Keep Me Close- Chapter I
Title: Keep Me Close
Team: San Jose Sharks
Pairing: Joe Thornton/Evgeni Nabokov
Rating: T for language and racism for now (NC-17 later)
Summary: A new year, new players and new coaches bring the Sharks from the brink of repeating the catastrophe that was the 2007-2008 season. Not all in San Jose is sunny as the path to the Stanley Cup proves to be as difficult as ever, and trusting each other is the first step to winning; as a center and goaltender soon realize.
Okay... First time posting anything on LiveJournal, and my first time writing slash. I am a dear fan, but I never thought I could never pull it off; but with the distinct lack of Evgeni stories anywhere, I knew I needed to post this.
There is a little bashing of certain teams, but I'll try not to make it too harsh *coughStarscough* but unfortunately my dislike will come up later.
And Red Wing fans, aka everyone apparently, if you liked your assistant coach last year and you don't like the way I portray him, then you need to wait and see if you like him later.
Enjoy and review!
-Chapter I -
“Ahhh… this bites,” Joe Thornton grumbled to himself. The ache in his back multiplied when he doubled over to quickly knead out a stinging knot in his calf. Practice had been more intense than he remembered from the last season, but then again the new coach could easily be the reason behind that. The San Jose Sharks first preseason practice was to say the least, fairly terrifying; if not downright horrible.
------
Skating onto the ice, Joe passed by his teammates, catching bits and pieces of their conversations while on his way to talk with the captain, Patrick Marleau, and starting goaltender, Evgeni Nabokov.
“No! Fuckin’ no, Mitchell. I swear I ain’t gonna miss this season, damn it!”
“You sure ’bout that? I mean one slip up and damn, you’re gone Ryane.”
“UGH, I don’t need dis kinda shit from you!”
“Hey, dude! I’m just sayin’ that it could happen.”
“Oh… my god guys, seriously. Shut up.”
A small chuckle passed his lips as Torrey Mitchell poked fun at Ryane Clowe and his injuries, while Milan Michalek rolled his eyes at the one-sided argument.
Next to the rowdy group, Jonathon Cheechoo, Jeremy Roenick and Mike Grier laughed as they shared their summers with each other. The rest of the team was clustered together in different groups on the ice.
Joe made his way through the crowd with “Hey man!” the occasional “How ya been?” and one “I’ve missed you, ya sonovabitch!” directed towards Jeremy. Finally spotting Joe, Patrick waved the center over, a broad grin plastered on his face and a small smile from Evgeni.
Finally maneuvering himself through his team, Joe slid to a halt, chuckling. “I’ve missed these days, eh?” He jerked his head back to indicate the white noise of his fellow Sharks.
The goalkeeper’s smile widened as he laughed with Joe. “Yeah, Iya couldn’t wait ta be bahck here, at, ah, San Jose; Iya juhst mhiss bein’ out on, ah, the ihce.”
Eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, Patrick whipped his head around to stare wide eyed at Evgeni. “Now who would’a thought! And ’ere I thought dat, uh, you hated it, yeah?” He quirked his lips when Evgeni’s eyes rolled skyward.
“Shuddup, ya know what Iya mean; Joe undherstood,” Evgeni sniffed, and then directed an expecting glare towards the center.
Taking his cue, Joe continued without a beat, “Course I do! I mean, uh, it’s where ya belong, right?”
Patrick’s shoulders sagged as the Russian acquired a triumphant smirk. “Now why ya gotta go and do that, eh?”
The comforting buzz of the team quieted the moment the new veteran defensemen skated out onto the rink with two of the coaches sauntering not far behind them. Joe Pavelski eyed both players and new management momentarily before returning to his hushed conversation with Jeremy Roenick. The team fell into an orderly line when the two intimidating men stepped out on the rink.
Todd McLellan barely scanned over the entire team before latching his hands behind his back smartly and cocking his head to the side. He turned toward Jay Woodcroft, his assistant, and muttered loudly enough for the team to hear, “No wonder they didn’t play my Reds for the cup.” Startled by the crude statement, Woodcroft shot a surprised glance from Todd to the team standing awkwardly before them and back.
Fumbling for words, he came up with a suitable explanation, “Hey, n-now Todd, they’ve beaten the Red Wings before haven’t they?” Jay defended the team while he raised a hand in a friendly gesture. “And I’ll be the first to admit that Ron was a little too detailed when it came down to a good old fashion hockey ga-”
“I didn’t ask for an excuse for their lack of abilities and experience.” McLellan interjected curtly, cutting Jay off with a sneer tugging at his upper lip.
Turning back to the Sharks, the team quickly hushed their whispers and straightened their postures. Stepping closer, Todd scrutinized each player head to toe. Marc-Edouard Vlasic even huffed out a sigh of relief when McLellan’s back was turned.
Nearing the end of the line, the coach paused before Evgeni. Pivoting his whole body to face the goalkeeper, a muscle jumped in his jaw as he ground his teeth together. He hissed out a deadly, “I don’t like the way you play, Commie,” before moving down the line of players again.
Obviously miffed, Evgeni shot a disgruntled glance to Patrick on his right; who looked equally irked. To the goalie’s left, Joe Thornton glared daggers into the back of the retreating coach, tightening his right hand’s hold on his hockey stick.
He returned to his spot next to Jay Woodcroft, who had not moved. The coach crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat. “Now I was hired cause you can’t do shit when the Playoffs roll ’round. And it’s damn embarrassing when number two in the West looks like a bunch of ten year old's with their sticks up their asses. When yer expected to win the Stanley Cup, yer gonna damn well win that cup!” McLellan paused, his face flush with anger and ran a hand through his hair.
“So, listen closely because this better be drilled into yer heads by this time the night is over; I didn’t leave the best team in the NHL to come coach some shit heads who don’t have their heads on straight the time it matters most! So God be dammed if you do that spectacle again; not I’m while I’m coaching you,” His rant officially angering the captain.
“Eh, not every team that wants ta win is gonna win coach! In case you, ah, haven’t noticed, other teams want it too.” Patrick nearly growled, trying his best to defend his team.
McLellan’s hands flew up in exasperation. “Fuck Marleau, then want it more! Yer not gonna win shit with that attitude. If ya play the way you’ve been playin’, obviously nothins gonna change! You’d still lose, and you’d still try the same thing the year after; getting nothing done. So when you wanna win, play my game. Defense is the key, and when you get that down, ya build up. Obviously ya didn’t get that last year, with Campbell doin all sorts of shit on da ice.”
Clamping his hands together, the coach starred into the eyes of each player. “Play to win, or don’t play for my team at all.”
Drills began the moment McLellan finished criticizing the Sharks but after Evgeni was pulled from the line; the former Red Wing beckoning him with an intimidating stone faced stare. Evgeni glanced to first Joe on his left, then Patrick, before realizing that the coach wanted to talk to him; and skated forward with a blank face. Jody Shelly whispered a muffled “yikes” which spurred a few nervous laughs around him; Joe silently thought the same thing.
------
Stepping back into the locker room, each man groaned in distress and pain. “My legs are fucking killing me!” Milan Michalek exclaimed with an exaggerated moan, while motioning wildly to his thighs. Mike Grier shot him a look of disbelief before smacking him upside the head.
“You have got to be kidding.” Mike snorted. “I won’t be able to move my legs for weeks!” He continued. The chatter of the team continued in the same manner as Thornton tuned them out to tend to his own sore legs. ‘Sure,’ he thought to himself as he removed his right skate with shaky hands, ‘the practice was intense, and I’ll sure as hell need a few Advil when I get home, but we are going to have to get used to it if we hope on getting further than the sixth game of the Stanley Cup quarter finals… again, just like McLellan said.’
The one thing that did bother Joe was the horrified look Evgeni gave him when he followed McLellan off the ice. Joe shivered despite himself; that look made Joe feel as if he was sending the terrified goalie into the starving lion’s den. What bothered him the most was the fact that neither Evgeni nor the head coach returned to practice in the span of three lengthy hours. Removing the rest off his gear, Joe quickly joined Patrick in the team shower. Glancing around to see if his other teammates were within hearing distance, he was thankful to see that most of them were still complaining about practice.
Letting the steaming water pound into his aching shoulders for a few minutes, Joe calmed himself enough and turned towards Patrick. “Uh, so what was that all about?” He asked in a hushed whisper.
The captain glanced over through his dripping wet bangs with a knowing look. He pondered on that while massaging his hand into the crook of his neck; Joe unconsciously doing the same thing. With a deep sigh, Patrick lifted his head to look Joe in the eye.
“Truthfully, I don’t know. Uh, none of us know much aboot McLellan, not even Doug, man. So maybe, ah…” He trailed off, looking deep in thought. “I understand the idea of a coach who knows what he’s talkin’ aboot, especially since they just won the cup. And Wilson was, eh… just an ass. But with the way he and Nabs hit it off… It just ah, I didn’t like it.” He finished in a rush.
Joe nodded in agreement, “Yeah.” Joe paused to slick his hair back out of his eyes. “Did you see that look he gave us? I felt like I just kicked a puppy-” Patrick’s eyes darkened, “-Or handed it over to the hungry lion, eh?” An inappropriate laugh bubbled up from Joe’s throat at his and his captain’s same thoughts.
Once dressed, Joe looked around to see that Evgeni had not arrived back with his meeting with McLellan. Most of the team began to pack up, some still complaining about coming back to this in a couple days. Patrick leaned over the bench and caught Joe’s downcast eyes with his own sparkling blue orbs. He just chuckled humorlessly and straightened his back with a loud pop, gaining a “nice one!” from Jonathan Cheechoo.
“I’m gonna wait for him.” Joe muttered quietly, so that only the captain could hear. Face set, Patrick nodded once and placed his left hand on Joe’s stiff shoulder. The touch of understanding lasted less than a couple seconds before it slid off and Patrick began heading towards the exit; Joe not once taking his eyes off his own white knuckles, clenched tightly in his lap.
The team filed out of the locker room, giving their goodbyes to Joe and the best of luck for their goaltender. Patrick gave one last smile to Joe before shutting the door behind him. Laughter echoed down the hallway, comforting the center. He closed his eyes to savor the sound as long as possible before the slam of the back door engulfed Joe in complete silence.
Leaning his weight against the wall that was devoid of lockers, Joe slid down into a crouch, cupping his scruffy face in his left hand, staring at the only door that led to and from the rink.
B-b-b-rup…………B-r-r-rup…………B-r-r-rup…………B-r-r-rup
Not ten minutes passed before Joe began drumming his fingers on his knee in utter boredom. Groaning to himself, the lonely man rubbed his tired eyes with his fingertips and dragged his hands down his face, pulling at his short beard. “I should really shave tomorrow…” Joe wondered out loud before nodding off.
Sounds of clumsy footsteps woke Joe from his slumped position against the wall, now even sorer than before. Taking his time to recollect his surroundings with sleepy eyes, a loud bang of a door opening forcefully woke the center up completely. Whipping his head around in every direction so fast, Joe was sure he gave himself whiplash.
The bathroom door slammed, echoing through the enclosed hallway of the locker room. Joe scrambled to his feet and reached the bathroom in a matter of seconds. He checked his cell phone’s clock as he pushed the door open with his hip. ‘Come on, stupid phone, turn on! Okay, hear we go… 11:56.’ His eyes widened almost comically, he had nearly been at the HP Pavilion rink for another five hours since the team left.
Acid overwhelmed the majority of Joe’s senses as he entered the bathroom, cringing at the pungent aroma while his eyes began to water. The sound of someone retching and coughing in a toilet reverberated off the tile ceiling, floor and walls. Waiting for the hacking to stop, Joe tried to find himself a comfortable position by crossing and re-crossing his arms while digging his heels into the sole of his shoes. The bile becoming too much for the bystander, Joe took to breathing through his mouth and relaxing his tight brow in order to calm himself.
The painful noises finally silenced after ongoing choking and gasping for the last- Joe checked his phone- seven minutes. Heavy, choppy breathing replaced the sick sounds echoing off the tiled space, suffocating Joe. Not knowing what to do, Joe leaned the backs of his thighs awkwardly against a sink, his brow furrowing again, despite his best efforts to keep a level demeanor. He waited until the uneven gasps for breath leveled and the ruffling of heavy clothing was heard.
The center rushed forward to claim the wall facing the only shut stall, staring at the thin blockade with a mixed feeling of apprehension, sadness and panic. Swallowing the lump in his throat that would not go away, Joe licked his lips and wiped his sweaty hands on the end of his shirt, not knowing what to expect.
The gaudy teal door swung open forcefully almost hitting Joe in the process; the hinges creaking in protest. Joe’s eyes snapped back open, ‘When did I close them?’ He thought to himself as he stared straight ahead; what he saw nearly made him sick.
Evgeni barely managed to stand before Joe still in his hockey gear and his feet skate clad. His body curled in on itself, his jersey soaked and hanging miserably off his body. Both his shoulders hunched forward making the goalie appear short and feeble compared to his normal six feet.
Each hand desperately grasped a side of the stall’s opening for support; it looked as if he would topple over any second. His head hung limply from his neck, which was doing a horrible job of keeping his head up. Ragged breathing could be heard escaping the Russian’s barely parted lips, which were ashen grey.
He managed to suck in more air through clenched teeth for his desperate lungs almost greedily, wheezing as he did so. His eyes were clamped tight and his brows furrowing together as if in immense pain.
Sweat beaded around his temple and forehead and making his lashes clump together, some perspiration still dripping down his absurdly pale face from the tip of his straight nose and chin. The dirty blond hair had taken refuge either plastered to the sides of Evgeni’s skull, or sticking up and defying gravity.
After a moment of stunned silence, the goalkeeper cracked open both of his eyes, revealing glassy crystal orbs staring straight into Joe’s own. Not a second later, the sapphires rolled into the back of his head and Evgeni’s body crumpled to the floor, not having the strength to stay conscious any longer.
Team: San Jose Sharks
Pairing: Joe Thornton/Evgeni Nabokov
Rating: T for language and racism for now (NC-17 later)
Summary: A new year, new players and new coaches bring the Sharks from the brink of repeating the catastrophe that was the 2007-2008 season. Not all in San Jose is sunny as the path to the Stanley Cup proves to be as difficult as ever, and trusting each other is the first step to winning; as a center and goaltender soon realize.
Okay... First time posting anything on LiveJournal, and my first time writing slash. I am a dear fan, but I never thought I could never pull it off; but with the distinct lack of Evgeni stories anywhere, I knew I needed to post this.
There is a little bashing of certain teams, but I'll try not to make it too harsh *coughStarscough* but unfortunately my dislike will come up later.
And Red Wing fans, aka everyone apparently, if you liked your assistant coach last year and you don't like the way I portray him, then you need to wait and see if you like him later.
Enjoy and review!
-Chapter I -
“Ahhh… this bites,” Joe Thornton grumbled to himself. The ache in his back multiplied when he doubled over to quickly knead out a stinging knot in his calf. Practice had been more intense than he remembered from the last season, but then again the new coach could easily be the reason behind that. The San Jose Sharks first preseason practice was to say the least, fairly terrifying; if not downright horrible.
------
Skating onto the ice, Joe passed by his teammates, catching bits and pieces of their conversations while on his way to talk with the captain, Patrick Marleau, and starting goaltender, Evgeni Nabokov.
“No! Fuckin’ no, Mitchell. I swear I ain’t gonna miss this season, damn it!”
“You sure ’bout that? I mean one slip up and damn, you’re gone Ryane.”
“UGH, I don’t need dis kinda shit from you!”
“Hey, dude! I’m just sayin’ that it could happen.”
“Oh… my god guys, seriously. Shut up.”
A small chuckle passed his lips as Torrey Mitchell poked fun at Ryane Clowe and his injuries, while Milan Michalek rolled his eyes at the one-sided argument.
Next to the rowdy group, Jonathon Cheechoo, Jeremy Roenick and Mike Grier laughed as they shared their summers with each other. The rest of the team was clustered together in different groups on the ice.
Joe made his way through the crowd with “Hey man!” the occasional “How ya been?” and one “I’ve missed you, ya sonovabitch!” directed towards Jeremy. Finally spotting Joe, Patrick waved the center over, a broad grin plastered on his face and a small smile from Evgeni.
Finally maneuvering himself through his team, Joe slid to a halt, chuckling. “I’ve missed these days, eh?” He jerked his head back to indicate the white noise of his fellow Sharks.
The goalkeeper’s smile widened as he laughed with Joe. “Yeah, Iya couldn’t wait ta be bahck here, at, ah, San Jose; Iya juhst mhiss bein’ out on, ah, the ihce.”
Eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, Patrick whipped his head around to stare wide eyed at Evgeni. “Now who would’a thought! And ’ere I thought dat, uh, you hated it, yeah?” He quirked his lips when Evgeni’s eyes rolled skyward.
“Shuddup, ya know what Iya mean; Joe undherstood,” Evgeni sniffed, and then directed an expecting glare towards the center.
Taking his cue, Joe continued without a beat, “Course I do! I mean, uh, it’s where ya belong, right?”
Patrick’s shoulders sagged as the Russian acquired a triumphant smirk. “Now why ya gotta go and do that, eh?”
The comforting buzz of the team quieted the moment the new veteran defensemen skated out onto the rink with two of the coaches sauntering not far behind them. Joe Pavelski eyed both players and new management momentarily before returning to his hushed conversation with Jeremy Roenick. The team fell into an orderly line when the two intimidating men stepped out on the rink.
Todd McLellan barely scanned over the entire team before latching his hands behind his back smartly and cocking his head to the side. He turned toward Jay Woodcroft, his assistant, and muttered loudly enough for the team to hear, “No wonder they didn’t play my Reds for the cup.” Startled by the crude statement, Woodcroft shot a surprised glance from Todd to the team standing awkwardly before them and back.
Fumbling for words, he came up with a suitable explanation, “Hey, n-now Todd, they’ve beaten the Red Wings before haven’t they?” Jay defended the team while he raised a hand in a friendly gesture. “And I’ll be the first to admit that Ron was a little too detailed when it came down to a good old fashion hockey ga-”
“I didn’t ask for an excuse for their lack of abilities and experience.” McLellan interjected curtly, cutting Jay off with a sneer tugging at his upper lip.
Turning back to the Sharks, the team quickly hushed their whispers and straightened their postures. Stepping closer, Todd scrutinized each player head to toe. Marc-Edouard Vlasic even huffed out a sigh of relief when McLellan’s back was turned.
Nearing the end of the line, the coach paused before Evgeni. Pivoting his whole body to face the goalkeeper, a muscle jumped in his jaw as he ground his teeth together. He hissed out a deadly, “I don’t like the way you play, Commie,” before moving down the line of players again.
Obviously miffed, Evgeni shot a disgruntled glance to Patrick on his right; who looked equally irked. To the goalie’s left, Joe Thornton glared daggers into the back of the retreating coach, tightening his right hand’s hold on his hockey stick.
He returned to his spot next to Jay Woodcroft, who had not moved. The coach crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat. “Now I was hired cause you can’t do shit when the Playoffs roll ’round. And it’s damn embarrassing when number two in the West looks like a bunch of ten year old's with their sticks up their asses. When yer expected to win the Stanley Cup, yer gonna damn well win that cup!” McLellan paused, his face flush with anger and ran a hand through his hair.
“So, listen closely because this better be drilled into yer heads by this time the night is over; I didn’t leave the best team in the NHL to come coach some shit heads who don’t have their heads on straight the time it matters most! So God be dammed if you do that spectacle again; not I’m while I’m coaching you,” His rant officially angering the captain.
“Eh, not every team that wants ta win is gonna win coach! In case you, ah, haven’t noticed, other teams want it too.” Patrick nearly growled, trying his best to defend his team.
McLellan’s hands flew up in exasperation. “Fuck Marleau, then want it more! Yer not gonna win shit with that attitude. If ya play the way you’ve been playin’, obviously nothins gonna change! You’d still lose, and you’d still try the same thing the year after; getting nothing done. So when you wanna win, play my game. Defense is the key, and when you get that down, ya build up. Obviously ya didn’t get that last year, with Campbell doin all sorts of shit on da ice.”
Clamping his hands together, the coach starred into the eyes of each player. “Play to win, or don’t play for my team at all.”
Drills began the moment McLellan finished criticizing the Sharks but after Evgeni was pulled from the line; the former Red Wing beckoning him with an intimidating stone faced stare. Evgeni glanced to first Joe on his left, then Patrick, before realizing that the coach wanted to talk to him; and skated forward with a blank face. Jody Shelly whispered a muffled “yikes” which spurred a few nervous laughs around him; Joe silently thought the same thing.
------
Stepping back into the locker room, each man groaned in distress and pain. “My legs are fucking killing me!” Milan Michalek exclaimed with an exaggerated moan, while motioning wildly to his thighs. Mike Grier shot him a look of disbelief before smacking him upside the head.
“You have got to be kidding.” Mike snorted. “I won’t be able to move my legs for weeks!” He continued. The chatter of the team continued in the same manner as Thornton tuned them out to tend to his own sore legs. ‘Sure,’ he thought to himself as he removed his right skate with shaky hands, ‘the practice was intense, and I’ll sure as hell need a few Advil when I get home, but we are going to have to get used to it if we hope on getting further than the sixth game of the Stanley Cup quarter finals… again, just like McLellan said.’
The one thing that did bother Joe was the horrified look Evgeni gave him when he followed McLellan off the ice. Joe shivered despite himself; that look made Joe feel as if he was sending the terrified goalie into the starving lion’s den. What bothered him the most was the fact that neither Evgeni nor the head coach returned to practice in the span of three lengthy hours. Removing the rest off his gear, Joe quickly joined Patrick in the team shower. Glancing around to see if his other teammates were within hearing distance, he was thankful to see that most of them were still complaining about practice.
Letting the steaming water pound into his aching shoulders for a few minutes, Joe calmed himself enough and turned towards Patrick. “Uh, so what was that all about?” He asked in a hushed whisper.
The captain glanced over through his dripping wet bangs with a knowing look. He pondered on that while massaging his hand into the crook of his neck; Joe unconsciously doing the same thing. With a deep sigh, Patrick lifted his head to look Joe in the eye.
“Truthfully, I don’t know. Uh, none of us know much aboot McLellan, not even Doug, man. So maybe, ah…” He trailed off, looking deep in thought. “I understand the idea of a coach who knows what he’s talkin’ aboot, especially since they just won the cup. And Wilson was, eh… just an ass. But with the way he and Nabs hit it off… It just ah, I didn’t like it.” He finished in a rush.
Joe nodded in agreement, “Yeah.” Joe paused to slick his hair back out of his eyes. “Did you see that look he gave us? I felt like I just kicked a puppy-” Patrick’s eyes darkened, “-Or handed it over to the hungry lion, eh?” An inappropriate laugh bubbled up from Joe’s throat at his and his captain’s same thoughts.
Once dressed, Joe looked around to see that Evgeni had not arrived back with his meeting with McLellan. Most of the team began to pack up, some still complaining about coming back to this in a couple days. Patrick leaned over the bench and caught Joe’s downcast eyes with his own sparkling blue orbs. He just chuckled humorlessly and straightened his back with a loud pop, gaining a “nice one!” from Jonathan Cheechoo.
“I’m gonna wait for him.” Joe muttered quietly, so that only the captain could hear. Face set, Patrick nodded once and placed his left hand on Joe’s stiff shoulder. The touch of understanding lasted less than a couple seconds before it slid off and Patrick began heading towards the exit; Joe not once taking his eyes off his own white knuckles, clenched tightly in his lap.
The team filed out of the locker room, giving their goodbyes to Joe and the best of luck for their goaltender. Patrick gave one last smile to Joe before shutting the door behind him. Laughter echoed down the hallway, comforting the center. He closed his eyes to savor the sound as long as possible before the slam of the back door engulfed Joe in complete silence.
Leaning his weight against the wall that was devoid of lockers, Joe slid down into a crouch, cupping his scruffy face in his left hand, staring at the only door that led to and from the rink.
B-b-b-rup…………B-r-r-rup…………B-r-r-rup…………B-r-r-rup
Not ten minutes passed before Joe began drumming his fingers on his knee in utter boredom. Groaning to himself, the lonely man rubbed his tired eyes with his fingertips and dragged his hands down his face, pulling at his short beard. “I should really shave tomorrow…” Joe wondered out loud before nodding off.
Sounds of clumsy footsteps woke Joe from his slumped position against the wall, now even sorer than before. Taking his time to recollect his surroundings with sleepy eyes, a loud bang of a door opening forcefully woke the center up completely. Whipping his head around in every direction so fast, Joe was sure he gave himself whiplash.
The bathroom door slammed, echoing through the enclosed hallway of the locker room. Joe scrambled to his feet and reached the bathroom in a matter of seconds. He checked his cell phone’s clock as he pushed the door open with his hip. ‘Come on, stupid phone, turn on! Okay, hear we go… 11:56.’ His eyes widened almost comically, he had nearly been at the HP Pavilion rink for another five hours since the team left.
Acid overwhelmed the majority of Joe’s senses as he entered the bathroom, cringing at the pungent aroma while his eyes began to water. The sound of someone retching and coughing in a toilet reverberated off the tile ceiling, floor and walls. Waiting for the hacking to stop, Joe tried to find himself a comfortable position by crossing and re-crossing his arms while digging his heels into the sole of his shoes. The bile becoming too much for the bystander, Joe took to breathing through his mouth and relaxing his tight brow in order to calm himself.
The painful noises finally silenced after ongoing choking and gasping for the last- Joe checked his phone- seven minutes. Heavy, choppy breathing replaced the sick sounds echoing off the tiled space, suffocating Joe. Not knowing what to do, Joe leaned the backs of his thighs awkwardly against a sink, his brow furrowing again, despite his best efforts to keep a level demeanor. He waited until the uneven gasps for breath leveled and the ruffling of heavy clothing was heard.
The center rushed forward to claim the wall facing the only shut stall, staring at the thin blockade with a mixed feeling of apprehension, sadness and panic. Swallowing the lump in his throat that would not go away, Joe licked his lips and wiped his sweaty hands on the end of his shirt, not knowing what to expect.
The gaudy teal door swung open forcefully almost hitting Joe in the process; the hinges creaking in protest. Joe’s eyes snapped back open, ‘When did I close them?’ He thought to himself as he stared straight ahead; what he saw nearly made him sick.
Evgeni barely managed to stand before Joe still in his hockey gear and his feet skate clad. His body curled in on itself, his jersey soaked and hanging miserably off his body. Both his shoulders hunched forward making the goalie appear short and feeble compared to his normal six feet.
Each hand desperately grasped a side of the stall’s opening for support; it looked as if he would topple over any second. His head hung limply from his neck, which was doing a horrible job of keeping his head up. Ragged breathing could be heard escaping the Russian’s barely parted lips, which were ashen grey.
He managed to suck in more air through clenched teeth for his desperate lungs almost greedily, wheezing as he did so. His eyes were clamped tight and his brows furrowing together as if in immense pain.
Sweat beaded around his temple and forehead and making his lashes clump together, some perspiration still dripping down his absurdly pale face from the tip of his straight nose and chin. The dirty blond hair had taken refuge either plastered to the sides of Evgeni’s skull, or sticking up and defying gravity.
After a moment of stunned silence, the goalkeeper cracked open both of his eyes, revealing glassy crystal orbs staring straight into Joe’s own. Not a second later, the sapphires rolled into the back of his head and Evgeni’s body crumpled to the floor, not having the strength to stay conscious any longer.