“Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.” Willy/Latts, Hockey RPF
Tom sits in his stall, unlacing his skates, numb with shock. He flicks the sweat-damp hair out of his eyes, smooths it back with one hand. He can sort of feel his face; his right eye throbs from the elbow he’d taken in the second period, and his left shoulder is probably gonna hurt like hell in the morning. Somewhere in his throat tightens knowing this is Mike’s last game as a Cap.
It had been sudden, MacLellan coming in with the news that their salary cap had changed and they had to downsize and try to fight the same battle again the next year, at leaner strength. Pretty soon everything was in boxes and Mike had tickets to Nashville for tonight (“no it’s cool, I’ll be fine, Tommy, you can’t afford to get scratched at this point, come see me when it’s settled”).
And now this is it. The last time he’s gonna see that dumb 46 in white and red looking back at him, the last time he’s gonna accidentally put on the wrong number in the morning when he grabs a shirt from the laundry pile, at least for the next season or two. But a season is forever in the life of a hockey player, could always be the difference between retiring and going on.
Tom gets into and out of the showers efficiently, wishing he could take his time and let the water soothe his aching back, but the media's waiting for his comment on the “grand breakup of the #capsroomies,” and he isn't supposed to make them wait. He goes back around to where his stall is, one towel slung around his hips, “Hey Ovi, have you seen the– oh.” He stops.
Mike is in his stall, street clothes on, eyes firmly fixed on the blue-pebbled locker-room mats. He’s clearly waiting for Tom, and as he looks up Tom feels self-conscious; they’ve been naked in front of each other a thousand times but right now it just feels strange, and sort of awkward. He shrugs into sweatpants and socks quickly, hissing at the chill of the locker room, and avoiding Mike’s eyes.
“Look– Willy–” Mike starts, and Tom looks up at him, lips pressed together and nostrils flaring.
“Don’t,” he says. “It’s fine. We’ve lost other games this season.”
Mike sighs and hunches a little. “I know, but I also know you wish it’d been a win. I mean, we all do. But I know you wanted this one.” He breaks their gaze to look down, scuffing at a tear in the mat with one shoe and nearly falling off the bench before righting himself.
Tom snorts. “I won’t deny it woulda felt good to send you off on a high note,” he attempts lightly. “But those guys’ll have to work you pretty hard to give you half as exciting a spring, ya know?”
“Yeah, they will.” Mike eyes him assessingly, and after hesitating, opens his mouth to speak. “Willy–” he starts, but his voice gets lost in the noise of the start of the press coming in, and the guys coming to take him to the airport. When Tom looks back, Mike just half-smiles a little wistfully and says, “It can wait.”