Falling Feels Like Flying (in a Vee): One

[qblackheart]

 



"The Ducks?"

"Yeah!"

"Seriously? The  Ducks?" Jensen Ackles scrubbed a calloused hand over his weary face and then crooked an eyebrow at his newly-turned-eleven year old son. "As in 'quack, quack'?"

"Yeah!" Tyler responded with enthusiasm. "The Riverside Ducks!"

"And your coach okayed this?" Jensen frowned at his son's vehement nodding. "Wait, was this his brilliant idea?"

"Nah. It was X's!" Tyler grinned up at him, and then promptly flushed, so much so that the freckles on his face suddenly weren't as noticeable as they had been just a second ago.

"Who?"

"Christina. X-tina. X.”

Christina Harris, the girl-next-door. Jensen suppressed the urge to groan. Damn. It was way too soon for this to be happening; his kid was growing up and noticing girls, and suddenly Jensen longed for the days when Tyler thought girls had cooties. Jesus. “X, huh?”

“Like Christmas and X-mas! Get it?"

Jensen's mouth curved in wry amusement. "Got it."

"So anyway, we don't have a sponsor or anything, so we don't have any money for new uniforms but Coach said he'd make it work somehow."

"How exactly is he going to make coaching work while he's hobbling around on crutches?"

Tyler shrugged. "I dunno." Then he gnawed a little on his bottom lip. Just another of Jensen's little ticks that he had inherited either by nature or nurture. "Josie's dads are die-hard Leafs fans. Maybe Coach'll ask them."

"Mike Rosenbaum and Tom Welling?" Jensen scoffed and then with a pointed look at each other, both father and son snorted in laughter. "Yeah, right."

"Or you know, you could do it," Tyler did that lip-biting thing again, but this time it was paired with a puppy dog expression that he most certainly had not picked up from Jensen.

"One of us has to work, champ, and you may be a year older but you're still not legally employable," Jensen joked, tweaking his son's nose.

"Dad," Tyler scrunched up his face and rolled his eyes, "you played peewee hockey. You know the drill."

"That was a long time ago, Ty."

"Daddy, please?" Tyler whined, dragging out the magic word to make one syllable sound like five, and Jensen sighed. He hated the whining. The whining usually cut right through Jensen's defenses and unerringly resulted in complete capitulation and his son knew it.

Not this time, though. And not for this game.

Jensen ventured a compromise. "Tell you what; why don't you skip hockey this year and go for peewee baseball in the summer?"

"Dad! The summer's forever away! Like an entire school year!"

"That's only eight months," Jensen argued reasonably. Or so he thought.

"For-ev-er." Apparently the passage of time worked differently in his child's mind.

"You need to concentrate on school. Keep those grades up," he said in a last ditch attempt to dodge this bullet.

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't get any better than being a straight A student, dad." Tyler tried in vain to copy the one-eyebrow lift that was Jensen's trademark, but both eyebrows went up instead, sarcasm still lacing the gesture so effortlessly that Jensen was almost proud. Of the effortless sarcasm. He was definitely proud of the straight A's.

"You're in a different grade, it'll be harder."

"It's still the same old me, Pop, and I'm still smart. I got this, and if I don't, I can always count on you to help me out, right?"

"Right." Jensen sighed and he could tell the second his son realized that victory was within arm's reach.

"So you'll do it?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you'll think about it?"

"You know I don't like hockey, right?" Jensen grumbled. "And I'm pretty sure I don't like kids either." Jensen's frown softened somewhat as he looked down at his own offspring. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course," Tyler smirked knowingly, eyes sparkling with both a vitality befitting his youth and a wisdom beyond his years. The kid was well-tuned into the fact that he had the grumpiest father ever and he balanced that out by being the brightest, sweetest, smartest person Jensen knew; Tyler was pretty much the embodiment of sunshine in Jensen's overcast life.

He grimaced at the blinding grin being flashed in his direction. "Ty-ler," Jensen wasn't above a little whining himself. "I hate hockey."

"Well, I love hockey and you love me."

And the kid had him on that one. No argument in the world could counter that statement, and goddammit - it just wasn't fair that he was being outsmarted by someone who was barely out of his first decade of life. "I don't have a lot of time to devote to the team..." Jensen began, well and truly defeated, but was interrupted by a loud whoop and the small body of his son hurtling towards him and hanging on tight.

"Thanks, dad!" His son's voice was muffled into his tee, his face smashed against Jensen's chest, arms around his waist. He didn't bother suppressing the smile that caught at the corners of his mouth, his own arms winding around his kid's scrawny shoulders. He blinked when his own eyes looked up at him. "You're the best."

"I know. You seriously owe me big time, dude."

"I'll do whatever you want," Tyler said, resting his chin on Jensen's sternum as he looked up at his father.

"Whatever?" Jensen asked with a wicked smile.

His son returned it. In spades. "Yup. Whatever," Tyler assured him. "'Cause you got your work cut out for you."

"Er... what exactly does that mean?"

"It means we kinda suck."

"You suck?"

"Yup," Tyler smiled like that was a good thing. "We all suck. At something. Either skating or puck handling or, you know, playing hockey in general. So... there's that."

"Does your coach not understand what it means to actually coach a team?"

"He hasn't really got a whole lot of talent to work with, dad." Tyler's forehead furrowed in thought. "It's like you're getting a blank canvas and you can mold us into the champions we really are on the inside, like in Major League or any other sports movie we've ever watched. Underdogs rule."

Jensen's face lit up with a grin. "The Riverside Dogs! Dogs are way cooler than Ducks."

"Nuh-uh," his son disagreed, "X and Cat like the name, and the rest of us like it too. It's cute, you know?"

"I suppose I should know, but I really don't," Jensen lamented, wondering if his kid was going to grow up metrosexual. At Tyler's age, Jensen wouldn't have been caught dead allowing the word 'cute' to pass his lips.

Or be associated with anything to do with lame water-fowl.

Jesus.

Hockey. Being back on the ice. The one arena he promised himself he would never return to, and yet, that's exactly where he was headed.

The agony of defeat sounded a lot like quacking.



"Is it done?" The gruff voice asked over the phone.

Tyler Ackles rolled his eyes. His coach was so old school with the cloak and dagger stuff. "Yeah, it's done. He's on board. I even remembered to tell him the stuff you said about blank canvases and molding young players."

"Excellent. Even if you did mix your metaphors."

"Huh?" Tyler shook his head as if to clear it, even though the man on the line couldn't see him. "Never mind. Coach?"

“Yes?"

"He hates hockey," Tyler bit his lip, a frown marring his features. "And I don't like going behind my dad's back."

"We're not going behind his back," Coach Collins assured him, "we're just making sure that the best person is backing me up in the coaching department while I'm out of commission."

"You don't think he'll be mad if he finds out?"

"Oh, he'll be mad all right," Coach Collins snorted, "that's why he's not going to find out. You're my secret weapon, kid. If I had asked him like I wanted to, he would have shot me down and the team would have been kaput this year."

"So what you're saying is that the end justifies the means?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying! Hey - you've read Machiavelli?"

"Mackio-who?"

"How did you...? The end? The means?"

"It's an idiom."

"Oh."

"We're learning about them in English last year. I thought it was apt."

"Apt. Right," Coach Collins sounded way too thoughtful. "You're a smart kid."

"I know."

"You and your dad need to put your heads together and come up with plays that will make us suck less this year."

"How are you so sure he's gonna remember stuff from way back when he played peewee hockey?"

"Just trust me on this one, kid." There was a few seconds of silence on the line before Tyler heard a quiet sigh. "Trust me."



Jensen could have sworn that the ice cracked a little when his jaw dropped down to it in shock.

This was his team? This ragtag bunch of kids - and man, he really didn't like kids all that much - was what he had to work with? Tyler hadn't been sugar-coating the truth then; some of these kids could barely stay upright on the ice.

Christ.

Jensen grabbed the shiny silver whistle around his neck and blew it, the shrill sound startling the kids into scurrying around him like uncoordinated baby animals trying to find their footing for the first time.

"Front and center," he yelled, trying desperately not to sound as annoyed as he felt. "Everyone line up and give me your names and the positions you play." He arched an inquiring eyebrow at the child who stood at the helm of the haphazard line that formed.

"Er... dad? I'm pretty sure you know me," Tyler grinned at him cheekily and Jensen refused to give into the reflex to return that smile.

"There are no moms and dads on the ice," he maintained officiously, "all you have is me and each other. That's the first thing you need to learn." His son looked momentarily hurt at his attitude, but Tyler being Tyler, the moment passed and a sunny smile graced his sweet face.

"Tyler Ackles, Coach," he stated earnestly, "I play center."

Jensen nodded before pinning the players next to Tyler with a no-nonsense glare as two pairs of chocolate brown eyes blinked up at him from beneath auburn bangs. He had known Danneel and James Harris' girls most of their lives and they usually had him wrapped around their twin pinkies. Not on the ice though.

"X... er... Christina Harris, Coach. Left wing."

"Catharine Harris," Christina's fraternal twin piped up from next to her, "right wing."

The boy next to her flashed Jensen a gap-toothed grin. "Connor McCoy, Coachmeister. I'm a forward too."

Jensen refrained from comment before surveying the smirk on the next player's face. "Maxim Collins, Coach. Defense."

"And where is your reprobate father today?"

"Hey!" Max growled scrappily, "my dad was never in prison!"

Jensen rolled his eyes, but it was Tyler who helpfully spoke up. "It means 'loser', dude."

"Oh," Max grinned, apparently okay with that. "He said he had some stuff to look into with the district office. He'll be here tomorrow though. Said he'd meet you right before our next game."

"No doubt so he can mock and ridicule me from the sidelines," Jensen mumbled to himself, moving down the line when Tyler frowned at him.

"Will Beaver, Coach. And this is Alex Kripke," a big, burly kid introduced himself before pointing a thumb at the similarly brawny, slightly taller boy next to him. "I'm pretty good with the body-checking and Alex can shoot like whoa!" Jensen darted Alex a look and the boy just nodded in agreement. "Alex doesn't say much, but I say a whole heckuva lot and we'll play wherever you want us to as long as we don't have to skate much."

Jensen took a moment to restrain himself. "You realize this is ice hockey, right? Skating kinda comes with the territory."

"That's why you're the master and we are but your humble students, Coach-san. Wax on, wax off," Will retorted with a cocky smirk and waving hands. Jensen growled but resisted the urge to do him bodily harm. Jim Beaver, the boy's grandfather, worked for Jensen and the old man was not a force to be trifled with. Unfortunately.

The skinny, tomboyish girl next to Will cleared her throat to get Jensen's attention, running a hand through her short brown hair as she did so, her blue-eyed gaze straightforward and serious. "Josette Rosenbaum-Welling. Defense-person. I only play on the right side."

"Madeleine Tal." The petite, blonde angelic-looking girl standing next to Josie introduced herself when Jensen looked at her. "Forward, either side is good."

"I haven't seen you around," Jensen mused, wondering if perhaps he knew her parents.

"I'm usually on the figure-skating circuit, but Coach Collins wanted me to try out," she flashed him a playful smile, "you know - 'cause I can actually skate."

Jensen's mouth twitched, but he caught the smile before it broke free, instead blinking at the chubby kid who was last in line. He’d never seen this one before either. "And you are?"

"Chad Michael Murray, Jr., Coach," he supplied, and then huffed. "I'm supposed to be the goalie but I don't understand how. Who signed me up for that? I sure as heck wasn't consulted!" The kid's fleshy face flooded with color and righteous indignation. "Goalies get hit! A lot! All the time! With pucks! Seriously - who signed me up for this?"

"Your dad did, dumbass," Max laughed at him. "He lost a bet with my dad."

"And I have to pay for it?" Murray Jr. looked, quite rightfully, Jensen thought, outraged. "I dunno about this, Coach. Just 'cause I'm big and can cover the net more, doesn't mean I'm any good in goal."

Jensen decided to take pity on the pathetic child with the dick for a dad. "How about we cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?" He skated backwards a few feet so he could address the team as a whole. "Let's start out slow. Laps around the rink, and don't stop skating until I say so!"



"So how'd we do?" Tyler asked expectantly, almost as soon as they walked into their home after practice.

Jensen had been dreading the question but there was no avoiding it now. "You want the real truth?" He paused for effect. "Or do you want me to lie?"

The hopeful look in Tyler's eyes ebbed. "I can handle the truth, Pop."

"You guys suck," Jensen sighed at the dejected look on his son's face, and pulled him in for a hug, pressing a lingering kiss on the crown of his head. "But...," Jensen drew out the word meaningfully, grinning when Tyler's head jerked up so he could look his father in the face. "I've seen worse. Heck, I've played with worse in peewee, believe me. There's hope for you kids, but make no mistake, Ty, it's gonna be a lot of work and a lot of practice and even then, there are no guarantees we'll get anywhere."

"A win would be nice," Tyler told him with a cheerful smile. "Just one. We've lost all five pre-season games we played and both games since the season officially started."

"I'm sure we can manage one win. I heard the Greektown Gators are pretty bad this year."

"That's 'cause they all got chicken pox and they've had to forfeit every game so far!"

"So they'll be out of practice," Jensen teased his son. "Awesome. They won't know what hit ‘em."

"Dad!" Tyler smirked at him as they walked to the kitchen together. His son surveyed him in thoughtful silence as he washed his hands and got dinner going. "You know what would be cool? If we could beat the Demons."

"The Demons?"

"They're tops in Toronto. They're from the Downtown district and they have corporate sponsors and cool uniforms and tons of money and an actual ex-NHLer for a coach. They're amazing hockey players but they're also major league jerks and just once, I wanna see them lose! They crushed us in our season opener: seventeen-nothing."

"Seventeen?" Jensen squawked in surprise. "Uncle Misha needs to get a dictionary and look up the definition of coaching."

Tyler giggled and Jensen couldn't help ruffling his hair, he was so cute. "It was our first real game! Some of us didn't get all that much ice time to practice."

"Getting ice time doesn't seem to be making a difference for some of you now," Jensen mumbled, rolling his shoulders in an effort to dispel some of the tension that had settled there. "We've got a lot of training to do."

Tyler bit his lip, his expression rife with uncertainty. "Umm, extra practice means a lot more of your time, too. Think you can handle that, Pop?"

Picking up on the subtext of that question, Jensen turned to study his son, finally giving in to the urge to comfort by hoisting Tyler up onto the countertop and leaning in close until their foreheads touched. Tyler's small hands gently massaged his shoulders and Jensen leaned down to kiss those chubby little fingers. "Yeah. I can handle that," he whispered on a regretful sigh. "I'm sorry I haven't supported you like I should have when you signed up for the team. I should have been in the stands, win or lose, cheering you on, and I wasn't. Nothing excuses that."

"You hate hockey, you said. I understand, dad," Tyler rationalized innocently, and Jensen felt a pang in his chest that had everything and nothing to do with his son.

"Yeah, but you are the most important person in my life and we're in this together. Just you and me forever. We made that deal a long time ago and I've been a jerk not keeping up my end of the bargain."

"No way. You're the best, daddy," Tyler smooched his nose. "Love you."

"To the moon and back, kiddo," Jensen smiled and smooched his kid right back. "And you're the best; I'd do anything for you." Identical green eyes stared resolutely at each other. "And I won't let you down again."

Tyler's eyes glinted with mischief. "Wait... anything?"

"Name it."

"How about private lessons?"

"One on one?"

"Yup. Just you and me."

"Deal."



So, they got their collective asses handed to them the next game. No big surprise there. Jensen had taken the opportunity though, to study his team on the ice and quite a few things needed work.

The girls were okay, especially Maddie, who could skate circles around the competition and frequently did. The only problem was that she also did pirouettes and double axels and something she called a sow-cow. Whatever the fuck that meant, Jensen did not want to know; he just needed to find a way to make it work in the team's favor. Josie had the potential to be a decent player, but she also had a tendency to drop gloves and try to bash any opposing player who happened to look at her funny. Jensen winced as he eyed her shiner from the previous game. Well, at least she had spunk. Unlike the twins, who were... well, they were there, and they tried to help. Only they were also really adorable and girly and tended to distract any boy in the vicinity. Which was fine if it was just the opposing team, but totally not fine if it was their own teammates.

Then of course, there were the boys.

Alex had not yet mastered the ability to maneuver around the ice, but on the bright side, he was skating. If you could call it that. And Will was only marginally better. Max and Connor were all right as long as they weren't goofing off, which meant that they mostly sucked; if only Jensen could find a way to harness their energy for the good of the team and not for their own evil escapades. Chad Jr. was petrified of the puck and that was a bit worrisome considering it was his job to stop them from getting into the goal; maybe Jensen could get Josie to give him a pointer or two. And Tyler was... well, Tyler was terrific.

And no, that wasn't a biased opinion in the least.

Just a few one-on-one lessons and his kid was improving beyond measure, certainly standing head and shoulders above the rest, not as clumsy on the ice as he was off it. Jensen was pretty damn proud at the way Tyler had taken to hockey much like Jensen himself had at that age, like a... well, like a duck to water.

He rolled his eyes at himself as he watched his team practice at the local rink, alternately facing-off and flailing in front of him as their parents looked on in what Jensen could only hope was some emotion closely related to pride.

Casting another look at their terrified goal-tender, he vaguely wondered if Chad Sr. was in the stands, and how he would feel if Jensen duct-taped his kid to the goal-posts, arms and legs akimbo, in order to help him face his fear of flying pucks.

So yeah, he wasn't real good with kids, but he supposed a little extra tutoring couldn't hurt; it had done wonders for Tyler's game, after all. He'd just have to wait for a private practice session - after a quick run to the closest hardware store - to duct-tape the goalie to the posts.

He was just about to yell out new instructions to his team when the far side entrance to the change-rooms opened and a steady stream of uniformed players took to the ice. They skated out, keeping off the Ducks half of the rink, their streamlined formation a thing of beauty and synchrony that made Jensen and everyone else in the arena sit up and watch, almost mesmerized, as the deep reds of their uniforms cut a stark line against the white of the ice.

Tyler skated to a stop next to him, shaving the ice slightly. "They're the Demons," his kid whispered.

Jensen just nodded in acknowledgement before smirking down at his son. "When your arch rivals are called the Demons, you guys still named yourselves the Ducks?"

Tyler snorted. "We thought it was..."

"Cute. Right," Jensen tried not to grimace. "I remember."

"Nah - it was mostly 'cause we figured they were so serious like, 'We're the Demons, Grrr!'," Tyler mocked, growling and snarling up at his amused father, "and we just wanted to be ourselves, you know. Fun and funny." He winked at Jensen. "And yeah, it was cuter than what the team was called last year."

"What was it called last year?"

"The Riverside Rats."

Tyler grimaced and Jensen grinned, getting the picture. This was about liking hockey and having fun with it, being themselves and not all about winning. It was a sentiment he himself had once been familiar with. "Yeah, okay. I get it." He squeezed Tyler's shoulder affectionately, and was then distracted by Misha waving at him from the sidelines. "Get back out there. And tell Alex and Will what I told you about maintaining your balance while turning. I'll join you in a few."

Jensen skated leisurely across the ice to his friend's side, surprised to see Misha there at all.

"Hey, Jensen," Misha greeted, trying to rifle through a sheaf of papers in his hand while he balanced his body on his crutches. "This is Nathan Delaney, he's with the District Office. Nate, Jensen Ackles." Jensen reached out to shake the other man's hand. Finally finding whatever he was looking for, Misha grinned in triumph. "So, one of the Demon kids moved house at the start of the summer, but they moved to an area that's technically just outside the Downtown core border - and right in the Riverside district. He's one of their best players too." Misha waggled his eyebrows.

"So what does that mean?" Jensen asked, looking between Misha and Nate.

"One of those Demons is a Duck and we're gonna go get him," Misha looked positively gleeful. "Nate's here in an official capacity to back you up."

"And I would need back up why exactly?"

"JD Morgan is the coach of the Demons. He won't like the fact that one of his best is now one of our best."

"Or just our best, period,” Jensen scoffed, before looking at him in surprise. "Wait. Jeffrey Dean Morgan? He's their coach?"

"Yeah, he just skated up to the bench behind you," Misha supplied and Jensen turned to look at the retired former power-forward of the New Jersey Devils.

Well, no wonder he had named his team the Demons. Fitting.

"Awesome," Jensen muttered, "the guy's a prick."

"A scary prick," Misha agreed wholeheartedly, before thumping Nate on the back, "that's why I brought Nate. He doesn't look it but he's pretty intimidating when it comes to following rules. And we're in the right here, so you guys go and get that kid."

Jensen pursed his lips and eyed his friend. "So we have to do your dirty work, huh?"

"Hey! Incapacitated here!" Misha shrugged, looking helpless. Jensen didn't buy it for a second.

"Chickenshit," he muttered as Misha smirked at him. "Come on, Nate. I'll let you do the talking."

Nate chuckled. "You're both chickenshits," he declared before setting foot on the ice minus skates, Jensen following sedately behind him.

"Coach Morgan," Nate called out once they reached the Demons bench. JD Morgan turned with a cool look that morphed into a professional smile when he spotted the official.

"Mr. Delaney, what can I do for you?" He greeted, barely sparing Jensen a sideways glance. And hey, Jensen was pretty okay with that response.

"It has come to our attention at the board that one of your team recently moved outside of the Downtown district," Nate started, and whatever friendly overture Morgan was planning on making was nixed as the man frowned.

"What?" Morgan growled, and Nate leaned over with his clipboard.

"This boy here," he said, pointing to a name on the sheet. "I can't quite pronounce his last name."

"Ryan!" Morgan yelled, and the flawless formation on the ice came to a standstill for a split second whilst one of their group skated towards the bench, before the line started up again, like a well-oiled machine. Jensen was impressed in spite of himself; formations in the NHL weren't this rigid.

"Yes, Coach?" The boy asked in earnest, his eyes cloudy with confusion.

"You move recently?" Morgan demanded, just as Nate leaned towards him with the clipboard and asked, "Is this your address?"

The kid obviously did not know who to answer first and Jensen could see the apprehension on his face as he looked at his coach and then up to the stands. "Yeah, we moved in the summer," he stated quietly, "and yeah, that's our new address."

"Well, in that case, son," Nate patted his shoulder reassuringly, "you moved out of the Downtown district and you are no longer eligible to play with the Demons by league regulations."

"Now, wait just a goddamned minute," Morgan started furiously, and Jensen had to step in.

"There's no need for language like that in front of the kids."

Morgan rounded on him. "And who the hell are you?"

"He's Coach Collins' replacement," Nate told Morgan before Jensen could open his mouth. "He's taken over coaching the Riverside district and Ryan here," Nate pushed the kid at Jensen, "is his. Or belongs on his team."

Ryan sputtered. "But I don't wanna be a Duck!" he exclaimed. "Jeez, that's so lame."

"I hear ya," Jensen muttered under his breath, and was met with a startled gaze locking into his from beneath the kid's visor. Jensen winked conspiratorially at him, the corner of his mouth tipping up when the kid flashed him a bemused smile.

"I don't care where he lives!" Morgan spat, really angry now. "He's a Demon and he's going to stay that way."

"In that case," Nate calmly continued, "you will have to forfeit every game from here on in. Having him on your team is against the rules, end of discussion."

That stopped Morgan cold. "We have won the championship every year since I came on board to coach this district. The word 'forfeit' is not in my vocabulary."

"Then you have only one viable option." Nate appeared to take great pleasure in telling him. Morgan was about to open his mouth again when Ryan yelled out from beside Jensen.

"Dad!"

"What's going on here?" A man asked from just behind Coach Morgan, and Jensen's breath froze in his lungs as every hair on the back of his neck suddenly sprang to rigid attention.

Morgan was explaining the situation to the man, but Jensen didn't hear the exact words past the sound of blood thundering through his veins. He turned his body slightly away, picking up bits and pieces of the heated discussion; something about how the kid could either play for the Ducks or not at all, and his gut spasmed and clenched alternately. He couldn't bring himself to focus on the boy's father, but he could look at the boy, Ryan, still standing next to him on the ice, pulling his helmet and visor off.

Jensen blinked, too shocked to move any other part of his body.

Ryan was agitated as he listened to the adults arguing over his head; Jensen could feel his unhappiness rolling off him in waves. And then suddenly, some deep-seated instinct that he had thought was long-buried, forgotten even, surfaced and he wanted nothing more than to grab the kid, hug him tight, stroke his stupid, shaggy hair and tell him that it was going to be all right; that Jensen was here and that he would take care of everything.

Old habits it appeared, much like John McClane, really did die hard.

Jensen scrunched his eyes shut. It had been thirteen years. Thirteen goddamn years. Why now?

He almost jumped out of his skin when a tentative hand touched his. "Coach?"

He found himself staring down into a pair of hazel eyes he knew better than his own, and yet not at all. And all those memories he had not so successfully repressed for thirteen years came flooding to the forefront of his mind, in high-definition no less, Blu-Ray quality even. He cleared his throat a couple of times, but his voice still came out raspy. "Yeah?"

"I... I guess...," Ryan's gaze fell to the ice and he took a deep breath before blowing it out and facing Jensen head on. "I would rather play hockey with the Ducks than not play hockey at all."

Jensen licked his lips and took a fortifying breath of his own. What was he supposed to say to that? No, you can't because if I never see your father again, it will be too soon? Yeah, like that would fly.

Nate suddenly appeared in his line of vision, brow furrowed in concern. "Coach Ackles? Are you all right?"

"Wait," the voice that he would recognize anywhere said, "Coach Ackles?" And Jensen was a coward who wouldn't - although it felt more like he physically couldn't - turn around and face him.

He heard a shuffling from behind him but he ignored it, inching further away, his skates keeping his forward momentum going. His distress must have shown on his face because a second later, Tyler skated to a stop in front of him, effectively stalling his retreat.

"Daddy?" Jensen focused on his son's sweet face, his concerned eyes touching a part of Jensen that made him want to drop to his knees on the ice so his kid could give him a hug that made everything better.

Suddenly a strong, firm hand grasped his arm. Jensen looked down at those long fingers bunched in his jacket, grateful for the flimsy leather and fleece barrier between his skin and that touch.

There was no avoiding this anymore. Time to man up.

He swallowed hard, flashed his son a reassuring smile, steeled his nerves, his heart and his mind, and turned to face the man who had once been his best friend, his teammate, and the love of his godforsaken life.

"Hello, Jay."