[hockey] there we were, waiting - p.k. subban/john tavares
Sometimes, the only thing you can do is navigate the world the best you can.
there we were, waiting
p.k. subban/john tavares
1300 words
fakefakefakefakefake.
-
we were sixteen, maybe less, maybe a little more
i walked home smiling, i finally had a story to tell
- iron & wine, 16, maybe less
one.
P.K. calls John early on a Thursday morning. When John picks up on the fourth ring, P.K. blurts out, “I don’t want to be in love with you anymore.”
“Um,” John says in a long drawn-out syllable, like he isn’t quite awake yet. He probably isn’t. “What?”
Patiently, P.K. repeats himself while staring at a fixed point on the other side of the kitchen in his Montreal apartment. The paint’s peeling a little.
“I know,” John says, his voice small. And then, uncertainly: “But I don’t know if it works that way.”
-
two.
They are nineteen years old before they learn to drive. John passes his test first: he lauds this over P.K. for days, weeks. At the intersection, John cranks up the music, some shitty country station that John says he hates but probably secretly loves.
“Fuck you,” P.K. flips him off, grinning. “Drive,” he says.
And John does.
-
three.
There’s a litany of text messages in P.K.’s unsent folder, all of them with the recipient name JT. Each of them says something mundane and likely unimportant. He files away stupid things he wants to tell John - he’s finally learned how “Pie IX” should be pronounced and he’s found the greatest fucking poutine place in the city; P.K.’s got a favourite café, a favourite bar, and a favourite Japanese restaurant, too.
He takes these little things: tells John, you wouldn’t believe where I am, when what he really wants to say is I wish you were here.
-
four.
John and P.K. first meet when they are four years old, but they don’t remember that. They are twelve when they play on a team together for the first time.
At sixteen, they fall in love, though neither of them knew it at the time.
-
five.
Being in love, P.K. decides, is fucking horrible.
It means that P.K. doesn’t really give a shit when John calls him a comforter hog and denies that he’s a fucking blanket stealer. It means that P.K. wouldn’t, can’t, stop it, even if he wanted to. It means that P.K. has crazy urges to call John before and after his pre-game naps, just to see how his day’s going twelve hours away.
-
six.
When they are eighteen, John turns to P.K. one night and says I love you. P.K. smiles and turns away, because he doesn’t know how to respond. Months later, John casually mentions that what he really meant to say was I trust you.
Both of them know that he is lying.
P.K. leans in closer, until their foreheads are almost close enough to touch. “Yeah, JT, I know,” he says. “I’ve known for a really long fucking time,” soft enough that it could mean I love you, too.
-
seven.
They go home to Toronto for the summer. P.K. plays baseball and John plays lacrosse; they both play street hockey. They sneak liquor and steal kisses, ducking so they are hidden beneath the bleachers of the local baseball diamond, because they are young and reckless and by some unwritten universal code, that makes it all right.
-
eight.
In the end, there is no singular moment that can be pinpointed - there is no one instance that can be isolated: yes, this is why we are no longer together.
They still go out for drinks whenever John’s in Montreal, whenever P.K.’s in Long Island. Conversation still feels easy, but it also feels different and they both know it. They BBM and they still play pick-up in the summer. John goes back to New York early because he’s the face of his fucking franchise. By the end of the year, P.K.’s dating this grad student who goes to McGill.
(Seriously? John says, when he picks up the phone, his voice tinged with amusement and something that P.K. can’t quite identify because he’s never heard that in his voice before.)
-
nine.
There have been girls, and even a guy, since, but John is the first person P.K. ever had sex with. It happens because there’s no reason for it not to happen. It’s sloppy and messy; it’s embarrassingly quick (though, by virtue of being young, they’re able to go at it several more times that afternoon) and definitely not like any porno P.K.’s ever watched.
It’s not even all that awkward or anything, afterwards: they’re just kind of lying there, and then John starts laughing and of course that’s catching, because then, P.K. starts laughing too, and that’s when he knows that everything’s going to be okay.
The sex with John never gets amazing or anything, but it’s always fun. Sometimes, instead, they lie on top of the sheets in John’s childhood bed in Mississauga and lazily make out for hours:
“Oh shit, this is so gay,” John says when they pause for a moment, noses still touching.
P.K. scrunches up his face. “Wanna stop?”
“Fuck no,” John admits and, grinning, leans forward again.
One time, P.K. absentmindedly curls his hand against John’s: their fingers interlock as they lie there, staring at the ceiling and not saying anything at all.
-
ten.
When John speaks, it’s always slow and deliberate: this is the thing that P.K. remembers most clearly about John and, afterwards, what he finds himself missing the most about him.
Years later, John says on the phone, carefully, “You know, sometimes I think that maybe we were too similar in all the wrong ways.”
And then: “I still wouldn’t have changed it for anything.”
-
eleven.
John is telling a story at the Subban dinner table because P.K.’s mom invited him over: some stupid story in his low, careful voice about something or other that they did at development camp a few years back. They’re all laughing - P.K.’s parents and all his siblings, even Jordan which is rare these days because he’s at that age where teenage boys don’t laugh at anything - and suddenly, P.K. knows for certain that, one day, John’s stories will all be about somebody else.
-
twelve.
They’re in Pardubice: it’s almost game time and John’s nowhere to be found. Coach is flipping the fuck out, but Halischuk, fucking Halischuk, who is not as stupid as he looks, just glances across the dressing room to where P.K.’s taping up his stick, waddles over in his skates and quietly tells P.K. to go find John.
When P.K. finally does find him, he’s outside on one of those balconies. He’s lit up by the arena lights, a weird yellow glow against the night time backdrop. It’s snowing a little and there’s a dusting of it in his dark hair.
“JT,” P.K. finally says, hoping his voice is steadier than it feels. He takes a step forward toward John. “You okay, buddy?”
John’s got this funny little smile on his face; turns to P.K. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says, like he really means it. “Just thinking.”
“Well, don’t think so hard: you might hurt yourself,” P.K. tells him. “We should get back inside anyway. Coach is about to have a fucking shit fit.”
He half expects John to flip him off, but he doesn’t: instead, he steps closer and then leans over and kisses P.K.
It’s not their first kiss, and it won’t be their last, but here in Pardubice for a moment, no one is watching them and everything is quiet save the humming of the arena’s heating system. John fists the back of P.K.’s hoodie, like everything will be lost if he doesn’t, and when they finally pull away from each other, both of them grinning widely, P.K. thinks that this is what a singular moment of perfect happiness must be.
P.K. can’t be sure that this moment really happened, but, looking back, it feels so real that it has to be true.
[end]
there we were, waiting
p.k. subban/john tavares
1300 words
fakefakefakefakefake.
-
we were sixteen, maybe less, maybe a little more
i walked home smiling, i finally had a story to tell
- iron & wine, 16, maybe less
one.
P.K. calls John early on a Thursday morning. When John picks up on the fourth ring, P.K. blurts out, “I don’t want to be in love with you anymore.”
“Um,” John says in a long drawn-out syllable, like he isn’t quite awake yet. He probably isn’t. “What?”
Patiently, P.K. repeats himself while staring at a fixed point on the other side of the kitchen in his Montreal apartment. The paint’s peeling a little.
“I know,” John says, his voice small. And then, uncertainly: “But I don’t know if it works that way.”
-
two.
They are nineteen years old before they learn to drive. John passes his test first: he lauds this over P.K. for days, weeks. At the intersection, John cranks up the music, some shitty country station that John says he hates but probably secretly loves.
“Fuck you,” P.K. flips him off, grinning. “Drive,” he says.
And John does.
-
three.
There’s a litany of text messages in P.K.’s unsent folder, all of them with the recipient name JT. Each of them says something mundane and likely unimportant. He files away stupid things he wants to tell John - he’s finally learned how “Pie IX” should be pronounced and he’s found the greatest fucking poutine place in the city; P.K.’s got a favourite café, a favourite bar, and a favourite Japanese restaurant, too.
He takes these little things: tells John, you wouldn’t believe where I am, when what he really wants to say is I wish you were here.
-
four.
John and P.K. first meet when they are four years old, but they don’t remember that. They are twelve when they play on a team together for the first time.
At sixteen, they fall in love, though neither of them knew it at the time.
-
five.
Being in love, P.K. decides, is fucking horrible.
It means that P.K. doesn’t really give a shit when John calls him a comforter hog and denies that he’s a fucking blanket stealer. It means that P.K. wouldn’t, can’t, stop it, even if he wanted to. It means that P.K. has crazy urges to call John before and after his pre-game naps, just to see how his day’s going twelve hours away.
-
six.
When they are eighteen, John turns to P.K. one night and says I love you. P.K. smiles and turns away, because he doesn’t know how to respond. Months later, John casually mentions that what he really meant to say was I trust you.
Both of them know that he is lying.
P.K. leans in closer, until their foreheads are almost close enough to touch. “Yeah, JT, I know,” he says. “I’ve known for a really long fucking time,” soft enough that it could mean I love you, too.
-
seven.
They go home to Toronto for the summer. P.K. plays baseball and John plays lacrosse; they both play street hockey. They sneak liquor and steal kisses, ducking so they are hidden beneath the bleachers of the local baseball diamond, because they are young and reckless and by some unwritten universal code, that makes it all right.
-
eight.
In the end, there is no singular moment that can be pinpointed - there is no one instance that can be isolated: yes, this is why we are no longer together.
They still go out for drinks whenever John’s in Montreal, whenever P.K.’s in Long Island. Conversation still feels easy, but it also feels different and they both know it. They BBM and they still play pick-up in the summer. John goes back to New York early because he’s the face of his fucking franchise. By the end of the year, P.K.’s dating this grad student who goes to McGill.
(Seriously? John says, when he picks up the phone, his voice tinged with amusement and something that P.K. can’t quite identify because he’s never heard that in his voice before.)
-
nine.
There have been girls, and even a guy, since, but John is the first person P.K. ever had sex with. It happens because there’s no reason for it not to happen. It’s sloppy and messy; it’s embarrassingly quick (though, by virtue of being young, they’re able to go at it several more times that afternoon) and definitely not like any porno P.K.’s ever watched.
It’s not even all that awkward or anything, afterwards: they’re just kind of lying there, and then John starts laughing and of course that’s catching, because then, P.K. starts laughing too, and that’s when he knows that everything’s going to be okay.
The sex with John never gets amazing or anything, but it’s always fun. Sometimes, instead, they lie on top of the sheets in John’s childhood bed in Mississauga and lazily make out for hours:
“Oh shit, this is so gay,” John says when they pause for a moment, noses still touching.
P.K. scrunches up his face. “Wanna stop?”
“Fuck no,” John admits and, grinning, leans forward again.
One time, P.K. absentmindedly curls his hand against John’s: their fingers interlock as they lie there, staring at the ceiling and not saying anything at all.
-
ten.
When John speaks, it’s always slow and deliberate: this is the thing that P.K. remembers most clearly about John and, afterwards, what he finds himself missing the most about him.
Years later, John says on the phone, carefully, “You know, sometimes I think that maybe we were too similar in all the wrong ways.”
And then: “I still wouldn’t have changed it for anything.”
-
eleven.
John is telling a story at the Subban dinner table because P.K.’s mom invited him over: some stupid story in his low, careful voice about something or other that they did at development camp a few years back. They’re all laughing - P.K.’s parents and all his siblings, even Jordan which is rare these days because he’s at that age where teenage boys don’t laugh at anything - and suddenly, P.K. knows for certain that, one day, John’s stories will all be about somebody else.
-
twelve.
They’re in Pardubice: it’s almost game time and John’s nowhere to be found. Coach is flipping the fuck out, but Halischuk, fucking Halischuk, who is not as stupid as he looks, just glances across the dressing room to where P.K.’s taping up his stick, waddles over in his skates and quietly tells P.K. to go find John.
When P.K. finally does find him, he’s outside on one of those balconies. He’s lit up by the arena lights, a weird yellow glow against the night time backdrop. It’s snowing a little and there’s a dusting of it in his dark hair.
“JT,” P.K. finally says, hoping his voice is steadier than it feels. He takes a step forward toward John. “You okay, buddy?”
John’s got this funny little smile on his face; turns to P.K. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says, like he really means it. “Just thinking.”
“Well, don’t think so hard: you might hurt yourself,” P.K. tells him. “We should get back inside anyway. Coach is about to have a fucking shit fit.”
He half expects John to flip him off, but he doesn’t: instead, he steps closer and then leans over and kisses P.K.
It’s not their first kiss, and it won’t be their last, but here in Pardubice for a moment, no one is watching them and everything is quiet save the humming of the arena’s heating system. John fists the back of P.K.’s hoodie, like everything will be lost if he doesn’t, and when they finally pull away from each other, both of them grinning widely, P.K. thinks that this is what a singular moment of perfect happiness must be.
P.K. can’t be sure that this moment really happened, but, looking back, it feels so real that it has to be true.
[end]