cold feet

As he waits in the tunnel, Sirius Black doesn’t think he can breathe.

There are a million thoughts flying through his head right now, leaving him petrified. He’s competed in countless competitions when he was younger, played in hundreds of hockey games with the eyes of scouts on him, and yet nothing comes close to the terror that the thought of taking his rookie lap around the rink is evoking. He doesn’t think he can do it. He thinks that by the time he’ll be able to move, warm-ups will already be over.

Christ, what is he even doing here? He has no idea why he’s on the roster, how he ended up in this uniform—he only started playing hockey six years ago. Most of these kids were born on hockey skates, and here he is: the goddamn figure skater, thinking he has a shot against any of them. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. He isn’t going to make it; he’s going to step out onto the ice and he’ll turn out to be a complete bust, and then two years from now he won’t make the show. He’ll be one of the delusional kids sitting in the audience on draft day, waiting to hear his name through all seven rounds, and the words he is waiting for will never come. His entire future is flashing before his eyes, and he doesn’t know how to stop seeing himself as anything but a failure.

He can’t help it. Even now, a month after he’s been away from home, he can still hear his mom in the back of his mind, telling him he won’t amount to anything. Just like she’s been saying since he was a kid.

Suddenly he is six again, curling up in the back of the car and covering his ears as his mom lectures him. “That gold medal was yours, Sirius. Putain, you had it. But you can’t stay on your feet when it actually counts, can you? Don’t you want to win?”

Yes, I wanted to win more than anything. But he couldn’t.

Suddenly he is nine again, holding back tears as he looks up at his mother in the bleachers. He’s just started attempting triple salchows, yet he hasn’t been able to land any of them. His entire body aches, and he wants to go home—but he knows that isn’t happening. “What is wrong with you?! Why can’t you get this?”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He wishes he did.

Suddenly he is eleven again, backing away from her as she screams at him in the garage. He’s just told her that he wants to play hockey, and she’s taking it even worse than he thought. “You’re giving up everything, do you fucking realize that? Everything I’ve given up over the years, you’re going to throw it away for a sport you’ll suck at. God, I didn't realize I was raising such an ungrateful, spoiled little brat.”

I am giving up everything, I know. And he’s a terrible person for it.

Now he is sixteen, hearing the last words his mother said to him before he left for the airport. As he’d rushed down the stairs with his last suitcase in hand, she’d been at the bottom, eyeing him skeptically. He’d gone around her, and didn’t think she was going to say anything—until he’d reached the front door and heard the sound of her voice. “You know,” she’d said, “I don’t think you’re going to be very good. You’ve never had what it takes.”

Maybe she’s right. The longer Sirius stands around and waits, the more convinced he becomes that maybe all of this was for nothing, maybe he should leave before it’s too late. He still can’t breathe, and if he goes on like this he doesn’t think he’ll be a very useful teammate.

God, what is he thinking? He’s got a hockey game to play—he can’t give up before his blades have even touched the ice. If there’s one thing a hockey player absolutely cannot do, it’s abandon their team.

Just breathe, Sirius, he tells himself in an attempt to get his shit together. He attempts to take in a breath for three counts, then exhale it for another three, but he’s counting far too fast for it to be useful. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

It still seems impossible, and he still has no idea how he’s expected to get on the ice in less than a minute. How the hell has he managed to do this so many times before, without giving it a second thought? This is just another game, another sixty minutes on the ice. So what’s different now?

“They’re wrong, you know.”

A memory abruptly resurfaces, one that he hasn’t been able to recall until now. And immediately all of his other thoughts of failure, all of his doubts and skepticisms, are pushed to the side for the time being.

Suddenly he is eleven, in a tunnel not too different from this one. His chest is quickly rising up and down, just like it is now, and just like now he can’t catch his breath. Just like now, his faith in himself is wavering, and just like now, he can’t stop hearing his mother. She didn’t show up to his first game; why would she? Regulus didn’t either, and his dad certainly wasn’t going to. And yet her presence still haunts him, every last one of her words lingering in his ears and burning into his skin.

But then there is a hand on his shoulder, strong and steady. Sirius turns—and he is greeted with the sight of James Potter.

Relief instantly washes over him as he sees him, the only friend he’s made on this team so far. Before him, Sirius had never had a best friend—he’d never really had a friend at all. Constantly busy weekends and his mom’s inability to see his peers as anything but competition had made sure of that. He’d been close with Regulus, of course, but that had been entirely different. What he and Regulus shared as brothers had taken years upon years to establish, slowly learning to trust each other with their secrets as they grew older. Their bond was absolutely indisputable—but it was difficult to maintain, and they were far too alike to ever truly see each other.

With James, it’s never been hard. The moment he and Sirius had met, they’d connected, and it doesn’t hurt to be around James the way it hurts to be around Regulus. For that, he’s more grateful than he could ever say.

”Your family’s wrong. They don’t know what they’re missing out on,” says a younger James, as though he’s just stating a fact. “You’re going to be great. I know it.”

And then James is walking away, vanishing down the tunnel and leaving Sirius alone once again.

Once again he is sixteen, and he’s about to play in his first Canadian juniors game. He’s managed to push away every fear to the back of his mind—but for the first time since he’s been in the tunnel, they truly begin to subside. You’re going to be great, Sirius repeats to himself, even though the boy who told him that isn’t here with him. I know it.

James Potter hasn’t been wrong yet.

And gradually Sirius comes back down to Earth, his breaths slowing as he thinks of that 11-year old boy who stuck by him through everything, confident in him when no one else was. Finally he can breathe, and he’s just in time—warm-ups are beginning.

Holding on extra tightly to his stick, he lets out one last exhale. And finally, when he’s sure that he’s going to be okay, he begins to make his way down the remainder of the tunnel.

You’re going to be great.

He issues a silent thank you to his best friend, hoping that James can hear him, and steps out onto the ice.

❅ ❅ ❅

For the first time in his life, Regulus Black is watching a hockey game.

It’s ten P.M., and he really should be home by now. But unfortunately, time zones are not on his side. So instead, he’s in the backwater diner that’s open 24 hours and right down the street from the rink, huddling in the corner and sipping a Coke as he stares down at his phone. He turned his location off an hour ago, of course—he really isn’t eager to find out how his mom would react if she knew what he was doing. He isn’t sure what would give her more of a heart attack—the fact that he’s currently watching his brother play hockey, or the fact that he’s drinking a Coke. Either way, he doesn’t like his options. But anything is better than watching at home.

So, watching hockey in the corner of the dodgy diner it is.

And okay, maybe he’s just stupid, maybe it’s him—but he doesn’t understand what the hell is happening. The game’s about halfway through the second period, and the only thing he’s really managed to catch is the fact that the game is somehow even more violent than he’d thought. He can barely even see the puck.. though to be fair, he’s watching on his tiny phone screen, and the illegal stream he’s using to avoid paying any money is of grainy quality at best. Curse the stupid WHL for making it almost impossible to watch his older brother play.

On top of that, none of the rules make any sense. He’s watched as one of the largest players on the opposing team (the Seattle Thunderbirds..? Why is there an American team in a Canadian hockey league?) completely mowed into one of the smaller players trying to retrieve the puck from against the boards, and no sort of penalty was called. Yet, someone on the Blazers had simply reached their stick out towards one of the Thunderbirds players in an attempt to steal the puck, and it had been called as tripping. What? It’s not like Regulus is any sort of hockey expert, but he thinks that’s absolutely ridiculous. As biased and full of shit as figure skating judges are, Regulus begins to wonder if hockey officials could somehow be worse. These ones might be, anyways.

There’s only been one thing throughout the entire game that he’s been able to understand—and it’s that his brother is fucking unreal out there. Regulus can’t believe that he’s constantly refused to attend his games, that he had no idea of the sheer talent his brother possesses. Every single shift he’s taken, Regulus is almost immediately able to recognize him, and it’s because he’s just skating circles around every other player and making them look silly. He whizzes past kids his age and grown men all the time, and the way he handles the puck on his stick is absolutely lethal. He doesn’t even need to see the number 13 on his back to know it’s Sirius. He’s probably gotten at least ten shots on goal by this point, and Regulus is confident he’s going to net one before the night is over. He’s just got to get past this goalie first.

And to think that Regulus hadn’t wanted him to go…

He brushes that thought aside as quickly as it appears, but it doesn’t erase the crushing weight in his chest. They haven’t spoken since Sirius’s last night in Minnesota, and though Regulus has repeatedly tried over and over again to just text something, anything, the words never come. He wishes they would. He knows it’s his fault they don’t.

He can try to blame James for the last few months all that he wants. He most certainly still blames him for stealing Sirius away in the first place. Yet it won’t change the fact that it is nothing but Regulus’s stubbornness keeping him from just talking to him, from just saying that he’s sorry and giving the two of them another chance. But he’s so full of anger, so full of resentment for how things have been between them for the last several years, that he knows anything he says will only make everything worse. Instead, he says nothing. There’s no blaming James for that one, is there?

No, this is all him.

❅ ❅ ❅

Over the course of his life, James has probably watched hundreds upon hundreds of NHL games.

He’s endured the heartbreak that came with his and his dad’s favorite team, the Vancouver Canucks, losing in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final to the Boston Bruins back when he was just a little kid. He’s sat through countless seasons of misery, has watched more times than he can count as the Canucks give up a stinker of a goal and play hockey like it’s their first time ever on skates. His dad must be sick of him hearing how he can do a better job, how they should just put him out there and he’d lead them to the Cup.

But despite the whirlwind of emotions he’s experienced before, nothing has even come close to watching his best friend out there on the ice. He’s every single bit as stellar as James had expected him to be, and then some.

Unfortunately that also means that all of his feelings are heightened, amplified by a thousand as he stands in front of his TV screen like his life depends on it. And his intense passion that surfaces every single time Sirius hops back onto the ice is making for ugly reactions.

“Oh, come the fuck on!”

One of the referees has just blown a whistle on Sirius, who has done absolutely nothing to warrant a penalty. Even the coach seems confused on the bench, throwing both of his arms up in the air and shouting as the referee holds both of his fists up and then draws them back towards his stomach.

”Hooking?!” James exclaims, wanting nothing more than to reach through the TV and punch the ref himself. “Bullshit! That was the cleanest fucking stick lift I’ve ever seen!”

“James!” a voice suddenly yells from the couch, and immediately he’s grimacing. He’d forgotten that he wasn’t watching alone. “¡No seas grosero!”

When he turns to face his mother, he thinks she might be more red than he is. He can’t remember the last time she yelled at him in Spanish. For the most part, she doesn’t care what he does. As long as he does well in school and always gets his chores done, she doesn’t see a need to be angry with him. But cursing three separate times in the span of ten seconds definitely crosses that line. He grits his teeth as he raises a hand apologetically. “Sorry, Mamá,” he says, reminding himself that he can’t run his hockey player mouth around his first generation mother. It was already hard enough for his father to convince her to let him play hockey as a child—she doesn’t need to witness the extent of how the culture’s rubbed off on him.

As he sits down beside her, she can do nothing but shake her head. “If I’d ever spoken like that around my mother…”

”I know, I know,” James responds, his eyes still on the TV as Sirius takes a seat in the penalty box. He doesn’t seem outraged—not in the way James is. Instead, his shoulders and chest are shaking, and he doesn’t say a word. “Just—I mean, why would they call that?”

”James,” his mom responds, “I have no idea. I still get confused on what icing is.”

James sighs as the Blazers line up for a faceoff in their defensive zone, about to kill a penalty that should’ve never been called in the first place. What Thunderbirds fans paid off these refs? he wonders, watching as the puck drops. “This is so fu-freaking stupid,” he corrects himself quickly, not in the mood for another lecture this soon. He hates having to filter himself, but his mother had insisted on watching Sirius’s first game with him, and how could he have said no to her? For her and his father, Sirius is like the second son they never had. He’s just as much family to them as he is to James. “He was doing so well, too.”

”He’ll be fine,” his mom says, though he’s not sure who she’s trying to reassure—him or herself. “He’s gonna get a goal before the game’s over.” Before James can respond, she leans forward and knocks three times on the wooden table in front of them. And she thinks I’m superstitious?

“I hope so,” James mumbles. Then, he makes a fist and knocks on the table too. Just in case.

❅ ❅ ❅

Sirius has absolutely no idea how it happens.

One second, he’s in the penalty box, trying yet again to take control of his breath as he stares ahead at the jumbotron. Stupid fucking refs. Just ten more seconds, he thinks, beginning to stand up from the bench. Ten more seconds, and then you’re out of here. He prays that his team is able to keep it out of the net, and that their 1-1 tie lives on.

Nine, eight, seven…

One of the Thunderbirds takes a vicious shot at their goalie, Marty—Sirius can’t make out the name or number on his back. Everything is a blur as the puck comes flying towards Marty, and Sirius sees his entire career flash before his eyes…

Six, five…

And somehow Marty is able to get down to meet the challenge in time, the puck making contact with his pads and bouncing right off of him.

Four, three, two…

Three of the Thunderbirds players attempt to grab the puck, scrambling for it as it whistles through the air and comes back down to the ice again. But it’s no use—the puck is too fast, and they’re left with no choice but to skate out and retrieve it as it crosses the blue line and leaves the zone.

As Sirius waits for the penalty to end, his hand already resting on the door, he hastily realizes that the puck is only a few feet away from him.

One.

He all but throws the door open, slamming it shut behind him so loudly that the noise echoes throughout the arena. And immediately, he sees one of the Thunderbirds heading for the puck.

Sirius’s heart must be beating out of his chest as he sprints to get to the puck first. He’s faster, he knows he’s faster than anyone here, he knows he can get there. Already the other player’s almost there, and he begins to reach his stick out—

Sirius is quicker, scooping the puck up on the heel of his blade and swiveling around towards the other net. No one’s in front of him, and it occurs to him that this is it—for yards and yards ahead, it’ll just be him and the ice. Just like it’s always been.

From there, he doesn’t think. He’s skating as fast as he can, only one thing on his mind: Get there, get there, get there. He’s powered by nothing but pure adrenaline, unable to see anything but the net in front of him.

He’s past the blue line now, past the hash marks, and he doesn’t lose a single bit of speed. By now, the fear in the goalie’s eyes has become visible. He approaches him from the left, watching as the goalie moves to cover the post completely…

And honest to God, Sirius has no idea how he does it. The puck is already on the toe of his blade, and he shoots it without even thinking about where he’s aiming. At first, he sees that he hasn’t shot it high enough to get over the goalie’s head, and for a second he fears it won’t go in.

That isn’t what happens.

Instead, it ricochets off the side of his helmet—and bounces right into the net.

…Holy fuck.

❅ ❅ ❅

“YES!!!” James screams, practically leaping ten feet up into the air as the puck goes in. His mom squeals from beside him, and soon they’re both hugging each other and jumping up and down as the goal horn sounds on the TV. His dad will be fast asleep by now, but neither of them have it in them to care. What’s more important is that holy fucking shit, Sirius has just scored his first goal in his first game and it might have been the most incredible thing James has ever seen.

“I told you he’d do it!” his mom exclaims when they finally pull away from each other, James still grabbing onto her shoulders for dear life. He can’t stop grinning, for good reason. His heart is pounding out of his chest, and he isn’t even there to see it in person. Yet he’s so overjoyed that he thinks it might kill him.

“I can’t believe that went in!” he says, looking back at the screen. The broadcast is currently replaying Sirius’s goal, and James watches as they show it from one angle after the other. They must replay it about five times, and each time James is still in disbelief. Judging from the way that Sirius’s mouth hangs slightly open as he skates by the bench of his teammates, giving them all a half-hearted fist bump, he can’t believe it either.

Soon the celebration in the arena is over, and both teams line up at center ice again to resume play. The Thunderbirds are going to fight, there’s no doubt about it—there’s only five minutes left in the third, and they’re trailing by a goal now. But James can’t find it in him to worry. He’s so proud of Sirius that nothing else in the moment seems to matter.

I told you, he thinks, gazing at his best friend through the screen, they aren’t going to know what hit ‘em.

❅ ❅ ❅

Regulus’s smile after Sirius’s first goal is scored doesn’t last long.

He’d watched intently as the entire sequence had played out from start to finish—he’d seen Sirius leaving the penalty box and racing for the puck, taking off like a shot and effortlessly netting a goal that even Regulus knows is beautiful.

And he’s happy for him. Really, he is. But he’s bitter too. He isn’t even bitter with Sirius—he’s bitter with himself, and he can never feel something without feeling everything. He’s happy, yet it’s too much to be able to stay that way.

He has no idea why he’s like this. No idea why even good things upset him, why he can’t just cast the awful aside like a normal person would. But he’s always been this way—he either feels nothing, or he feels everything. It’s why he and Sirius have never gotten on the way two brothers properly should; there probably isn’t a single happy moment they’ve shared in the past several years that Regulus hasn’t managed to turn bitter simply by existing. And it makes him miserable to be around.

It’s how Regulus ruined what little was left of their relationship the night before Sirius left, and why he hasn’t attempted to fix it. If he reaches out, he knows he’ll just become angry again, and then Sirius will be angry too because all Blacks share the same short temper. Everything will only get worse, so Regulus doesn’t bother. He doesn’t think he‘ll ever bother again.

Instead, he will sit on the sidelines, where he cannot do any more damage, and he will learn to watch.

Except Sirius doesn’t know that Regulus is watching right now. And Regulus will never tell him. Even though their last night together was wasted in tears and frustration, Regulus watches anyway. Like Sirius will know that he’s doing this, and everything will be alright again.

But there’s no fixing this—not now. Regulus has started watching far too late, and Sirius doesn’t care where his brother’s eyes look anymore.

I’m watching now, Sirius, Regulus thinks, his eyes never leaving the jersey with the number 13 on the back. I’m watching now.