(no subject)
Title: Hundred
Fandom: NHL > Boston Bruins
Characters: Tim Thomas, Glen Metropolit
Word Count: 1163
Rating: PG13 for implied slash themes. Relatively harmless.
I felt awful. He felt awful, undeservedly, and thus, I felt awful. I'd been on many teams before. Many, many teams. But none of those teams-not a one-had someone like Tim Thomas. A goalie who was so, so capable, but didn't show a single sign of cockiness. But that was only professionally. Personally? There was a whole different side to this man. Personally, he wasn't cocky at all. Actually, he was the exact opposite. Shy and full of heart and funny and friendly...the best friend I'd had on any team I'd been on. My kids called him Uncle Timmy, his kids called me Uncle Glen. Wherever we went on the road, it was always together. We'd traded roommates so we could bunk together. We basically defined the term best friends. But Tim alone? He defined something else.
Shy and smart, fun and funny, friendly and...many other things that really aren't appropriate for me to mention. Like the moments at the beginning of the season when we'd been on that long road swing early on in the season and he'd walked away from the lounge area where all the younger guys were drinking themselves idiotic (they called it team chemistry...ha). Well, we decided to be responsible adults together, and we'd spent that time working on building a bit of chemistry of our own.
It was safe to say that I knew Tim Thomas inside and out. Knew the things to make him laugh and smile, but also knew the things to make him sigh and moan. All those subtle nuances in the movements of my body to make him relax or tense at my beckoning. And he did for me. Most of the times that we spent alone together were happy in one way or another.
But as Tim sat on my couch that night, staring into his beer bottle absently, probably thinking about how the fans and the media had gone and done a one-eighty on him in less than a week for something that was as much anyone else's fault as it was his, this was the first time, since we'd met, that neither of us was smiling when we were together. Even in the beginning, when I'd been wanting-needing so desperately to make the cut and belong to a team for more than a half a season, he'd always been smiling, and confident. And so faithful in the fact that things would be okay.
Well, now it was time to pay the piper, I guess. The standardly optimistic, playful and friendly eyes of Tim Thomas had gone dejected and scared. I scooted closer to him on the couch and put a hand on his face. I had to admit, there was a strange domesticity to the way we were there alone. It was the first time, ever, that either of us had invited the other over when no one else was around. Not for lack of trying. But with wives and four six between us, alone time when we were in Boston was exceedingly difficult to find. With my hand cupping his cheek, I turned his attention toward me and looked at him for a second. Talk about your role reversal.
“What was it that you told me at the beginning of the season, Tim?”
He snorted a laugh, keeping his eyes (which held the look of an indignant teenager who wasn't going to rest until they got their way) from meeting mine until I cleared my throat. His attention jerked quickly up to my face and he let out a slight sigh. He knew what I was trying to get at, but I don't think he wanted to hear it. Which sucked for him, because I wanted to say it, and I knew that whether he wanted to or not, it was what he needed to hear. Still, even though his eyes softened, they went from that indignant teenager look, to that of a puppy who'd just been kicked. And it broke my heart.
“C'mon, Tim.”
He sighed again and I moved my hand down, putting my thumb and index finger on either side of his chin, keeping his eyes locked with mine still. I saw his resolve break a bit more, and he let out another sigh before speaking up.
“It's hard to keep it together when everything you've gotten used to seems to more or less be dissolving before your eyes, Glen...” he said. In private, we went from Timmy and Metro to Tim and Glen. It was kind of nice.
I released my hold on his chin and let his face fall again, looking at my own beer bottle and suddenly feeling like I needed to do more to bring his confidence back. I wanted to yell at the rest of the guys, too, because really, none of us did our part this past week. None of us...except him. But...there's only so much you can do when it's you and an army of guys who try half the time and give up when the odds shake a bit, facing off against three armies in a row who come prepared for an epic battle to shake the ages.
“I know. I do. But you know what? It's not the end. There are fifteen games left, Tim. I know it doesn't seem like a lot, but think about it. That's fifteen chances to remind yourself how amazing you are.”
“Were...”
“Are,” I insisted, gripping his shoulder and shifting a bit closer to him. “It's not over.”
He sighed and shrugged a little more, chewing on his lip. “It feels like it is.”
“But it's not, and you'll come back and be exactly what everyone else knows you can. And you know, deep down, that you can, too...”
I saw a forced smile cross Tim's face, like somewhere inside, he knew that my words were true, and I smirked in response. Especially when I heard him speak again. “Thanks, Glen,” he said, the tone in his voice, however, reminding me that I still had a bit of work to do.
I hated hearing someone as optimistic as Tim so down on himself. Hated it and wanted it to go away. “Hey, we have practice in the morning. Why don't we call it a night and maybe see if a good night's sleep won't help you feel better, bud?”
Tim shrugged and put his beer bottle on a coaster on the table, but I quickly collected it up and put it in the recycling bin in the other room. I saw that he was waiting against the archway that led to the staircase and hurried to guide him up to the bedroom, relishing the chance to be in his arms again, in our wives' absence. It was stolen moments like this, with Tim, that reminded me how alive I really was. And how glad I was to have ended up in Boston.
Fandom: NHL > Boston Bruins
Characters: Tim Thomas, Glen Metropolit
Word Count: 1163
Rating: PG13 for implied slash themes. Relatively harmless.
I felt awful. He felt awful, undeservedly, and thus, I felt awful. I'd been on many teams before. Many, many teams. But none of those teams-not a one-had someone like Tim Thomas. A goalie who was so, so capable, but didn't show a single sign of cockiness. But that was only professionally. Personally? There was a whole different side to this man. Personally, he wasn't cocky at all. Actually, he was the exact opposite. Shy and full of heart and funny and friendly...the best friend I'd had on any team I'd been on. My kids called him Uncle Timmy, his kids called me Uncle Glen. Wherever we went on the road, it was always together. We'd traded roommates so we could bunk together. We basically defined the term best friends. But Tim alone? He defined something else.
Shy and smart, fun and funny, friendly and...many other things that really aren't appropriate for me to mention. Like the moments at the beginning of the season when we'd been on that long road swing early on in the season and he'd walked away from the lounge area where all the younger guys were drinking themselves idiotic (they called it team chemistry...ha). Well, we decided to be responsible adults together, and we'd spent that time working on building a bit of chemistry of our own.
It was safe to say that I knew Tim Thomas inside and out. Knew the things to make him laugh and smile, but also knew the things to make him sigh and moan. All those subtle nuances in the movements of my body to make him relax or tense at my beckoning. And he did for me. Most of the times that we spent alone together were happy in one way or another.
But as Tim sat on my couch that night, staring into his beer bottle absently, probably thinking about how the fans and the media had gone and done a one-eighty on him in less than a week for something that was as much anyone else's fault as it was his, this was the first time, since we'd met, that neither of us was smiling when we were together. Even in the beginning, when I'd been wanting-needing so desperately to make the cut and belong to a team for more than a half a season, he'd always been smiling, and confident. And so faithful in the fact that things would be okay.
Well, now it was time to pay the piper, I guess. The standardly optimistic, playful and friendly eyes of Tim Thomas had gone dejected and scared. I scooted closer to him on the couch and put a hand on his face. I had to admit, there was a strange domesticity to the way we were there alone. It was the first time, ever, that either of us had invited the other over when no one else was around. Not for lack of trying. But with wives and four six between us, alone time when we were in Boston was exceedingly difficult to find. With my hand cupping his cheek, I turned his attention toward me and looked at him for a second. Talk about your role reversal.
“What was it that you told me at the beginning of the season, Tim?”
He snorted a laugh, keeping his eyes (which held the look of an indignant teenager who wasn't going to rest until they got their way) from meeting mine until I cleared my throat. His attention jerked quickly up to my face and he let out a slight sigh. He knew what I was trying to get at, but I don't think he wanted to hear it. Which sucked for him, because I wanted to say it, and I knew that whether he wanted to or not, it was what he needed to hear. Still, even though his eyes softened, they went from that indignant teenager look, to that of a puppy who'd just been kicked. And it broke my heart.
“C'mon, Tim.”
He sighed again and I moved my hand down, putting my thumb and index finger on either side of his chin, keeping his eyes locked with mine still. I saw his resolve break a bit more, and he let out another sigh before speaking up.
“It's hard to keep it together when everything you've gotten used to seems to more or less be dissolving before your eyes, Glen...” he said. In private, we went from Timmy and Metro to Tim and Glen. It was kind of nice.
I released my hold on his chin and let his face fall again, looking at my own beer bottle and suddenly feeling like I needed to do more to bring his confidence back. I wanted to yell at the rest of the guys, too, because really, none of us did our part this past week. None of us...except him. But...there's only so much you can do when it's you and an army of guys who try half the time and give up when the odds shake a bit, facing off against three armies in a row who come prepared for an epic battle to shake the ages.
“I know. I do. But you know what? It's not the end. There are fifteen games left, Tim. I know it doesn't seem like a lot, but think about it. That's fifteen chances to remind yourself how amazing you are.”
“Were...”
“Are,” I insisted, gripping his shoulder and shifting a bit closer to him. “It's not over.”
He sighed and shrugged a little more, chewing on his lip. “It feels like it is.”
“But it's not, and you'll come back and be exactly what everyone else knows you can. And you know, deep down, that you can, too...”
I saw a forced smile cross Tim's face, like somewhere inside, he knew that my words were true, and I smirked in response. Especially when I heard him speak again. “Thanks, Glen,” he said, the tone in his voice, however, reminding me that I still had a bit of work to do.
I hated hearing someone as optimistic as Tim so down on himself. Hated it and wanted it to go away. “Hey, we have practice in the morning. Why don't we call it a night and maybe see if a good night's sleep won't help you feel better, bud?”
Tim shrugged and put his beer bottle on a coaster on the table, but I quickly collected it up and put it in the recycling bin in the other room. I saw that he was waiting against the archway that led to the staircase and hurried to guide him up to the bedroom, relishing the chance to be in his arms again, in our wives' absence. It was stolen moments like this, with Tim, that reminded me how alive I really was. And how glad I was to have ended up in Boston.