Chapter Text
Day 1 (Zero Hour)
When Connor McDavid collapses on the ice of Rogers Place during game five of the Oilers vs. Jets playoff series, Matthew feels dread run down his spine.
The crowd goes eerily quiet at seeing the best hockey player in the world lying on his side, his face contorted by pain.
Everything seems frozen in place—the players, the coaches, the fans. Even the air feels motionless, and Matthew wonders.
“Fuck,” Brady says next to Matthew, breaking the trance that’s enthralled them all.
Fuck, indeed.
The trainers are on the ice in a heartbeat to tend to Connor, as the Oilers look on clearly shaken up.
The tableau before Matthew’s eyes is disconcertingly similar to what had happened at the end of the 2018-19 season, though then the game had been against the Flames and Matthew much closer to the ice.
At that time, magic had been suspected immediately, as it was typical in such circumstances. Despite the numerous changes implemented in the past two decades, magic is still the default culprit for on-ice incidents.
A thorough investigation had revealed nothing untoward. It had just been bad luck—Gio and Connor colliding awkwardly as Connor had barreled down the ice at his mutant-like speed.
This time, Matthew is willing to bet his yearly salary that magic is involved.
The crowd begins to shout encouragements when Connor is eventually stretched off the ice. It must be bad if Davo relented and let the trainers convince him to take it easy. He’d skated off the ice on his own when he’d broken his leg.
The Oilers and the Jets hit their sticks on the ice and against the boards in support. Yet, Matthew can see several Oilers scrutinizing the crowd as if to search for a possible perpetrator.
If only it were so easy.
The NHL has an entire panel of experts—magical and non-magical—whose job is to investigate these occurrences.
For all of their credentials, these so-called experts—Matthew uses the term under protest—usually find nothing magical having affected the play or the player, even if, like in this specific case, magic must have been employed.
It’s been a long time since the covert use of a spell during a game has been identified, acknowledged, and punished, so Matthew’s not holding his breath.
Once Connor is off the ice, the game resumes—the Oilers are down by one goal in the middle of the second period—until intermission finally arrives and the two teams return to their locker rooms.
“That really sucked,” Brady says.
On his brother’s other side, Matthew can see Tim Stützle agree silently.
Matthew chews on his lower lip, but says nothing. There isn’t much to add. The experience was horrifying and left an unpleasant aftertaste in Matthew’s mouth—another indicator that magic might be at work. It is really unfortunate that it had to happen to Connor, whom Matthew likes and respects.
Less unpleasant, but still unsettling, is the fact that it occurred while Matthew is in attendance.
Not that Matthew makes it a habit to go to Oilers’ games unless he’s playing against them. Unfortunately Brady managed to rope him into this mad adventure back during the regular season. So here they are, among an unsuspecting crowd of Jets fans since Matthew had not been willing to risk the Oilers crowd, attending a not particularly eventful playoff game. Well, not eventful up to now.
“That didn’t look good,” Brady continues.
“No, it didn’t,” Matthew finally speaks.
“And it didn’t look natural,” Brady adds, echoing Matthew’s earlier thoughts.
“No, it didn't,” Matthew repeats.
“I wonder what’s going to happen,” Brady says.
Matthew does, too. Surely the Oilers have an effective magical team, not to mention some witches on their roster. Matthew remembers reading somewhere that all NHL teams currently have magical players, even the Kraken.
The game was not exciting before McDavid left the ice, and it goes downhill from there.
Rather than invigorating them, Connor’s injury appears to have left the Oilers scared and bereft.
Mike Smith does his best and tries to protect his net with the ferocity of a momma-bear and Draisaitl and Yamamoto attempt to break the stalemate by shooting puck after puck at Hellebuyck. It’s all for nothing, however, and the third period passes by with no new goals.
The Jets win 2-1 and take the lead in a series that was already not going particularly well for the Oilers—a repeat from last year’s disaster. If they lose game six in Winnipeg, the Oilers will join an increasing number of teams no longer in contention for the Stanley Cup.
“Sucks to be an Oilers,” Brady states as the players leave the ice and the fans get up from their seats.
“Brades,” Tim Stützle chides him.
“What?” Brady says looking at Tim affronted. “Would you actually want to play for them?”
“No,” Tim replies. “But what happened to McDavid is not their fault.”
Matthew concurs. Whoever hexed Connor turned the momentum of the game in the Jets’ favor. Draisaitl had just scored a very impressive goal, cutting the Jets’ lead in half and propelling the rest of the team for a few minutes. Connor’s injury had put an end to that. Matthew wonders what it’s going to mean for the team going forward.
Matthew doesn’t say anything in Tim’s defense. He’s a bit miffed at the dude, since it’s his fault if Matthew’s at Rogers Place, hoping to go completely undetected, instead of on a beach in the Bahamas or hiking in the Grand Canyon.
Brady and Tim had made a bet about something or other—Matthew had frankly zoned out when Brady had explained, because he doesn't care about the details of Brady and Tim’s relationship. But at some point during one of their many phone calls, Matthew had apparently promised Brady that he’d help him fulfilling his part of the bet should he lose.
Brady had lost, because Brady is a losing loser who loses.
Tim had asked Brady—and therefore Matthew—to attend an Oilers game. He doesn’t have a lot of opportunities to see his idol, Leon “The German Dangler” Draisaitl, play in person while also not playing against him.
Brady had looked really apologetic when he’d explained Tim’s request to Matthew, but he’d not let Matthew off the hook—“You and me, bro. It’s going to be much more bearable if we can be there to mock both Jimmy and Draisaitl at the same time,” Brady had said.
Matthew is an honorable man, so he had ended up agreeing.
Matthew can also be a sneaky man, however, and he had hoped that the Flames’ playoff journey would have put an end to that plan.
(He had also secretly hoped the Oilers would not qualify for the playoffs, but that hadn’t happened.)
In the end, they all had to wait to fulfill Tim’s request.
The Sens had built of the successes achieved at the end of the previous season and become quite a competitive young team in the east. They had performed well above expectations and made it to the playoffs with a few games to spare. Unfortunately, that had put them on the path of a very determined Leafs team, who had taken them in five games. The first round had kept Brady and Tim busy until mid-April.
As for the Flames, after the previous season’s dumpster fire, the team had gone through some serious retooling. The changes implemented had been necessary if a bit dramatic, and had allowed them to be much more effective on the ice. Matthew had been happy to make it to the playoffs once again after last year’s miss. Facing the Jets had brought back memories of the bubble and he’s hoped they could be successful again. That hadn’t happened, however, and the Jets had beaten them in seven games.
Since the Oilers had taken the Kings in four during the first round, Matthew had found himself boarding a plane for Edmonton in very early May to fulfill his promise to Brady.
The memory of a dejected LA Kings roster—with Kopitar and Doughty looking a mixture of bummed and angry—still warms Matthew’s heart. So, for once, Matthew doesn't actually mind cheering for the Oilers, if only to thank them for defeating one of his mortal enemies—the other is Kassian, of course, with Draisaitl close third, but Matthew is perfectly happy ignoring the fact for the time being.
(To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s thought of Draisaitl as one of his mortal enemies.
On the ice, they fight at least once every other game, and the sound bites can get pretty salty.
Off the ice, however, Matthew is much less sanguine about Draisaitl. He’s discovered quite by chance that the dude hits all of his ‘I am down with fucking guys these days’ boxes, and he would not object to exploring this should Draisaitl be amenable. Sort of like, drop the hate act and redirect all of the energy they both put into sustaining the Flames-Oilers rivalry into more pleasurable and less bloody activities.
No luck so far on that front, since Matthew doesn't know Draisaitl well enough to drop him a note or a text, or even ask him out for a drink after a game. Still, he’s patient and has some plans for next season.)
Anyway, Matthew is currently at Rogers Place because Brady is a sucker and Tim is ruthless, and he’d like to leave as soon as possible. Magic performed for evil deeds leaves an unpleasant residual from which Matthew wants to get away.
By unspoken agreement, the three of them have been waiting for most of the crowd to leave. Matthew uses this time to study the arena, trying to pinpoint where the assault might have come from. It’s really not his area of expertise, and his powers have nothing to do with identifying and preventing magical attacks. He can sense the magic, however, and he wants to help.
He always wants to help, though Brady might get pissy if Matthew voices his wishes.
“What do you think happened to McDavid?” Tim asks Brady as they finally get up and make their way towards the escalator.
“Difficult to say from this distance,” Brady replies. He, too, has been looking around, but has also come up empty.
“It looked bad,” Tim comments.
Matthew thinks about texting Davo to check in on him. They’re friends and they hang out on the rare occasions when they’re in the same place without the Battle of Alberta bullshit intruding. He doesn’t want to bother him, however, especially if his fall was the result of a magical attack. Chances are that Connor is busy with doctors, trainers and magical specialists.
There is another reason, too, a more personal one.
For all that Matthew is a witch, he tries to stay away from magic when it’s used to do harm. He wishes he could say it’s because he’s so nice that he cannot bear it, but he’d be lying.
The explanation is much more prosaic and has a lot to do with self-preservation. Magic used for harm makes him itch and swell up, so much so that he has troubles breathing. On such occasions, he’s lucky if he passes out, because the alternative can be pretty painful.
(“It happens because you’re good, Matthew,” Taryn always says as she rolls her eyes whenever Matthew complains about it.
“I am not good,” Matthew always replies. “I am just allergic to harmful magic.”
“You’re allergic to harmful magic because you brim with goodness, son,” Keith Tkachuk reminds him when they have these conversations. “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he tends to add with a proud smile and a pat on Matthew’s back.
“You’re the best of us all,” Matthew’s mom always tags on.
Brady typically mouths, ‘I am still her favorite,’ because he’s a dick like that.)
So Matthew’s allergic to harmful magic.
Some people call it black magic to differentiate it from white magic, because someone, at some point, somewhere, thought it would be an awesome idea to come up with a color code, as if people with magic needed the extra help.
Matthew finds the system ludicrous.
Magic is magic is magic.
Magic is neutral. It doesn’t have a personality and it doesn’t have an opinion. It certainly does not care about humans nor does it have a moral compass. And it definitely doesn’t identify with one color—or two or twenty for that matter.
Magic is everywhere and anywhere, even in places and people that are incapable of actively interacting with it. Recent studies estimate that about 35% of the global population identifies as magical, 40% as non-magical, with the remaining 25% preferring not to say.
As for places, well: Matthew is convinced magic is everywhere, but some scholars argue there are pockets of the planet that are either not receptive to magic or absorb it without reacting to it.
Agree to disagree and all of that, Matthew thinks, especially when some of these scholars are not magical. Anyway, magic is everywhere and it is neutral. It’s the intent in the practitioner that makes it good or evil.
Regardless of scholarly disputes, Matthew does want to see how Connor is doing, but he is also afraid he’s going to break out in hives and start wheezing, which is not the look he’s going for right now, especially should he catch a glimpse of a sweaty and red-faced Draisaitl, which is a Draisaitl at his most attractive.
(Matthew never once stated his tastes are refined.)
So he ignores the guilt he feels creeping into his soul and proceeds towards the exit so that the three of them can get out of the arena quickly. He can call or text Connor tomorrow.
His plan goes right out the window when Matthew, Brady and Tim are approached by a bunch of impressive-looking security guards. They are all dressed in black shirts and pants, they wear earpieces and they look even more imposing than Zdeno Chara. Matthew’s frankly surprised they are not sporting sunglasses.
“Matthew Tkachuk?” the group leader inquires.
“So much for going incognito,” Brady mutters.
“Yes,” Matthew replies glaring at Brady. “I am Matthew Tkachuk.”
“Come with us, please,” the dude says.
He isn’t asking.
“We were just leaving,” Tim interjects.
“You may, if you want,” the guy tells him sternly. “But Mr. Tkachuk is coming with us.”
Tim reddens—whether because he’s mad or embarrassed, Matthew cannot say.
“That’s fine, bud,” he says. “You guys just go back to the hotel.”
“Absolutely not,” Brady states. “We’re coming with you.”
Tim promptly agrees, so Matthew doesn't object.
“Whatever,” the group leader says. “Follow us.”
He doesn't seem concerned about the idea that Matthew’s bringing reinforcements. Apparently he doesn't consider them a threat, which is kind of stupid if the reason why Matthew’s been summoned by Oilers security has anything to do with them suspecting he’s involved in Connor’s injury.
“Do you think they assume one of us did this?” Brady whispers.
“What gave you that impression?” Matthew answers sarcastic.
Brady’s lips thin in irritation at the idea.
“It’ll be pretty easy to disprove,” Tim comments.
Matthew almost feels sorry for him. The dude’s just completed his second season in the league and he’s an amazing player, but he can be incredibly naïve. There is nothing easy about being a witch in the NHL, regardless of its apparent stance on magic.
Case in point: as soon as the Oilers higher-ups were made aware that Matthew Tkachuk was in the building, they figured he was the one responsible for taking Connor down.
Like that’s something Matthew does.
Unfortunately, it’s not the first time Matthew has been accused of using his magic to harm an opponent. It comes with the territory of being a witch in the NHL, especially in the post Crosby-concussion era. It also doesn't help that Matthew plays a certain kind of game—rough, aggressive, at times chaotic—with a style that tends to be identified with harmful magic.
It has nothing to do with who he is as a person and as a witch, but not everyone has the mental acuity to make that distinction.
On occasions like this, Matthew really wishes that the NHL had done a better job, and much sooner, at integrating magical players into their system.
Generally speaking, all athletes who are witches have to register with the International Board for Sports, Magic Subdivision, or IBSM, by the age of 16.
(Non-magical people have to register, too—anything else would be viewed as discriminatory. However, the inherent bias of the process is clear in the name, International Board for Sports, Standard Subdivision, or IBSS.
Much ink has been spilled over the intrinsic problem of designating people who’re magical as non-standard (or even sub-standard). Nevertheless, the outrage expressed by athletes, fans and activists has brought little change thus far.)
The Board had been instituted at the end of the 19thcentury to ensure that measures are in place to prevent magical people from using their powers to affect games—regardless of whether individual or team sports are involved.
Additional levels of security had been implemented in all sports once Pierre de Coubertin had revived the Olympic Games. At the time, and for decades afterwards, an honor system had been in place that was meant to somehow control witches’ behaviors while practicing sports.
Ironically enough, de Coubertin had followed the ancient Greek practice of having all athletes swear an oath of honor and loyalty before the Olympic Flame—sort of like ancient Greek athletes and their trainers had to swear before the altar of Zeus in the Bouleuterionat Olympia that they would not cheat during the games.
Nobody had been particularly surprised when the measure had been as effective as a parasol against a monsoon.
Eventually, towards the middle of the 20th century, stricter regulations had been introduced, including permanent wards around all stadiums, arenas, and fields, written contracts every athlete had to sign, and other rules and regulations.
At present, using magic during any kind of athletic competition comes with a lifetime ban from the sport regardless of the severity of the spell involved. The same applies to fans.
Like in all matters, unfortunately, hockey had lagged and still lags behind.
In days of yore, the NHL had considered the use of magic an interesting and unique aspect of the game, and therefore worth keeping, even if it had the potential of endangering players’ lives.
As a result, Matthew had grown up watching hockey where magic was permitted, when not openly encouraged.
His own father, a metallo-kinetic witch, had made effective use of his power during games by bending opponents’ skates and net pipes at will, much to the fans’ amusement.
But then, Keith had played hockey before the Crosby-concussion, and he had not been alone in masterfully using his magic to further his team’s accomplishments, as well as his own.
Almost all the great ones had been passable witches.
Bobby Orr, a cryo-kinetic witch, could turn ice into water in an instant, and he had loved doing that often and unexpectedly. It had been an effective power for a defenseman.
Phil Esposito had some weird affinity with air—aerokinesis, Matthew thinks it’s called—that had allowed him to be a very successful goal scorer.
Matthew never understood how Martin Brodeur’s competence in celestial divination had improved his focus between the pipes, but he knows there are several articles written on the topic.
Steve Yzerman’s skills at cartomancy had not had a direct impact on how he’d played his game, but Matthew imagines they’ve become crucial to his successes as a GM.
The real reason why there was and still is only one Great One has everything to do with the fact that Wayne Gretzky has no magic whatsoever and he had nevertheless become the best player to even skate when magic was still allowed to be used on the ice.
(Nobody, Matthew least of all, had been surprised at all when it was announced, at two very different moments in hockey history, that Sidney Crosby and Connor McDavid had registered with the IBSS.
Neither of them is magical, and that, in many people’s opinions, make them even more special. Matthew agrees.)
The whole ‘Let’s allow magic on the ice’ had eventually stopped because magic had seriously injured one of the greats.
Once it had come to light that Crosby had not suffered from a concussion, but from a complicated hex that had taken almost a year the Penguins magical and medical teams to figure out how to lift, the NHL had had no choice but to revise their rules.
It had also helped that the players, too, had demanded change. The NHL’s obsolete stance of magic had been one of the points of contentions that had resulted in the 2012 lockout.
As such the NHL had agreed to ward arenas, while the NHL PA had introduced tougher measures against witches who use magic against players and during play, and updated the CBA accordingly.
And that had been that.
Sort of.
It’s really impossible to prevent a very competent magical user from being effective because even the best wards are penetrable. Some witches do not have a problem with trying to outwit the NHL and its cadre of experts. Nor do they care about lifetime bans, especially when immense quantities of money are at stake.
Still, as far as Matthew can remember, none of the witches registered with the IBSM has used their power on the ice since the Crosby incident.
It is somewhat not surprising to see that it’s now Connor’s turn. Some of these people love going after the most talented athletes.
“Well, if they do, they’re in for a world of disappointment,” Brady says bringing Matthew’s back to the present.
“Meaning?” Matthew whispers back.
“None of us has that kind of magic,” Brady observes calmly.
“I have no intention of sharing with anyone, let alone the Oilers, what kind of magic I can perform,” Matthew hisses.
“But—“ Brady begins.
“And you won’t, either,” Matthew interrupts him. “It’s none of their business, and the burden of proof is on them.”
“You’re just embarrassed that your powers are not as cool as mine,” Brady snorts.
“No, I am not, because they’re much cooler,” Matthew shoots back.
“We might not have a choice,” Brady reminds Matthew.
“They cannot force us, Brady,” Matthew comments. “And if they try we can just call our teams and our agents.”
By the time they’re done with their back-and-forth whispering, which has attracted suspicious looks from the security guards, they’ve reached the home locker room. They’re unceremoniously shoved in it, the door shutting behind them with an ominous thud.
“What the fuck?” Tim says, as he turns around at the click of at least two locks.
“I told you I had seen them on the Jumbotron,” Oscar Klefbom sounds way too pleased given the circumstances.
“Doesn't mean it’s got something to do with them,” Kailer Yamamoto objects.
Kailer is a friend of Brady’s, has been since they played together on the national team at World Junior, so Matthew’s not surprised to hear him jumping to their defense, even among his own teammates.
“Better be safe than sorry,” Darnell Nurse comments.
“I still think kidnapping them is not the solution,” Nugent-Hopkins points out.
“Technically, we’re not kidnapping them,” Kassian sneers, looking like a cat that ate that canary.
“Technically, you are,” Tim states. “Your security guards just locked us in here.”
“Precisely,” Kassian replies. “The security guards kidnapped you. Our hands are clean.”
“Spoken like a true Oiler,” Brady mutters from behind Matthew.
“Also,” Adam Larsson says. “What’s another illegal deed among enemies?”
Matthew rolls his eyes and looks around to see if he can locate Connor.
“He’s with the trainers,” Tyson Barrie explains. “He’s going to be back in a minute. You might wanna get away from the door, come to think of that,” he adds with a smirk.
Brady and Tim move quickly enough to avoid getting slammed in the face as the door opens suddenly to let in a furious-looking Leon Draisaitl, Connor McDavid trailing behind him with no apparent difficulty.
Matthew feels the air suddenly permeated by an unpleasant sweetness that cloys his senses. It trickles through the room, reaching its recesses and settling everywhere. Matthew cannot identify the smell but its redolence is oppressive.
Everyone seems completely unawares that there is powerful magic nearby, leaving behind a terrible aftertaste.
Matthew doesn't manage to alert the Oilers of its presence, regrettably, because his attention is momentarily diverted.
“Good, they found you,” Draisaitl states looking at Matthew murderously.
“Leo,” Connor says warningly.
“Drat,” Tim says at the same time, and then adds something in German that makes Dominik Kahun snorts.
“Don’t ‘Leo’ me,” Draisaitl hisses, ignoring Tim altogether. “You know it’s got to be them.”
“Fuck off,” Brady shouts.
Matthew exhales heavily, trying to avoid breathing through his nose, and prays for patience.
Both actions seem to incense Draisaitl since the dude launches at them with the violence of a pissed-off bull.
“Leo!” Connor screams as Alex Chiasson and Ethan Bear grab Draisaitl before he can reach Matthew and Brady.
“Wow, wow, wow, buddy,” Brady says raising his hands in defense with a huge grin on his face. “Save it for the ice. You guys seem to need it.”
“Motherfucker,” Draisaitl spits out before turning towards Matthew. “You hiding behind your little brother?” he sneers. “It figures, a coward like you.”
“Leo,” Connor repeats sternly.
“Don’t, Davo,” Draisaitl replies while trying to free himself from his teammates’ grasp. “You know it has to be them. Him,” he adds, turning towards Matthew.
“Why?” Connor asks as he makes his way into the room and reaches his stall. “Because Chucky’s on the Flames?”
Matthew notices that Connor is limping slightly.
The smell of the hex is stronger around him, and Matthew takes a step back to let Connor through and avoid touching him.
For the first time, Brady notices Matthew’s unease, but he doesn't manage to say anything since Draisaitl seems to be hell-bent to make his point.
“Because they’re witches,” he spits out.
“That’s not very nice,” Tim interjects. He looks flabbergasted and mortified in equal measure.
Matthew can relate.
It’s always sad when a person you think highly of lets you down like this, even when you don’t want to have their babies (at least, Matthew assumes Tim doesn't want to have Draisaitl’s babies, since he seems more intent on evaluating the possibility of having Brady’s). Matthew is also used to Draisaitl’s special brand of vitriol, however. Tim, not so much.
“I didn't mean you, Tim,” Draisaitl is apologetic as he turns towards Stützle.
“I am a witch, Drat,” Tim reminds him. “I didn't know you were magic-phobic.”
“I am not!” Draisaitl now looks positively horrified, like the idea that he is discriminatory against an entire segment of the world population is appalling.
“Well,” Brady says. “You just implied that we must be responsible for McDavid’s injury because we’re witches. That’s kind of magic-phobic.”
“Maybe he meant that we’re Tkachuk witches,” Matthew muses as he stares at Draisaitl in the eye, daring him to contradict him.
“That’s not much better,” Brady remarks. “Mom and Taryn are lovely. Dad, too, even if he’s a bit gruff.”
“That’s not better at all,” Tim scoffs, ignoring Brady’s last comment. “I am really surprised that you’d say anything like that, Leon,” he then tells Draisaitl. “I know you’re better than this.”
Draisaitl presses his lips together patently irritated at Tim’s scolding. He must resolve not to further antagonize his friend, however, because he stays silent.
Matthew decides that it’s time to at least try to rectify the situation a bit, because the lingering effects of the spell that took down Connor are easy to eliminate.
First, however, Matthew’s got more pressing matters.
“How are you?” he asks Connor.
“Like you don’t know,” Draisaitl sneers. He finally manages to get free of Chiasson and Bear and makes his way towards Connor, hovering around him anxiously.
“We don’t actually,” Brady shots back.
“What? You don’t know how to work your magic properly?” Draisaitl asks, which makes Brady clench his hands into fists.
“Brady,” Matthew says gently.
Brady sighs and seems to get himself under control since his fists unclench.
“It wasn't them, Drat,” Tim states quite peremptory. “I was with them every second of the game, even during intermissions. Neither of them cast a spell.”
“Would you know what to look for?” Kassian asks.
“I am a witch, aren’t I?” Tim replies firmly. “Even if you don’t believe Matthew and Brady, or even me, you believe Drat, right? And the NHL registry is public. Check it out.”
Draisaitl doesn't confirm or deny Tim’s statement verbally, but Matthew notices him nodding at Kassian when the latter raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“I am fine,” Connor answers Matthew’s question, looking a bit chagrined at his teammates’ fussing. “It doesn't hurt and it doesn't bother me much.”
“But?” Matthew prods. There is always a ‘but’ when magic is involved.
“I am not going to be able to play until this gets resolved,” Connor admits. “And the magical team is not very optimistic about that happening before the next game, let alone the next round.”
At the news, the locker room explodes into a cacophony of comments from any and all Oilers, which is quite annoying but has the added benefit of removing everyone’s attention from Matthew.
Except for Draisaitl, who continues to look at Matthew like he wants to kill him.
It’s nothing new, and nothing Matthew hasn’t seen before from other people, but it’s a bit tiresome considering that both Tim and Connor have come to Matthew’s defense. Matthew tries not to hold it against Draisaitl, however. He, too, would be on the warpath if a witch with malicious intents were to hurt one of his friends.
Well, a Tkachuk might not have harmed Connor McDavid, but that doesn't mean that a Tkachuk cannot help.
“Connor,” Matthew says. “Do you guys have any sage around here?”
“Sage?” Connor asks puzzled.
“Why?” Kassian jumps in.
“Sage?” Brady, too, seems thrown off by Matthew’s request. He doesn't experience magic like Matthew does.
“Sage,” Matthew repeats.
“It's one of the best herbs to perform cleansing and purification rituals,” Tim explains.
“I mean, I am sure we do,” Connor shrugs. “There are a bunch of herbs in the Head Magician’s office.”
“But she hasn't used any around you, yet?” Matthew asks perplexed.
“That’s none of your business, Tkachuk,” Draisaitl intervenes baring his teeth.
“Quit it, Leo,” Connor says tiredly. “And no. I have been checked out and I am cleared to go home, but they’re holding off doing anything until we know more.”
Matthew does his best to hide his surprise at the news.
“Why do you ask, Matthew?” Connor inquires.
“The residuals of the hex are still hanging around you,” Matthew explains apologetically. “You’re dripping with it. It’s getting all over this room.”
“Is that what this is?” Klefbom sounds taken aback by Matthew’s statement.
“What do you mean, Connor is dripping with it?” Draisaitl barks.
“You can sense it, too?” Matthew asks Klefbom, and ignoring Draisaitl.
“I can tell something is off, but I don’t typically sense magic,” Klefbom admits. “I am a geomancer. But there is something in the air. Hold on,” he adds and disappears into a crowd of Oilers.
Matthew feels relieved that an Oiler has confirmed his impressions. It should make it easier for them to fumigate the locker room sometimes before the end of the year.
Klefbom is back less than a minute later with Tyler Ennis in tow.
“Klef said you and him are sensing something in the air?” he asks. “Is it, like, peaches? But rotten peaches?”
A light bulb goes off in Matthew’s brain.
“That’s exactly what it is,” he exclaims snapping his fingers. “I couldn't pinpoint it until now, but, yes. And it’s very sweet.”
“I smell like rotten peaches?” Connor almost shrieks.
“It's not you, Davo,” Matthew reassures him. “It’s the residuals of the hex.”
“And sage is going to accomplish what, exactly?” Kassian asks suspicious.
“It’s going to get rid of them,” Tim jumps in. “It will dissipate the smell, too, and prevent the residuals to settle into your arena. They can create some unpleasantness if left to linger. Your people should really cleanse the whole building, just in case.”
“Shit,” Kassian says.
“I mean,” Matthew doesn't want to step on anyone’s toes, here, but, “I would imagine your magical team is already on top of this.”
Connor, Kassian and Draisaitl have an entire conversation just by looking at each other before Drasaitl turns towards Matthew.
“Do you see anyone waving sage all around Connor or something?”
Which is a very good point.
Matthew looks at Connor but the Oilers captain is staring into nothingness.
“What do we need to do?” Draisaitl eventually asks Tim—no ‘thank you’ to Matthew for pointing out the problem. Draisaitl’s refusal to acknowledge that Matthew can help—is helping—is hard to swallow.
“Just get some sage—a handful will suffice—and some matches,” Brady interjects. “It would be better if the sage were dry, but fresh sage will do. Either way, make sure you also have some paper.”
Matthew notices Larsson and Bear leave the room, supposedly to retrieve the items Brady has requested.
“How come you didn't say anything about the smell, Ty?” Kailer asks, though his tone is not accusatory.
“I thought it was another one of Nealsy’s disgusting snacks,” Ennis defends himself.
“My snacks are not disgusting,” Neal protests.
“You dip apple slices in Nutella, Nealsy,” Archibald reminds him.
“A masterpiece of culinary arts,” Neal states.
Matthew looks at the back-and-forth and makes a note of the idea, planning to ask Eichs his thoughts on it.
“I am an orchard witch,” Ennis explains to Matthew, “not a very good one,” he adds. “I can make orchard trees grow but I tend to overshoot my target point, so often the fruits ripen too fast and too much. That’s why I recognized the smell.”
“Makes sense,” Matthew replies. Magic can be finicky like that. In this case, Ennis’ powers worked to Connor’s advantage.
“It just did not occur to me that it might be related to the hex,” Ennis adds.
“It’s not your job to make these connections,” Matthew reminds him.
“It’s not yours either,” Connor points out. “And yet, here you are, helping us. Thank you, Chucky. For real.”
“Of course, Davo,” Matthew says. “Anytime.”
Draisaitl seems to be taken aback by their easy rapport. That bothers Matthew much less than the fact that the Oilers seem to have a very superficial approach to harmful magic, even when it affects their captain.
For Connor’s sake, he genuinely hopes this attitude is a symptom of incompetence rather than negligence. Because if it is the latter, this might be a repeat of the Crosby’s concussion fiasco, and it might be a while before Connor McDavid is back on the ice.