Game Day
You’re at MoDean’s the other day after a long day of chorin’ with your best buds… And you’re thinkin’ how your love life’s been drier than that mud puddle in Josiah’s yard in the sunniest patch of the place. Then when you get to thinkin’ about that, bout your love life bein’ drier than dirt, you get distracted by some rowdy fuckin hockey players from the wrong part of the world comin’ in MoDean’s.
And then you see a man who didn’t have no business being so pretty, and then you started thinkin’ maybe you needed a cold brew to let that one marinate, because…
Well, fuck. A man bein’ pretty, a stick no less, is the kinda thing that’s almost not worth even thinkin’ about.
Almost.
*****
It was brilliant getting to convert all his energy, all his pent up anger, all his physical abilities in to a sport that he was just good at.
Harry was finally thriving at something that had nothing to do with his name and everything to do with his skill. It had been a fluke when he found the sport, just something he’d watched some muggle bloke do after they met in a pub one night, but then he invited Harry on the ice and taught him the basics.
Harry hadn’t fallen in love with the bloke, but he had the sport.
Sure, flying through the air was thrilling, but flying on his skates across the ice as he chased the puck and just beat the hell out of anyone that stood between himself and his goal?
It was like combining being an auror with playing quidditch and Harry bloody loved it.
He loved it even more when he was riding the high of a good win with his team, bonding over their match, being absolute loud, obnoxious, giddy idiots.
“Next round’s on Potter!” Adams shouted.
“Potter! Potter!” The other guys cheered, laughed, and clinked empty lager mugs in the pub they were celebrating their win at. The pub, much like the team they’d just demolished, wasn’t anything special really. Just another small town in a foreign country with weird music and an odd name.
MoDean’s, the sign said.
“Calm down, you lot,” Harry laughed. He pushed himself up to his feet, bearing the laughter of his teammates with easy grace when he stumbled a bit. “Shots or pints?”
‘Shots!’ was the resounding response.
Harry was grinning like an idiot as he bypassed some blokes in tank tops on his way to the bar. He paused, recognizing one of the two of them.
“Oi,” Harry offered his hand and a cheery smile, “good game, mate.”
The bloke he recognized was a beefy, broader guy with sandy blonde hair that hit his shoulders. He looked up at Harry with a grin that quickly melted away for a scowl when he saw Harry’s jersey.
“Not interested, buddy,” he snapped, crossing his arms petulantly.
His friend, the bloke with the blue tank top and shaggy black hair, also crossed his arms. “Not cool, buddy,” he told Harry. “Made us look like a couple ‘a cock jockeys with sticks out there and now you come waving a hand out, lookin’ like you’re sellie snipe hunting?” He made a sound like a cough except not quite, “Not cool, buddy.”
“A real kick in the nackers, bro,” the blonde quipped.
Harry was bewildered, he barely understood what had just happened, but he shrugged and pulled his hand back, sticking it in his pocket. “Alright then, if you guys wanna grab a drink, my mates and I are gonna be here for a bit.”
Harry gave them one more friendly, ‘sorry I kicked your sorry teams arse, but not that sorry’, smile and approached the bar.
Mistake, apparently.
“Well, lookie what we have here,” the bartender, a dark skinned woman with wild eyes and what seemed to be a permanent leer on her lips, purred at Harry. “A nice stack of tall, pale and…” She leaned across the counter to sniff Harry.
She actually sniffed him.
In his sweaty hockey jersey.
“Britishhhh,” she purred.
A bloke sitting at the counter, tall guy, short dark blonde hair, eyes pointed at the back of the bar, spoke up then, saving Harry from having to find a way to respond to that.
“Why don’t we take about 20% off the top there, Gailer, and you get this guy a Puppers?”
‘Gailer’ pouted at the man even as she leaned as far over the counter as she could toward Harry, terrifying him if he were honest.
It was one of the many reasons why Harry took the jokes and comments about his pretty blatant preference for men in stride, women were terrifying and Harry wanted nothing to do with them.
“What’s a puppers?” Harry asked the man, inching away from the creepy woman.
The man groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. “Christ Almighty…”
“Puppers is the best brew you’ll ever find,” Gailer said. She licked her lips slowly, eyeing Harry like he was a drink and she was dying of dehydration. “Course if you really wanna get wet and satisfied, I can take you out back and see if your stick can land in my goal.”
“Er…” Harry swallowed and wondered if all Canadians were so uncomfortable to speak with. “Just… just twelve shots of scotch, please?”
“And get him a Puppers, on my tab, please’n’thanks,” the man sitting at the counter said, rushing the last three words together until they sounded like a single word.
Harry smiled gratefully to the bloke sitting at the counter when ‘Gailer’ blew Harry a kiss and moved on.
“Thanks, mate,” Harry said. He offered his hand, side eyeing the flannel shirt that strained around the man’s well defined muscles. “Harry Potter.”
It was a never-ending marvel to Harry that he could travel anywhere he wanted in the muggle world, hold his hand out, use his full name, and nobody gave a damn. The few times it had been recognized, it was only by diehard hockey fans.
And the one odd squib on that team in Finland, but he hadn’t made a fuss.
It was one of the reasons why, despite a lot of lucrative offers, Harry didn’t want to leave the travel team. He’d been headhunted by other teams, and Merlin knew his friends all wondered when he’d settle down, but at only 22, this was the most fun Harry had in his entire life and he wasn’t willing to give it up without a damn good reason.
The man turned in his seat and Harry bit back a further grin at the clean cut of the the man’s face. He was rather attractive in a rugged sort of way.
“Wayne,” he said, firmly shaking Harry’s hand. “Now normally I don’t interfere with Gail’s right to find love, even if it’s with a sweaty stick, but a man also has the right to a cold brew after a hard day if he wants it.”
Since Harry understood maybe one in every three words that Wayne said, he furrowed his brow and nodded slowly.
“Right,” he said lamely. “Well I appreciate it. I told the guys I’d get a round of shots. Streatham,” he explained, gesturing to the team, “you watch much hockey?”
“When it ain’t a bunch’a tits and dinks, I do,” Wayne said with a drawl that Harry couldn’t help but grin at.
Harry nodded appreciatively to the bartender when she slid a tray with his drinks on it. Thankfully, she was distracted by a couple of greasy looking blokes who came in the pub and didn’t interrupt again with… with whatever the hell it was she’d been doing.
“Well your team bloody sucks,” Harry said with a playful intent. “Letterkenny Irish? Pft,” he waved his hand airily, “A-level, my arse.”
Wayne didn’t grin, but his jaw relaxed, and Harry got the feeling it was a similar sentiment. He did turn in his chair to stare at Harry, and Harry rather liked his blue eyes.
“Okay, Harry. Harry, okay,” Wayne bobbed his head a bit. “I reckon you’re sayin’ your team’s not just a buncha degens with sticks?”
Harry didn’t know what ‘degen’ meant, but it sounded like an insult, and his team was brilliant.
“I reckon they’re not,” Harry grinned. He stuck his knee on the barstool and leaned on the counter, enjoying the banter with Wayne. “If you like hockey though, and want to see your team lose again, we play again on Sunday?”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed even more, causing them to look like two slits on his chiseled face.
“I don’t go to matches no more, on account of those ball tuggin’ tits over there.”
Harry followed Wayne’s quick flick of his eyes to the two blokes from the Letterkenny team that he’d tried to chat with.
“Er… yeah, they’re a bit odd,” Harry shrugged. He grabbed the tray when he saw one of his teammates flagging him down. “You change your mind though, I’m number 97.”
Harry gave him one more smile, his eyes lingering perhaps a moment too long, before walking off to rejoin his teammates.
*****
“Those ain’t your barn clothes,” Daryl said immediately when Wayne came down the stairs of his house.
Technically, technically, it was Wayne and Katy’s house and Daryl lived there off and on, but everyone knew Katy was made for somethin’ special, somethin’ away from the farm and their hometown.
And Darry just couldn’t hold his fuckin’ brew.
Katy and Dan looked up at Wayne when he joined them in the dining room, feelin’ a bit hot around the collar at their looks. It wasn’t appropriate to just go about questionin’ a man on his clothes right out in public.
“Slow your sled there, Darry,” Wayne said firmly. He stuck his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans and rocked back on the heels of his boots. “I don’t go wearin’ barn clothes when I’m not chorin’, it ain’t proper.”
“Where’s you headed then, Big Shoots?” Dan asked Wayne.
“Those are date clothes,” Katy said knowingly. She jumped to her feet and pointed an accusing finger at Wade. “You’ve got yourself a sweetie!”
“You pump your breaks too,” Wayne warned his sister. “I ain’t got no sweetie, I’m just goin’ to watch hockey.”
A silence hit their group and it was as if Wayne said he was movin’ on to the city instead of to the ice rink.
“Gonna catch flies with your trap open,” Wayne said after a long moment of his sister and buddies gaping like open mouth trout at him. “Well? Pitter patter, if yer goin’ with you ain’t goin’ in yer barn clothes.”
Katy lit up like she just won another spelling bee and the boys scattered like Wayne shot them with his old BB gun again.
Wayne sighed and went out to the porch for a dart while he waited.
Cause here’s the thing… Wayne don’t go to hockey matches on account of principle.
Katy’s sticks make him want to start swingin’ fisticuffs. Katy chirpin’ in the stands is funny as fuck all, but even before she started doin… whatever the fuck she’s doin… with her sticks, people chirp back at her. And Wayne damn sure ain’t ever gonna sit back and let his sister get chirped at. Then Katy gets all fired up that she don’t need his help, which she don’t, and it’s never a good time.
Which don’t explain why Wayne’s going now.
Except Wayne was personally invited by a fuckin’ pretty stick and Wayne ain’t never met a pretty stick before who looked and sounded like Harry and he worked real hard to forget that Harry is a man’s name because Harry is a man.
And Wayne ain’t no damn Sally. And all of Letterkenny knows he’s the toughest guy there, ain’t a damn thing 10-ply about Wayne, but…
But Harry had those big green doe eyes and Wayne’s seen him more than once since they met. He’s seen him laughing with his team of sticks and they’re always crackin’ jokes and bein’ loud as fuck all, and Harry ain’t the loudest, but it’s him who Wayne wants to look at.
Not look at like he’s sizin’ him up for a fight, but look at like he used to look at Angie.
So…
Wayne took a long drag off his dart.
So maybe he’s a bit of a Sally.
Everyone piled up in Wayne’s truck and they made it to the rink in time to grab a few drinks and stand for the anthem.
Katy took off quick as fuck to sit near the players bench and damn if Wayne didn’t want to follow her. Except he had principles so he didn’t.
He sat with his buddies and tried not to track number 97 too much.
Except 97 was chirpin’ and playin’ and everyone was talkin’ about him.
“That’s a bloody joke!” Harry howled at the ref when they made a call on a play about as clear as mud. Harry didn’t have a damn bit of fear in him- toughest damn stick on the ice- when he got in the refs face with his arm wavin’ like a windmill in September.
“Your mom’s a fuckin joke, tell her to quit callin’ me,” one of the Letterkenny players chirped as he skated right past Harry.
It wasn’t even a good chirp, but Wayne saw Harry’s face go all pissy as he turned to follow the guy and the game resumed.
“Ain’t he just a fuckin’ degen out there?” Squirrelly Dan snorted when 97 got a penalty for hittin’ one of Letterkenny’s players in the back of the knees with his stick.
“Thought I saw the puck!” 97 yelled with a shit-eatin’ smug look.
Wayne was pretty sure it was the same player that just insulted Harry’s mama, so he figured the stick had it comin’.
Wayne drained his brew and crossed his arms. “Can confirm,” he lied to Squirrelly Dan.
97 was not a fuckin’ degen, he… well, fuck, Harry was a strikin’ sight out on the ice.
“I don’t know, I think he’s alright,” Daryl snickered. “They sure like talkin’ about him anyway.”
The announcer was commentin’ on 97 like there weren’t any other players and Wayne wasn’t sure they were wrong.
“Streatham player 97, Harry Potter, tears through the barn, biscuit in possession, woo-wee ain’t he fast? Ooh, taken to his knees by a dirty hit from Letterkenny player 8, Boomtown!”
“Dirty fuckin’ dink!” Wayne growled with his fists clenched tight.
Squirrelly Dan gave Darry a look behind Wayne’s back because their buddy ain’t quite commentin’ right.
Darry leaned back and looked over at Dan, his eyebrows wigglin’ like an eager caterpillar and his lips were all turned up in a dopey grin.
And damn if Dan knew how to interpret that sorta look.
He didn’t know how to interpret Wayne cheerins for the wrong team neither, but Miss Tricia at his Womens Study Class said it ain’t his problem to be interpretin’ everyone else’s problems, so Dan let it rest.
Bit of a Sally he might be, sittin’ in the stands moonin’ about after some stick with an accent as charmin’ as sunrise, but Wayne ain’t gonna be soft about it when Letterkenny decided to try and take the best fuckin’ player on the ice off the ice.
“I’d have a dart,” he told his buddies shortly when intermission started and Wayne saw 97 skate right off the rink. Wayne saw when Harry’s face was all twisted up with anger, a bruise formin’ on his cheek, those doe eyes all hard as moss covered rocks. Wayne hadn’t shared a dart with him before, but he saw him slip out of MoDean’s on occasion, always comin’ back quick with a loose smile and the smell clingin’ to his curls.
And if Wayne just got pummeled on the ice by four yellow-bellied sticks too soft to do it without help, he’d be havin’ a dart during intermission.
“I’d have a dart too,” Daryl said, all chipper and jumpin’ to his feet.
“Wish you weren’t so fuckin’ awkward, bud,” Wayne grumbled as Daryl followed him through the stands and out the backdoor that Harry stormed out of.
“Whew, what a fuckin’ match.” Daryl didn’t pay attention to a damn thing when they went out back with the others lookin’ for a quick smoke. Daryl spit on the ground before he lit up and leant against the building, his eyes squinting at Wayne. “Those tea sippin’ sticks ain’t playin’ are they?”
Wayne hummed and furtively looked around before he found the tea sippin’ stick he wanted to have a word with.
“Sure ain’t, Darry, hold that thought.”
Wayne walked off while Daryl giggled to himself and watched his good buddy go talk with the reason he was pretty damn certain they were all at a rink that Wayne swore off years ago.
Wayne nodded at Harry when his head snapped up and those damned soft lookin’ eyes made him the whole focus of his attention.
Like that weren’t an improper feelin’ thing to do.
“Oi! Wayne, right?” Harry grinned like he was right pleased to see Wayne standin’ there in a flannel with a dart hangin’ between his lips. “I thought you didn’t go to hockey games?”
Now Wayne ain’t never been awkward a day in his life, but it felt right awkward bein’ looked at like he hung the sun just for showin’ up to a national sport.
“Well- fuckin’- I—” Wayne sounded as broken as McMurray and probably looked half as red in the face. “Your usin’ that stick when your fists work just as well,” he finally settled on.
Harry tilted his head to the side, lettin’ the sweaty curls on his head catch Wayne’s eye, and his smile grew. “I have to use my stick to hit the puck, otherwise it’s cheating, you see.”
Wayne spit on the ground to hide the smile tryin’ to make an appearance on his face.
“They’d lay off ya if ya just hit ‘em real good,” Wayne tried again. He nodded his head at the bruise that was gonna be purple by morning on Harry’s cheek. “Who gives a fuck about a penalty when they’re fuckin’ you up for sport?”
Harry scoffed and finished his half-smoked dart, flicking it out away from the crowd of smokers.
“They think if they get me out of the game, they’ll win,” he said simply.
Wayne don’t normally have much patience for arrogance, a man needs to be humble to be successful, but… but damn if it ain’t charmin’ as all gets out to hear Harry so simply sayin’ he’d take the hits cause it confirmed he’s the best on the ice.
It’s somethin’ the toughest guy in Letterkenny can respect in a stick.
“Don’t let ‘em,” Wayne said with a firm nod. He pointed his dart at Harry. “Ya already got two penalties. Go in there, hit number 9 as hard as ya can, with your damn fists, ya sweaty stick, and they’ll lay off ya some.”
Harry looked like he was a moment away from huffin’ out a laugh.
“If I hit number nine as hard as I can, with my fists,” he added with a tiny little smirk, “do you want to go get a drink after the game?”
Wayne rocked back on his heels, an old habit that was hard to kick when Harry just… well, damn, when he just asked somethin’ so simple it was like he didn’t give a damn ‘bout nobody hearin’ him.
Wayne took a last drag before flickin’ it off to chase Harry’s discarded dart.
“Proper thing ta do after a scrap is buy a man a drink,” Wayne told him gruffly.
Harry stretched and glanced at the doors where the crowd was headed.
“Is that a yes?” Harry asked.
And Harry didn’t look soft, not really, not besides the eyes. He had some black scruff on his face that matched his hair. His shoulders were broad beneath the gear, Wayne didn’t need fuckin’ glasses to see that. He had a few scars too, a big ‘ol one on his forehead like lightning.
He had a soft voice though, somethin’ kinda appealin’ about it. Somethin’ appealin’ enough that Wayne wanted to hear more of it.
“Can confirm,” he said.
“Brilliant,” Harry said, the sound all messed up with the damn accent that made him hard to understand at times. “I’ve got a bloke to hit, game to win, and I’ll see you after.”
Wayne didn’t do more than blink twice and Harry walked past him, all graceful like the doe his eyes made Wayne think of, and went back in the building.
When Wayne ripped his eyes away from where Harry’s broad shoulders moved inside, they fell on Daryl.
Daryl who was grinnin’ like he just won the fuckin’ lottery.
“Yeeew,” Daryl whistled like some upcountry degen when they joined the crowd to move back in for the second period. “97’s a fuckin’ dandy, ain’t he?”
Wayne settled his features in a firm frown and didn’t bother dignifyin’ Daryl’s words with a response.
Harry was a bit of a dandy though, with his black curls and neatly trimmed facial scruff and the damn accent that made everything he said sound so fuckin’ proper.
“What were the two’s of you talkin’ about out there?” Daryl asked when they settled back on the bench and accepted two brews from Squirrelly Dan. Katy had joined as well and had her feet propped up on the seat in front of them and leaned forward with an intense look in her eye- Katy’s huntin’ look, if Katy went huntin’.
“The two’s of who?” Dan asked Daryl.
“Wayne and ninety-seveeeen,” Daryl sang, as if he were some sort of kindergartener puttin’ on a show for his grandparents.
Wayne stared straight ahead, watching the last few seconds of intermission count down, and Katy caught the scent of his discomfort.
“The Irish don’t have a ninety-seven,” she said slowly. “Were you talking with Streatham’s player?”
The buzzer sounded and Wayne didn’t reply. Katy never could mind her own business. Though, to be fair, to be faaaiiir, Wayne’s business was typically Katy’s business.
Just not this time.
Katy squinted hard at Wayne’s clenched jaw and narrowed eyes before shrugging her shoulders and turning her attention back to the rink.
“LET’S SEE SOME MOVES, BOYS!” she yelled down at her sweaty-stick-duo. “GET A DUB!”
Wayne scowled when dink-and-dinkier looked up all moonstruck at his sister, their hands waving like a couple of school girls.
His scowl lessened just the teensiest little smidgeon when 97 sent him a tiny salute before flying across the ice.
“Big brother… who invited you to the game?” Katy asked real slow. Katy ain’t real slow though, Katy’s real smart. Smarter than Wayne, smarter than pert near every person in Letterkenny. So if Katy was actin’ slow, then it was just an act and she already knew.
“His name’s Harry and he ain’t half-bad,” Wayne said firmly. “And I ain’t gotta explain myself to you.”
Dan saw Miss Katy lean back to share a grin with Daryl.
Katy held a fist out that Daryl bumped with his own and Dan’s brows twitched downward.
He just didn’t quite understands what everyone was goin’ on about with Wayne today, but…
Dan took a deep breath and put his hands flat on his knees when he turned back to the match.
As Miss Tricia would say, it ain’t Dan’s problem.
“Yes!” Wayne let out a quick cheer, easily hidden beneath the boos from the home team fans, when 97 skated up to player 9 and ripped his mask off before hittin’ ‘em right in the teeth. Whoever the fuck was number 22 on the Letterkenny team jumped in and started a tilly that had Harry swingin’ like a man on a mission. Wayne hadn’t been entirely certain before then about who 9 was, but he’d been hopin’ it was Tyson when he told Harry who to hit, and he’d been right.
“What the fuck did Tyson do?” Katy hissed at Wayne when Harry accepted the penalty and skated to the box with an arrogant toss of his head to compete with any thoroughbred stallion.
And fuck if that ain’t a good comparison once Wayne made it.
“If I were 97, I’d hit the biggest tit fucker on the other team to keep from gettin’ jumped again,” Daryl answered Katy factually when Wayne didn’t. “It ain’t advanced algebra there, Katy-Kat, ‘s just scrappin’ on ice, ain’t it?”
“Oh I thinks it’s a bit more than scrappin,” Dan said with a tug on his coverall straps. “Some of these players makes it look like a real dance with their fancy footworks.”
“Soft as fuckin’ 2-ply there, Squirrelly,” Wayne muttered. He smirked a small amount when he saw Tyson was bleedin’ and shufflin’ off quick like to the bench.
Harry hit hard.
And…
Fuck.
Wayne started wonderin’ if he’d win a fight against Harry, he thought he would, and then it sorta twisted to thinkin’ about wrasslin with Harry and wonderin’ if he’d mind if Harry took his shirt off like Katy’s hockey-nutsacks were always doin’.
Wayne shifted uncomfortably on his seat and crossed his arms.
He kinda doubted if he’d mind that at all, which made him feel like a bit of a Sally.
Best not to think about it.
*****
Harry had screamed himself hoarse, celebrating with his team after their win.
He was bloody sore, but damn if that stopped him from accepting the pounds on the back from the blokes on their team as they congratulated him on scoring the majority of their points.
“Bloody undefeated!” Their coach, a strict but fair bloke named Sam, crowed jubilantly. “RED HAWKS!”
“RED HAWKS!” The team screamed back.
“DRINKS ON ME!” Coach Sam yelled.
“DRINKS ON COACH!” The guys yelled back with whoops.
Harry laughed as he shed his gear, brushing off the invitations of his teammates. “Er… I’ll meet you there. I’m just gonna get a shower real quick,” he said evasively. He grabbed his green bag, the one that held his extra clothes, wand, and shower stuff.
“Got a hot date, Potter?” Adams chuckled.
“Hell yeah he does, he had some fit country looking bloke sniffing around when he was having a fag earlier,” Kennedy chuckled with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Or perhaps a jealous glint, since Kennedy and Harry used to hook up before Kennedy turned in to a prat about Harry kicking his arse in the league.
“Having a fag helped catch one, eh?”
Harry’s smile turned stiff at Michelson’s quiet joke, but he relaxed when Adams shoved the git in the metal locker by his head.
“Michelson wishes someone would stick something up his arse, help dislodge the stick,” Adams said, causing the others to laugh. A few of them avoided eye contact with Harry as they changed out of their gear (as if Harry wanted to see their hairy arses), but most of them continued to chatter about the game with him. Aside from a few prats, nobody gave a damn what Harry got up to in his spare time as long as he kept being the best forward on their team.
Harry hadn’t felt so accepted by a group of teammates since he had been a first year at Hogwarts and flew with the Gryffindor’s.
After a quick shower, and a quick text to Hermione, letting her and Ron know he won (he’d be getting messages every thirty minutes if he didn’t update them), Harry checked his appearance once more.
It was just a drink, but… but Harry was still riding the high that the win always brought and he thought perhaps Wayne had looked more than a bit interested when he instructed Harry on which bloke to hit.
Harry didn’t have a ton of experience, but he had enough to know when a bloke was interested and he felt more than half certain that Wayne had been interested.
So Harry ran a hand through his wet hair, debating on just casting a quick drying charm and discarding the idea immediately as it always made him look poofy. He smoothed down the clean and snug maroon tshirt it was a bit too chilly to really wear and grinned nervously in the mirror.
Hermione and Ron always said they hardly recognized Harry, with his contacts and muscles and generally well-fed and trained body, but Harry liked how he looked for once. In fact, Harry liked Harry for once. Something Hermione noticed in the little news clippings he’d send back to his best mates on occasion.
‘You look so confident.’
‘You look fit as fuck,’ Ron said bluntly.
Hermione had smacked him, causing Harry to roar with laughter from his end of the video call they’d set up.
‘Ronald!’
‘It’s true!’ Ron whined. He waved a hand at Harry. ‘When’s he ever looked so good?!’
Never.
So if Harry wanted to go have drinks with a fit muggle with a chiseled jaw, then it was better to do it when he was riding a confidence high before he crashed alone back in London when their team returned for the season.
Harry no more than stepped outside, his duffel over his shoulder, shivering slightly in the cool air, before he was confronted.
“Hey, you!” A man stormed up to Harry and it took him a moment to place him. He had on a red and black sweat suit and had short dark hair that stood up in all directions, as if he’d been tugging on it. It was the look of anger on his face that sparked Harry’s memory.
“Coach,” Harry said with a polite nod of his head. He put his hands in the front pocket of his jeans and watched the Letterkenny coach huff and cross his arms.
“Good game,” Harry said lightly.
“It was fuckin’ embarrassing,” the man spat. He looked mad enough to start throwing punches and Harry tensed in anticipation.
It used to bother him, all the fighting in the sport he loved, but Harry had become a pro at taking punches (literal ones from his uncle when he’d hit his teens, metaphorical ones from life… basically for seventeen years straight) a long time ago. It took a bit of time to get comfortable hitting back, but Harry preferred to keep violence on the rink.
Which didn’t mean this bloke could take his loss out on Harry though.
“It’s April,” the coach said apropos of nothing.
Canadians were mad, in Harry’s opinion.
“Last month was March,” Harry agreed with a small mocking drawl in his tone.
The man’s scowl deepened, clearly unappreciative of Harry’s quip.
“Season’s dyin’ down,” he said after a deep breath that seemed to calm him enough to allow Harry to relax. “You got a wife and kids waitin’ on ya back home?”
Harry nearly laughed at the idea.
“No,” he said, definitely amused by that point. “I don’t.”
“Good.” The coach finally held a hand out to Harry, proving that not all Canadians were entirely mad. “You know what else is fuckin’ embarrassing? Your salary. Let’s talk.”
Harry arrived at MoDean’s an hour later, a spring in his step, a new idea playing in his mind.
The pub was rather packed. There was a twangy song playing over the speakers, some country song Harry didn’t know but certainly seemed to fit the little pub. In the back, there was a rowdy group of blokes that Harry thought might be the Letterkenny hockey players playing pool with a brunette girl in short shorts sitting on a stool barking orders at them. Harry could see his own team sitting on the opposite end of the building, sharing drinks and laughs. Scattered at the tables through the pub were a visual mismatch of people. Some blokes in country-looking flannel shirts, some blokes dressed in black with hair greasy enough to rival Snape’s, and a few others that looked normal enough to not stand out in the eccentric groups.
And at the bar counter, Harry could see Wayne’s firm back beneath the blue flannel he wore. He sat between a bigger bloke in a ballcap and overalls and a skinnier bloke with a white t-shirt and light brown curls. The seat between Wayne and the bigger bloke was empty, so that’s where Harry walked with as much confidence as he could.
Wayne turned as Harry approached, as did the two blokes he sat with, and nodded at him.
“Harry, how are ya now?”
Harry grinned hesitantly as he shrugged. “Good,” he said truthfully before tacking on a polite, “and you?”
Wayne’s eyes seemed to gain some sparkle in them at Harry’s response.
“Not so bad,” he said. “Good game today.”
“Great fuckin’ game,” the skinny bloke said with a wide smile. He held a hand out for Harry, “Daryl.”
“Dan,” the bloke in the hat and overalls said after Harry introduced himself to them both. He tipped his hat at Harry, “Yous a hell of a skater, Mister Harry, and that’s what I appreciates about you.”
“Dan,” Wayne growled, “why don’t we take about 80% off the top there, Big Shoots?”
Harry leaned a knee on the open barstool and did a subtle sweep for the creepy bartender while Wayne and Dan seemed to be having some sort of silent argument with their eyes. He didn’t see Gail anywhere, but there was a bloke mixing drinks in a shaker with what seemed to be a lot more swings of his hip than was strictly necessary.
Harry wondered if he could order a pint from him without wanting to shower afterward as he typically did every time he had to interact with Gail.
“I think I’ll just have one more then Dan can give me a ride back,” Daryl said abruptly, breaking the silent stare-off between Wayne and Dan. “Good buddy,” he nudged Wayne with his shoulder, “another?”
“I could have another,” Wayne said. He subtly kicked the barstool Harry had been leaning on with his boot. “Harry, a shot?”
“Need a shot after a game like that,” Daryl said sagely with a tiny grin. “The way you took those hits? Yew.”
Harry sat down and tried to at least look modest while Dan reached over the bar, snagged a bottle of amber liquid, and poured four shots.
“Those guys weren’t too bad,” Harry said with a smirk. He accepted his shot with a nod. “We played these blokes in Bulgaria once and I got my arse beat. Two broken ribs and my nose,” he said with misplaced pride. “I don’t really care to fight much, but it’s part of the game.”
Wayne squinted at Harry quickly before turning back to the wall across from them.
“Yew,” Daryl said again with a giggle. He raised his shot glass. “Have at ‘er buddy.”
Harry took his drink when the others did, but he felt rather out of place as the three of them simultaneously tapped their empty glasses twice on the counter before Dan and Daryl got to their feet.
“Harry,” Daryl nodded at Harry, “Wayne,” he nodded at Wayne.
It was awkwardly quiet for a moment after Daryl and Dan abruptly walked off. Wayne cleared his throat and gave Harry a sideways look.
“You don’t look like your nose has been broke,” he said flatly.
“Hmm?” Harry spun his empty glass around in his hands. “It has,” he said truthfully. “Four- no, five times now.”
He’d almost forgotten Draco Malfoy stomping on his face back when he’d been sixteen.
“It ain’t crooked,” Wayne said.
Harry grinned at him. “Were you looking?”
Harry’s redirect worked when Wayne averted his eyes back to the wall and it seemed like his neck turned a dusty red color.
It wasn’t as if Harry could admit he’d used magic to make sure he didn’t have a crooked little bump in his nose as so many of his teammates and opponents sported. It was a bit vain, shallow really, but Harry didn’t care to be missing teeth or have a messed up nose if he didn’t have to. His teammates just thought Harry was the luckiest bloke in the world.
“Well d’youwannaknowwhat…” Wayne turned clear in his seat to face Harry. He put his hands on his legs and stared Harry down.
It was a bit disconcerting to be the sole focus of Wayne’s gaze. He… he was an intense seeming person, but Harry didn’t feel intimidated. He just arched a brow while Wayne seemed to be sizing him up.
“I ‘spose I was lookin’,” Wayne told Harry. “You hit Tyson right proper and I think I promised ya a drink and a man ain’t nothin’ if he don’t keep his word.”
Harry was rather pleased that his assessment of Wayne’s interest had been spot-on.
“I think your mate already stole me one,” he said as he pointedly spun the shot glass again.
Wayne’s lips twitched and he looked down the bar to where the man in the white button up shirt and black tie was gushing about something to a girl in a low-cut black shirt and a patient look on her pretty face.
“Glen’ll charge our tab,” Wayne said. He reached across the bar with a practiced ease and grabbed two bottles of lager. He popped one open on the bar counter and handed it to Harry. “Good brawl,” he said before popping his bottle open and taking a drink.
“Bloody great brawl,” Harry agreed after his own swig. “You were right too, I only caught a few cheap shots after hitting that bloke.”
“That’s cause those nutsacks don’t know how to play proper,” Wayne scoffed, causing Harry to laugh at his crude insult. “Worst damn team in the NHL.”
“No hometown pride in your team then?” Harry grinned. He glanced over where the ‘worst damn team’ was still playing pool and watched them thoughtfully. “And I dunno, I think they’ve got room to improve.”
And they had a decent salary too, nearly double what Harry made along with a promotion, which had almost been cause to give up traveling for the three-year contract he had just been offered.
“Need a fuckin’ miracle for them to win a game,” Wayne muttered.
“Bit of magic, then?” Harry said wryly, mentally laughing at his own jest. It was a point of pride for Harry, being good at living in the muggle world while keeping connected to his magical roots. He never truly mixed the two worlds, never using magic in his muggle life and never letting his muggle career leak to the magical world. But a bit of magic might be an understatement for what that team needed when a fight seemed to break out between two of the Letterkenny players.
Wayne snorted when he turned to watch the fight. “Fuckin’ actin’ like a couple a degens,” he said. He looked over to where the bloke behind the bar with the tie was wringing his hands and bouncing from side to side as he watched the pub table by the hockey players get knocked over. “Glen, want me to get ‘em out?”
Glen, the bartender apparently, gave Wayne a smile like he’d solved all his problems.
“Oh, Wayne, would you just?” he said brightly. “I don’t want to interrupt your…” he waved a hand between Harry and Wayne while his lower lip stuck out in a pout, “time with your little friend.”
Harry got up when Wayne did, never one to stay out of a fight, and was caught by Wayne’s suddenly confused look.
“I thought you didn’t care much for scrappin’?” Wayne asked.
Harry kicked his green bag under the bar while Wayne unbottoned the wrists of his flannel and rolled his sleeves up—
Merlin.
He was fit.
“Er…” Harry blinked to focus on the question and not Wayne’s rather toned arms. “I don’t go around starting fights, but are you kicking their arses or kicking them out?”
Wayne turned to squint at the fight brewing in the back that had grown to include a few more jersey wearing blokes and the two in tank tops that Harry had met last weekend.
“Might be both,” he said factually.
Harry walked beside him in an easy stride.
“There’s quite a few of them, you might need help,” he said with what he hoped was a charming smile.
Wayne glanced at Harry and he had a peculiar mix of emotions in his eyes, even though his face remained stoic.
“‘Kay.”
‘Kay’.
*****
It ain’t proper to be scrappin’ with a sweetie. Any degen can tell ya that, but… but Wayne’ll tell ya what… if you ever find yourself in a scrap and you’ve got someone that might be a sweetie by your side grabbin’ sticks by their collars and tossin’ ‘em out on gravel, well…
Well somethin’ like that can change your opinion on scrappin’ with a sweetie.
Somethin’ like that can change your opinion on what kinda sweetie you had. Cause it was one thing to scrap with a buddy, and it was another thing to catch a right hook to your jaw cause a toned arm throwin’ a fist distracted you just a mo’.
Wayne stood outside MoDean’s, standin’ with Harry, after the two of them threw out all the sticks, aside from Katy’s dinks that scrambled out of the scrap quicker than a greased melon on a patch of ice.
“That was fun,” Harry said with a little tiny grin. He was a smartass, but Wayne could appreciate that in a feller. Wayne saw him pull out a cheap pack of darts from his back pocket. “You mind?”
Wayne clocked Harry’s bruised cheek, the small trickle of blood from where Joint Boy got ‘em with a sloppy aimed elbow (and weren’t that goin’ to merit a talk later?), and shook his head.
Didn’t mind one damn bit to stand out and cool down from a small tilly with Harry and share a dart.
“Reckon you’ll be leavin’ soon,” Wayne said after he flicked his lighter and held it out for Harry. Fucks sake, he was as soft as fuckin’ Darry doin’ shit like that. It seemed proper though, somethin’ he’d have done for Angie if she’d smoked.
“Mm, maybe for a while,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I might stick around a bit once I finish this season. I like traveling, but I had an interesting conversation with the coach for your team.”
“They ain’t my team,” Wayne muttered after lighting his own dart. Wayne had a lot of pride for his hometown, drug dealin’ skids not fuckin’ included, but he wasn’t dumb enough to be braggin’ on the worst damn team in the league.
Harry was a damn fine player, he’d be tyin’ himself down stickin’ around a place like Letterkenny where he’d stick out sore as a thumb when you try and build a new bookshelf two-sheets to the wind.
“No? What if they signed on a brilliant new forward next season?”
Now, Wayne wasn’t always great at pickin’ up the little jokes and tones people are always usin’ instead of sayin’ what they mean, but he didn’t need to look past Harry’s sparklin’ doe eyes to know he was bein’ teased just a bit.
Not that it mattered much, cause Wayne was nothin’ if not supportive.
“I could be convinced to watch hockey, if their team weren’t shit,” Wayne said. He let out a mouth of smoke away from Harry and propped one boot on the brick wall behind them. “Ain’t ya got anyone missin’ ya back home?”
Harry didn’t answer for a minute and Wayne was smackin’ himself somethin’ fierce for bringing’ up somethin’ that brought a little pucker to Harry’s eyebrows. Then Harry grinned, easy as fuck all to please apparently, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve got a few friends, my godfathers, godson, and a step-godmum,” Harry said. “I’ve got a cousin too, he’s real big in hockey, I send him tickets when I’m in the country. I visit when I can, but they all make do with seeing me in person off season.”
Wayne didn’t hear him list any parents, aside from whatever fuckin’ weird grouping made up ‘godfathers and a step-godmum’. Wayne wasn’t a judgin’ kind of man though, not when he’d had to beat more than a few beaks over Katy and her two dinks.
It weren’t like Wayne was dense enough to bring it up again though. If Harry said he wasn’t itchin’ to go back home, well, Wayne wouldn’t be packin’ his bags would he?
“I never traveled much,” Wayne admitted. “Quebec’s bout as far as I go, and that’s just for fishin’.”
Harry’s smile never seemed to dim, he was bright as the damn sun and it burned just as hot when he turned that smile on Wayne.
“I never traveled at all until I was seventeen,” he said. “I spent a year camping with my best mates and then decided to keep it up after we finished school.”
Wayne didn’t have much to add to that, since he didn’t do any campin’ that didn’t involve fishin’ and he didn’t do any travelin’ that wasn’t strictly for business. He didn’t mind hearing Harry talk about his travels though. Especially when it only took a couple ‘a questions to get Harry all wound up and spillin’ stories.
And if Wayne thought his accent was endearin as a newborn calf and the way he used his hands to tell a story was bout as funny as Darry after one brew too many, well, nobody could hear Wayne’s soft thoughts, could they?
“I’m sorry.” Harry ran a hand through his curls after finishin’ up a story bout gettin’ snowed in during a game weekend in Sweden. “I’m doing all the talking,” he said. “Tell me about you?”
Wayne hesitated. He wasn’t much of a talker, and he didn’t usually have to be. He spent his whole life in the same small town, interacted with the same people every day, did the same chores on the same farm since he could walk. He wasn’t out travelin’ the world, making buddies everywhere he went.
“Wayne’s not much of a talker.”
Wayne ain’t never been so grateful for Katy nosin’ in situations that don’t involve her any until she came sauntering around MoDean’s with a smile like a cat with a rat.
“Wayne, how are ya now?” Katy ignored Wayne’s reply when she turned to Harry and offered him a hand. “Katy, Wayne’s sister.”
Harry wiped his hand on his jeans before shaking Katy’s hand properly.
“Harry Potter,” he said. He shoulda sounded all wrong, introducing himself proper like that, but it fit him.
“I know,” Katy said with that same smirk. She shot Wayne a look over her shoulder, ignoring the warning in Wayne’s eyes. “You beat my boys pretty bad tonight,” she told Harry. “It was fucking embarrassing.”
“For them,” Harry said all lazy and cool.
Katy threw her head back and laughed before stealing a pupper from the 2-4 Wayne had gotten from his truck while Harry talked earlier.
“Your team left ya behind while you were out here gabbing with Wayne,” Katy told Harry. “Where you boys staying at?”
Harry named off a motel bout 40 klicks outside of town and Wayne and Katy both groaned.
“Not the Buggy Best,” Katy said disapprovingly.
“The Icky Inn,” Wayne added.
“The Critter Cabin.”
“Rotten Resort?”
Wayne and Katy both paused their chirpin’ to look at Harry, Harry with his face all shy and nervous after he added his own chirp.
“Okay, Harry. Harry, Okay.” Wayne tried to twist his lips in some sort of a smile, somethin’ like what Harry wore so easily. Except it wasn’t easy for Wayne, who didn’t go around just smilin’ like the sun.
“Soft as a fucking kitten there, Champ,” Katy mumbled under her breath. “Harry, what times your bus leaving tomorrow?”
“Ten.”
“Perfect.” Katy smiled all sweet as honey. “You can stay with us tonight and big brother here can give you a ride back in the morning.”
Wayne woulda scolded his sister for sayin’ somethin’ so inappropriate, but he couldn’t find the words to do so when Harry smiled at him, all warm and soft lookin’ like that’d just make his whole night.
If a man needs a place to stay, you give him a place to stay.
And if Wayne and Harry ended the night hosed and sharin’ a quilt on Wayne’s sofa and Wayne had been soft as a Sally when he’d brushed Harry’s curls back and tested out a kiss, well… it almost wasn’t worth thinkin’ about.
*****
Harry’s team finished the season out strong. They’d barely missed qualifying for the Stanley Cup, a bitter loss, but one Harry wasn’t chuffed over as he’d received a handful of contracts from other teams.
Some paid double what he made on Streatham’s team, some offered him a nice variety of positions and promotions to choose from.
None interested him as much as the simple contract he carried in his binder from the Letterkenny Irish.
“Canada,” Sirius repeated during their annual ‘Welcome Home Party’ he insisted on holding every year when Harry’s team had a month off before training started up.
Almost everyone had left the Black-Tonks-Lupin-Potter house (a mouthful that Sirius got a kick out of repeating constantly), aside from Ron and Hermione, and Harry had just finished filling his family in on his idea now that the party had died down.
Harry didn’t care for an entire party centered around him as Sirius tried to pull, but he did enjoy seeing all his friends and family at once. It meant he could relax for a week and not have to make house calls and visit everyone.
“Canada,” Harry confirmed. He focused on shrinking down his hockey stick from the season for Teddy, as he did every year, and ignored Sirius and Tonks sharing a bewildered look.
As if Harry moving to Canada to play for a home team was somehow more peculiar than whatever odd setup Sirius, Tonks, Remus, and Teddy shared. Harry used to wonder if Remus felt like a hockey puck himself, going between Sirius and Tonks all the time, then he’d just accepted it as their normal and tried not to wonder at the specifics too much (but there were seven nights in a week, so did Remus just sleep on his own once a week so neither Tonks nor Sirius felt left out?).
“What’s in Canada?” Remus asked curiously. He smiled when his son brandished Harry’s hockey stick with all the grace you’d expect from a four year old and moved quickly to protect a nearby lamp from becoming a casualty.
“Geese and fit blokes,” Hermione said. She sat on the sofa, all curled up in Ron’s side, and smirked at Harry’s exasperated sigh.
“Fit blokes?” Tonks grinned and waggled pink eyebrows at Harry. “Somehow you forgot to mention that in your stories.”
“He always does,” Sirius laughed with a fond look at Harry.
“Do you really want to hear about Harry shagging a bunch of blokes in different countries?” Hermione asked Harry’s godparents.
“Not in front of Teddy we don’t,” Remus said hastily. “Why don’t I take him up for a bath while you guys talk?”
Harry gave his godson a hug and promised to take him skating the next day then waited until he and Remus were out of earshot to start up.
“First off, I don’t shag a bunch of different blokes,” Harry scowled at Hermione.
“He does,” Ron cut in with a chuckle. “Harry got all fanciable and decided he’d start sleeping with any bloke missing his front teeth.”
“That was one time!” Harry denied hotly. “And Leon had front teeth, they were just, er… fake,” he finished lamely while his family laughed like idiots at him.
“Besides,” Harry sniffed and tried to look haughty and insulted, “Wayne doesn’t play hockey.”
“Ooh,” Sirius and Tonks cooed simultaneously at Harry.
“Wayne, he says,” Sirius said with a flutter of lashes.
“And Waaaayne doesn’t play hockey,” Tonks said brightly. She leaned towards Harry with a smile, “So what does Waaayne do?”
Harry became suddenly fascinated by the label on his bottle of butterbeer while Hermione and Ron, who had already suffered through hearing about Wayne for over an hour last night, snickered.
“He’s a farmer,” Harry mumbled. It wasn’t embarrassing, Wayne being a farmer. Honestly, Harry thought it was incredible. He’d gotten to see Wayne’s farm the morning after he stayed with him and his sister and Harry’d been fascinated. It held all the charm of the Burrow while being actual functioning. And Wayne basically ran the entire operation himself, which Harry thought was rather brilliant.
Truthfully, Harry thought Wayne himself was rather brilliant. He had been quiet on the night they got drinks, but he’d talked much more the next morning when Harry followed him around the farm while he worked before he gave Harry a ride to the hotel his team stayed at.
They’d parted on rather friendly terms. Aside from some heated snogging, there’d been no promises for the future, no last minute declarations of love; just an exchange of cell phone numbers and a mutual hope that there’d be room for something between them when/if Harry came back to town.
They’d exchanged a few texts in the month Harry had been gone. Harry sent him a photo of London, Wayne sent him one of a newborn baby cow. They’d had a few phone calls, one where Wayne admitted he’d been keeping up on the few games Harry had played since leaving Letterkenny.
Also, Wayne sent Harry a message every morning, without fail, at ten am Harry’s time. It wasn’t anything profound, just a ‘Morning’, but Harry enjoyed the ritual all the same. Especially since he’d checked the time differences and knew Wayne sent it at five his time, which meant texting Harry was the first thing he did after waking up.
So, no, Harry wasn’t embarrassed about what Wayne did for a living or about Wayne at all really. Harry just knew that Sirius was going to give him shit and he’d rather not listen to it.
Sure enough…
“Harry, kiddo, I thought you said he’s a farmer,” Sirius said slowly. “As in… pigs and horses and animal shit.”
“Er… dairy milk, hay, and cow shit, mostly.”
Sirius blinked for a silent moment and then suddenly the room was filled the loud laughter of Sirius, Tonks, Hermione, and Ron.
“Laugh it up,” Harry said. He tried to scowl, but it was hard in the face of his family’s warm and infectious laughter. “Just for that, I’m not inviting you lot to come ride cows with me.”
Hermione laughed and reached over to pet Harry on the head condescendingly.
“Oh, Harry, Wayne’s going to have his hands full with making you a farmer, isn’t he?”
“Bets on Harry coming home next summer with a ruddy accent and smelling like cows?” Ron asked the others brightly.
“The real question is how long until Harry’s scared away another bloke with hockey talk?” Tonks grinned.
Sirius swatted her in the back of the head. “I like hearing Harry talk about hockey,” he said loyally. “I always knew he’d go pro.”
“You told me to quit faffing about with muggle sports and tryout for Pudmere,” Harry reminded his godfather drily.
“Reverse psychology,” Sirius said… seriously.
“Piss off,” Harry said with a shake of his head. “And just so you tossers know, Wayne likes talking hockey with me.”
“If he does now, he won’t after twelve hours of why Pablo Demitra is a dirty cheater,” Tonks said with a solemn shake of her head. She held a bottle up to the others, “To this poor farmer boy.”
“His name is Pavol, and he is a dirty cheater,” Harry muttered darkly while the others clinked to a mocking toast. Their toast didn’t really bother him though, Harry figured that if he went back to Letterkenny and he and Wayne became a thing, then they’d meet him next summer and they’d like him.
And Harry could talk Wayne in to letting Teddy ride a cow, which Teddy would probably love.
That night, before he went to sleep, Harry gnawed on an ink pen as he stared at the contract on his desk.
Harry loved traveling, he loved his team, but…
He signed his name at the bottom of the contract and smiled with satisfaction at it.
But maybe it was time to settle down, see if he liked living in a small town.
*****
Wayne sat back in his chair in front of the produce stand and felt pleased as a pig muckin’ in shit.
It was just the kinda day Wayne loved. The sun was shinin’, his muscles were sore in a comfortable sort of way, the chorin’ was done, and—
“If you were a pizza topping what would you be?”
Wayne worked real hard not to laugh out-loud, ‘cept it was just him and his sweetie sittin’ out front so there wasn’t anything stoppin’ him.
It shoulda been a fuckin’ soft term to use for Harry, considering he was a man and all, but Wayne had played with it in his head in the two months Harry had been gone and found he didn’t really mind it. And if anyone called Wayne or Harry a sally since Harry had been back in the last month and they’d started seein’ each other steadily, then they didn’t say it where Wayne could hear.
Wayne didn’t have no problems with showin’ anyone who asked that a fella could be a Sally and the toughest guy in Letterkenny.
“Harry, what?” Wayne asked after lettin’ out a small chuckle. He tilted his head down and squinted at where Harry sat on a little blanket on the ground, makin’ notes in a playbook.
Harry looked up and smiled that damn sunshine smile at Wayne, makin’ him feel warmer inside than the sun itself did.
“I said, if you were a pizza topping, what would you be? And if you don’t say cheese, then you’re wrong.”
“Now why the fuck would I be cheese?”
“Cause you’re always there, you’re dependable. You can’t have a pizza without cheese,” Harry said, serious as fuck all and eyes sparklin’ like a silent laugh.
“Well, fuck, d’you wanna know what? I reckon if I’m cheese, then you’re bacon.”
“Bacon?” Harry leaned back on the blanket, using his forearms to hold his torso up while he smiled up at Wayne all happy and content as Wayne was. “Why the hell would I be bacon?”
“Cause I ain’t never ordered a pizza without bacon,” Wayne said.
Harry’s eyes got all sweet as candy.
“Aw, Wayne, that’s the softest bloody thing you’ve ever said,” he teased him. “You’ve changed.”
“I have not.”
“Have so.”
“Have not.”
“You’ve changed so much, might as well call you the softest bloke in Letterkenny.”
“Suppose you don’t wanna come say that to my face.”
Harry perked up, energetic stick he was always lookin’ for an outlet to scratch his never-ending itches. People in Wayne’s town considered Wayne to be a source of stamina and energy, so he figured it only made sense he’d found a sweetie who was a bit of the same.
Harry always went runnin’ before sunrise, and he’d been showerin’ afterwards at Wayne’s recently. Technically, technically, Harry was rentin’ a place off Jerrod Fisher, but since he spent most of his free time at the farm with Wayne, they agreed it only made sense that he changed his runnin’ route to end at the farm.
After he showered, he rushed to help Katy with breakfast before takin’ off to the rink to train while Wayne and his buddies did their chorin’. Harry had helped a few times, when the rink was closed for repairs and he couldn’t practice. And even if Harry didn’t understand a damn thing about farmin’, something Wayne and his buddies were trying to fix, he was still as hard of a worker as any of them.
Wayne preferred when Harry saved his energy for some toe-curlin’ though, so he never gave him any chores too tough to handle. It didn’t hurt any that Harry was charming as any sunset when he drove the John Deere with the same sort of enthusiasm as Wayne used to have back when it was a treat and not just expected.
Most things Harry did were charming as fuck all, but Wayne wouldn’t be admittin’ that just then.
“Suppose you think I’m scared of you, love?” Harry said with those doe eyes battin’ away.
And Wayne didn’t call him sweetie in public, and Harry only called him love when they were alone, but fuck if Wayne didn’t like hearin’ it come off Harry’s accented and sharp tongue.
“Reckon you should be, on account of you bein’ scared of mice.”
Harry threw his head back, lettin’ the sun gleam off his dark curls, and laughed.
“It was a rat,” Harry argued after he finished laughin’.
Wayne waved his hand before grabbin’ a Puppers and offering the first one to Harry.
“You screamed like a Sally,” Wayne told him.
“It made a nest in my trainers!”
The two of them bantered back and forth a while, just the kinda way Wayne liked spendin’ his time, until they were interrupted by tires crunchin’ down the laneway.
“That’ll be Katy and the dinks,” Wayne scowled. The two of them watched in silence as the familiar red jeep pulled up by the drive.
“Great day for hay,” Katy said as a greeting when she climbed out of the jeep.
“Bloody excellent day for hay,” Harry agreed.
Katy looked between Wayne’s relaxed slump and Harry’s lazy sprawl slowly.
“I thought you were picking stones today, big brother?”
“Done,” Wayne said shortly.
“You’re done?” Katy sounded surprised, which wasn’t a real easy reaction to get from her.
To be fair, to be faiiiiir, it normally took more than a mornin’ to pick stones. Seemed as if some things were easier when your sweetie had magical charms as well as personality-like ones.
Which had been a fuckin’ shock to Wayne when he’d figgured it out.
Harry said he hadn’t been plannin’ on tellin’ Wayne just yet, on account of it being as illegal as shootin’ a whoopin’ crane, but when Rosie came runnin’ in the barn with her tail waggin’ and Harry’s wand in her mouth, he’d broke down quicker than a soggy box.
“Bit of a nasty surprise?” Harry asked, his voice so quiet and nervous it pertnear broke Wayne’s heart.
Wayne had blinked at him, blinked at the big silver buck he’d made to prove he wasn’t fuckin’ with Wayne and lyin’ about what one measly stick could do.
And Wayne had lived his whole life in the same small town, talkin’ to the same people, doin’ the same work every day. He’d grown to be respectable and respectful. But he’d already accepted some interplanetary shit when he’d started goin’ steady with Harry, so he figured it wasn’t nothin’ to have one more oddity betwixt them.
“Nope,” Wayne told him, not even lyin’.
Then Harry started sharin’ more about his life and Wayne had gotten so gone for him he couldn’t find his own head anymore.
And a lot of jobs couldn’t be done with magic, and Wayne wouldn’t use it if they could, because idle hands were a devils playground, but pickin’ stones? That could be done with magic, as Harry showed him, and it had left their whole mornin’ open for toe-curlin’ in the field under the sun.
“All done,” Harry said, smug as shit.
“More hands, less work,” Katy said with an easy shrug. “Be back, boys,” she called over her shoulder before runnin’ off to the house.
The nutsacks waited until Katy was good and gone before climbin’ out of their jeep and fixing stupid stares on Wayne and Harry.
One of them, Wayne couldn’t be bothered to learn their names just yet, smirked and nodded at them.
“Shirt tucker, shirt tucker fucker.”
Wayne cracked his knuckles and thought about uncuffin’ his sleeves, but Harry’s laugh stopped him.
Harry didn’t mind throwin’ a tilly on the ice, but he had the sharpest damn tongue Wayne had ever heard off the ice. Harry was a chirper, somethin’ that Wayne thought was funny as fuck.
“Oi, Reilly, quit texting me at night, I said I’m not interested,” Harry said, airily as the breeze blowin’ through the yard.
And Wayne would have cleaned both those dinks’ clocks then and there if he thought Harry wasn’t just chirpin’, but he saw the sparkle in those green eyes that had him relaxin’ in his chair with his hands behind his head and lettin’ his sweetie handle it.
“Fuck you, you tea sipping shit, I’m not texting you!”
Harry looked up from the notebook he’d been trackin’ plays in and looked so skeptical that Wayne coulda laughed.
“Seven texts last night, it’s awkward, mate. Maybe let Jonesy handle your business and leave me out of it, eh?”
“Maybe let Wayne handle your business and stay out of us!” The blonde stick said all puffed up like he thought he’d be scrappin’ with Harry.
He wouldn’t be.
If Wayne saw that stick make a move then he’d step in and remind them whose fuckin’ property they were standin’ on.
Chirpin’ with Katy’s dinks was practically tradition, and Wayne didn’t fucks with tradition, but he wouldn’t be sittin’ on his ass if a scrap broke out.
“Piss off, Reilly,” Harry told the blonde with a scoff. “Really, mate, if you need more than Jonesy can give you, you should hang around Glen, I think he’d set you up right.”
Wayne tilted his face straight up to the sky so he could disguise his smile as a grimace against the light.
But, like… well, fuck. It was funny as fuck when Harry got goin’.
“Fuck you, Harry,” one of them said.
“10 points for being original,” Harry said, sarcastic as anything. He waved his hand, shooing them away. “Some of us are trying to win the Stanley Cup this year.”
“You didn’t win it last year,” the one with the dark hair and dumbass sunglasses said as he crossed his arms and his buddy nodded by his side. “Real kick to the nackers, buddy, getting so close and losing?”
“Must be a real blow to your ego,” the other one added.
“Mm, got a damn sight closer than you did, suppose I’ll sleep just fine.”
Wayne kept smilin’ up to the sky when the chirps turned hockey related. Harry had gotten damn close to the cup last season, and for some fuckin’ reason, he thought he’d give up a fanatic team like he had for little shit hole Letterkenny.
“And you, of course,” Harry said, casual as crocs, when Wayne mentioned it the day they’d been moving Harry’s boxes in his little one bedroom trailer.
Harry was 10-ply soft sometimes, and Wayne appreciated it about him.
Wayne waited until Katy took off with her dinks, both of ‘em spittin’ mad after goin’ ten rounds with Harry’s smartass, to speak up.
“Gonna be a rough day tomorrow for ‘em,” he said carelessly.
“Suppose so. I’ll remind them at practice in the morning that they called their new forward and assistant coach a… what was it, love?”
Wayne looked down at Harry’s eyes, sweet as could be, and smiled just a smidge.
“Assistant Coach Shirt Tucker Fucker,” Wayne said.
Harry nodded and then rested his head on Wayne’s leg, turning those lips up in a smile of his own when Wayne put his hand in his soft black curls.
“Assistant Coach Shirt Tucker Fucker,” Harry repeated. “It’ll be brilliant. I’ll get a picture of their faces for you.”
And if there was anything in the world that could make Wayne happier than he was just then, it was picturin’ Katy’s dinks finally meetin’ Harry in his new spot on their shitty little team.
“You do that, sweetie.”