Keep Me Close- Chapter VII
Team: San Jose Sharks
Pairing: Joe Thornton/Evgeni Nabokov
Rating: PG-13 for language in this chapter
Note: (Hopefully) all of the spelling mistakes are intentional, and are there to show accents and to differentiate the characters. And marriages and girlfriends are non-existent for the main characters.
Summary: Not all in San Jose is sunny as the path to the Stanley Cup proves to be as difficult as ever, falling in love might be the simplest task on this year’s agenda.
Editor: brylinmoygyeroy (is amazing on so many levels)
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Disclaimer: Completely fictional story for non-fictional people
Chapter VII
Evgeni scrambled from his spot on the tub, unzipping his bag impatiently and pulling out articles of clothing one by one. With a blissful smile, he took his grey striped sweater and smothered his face with it. Into the clothing he mumbled “Iya’ve mhissed you so mhuch.”
Still mostly behind the door, Joe glanced awkwardly to the side. “Umm… do you two want a room-?”
The man hunched over the bag sighed in content and nodded or nuzzled his face into the clothing he was caressing with his hands. Joe began to close the door. “Okay… just… don’t take too long.” The door clicked shut and the two men were separated by a slab of wood.
Joe walked up to his bag and unzipped it, dropping his cell phone into a small pocket, then zipping it back up. “That was weird,” he mumbled to himself, and took his cotton shirt off the bed, holding it out in front of him. He examined it thoroughly and brought it to his nose. He sniffed it once and winced at the stench. "I'm sorry shirt, I just don't like you that much."
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Joe slipped the last button into the hole and he smoothed down the shirt with his palms. Inspecting himself in the mirror, Joe squared his shoulders, allowing the white cotton to fall flatteringly from his body. He saw the closed bathroom door through the mirror’s reflection and called loudly, “Ya almost done in there? Patrick’s waiting!”
A scuffle was heard from behind the door and Evgeni’s muffed voice replied, “Ghive mhe a mhinute!”
Rolling his eyes, Joe turned from the mirror and stepped towards the bathroom. “No more ‘one minutes,’ you’ve been in there fer five.” He approached the closed door and rested his hand on the cool metal of the knob. “Ya only have two pairs of clothes in there to begin with; this really shouldn't take you this long.”
Hurried padding of feet was heard, moving from one side of the bathroom to the other. Joe turned the door handle slowly and put his mouth up against the wooden barrier. “That’s yer last warning!” With that, he pushed his shoulder against the door and swung it open, bouncing it off of the towel rack with a ‘clang’ and hitting Joe’s outstretched hand.
Evgeni jumped around in surprise, his face half-smothered by his crumpled sweater.
His bare feet stood nestled in the rug, his brown, worn leather shoes set on the toilet seat beside him. He was wearing the same light-washed jeans as the day before, which hugged his hips just enough without a belt, but the denim hung down freely from there. The sweater that the flustered man was attempting to put on was caught under his arms while his limbs extended high in the air, trying to fit themselves into the sleeves.
Pale flesh expanded over Evgeni’s flat stomach, dipping from prominent hip bones and rising to stretch over his chest. A trail of light, wispy curls led from the zipper of his jeans, leading up to the slope that was his naval.
Joe’s eyes followed the path that the hairs created up Evgeni’s front. The expanse of milky skin was finally hidden beneath the folds of his sweater, which bunched just over his nipples and up to under his nose.
His chest expanded, and ribs separated and became defined through the flesh. A gasp of air traveled up to his lungs and a depression formed where no bones were set. Evgeni flailed his arms, and a hand appeared from a sleeve. Next, his chin forced itself through the collar, his lips parted, and he sucked greedily for air.
Joe smiled, cocking his head at the scene. He took two steps forward and found himself face to face/face to hair, what have you, with the shorter man. Evgeni pulled on the excess fabric to allow his left hand freedom while Joe ran his fingers through the Russian’s hair, adjusting the flyaway strands and making him somewhat presentable.
Evgeni flashed a brief half-smile of thanks and stretched his left hand above his head, shaking it from the confines of the sweater. Joe leaned over to grab the shoes on the toilet and looked back to see Evgeni adjusting the hem of his sweater over the waist of his jeans with both hands.
Passing the man his shoes, Joe hooked a finger into Evgeni’s collar. “Let’s go,” he stressed, pulling them both out the door.
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Patrick was tapping his foot on the carpeted ground, sitting on the lounge sofa and talking nonchalantly with a teenage boy who looked as though he would explode at any second. He nodded along with every word uttered from the captain’s mouth, his fingers twitching in his lap.
Catching sight of his teammates when they exited the elevator, Patrick waved in their direction with a smile. The young man turned as well and actually whimpered when Joe nodded to him. Patrick held his hand out to take Evgeni’s bag, an offer which he gladly accepted.
He shrugged off the strap that was slung over his right side, letting it slip down to his bent elbow. Evgeni offered the bag to Patrick, who released him of the heavy load then dropped it to his side in a heap.
Joe snickered when Evgeni grimaced at the poor treatment of his equipment. When distressed noise rose in the back of his throat, Joe’s carefully-masked humor bubbled into a loud laugh. The teenager jumped and stared wide-eyed at Joe’s splitting face.
Patrick paid no mind to the actions of the people surrounding him and slapped the boy on the shoulder instead.
Snapping out of his self-pity, Evgeni tilted his head to the side and eyed his captain’s face quizzically. “Whut-?” He began, gnashing his teeth in a troubled grin, waving his hand towards the black eye.
He looked to Joe for an answer when Patrick merely laughed at the mention of his bruise, and the boy beside him actually cracked a smile as well. But Joe could only offer a shrug in response, curious to know the origins of the black eye himself.
With new life in his eyes, the boy was the first to speak. “Patrick, uh, Mar- Mr. Patrick Marleau here- man! I-I didn’t see it but- UGH, last night! What I wouldn’t do to have been there…” His cluttered statement confused both men even more.
It was not a long shot to guess that the boy was a Sharks fan, a little shell-shocked and incredibly overwhelmed. From his pressed outfit, trimmed in a navy blue, Joe presumed that he worked at the hotel, possibly as a valet or at the front desk.
The boy’s face lit up with embarrassment, all of his words coming out in one jumbled mess. Pitying him, Patrick spoke up, “What he means to say is that last night…” He drifted off and smiled at the boy to continue.
The teenager took the bait and inhaled deeply. “Last night…” he began, much more calm this time. “Last night there were these two shitfaced guys, right?” He asked, skirting his eyes between Joe and Evgeni.
The Russian glanced at Joe questioningly, and he in turn mouthed the word “drunk” for translation.
The boy continued his rambling, oblivious to the quick exchange. “Well Mr. Marleau comes down here, and Mike- he’s the night shift bartender, says that he came down earlier with you," he indicated to Joe with outstretched hands, “draggin’ in Nabby, uh, Mr. Nabokov. And I didn’t believe him, so I said-” he began to divert off topic, and Patrick coughed into his fist, pulling the boy back.
He flushed again because of his loose tongue, and Joe sympathized with the boy, fully aware of the effects of word vomit. Muttering ‘sorry,’ the boy placed a hand on his chest to calm his pounding heart.
“Mike told me the guys said some shit ’bout Nabby- I mean Mr. Nabokov, like somethin’ racy or whatever. So Mr. Marleau comes back ten minutes later, right? He’s spitting fire he’s so damn pissed and he comes up to the guys and starts yellin’ things like, ‘have some respect!’” He puffed out his chest and deepened his voice when he imitated Patrick.
“He starts defendin’ you," he nodded to Evgeni, who looked away bashfully at the gesture. “And these guys are so drunk, no lie, and they start fallin’ over each other, getting’ all sorts of angry, while Mr. Marleau’s mouthing them off,” his voice cracked into a sound that could be described as a squeal and he bit his lip, gawking at Patrick with large eyes.
The pink shade was barely distinguishable on Patrick’s face, but it was there. He waved a hand, signaling for the boy to finish. Nodding eagerly, he licked his lips for his final retelling.
“One of them finally manages to stand on his feet, and he’s nearly a foot taller-”
“Barely even a few inches,” Patrick interjected with a skeptical expression.
The boy looked unconvinced, but accepted the information. “Maybe a few inches taller than Mr. Marleau, and the dude brings back a fist, winding up, but then BAM!” He punched his right fist into his open left hand.
“Mr. Marleau lands one right between the fucker’s eyes! He falls over, smacks the other guy on the way down, and then they’re both out cold… man… it sounded epic.” He sighed dreamily, his shoulders heaving in exertion.
Patrick clapped a hand to his forehead and Evgeni raised an eyebrow. He bit his lip, switching his gaze between the enthusiastic boy and the uncomfortable captain.
“That’s nhice that you stihck up for mhe Patrick, bhut et dhoesn’t explhain your blhack eye.” Evgeni pointed out, and Joe nodded in time with his words.
The man forced out a strained laugh into his hand, then rubbed his fingers down his face, eventually sticking them deep in his front pockets. He sent an accusing sidelong glance at the boy and then opened his mouth.
“That’s because that wasn’t what I wanted him to tell you,” he mumbled as his face turned a darker red.
The boy waved the comment off as if it were nothing. “It was a cheap shot,” he insisted.
Patrick gaped openly before finding his voice again. “After the guy fell over I turned around and walked into a light!”
Both Joe and Evgeni barked out a laugh at their captain’s expense and his incredulous face. But the boy only shrugged his shoulders, “Eh, details.”
-----
Lunch passed by quickly. The three Sharks left the hotel after signing the boy’s work shirt (whose name they later found out was Andre).
The small Mexican restaurant was modestly filled with people and a few children came up to the men shyly, asking for autographs with hushed voices. Patrick and Joe respectfully signed about five napkins each with wide grins adorning their faces. Evgeni possibly signed for three children, but he shifted in his seat awkwardly, his English unusually broken and hesitant.
Joe watched in silence when Evgeni fumbled with the pen after he was passed the thin paper. His name and number was scrawled illegibly. After the goaltender handed the child their prize, he would turn the other way.
The intimate meeting from the night before taught Joe that his friend did not act this way out of superiority issues, but rather that the situation made him uncomfortable.
They waited on the bill and Patrick left to go to the bathroom before they headed back to his car. Taking advantage of the chance for a private conversation, Joe leaned over the table, Evgeni shifting forward in his seat as well.
“Are you always this awkward when it comes to fans?” Joe asked. He placed his left elbow on the table, next to the bowl of chips and rested his chin in his hand.
“Hmm?” was Evgeni’s simple reply, as he looked up at Joe with big grey-blue eyes.
The confusion was faked, Joe could tell, and he tapped his index finger on his chin thoughtfully.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw a child from earlier wave the autographed napkin in his father’s grinning face. Joe smiled, glad that he and his teammates could have such an effect on the people of San Jose, even if all they did was write their names.
He pointed over at the table that had drawn his eye and Evgeni followed the outstretched finger.
“Are you always uncomfortable around fans?” Joe asked again, slower this time.
Shrugging his shoulders, Evgeni leaned back in his chair, not feeling the need to keep the conversation private as Joe had intended. He turned towards the table as well, crossing his left arm around his mid-section and propping his right hand up to his face.
Joe watched as Evgeni rubbed his chin with his knuckles absentmindedly, and his gaze strayed to the hairs growing along the jaw.
“Are ya gonna shave soon?”
The question flew out of nowhere from Joe’s mouth, causing Evgeni to double-take the man sitting across from him with a startled look. Parting his lips in answer, he glanced to the side in thought and his mouth hung open, at a loss for what to say.
Joe groaned inwardly, wishing to himself to think before he spoke the next time he was alone with the other man. It had happened twice in one day, and it was still before noon. That had to be a record for Joe in something.
‘Ah, the hell with it,’ Joe sighed in his head. If he was going to look like an idiot, he should at least roll with it and not make an even bigger moron out of himself.
“ ’Cause ya should, suits you better,” Joe continued as Evgeni stared speechless at him.
Partially annoyed and partially proud of himself, Joe sat patiently waiting for Evgeni to stop gawking at him as if he was some weirdo asking when he shaved… wait-
“Wheren’t whe tahlking about thee fans?” Evgeni interrupted Joe’s train of thought, and he shook his head to clear it before he could confuse himself more.
“Y-yes! I believe we were!” Joe agreed enthusiastically as his face scrunched into an exaggerated smile.
A few beads of sweat ran down the back of his neck from the curls of his hair, tickling the skin as they prickled over it. ‘Awkward, awkward, awkward!’
His sudden exclamation turned a few heads of the customers, but Joe paid them no mind, even when Evgeni glanced about the room nervously because of all the extra attention.
“So, fans… uncomfortable… with them… yes?” Joe dug himself deeper into his hole of shame with each and every word that came out of his mouth. ‘Oh my god when is Patrick going to be here?’ a voice whined in the back of his head.
The patrons turned back around in their seats and Evgeni relaxed a little. He sniffed once and looked to the ceiling, as though it held the answer that he was searching for.
Finally he opened his mouth when a crease formed over his brow.
“Iya ghuess that Iya feel foreign to them… Like Iya whon’t ever rheally be a pahrt of thee team, and they jhust haven’t rhealized it yet.”
His reply was simple and sure; Joe knew by the shadow that passed over the now-grey eyes. The confession made Evgeni shrink back behind his crumbling walls that Joe tried so hard to break down. Evgeni dropped his gaze to the table top, and he stayed downcast, rejected, isolated.
At that moment Joe promised to himself that the wall which restrained Evgeni from becoming the person he truly could and actually wanted to be would be personally taken down by him, even if only by one brick at a time.
“Foreign? Not a part of the team?” Joe asked softly, his warm eyes trying to catch Evgeni’s. But the head stayed down, unresponsive to the questions directed at him.
Both hands which rested in Joe’s lap clenched into fists when all of the muscles tightened in his body. The left hand rose and suddenly it was sitting on the table. Then it began to reach across the now seemingly endless expanse of wood.
Joe’s eyes lingered on the lifeless hands on the table top, and he willed himself with everything he had to take one of them in his own; to let the contact of skin reassure Evgeni that he was not alone anymore. The hand continued over, and Joe closed his eyes for just a moment.
When he looked back, he saw his hand clapped tightly on Evgeni’s shoulder, a layer of thick wool separating the two, and he felt strangely disappointed with himself.
Evgeni did not even budge, so Joe spoke without thinking again, this time allowing the pure words to come straight from his heart. This time, he did not want his brain to interfere and change his words into something he did not fully believe. He took a deep breath and spoke.
“Evgeni…” he started, squeezing the stiff shoulder.
“Do you hear the crowd roaring your name when you come on the screen?… Or see the standing ovation for you after a shutout?…
“Do you feel the almost overwhelming intensity in the building, so much that it’s hard to breathe, but so electrifyingly beautiful at the same time that you can’t help but feel more alive, but just happy being alive, after you make an amazing save?”
Silence filled the endless gap of space between the two. “Because I do... Don’t you know how much they- we love you?”
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Evgeni said that he did not and the two were joined by Patrick soon enough. The drive to HP Pavilion was silent, none of the men attempting to make small talk. Patrick dropped them off at the gate with a feeble wave goodbye. An old guard let the two in, muttering something about wondering when they were going to be there because a young Sharks player was pestering him about the cars earlier and it was getting on his nerves.
Joe and Evgeni were parked on the opposite sides of the parking lot, and they stood together before heading their separate ways.
“Iya whill see you tomohrrow mhorning then, yeah?” Evgeni muttered, turning away from the other man.
Joe looked back in confusion. “But… training doesn’t start until six pm right?” He asked, double checking the schedule in his head.
The sliver of face that Joe could see turned pink, and Evgeni nodded. “That is whut friends do rhight? See heach other when they dhon’t have to?”
The quiet words brought a shine into Joe’s eyes. “Yeah,” He bit the inside of his cheek, “Then I'll see ya in the morning.”
He turned around and began his trek back to his car as he heard Evgeni do the same. He sat at the wheel unmoving, and the largest smile broke out on his face, genuine and happy; for himself, for Evgeni, and for the small step forward that they had taken together.
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