothing that sounds better than piling onto the couch with gatorade and sandwiches, so that’s what they do.
Tyler elbows Jamie out of the way to get to the fridge faster, generally being annoying and shoving him around until Jamie laughs, inevitably, and Tyler feels a little bit better, glad he can do something right today. Marshall and Cash wind around their legs in turn, panting and tails wagging, so excited for the action and the company.
They all fall into the couch like they were made for it, ignore the pile of gear that should be sorted before the end of the day. Jamie channel surfs lazily, and they watch the end of Legally Blonde on AMC, idly scratching the dogs and arguing about nothing.
When Tyler looks over, Jamie’s a little glazed over, lost in thought, and Tyler knows he’s probably thinking about the game, trying to figure out a way to motivate everyone the next day and get his own play to the next level at the same time. It’s exactly the mentality that trips them up, because Jamie needs to be loose for everything to kick into gear.
“Hey,” Tyler says, and is selfishly glad when Jamie’s gaze focuses and he has his full attention. “We’ll get the next one,” he promises, and Jamie grins half-heartedly and Tyler knows he’s in for it.
“Sure we will, Seggie, you just gotta wake up out there, you learn how to sleep-skate or something?” Tyler doesn’t even care about the chirp (which is weak at best, and he knows Jamie doesn’t mean it) because Jamie’s grinning, finally. Tyler can’t resist and reaches over to grab a hefty pinch of Jamie’s side. Jamie squeaks and squirms, laughing his damn stupid laugh, and they tussle for a second until Jamie shoves him back over to his own side of the couch, sobering for a moment.
“Ty, like– you know I trust you to do this, right?” Jamie licks his lips and looks at him earnestly. “Like, you’re the only one I trust to do this with me.” Tyler feels all the air punch out of him like he just belly-flopped from 15 feet up, and for a second he wants so badly to be done with this season, to stop wondering whether they’re gonna make it to the Cup or flop out of the playoffs like they have before, to just know so Jamie can know what their next season is gonna look like, whether their green will really be for victory.
He swipes at Jamie weakly, mumbles something affirmative, blushes like an idiot. Jamie seems satisfied, though, and settles back.
After a minute, Tyler conveniently remembers he left the garage open, so he heads out there again, whistling to Marshall even as Cash clearly has staked a claim for himself at Jamie’s side. He closes the door behind himself and just breathes for a second, getting a whiff of cool air to steady himself, wishing he’d played better, hoping the next time they’d walk out of the rink grinning already, that much closer to the playoffs. He scruffs a hand through his hair and bends down to give Marshall a quick cuddle (“Man and dog need bonding time, too, Jamie,” he’s said it a thousand times), before closing the garage door and heading back inside.