Chapter Text
Mike isn’t sure how it even happened.
‘Chirping’ isn’t anything new to hockey; Mike’s done his fair share of shit-talking on the ice, especially against any of the rival universities. There’s a part of him that thinks it’s fun, even, to make comments that only the targeted player can hear, comments the refs can’t, like a mini game within the game itself. He’s been called every name imaginable, and normally, that doesn’t bother him. It never has.
“Wheeler,” the boy opposite him sneers as he positions himself for the face-off. Mike rolls his eyes. “Ready to get your shit rocked?”
If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not in the mood to entertain any of that today. Does he think he’s intimidating? He’s really not. So, instead, he chooses to ignore him and gets into position to begin play on center ice.
“Have a safe game, boys,” the linesman says before dropping the puck between the two of them. Mike clenches his jaw, no longer focusing on the player in front of him. He wants to win this face-off. “Good luck.”
Mike immediately juts his stick forward, bringing the puck back between his legs to his teammate, who is a couple of feet behind him. It’s second nature to him, making sure every play runs smoothly.
It’s the way he’s always been — being a center means he’s the ‘middle man,’ creating and connecting plays between offensive and defensive players, and he loves it. There’s nothing he loves more than getting an assist, setting his teammates up to shoot something they otherwise wouldn’t be able to. He knows everything that happens when he’s on the ice is because of him, and the rest of the team does, too.
He begins to skate across the ice, the puck on Lucas’s stick as he charges forward. Mike looks ahead—Wisconsin’s players are spread out in a zone, trying to stop them from entering their side of the ice. Mike can see they’re faltering, as if they didn’t realize they were that fast. Did they not have that on their scouting report? For some reason, teams usually underestimate them in that regard, but Mike isn’t complaining. Why would he?
Lucas passes the puck to Mike, who quickly dangles it through the legs of the defensive Wisconsin player in front of him. This shit is too easy, he thinks to himself.
He passes the puck back to Lucas, who spots an opening in the top left corner and takes a shot on net from the left side of the ice. The Wisconsin goalie quickly saves it with his glove, and Mike stops skating. The referee blows the whistle, signalling a stoppage of play, and Mike, breathing heavily, knows it’s time to switch lines.
He begins to skate toward the bench, lightly nudging Lucas to let him know that he thinks that was a nice shot. Before reaching the bench, the same Wisconsin player who he took a face-off against at centre ice bumps into Mike’s shoulder, catching him off guard and nearly knocking him onto the ice.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” Mike asks, slowing his skating and tightening his grip on his stick. He can hear Lucas groan as he skates past him and off the ice onto the bench, knowing that one thing about Mike is that he doesn’t let things go. “Watch where you’re going, asshole.”
It’s quick, not fast enough for any referee or linesman to notice them speaking to each other, but the words ring loud and clear in Mike’s ears: “You were in my way, faggot.”
He stills for a second—not long enough for anyone else to notice, but for him it feels like he’s stuck in his place on the ice. What the hell did he just call him?
“Wheeler, get off the ice before I call too many men.” One of the linesmen says, skating toward him. “Or a delay of game. Go.”
Mike swallows and nods, quickly looking around to make sure nobody heard the interaction between them. What the hell is that player’s problem? He pushes the comment to the back of his mind, making his way to the bench and slamming the boards shut behind him, ignoring the look he’s getting from his coach. It’s just a chirp. Nothing more.
“Dude,” is the first thing Lucas says when he sits down on the bench beside him. Mike doesn’t answer, simply reaching for one of the pre-filled Gatorade bottles and squirting some of the water into his mouth through his cage. Did Lucas hear what the Wisconsin player called him? “You need to stop doing that.”
Mike doesn’t make eye contact. “Doing what?”
“Always feeling the need to… answer these people.” Lucas sighs, shifting to the right to make room for the other players trying to sit on the bench. “Just let them say whatever they want, and keep skating. Don’t let stupid chirping get to you.”
“And let them win?” Mike retorts, opening his mouth to squeeze more water into it. “Not happening,” he mumbles with a mouth full of water. He removes one of his gloves to dig underneath the cage of his helmet and wipe the water from his chin.
“Whatever, man. Just don’t do anything stupid that’ll get us a penalty. I don’t want Coach to make us do fucking laps before practice again.” Lucas grumbles, reaching for his own water and watching their teammates on the ice, groaning when a stupid offside call is made. Both boys stand up, and Lucas yells, “What a weak call!” As the linesman skates past their bench. Mike rolls his eyes.
It isn’t long before they’re back on the ice—the same line they started the game with. This time, the face-off is in their offensive zone, to the left of the ice. Mike doesn’t need to ask before skating into position, knowing it’ll be him who’s doing it.
To no one’s surprise, the same Wisconsin player skates up and prepares to take the face-off, too. Mike fights the urge to say something stupid, especially with the referee right beside him, preparing to drop the puck. Control yourself, he reminds himself. He probably uses that insult on everybody.
They continue the face-off, and this time the Wisconsin player wins it. Mike tries to ignore the annoyance that prickles up the back of his neck at losing the face-off, but immediately refocuses as the puck is passed to a player behind him, who skates around the net in an attempt to clear it from their zone.
Wyatt, one of the best defensemen on Indiana’s hockey team, pokes the puck out of their possession toward the boards on the right. Mike immediately pushes himself to get there faster, wanting to keep the play on this side of the ice.
“You probably like this, Wheeler.” The same player sneers behind him, pressing Mike up against the boards as they fight for the loose puck at their skates. Mike says nothing, focused on getting the puck to another teammate’s stick, but the Wisconsin player doesn’t stop talking. “Yeah? You like being pinned up against the wall by a boy, don’t you—”
Something snaps in him, and Mike no longer cares about the puck, turning around and pushing the player off him. The player stumbles back, but not enough to lose his footing, and begins to skate with the puck on his stick. What the fuck is his problem?
Unfortunately for him, Mike no longer cares about the puck on the ice. He skates toward the boy, pretending he’s making a play on the puck, and instead checks into him from behind—causing the boy to dive headfirst into the boards in front of him and the sound of the body making contact echoes throughout the ice.
After a couple seconds of the boy not getting up, now in a fetal position on the ice, the referee blows the whistle, halting play. Mike can’t help but let out an annoyed groan. Why is he being so dramatic? He didn’t even hit him that hard.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Mike is pushed from behind by another player from the Wisconsin team, sending him forward and nearly tripping over his own feet. Mike reacts instantly, turning around and skating toward the other player to try and push him back. Is he seriously trying to pick a fight right now?
Immediately, Lucas and his teammates rush toward them, stepping between the Wisconsin players and Mike. Wyatt is already throwing off his gloves, ready to fight whoever even tries to come near them, or near Mike, but the referees skate over quickly, placing their own bodies between both teams before it spirals out of control.
When the tensions finally settle, one of the referees turns toward Mike, and he knows exactly what’s coming. It’s obvious he’s going to get a penalty—the way the Wisconsin player fell onto the ice would bait any referee into calling one. But it’s fine, he rationalizes. He could use a two-minute break in the box anyway. A roughing penalty will probably do the job.
The referee blows his whistle for a second time, and Mike knows it’s because the players have cooled down and the threat of a fight has passed. Everyone is slowly making way for the Wisconsin medical staff, who are rushing onto the ice to check on their player who remains in a fetal position. Even though no one is actively jumping at the chance to fight Mike anymore, both Lucas and Wyatt are standing between them, just in case. He wouldn’t put it past a Wisconsin player to come after him when the referees or the linesmen aren’t looking.
The player is still on the ground, barely moving. Mike sighs, rolling his eyes. There’s no way he hit that player hard enough to genuinely injure him—all the player probably wants to do is sell the call and try to get Mike in the penalty box for a major, five-minute penalty to give them the power play.
Unfortunately, the referee has other plans. Skating up to Mike, he says, “Wheeler, you’ve got a major and a game misconduct. You’re ejected. Off the ice.”
“What?” Mike’s mouth opens, and a mix of a sarcastic laugh and a scoff escapes his lips in disbelief. “Ejected?” There’s no way he’s serious, Mike tries to rationalize. That’s such a soft call! A major, maybe, but an ejection? In the first period? “How does that make sense? You can’t be fucking serious right now!”
Mike watches as the other referee skates up to the Indiana Hoosiers’ team bench, likely to deliver the news to his coach, and Mike would really like to scream right now. How is he getting ejected?
“I don’t want to hear it, Wheeler. A hit from behind and to the head is an immediate ejection, and you, of all players, should know that by now.” The referee doesn’t bother to entertain anything Mike says, not even looking at him. Mike doesn’t give up, because of course he doesn’t, and slaps his stick against the ice in protest, to which the referee, again, doesn’t budge. “Off the ice, Wheeler, now.”
“Come on, this is bullshit! He literally dived into the boards! How am I getting ejected for this shit? That’s such—” Before Mike can finish his sentence, he feels a hand grab his arm tightly. He doesn’t even bother looking to see who it is, trying to tug against the grip and keep skating toward the referee. How is this even a fair call? When he feels another tug, he turns his head to see Lucas, shaking his head as if warning him to quit while he’s ahead.
“Mike,” Lucas lightly shakes Mike. “Drop it.”
Mike sighs, slamming his stick against the ice for a second time, knowing he really can’t afford any more trouble, no matter how stupid he thinks the referee’s call is.
The Wisconsin player is now on his feet, skating toward his own bench with two medical staff members holding onto each of his arms, and Mike swears he can see a slight smile on his lips. Mike wants to go after him again. What a fucking piece of shit, he thinks.
Mike doesn’t look at his coach before heading into the locker room and leaving the ice.
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
“We’re going to have a problem here, Wheeler,” his coach, Scott, sighs, rubbing his hands over his eyes.
It’s clear the older man is tired—finishing a two-hour practice early in the morning is exhausting, even for the coaches, and Mike really isn’t in the mood for a lecture. Instead, he should be in the shower, getting ready to head back to his dorm (preferably, to get a much-needed power nap before his annoyingly long marketing lecture in an hour).
Forcing himself to take a deep breath, his eyes drift to the window of the coach’s office. His other teammates are only a few feet away, laughing about something, and changing into clean clothes after their shower. Mike’s gaze drops to the floor, avoiding eye contact as a wave of annoyance washes over him at the fact that they’re probably watching him get scolded again by their coach.
“I don’t even understand what the problem with the hit was!” Mike shakes his head, hand fiddling with the metal ball on his eyebrow piercing. “You of all people know how those refs are, coach. Especially at that arena. They’re soft. I barely even touched him.”
Mike chooses not to mention the comments that led to checking the stupid Wisconsin player into the boards, wanting to erase that moment from memory. What would he even say? ‘Sorry, coach, this player accused me of being gay, and I got super defensive about it?’
“He has a concussion. That isn’t a normal hit, and the refs clearly didn’t see it that way on the ice.” His voice is sharp. “That player you back-checked? He’s going to miss the playoffs. Maybe the rest of the season if his recovery has complications. Because of your temper, their team is now without their centre. That doesn’t happen from a regular hit, Wheeler.”
“Come on,” Mike rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand why any of that matters. Isn’t this a good thing?” he asks, his voice rising slightly in pitch. He knows he’s pushing it a little bit, but he doesn’t care—he would do anything to avoid another lecture. “I mean, one less team to worry about, isn’t it? Any other coach would be thankful that this happened to their star player. Can’t you just… loosen up a bit?”
“Loosen up a little bit? Do you think you’re being funny?” his coach asks. “Jesus, Wheeler, you need to get your shit together. You injured somebody. This is serious.”
“Since when is checking someone against the rules?” Mike continues to argue, shaking his head. “It was a clean hit. Textbook, even. How is it my fault that he didn’t keep his head up when he went head-first into the boards?” Mike knows his hit wasn’t entirely clean, but he would rather burn alive than admit he did anything wrong. Besides, he still maintains that he didn’t deserve the ejection. The major five-minute penalty, sure, but not the game misconduct that led to his ejection.
“It doesn’t even matter if the hit was clean or not, Wheeler. You’re fortunate to be standing here right now. The player safety board is at its wits’ end, constantly having to get together to address their concerns about your on-ice behaviour, and honestly, I don’t blame them. Do you know they’re considering suspension?” A silence settles in the office, and Mike can feel the heat rush to his face. “Honestly, maybe that’ll finally get their point across. Maybe you need to sit out for the playoffs. Maybe that’ll teach you to take this shit seriously and that you can really hurt someone.”
“Suspension?” Mike spits back, the word landing like a punch to the gut. “How… how does that little hit warrant a suspension for the playoffs?”
“I think I’ve made myself pretty clear, haven’t I? I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this, but you literallyconcussed him.”
Mike says nothing, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making another sarcastic remark.
“Think about it, Wheeler. What am I supposed to do here? My hands are tied. Even if I wanted to, I can’t even use the defense that it was an accident, because we all saw how it happened.” Coach Scott rubs a hand over his face. “It’s happened way too many times this season, and we’re only a little bit more than halfway through.” He takes his hands off his face and crosses them over his chest. “You know how seriously they take head injuries around here, Wheeler. You can end someone’s career if you don’t control yourself.”
Mike’s throat is dry, worry seeping through his skin. There’s no way he’d actually be suspended, is there?
He’s the captain, the heart of the team, and there’s no chance they’ll make it to the championship without him, let alone win the title if he’s forced to sit on the bench. Both he and his coach know that, so why are they even entertaining this conversation? He knows his coach would fight to ensure he wouldn’t be suspended for the playoffs, and the athletic department at IU wouldn’t let it happen, either—so why are they talking about this at all? Can’t they just… move on and focus on literally anything else?
“You… they can’t suspend me. That wouldn’t make sense.” Mike shakes his head, tucking a strand of his sweat-dampened curls behind his ear. He wants to leave this stupid office and take a shower. He doesn’t want to deal with this anymore, and the sinking feeling in his stomach is making it hard to breathe. “I’m literally the captain. You’d be shooting yourself in the foot if you did that, and we both know it. We wouldn’t even make it past the first round if I’m benched, and everyone knows that.”
If he does get suspended, it’ll show up on his player sheet, and any potential NHL team scouts will see it. That can affect his draft stock and maybe even his prospect ranking. Which, in his opinion, would be detrimental. If he gets suspended, and even worse, if his dad hears about it, he would be too stressed to imagine the consequences he would face. His parents take hockey just as seriously as he does—arguably, even more—and, honestly, his dad is scary when he’s mad.
He tries to focus on the conversation, knowing that if he thinks about it too much he will end up spiraling. In all honesty, Mike isn’t sure he would be able to go back home if he misses the playoffs, especially considering it’s his senior season. His dad locked him out of the house after he missed a penalty shot in his senior year of high school, and he was forced to sleep on Lucas’s couch for two days until his dad cooled off.
What would he do if Mike gets suspended? He doesn’t want to deal with that again.
“I’m not denying that,” his coach sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I think it’s crucial to make sure that you’d be able to play.”
“So then what’s the problem?” Mike lifts his eyebrows, a wave of impatience surging through his body. “I’m literally in your office, in front of everyone, getting in trouble for a bullshit hit that wasn’t even worth a major penalty in the first place. Are you just supposed to make it look like I’m getting in trouble? I don't know, like, set an example or something?”
“Language, Wheeler,” he warns, sending a glare in Mike’s direction. “Suspension, for now, is off the table. I have, on the other hand, reached a… compromise, with the board of players’ safety.”
"A compromise?” Mike almost has half a mind to laugh. His coach wants him to compromise over something that wasn’t even his fault? Did the stupid board of players’ safety know what that stupid Wisconsin player said to him? What if any other players heard what he was called? What if a… rumor starts spreading across campus? Will his own mental health be taken into consideration?
“Yes, a compromise,” his coach continues. “And I’m telling you now that you’re in no position to complain about anything I’m about to say, or the deal that we’ve come up with, because it’s either you don’t join us in the playoffs for your senior season, or you suck it up and do this. I suggest you choose the former, Wheeler.”
There’s a small part of Mike that’s afraid to ask. He knows he isn’t getting suspended, not if his coach can help it, so what more is there for him to possibly do? Write a handwritten apology letter to the boy he gave a concussion to. What’s next? Is he going to be forced to visit him and apologize in person?
They’re not children anymore. They’ve almost graduated from college. Checking has always been a part of their sport, and it isn’t Mike’s fault that the other skater forgot the cardinal rule to always keep your head up when going down headfirst. Besides, the player knows what he did. Why would Mike have it in him to feel sorry for someone like that?
“What’s the compromise, then? An apology letter? Do you want me to write it by hand or type it up?” Mike scowls, already annoyed with the direction it’s heading in. He doesn’t want to write a single letter to apologize for anything, but if that’s what it takes to get back on the ice, he’ll do it.
“You’re not going to be writing an apology letter this time,” he sighs. “You’ll be expected to complete community hours before returning on the ice.”
“Community hours?” Mike repeats, shock in his voice. “Like… community service?”
“Exactly that, yes.” His coach reaches across the desk and hands Mike a pamphlet. Mike accepts it hesitantly and reads the title: Train at Indiana University Over Winter Break, Skating Camp for Indiana Youth, Ages Seven to Thirteen!
“Skating camp?” Mike quickly skims the pamphlet. Why would he be in charge of a… skating camp? Why would he be responsible for training kids to skate? He shakes his head, a small laugh escaping his lips. No way. Not during winter break. As an athlete, breaks are a rare commodity, and he’s been looking forward to this vacation since they booked it. He’s not going to miss it. “No. No way am I wasting my break staying on campus to teach people anything—”
“Kids,” his coach interrupts, not giving Mike a chance to answer. “You’ll be helping run the training camp for children, Wheeler. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Kids?” Mike repeats, knowing that there is no way he’s going to be able to deal with being alone for two weeks with a bunch of too-energetic, too-hyper kids. Where will their parents be? Don’t they have better things to do with their time right before Christmas? Why do they have to ruin Mike’s? What the hell is he going to tell his friends?
“Yes, Wheeler, kids.”
“No way,” Mike throws the pamphlet onto his coach’s desk, scoffing. “I… I don’t want to be stuck as some sort of teacher—”
“You don’t have a choice.” His coach finally stands up, and Mike knows his coach well enough that the conversation is over, now. “Do you want to play in the playoffs?”
Mike furrows his eyebrows. “Of course I do—”
“Then you will be there, Monday, at eight in the morning—”
“Eight in the morning?” Mike interrupts. “This is so unfair!”
“You’re able to make it to morning training, so I expect you to be punctual at the training camp. The expectations are no different. I have already spoken to the person who runs it, and they will be expecting you there, on time, for the entire two weeks. It will take place in this arena, so you should have no problem getting here.”
Mike wants to scream. This can’t be happening to him.
“Coach—”
His coach begins to walk to the door of his office, and Mike knows there’s no use in fighting it anymore. He’s serious this time.Mike tightens his hands into fists in an attempt to control himself. “I will also be receiving updates throughout the session. If you don’t shape up, I will bench you myself.”
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
“So what does that mean, then?” Lucas asks, eyebrows lifting as he makes himself comfortable on the couch opposite Mike. “You’re just… not gonna come with us? Even after everything we’ve planned? We already booked our flights, dude.”
“My mom's going to be pissed if we lose her deposit for our seat selections,” Dustin groans, adjusting his hat. “I bothered her for so long to help us with this, man. She’s never going to do anything for us ever again.”
“You guys are acting like I even have a say in this!” Mike tilts his head back, balancing it in between the couch cushions. He wishes he had the choice, he thinks to himself. “Which, for the record, I don’t.”
“You could’ve told him no,” Dustin pushes. “Like, you know, set boundaries, or whatever. What am I going to tell my mom? Flying during the holiday season is expensive, and they don’t issue refunds this close to the flight. What the hell is my mom going to do with a voucher for American Airlines?”
“Go on vacation?” Mike replies, eyebrows raising. “She could use a break from you.”
“Shut up, Wheeler.” Dustin lets out a groan. “My mom loves me. What she’s not going to love is that you don’t have the balls to stand up to our coach and tell him you have a non-refundable airline ticket.”
“And then what, Dustin?” Mike replies, his voice sharp as he runs a hand through his shoulder-length, curly black hair. He doesn’t have time, nor does he want to admit he’ll likely have to apologize to Dustin’s mom for wasting the money she put down to book the plane seats so they could all fly together. If it were up to him, he would still be going on vacation with his friends, somewhere warm, instead of staying here, in stupid Indiana with the stupid Indiana weather. So, really, now that he’s thinking about it, maybe his coach should be the one paying for the missed flight. “It’s either I help run this training camp over winter break, or I don’t play in the playoffs. Coach was serious, Dustin. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”
“That’s such bullshit,” Dustin protests, frustration seeping from every word he says, and Mike doesn’t blame him for being upset at the situation. He knows his friends well enough to know that they’re both annoyed. They’re supposed to leave in two days, and they all know it’s way too last-minute to get any form of refund. “And you’re sure that you really can’t get out of it?”
“If I could, would I be going to this stupid training camp?” Mike’s voice is sharper than he intends it to be, but he’s more than frustrated. He’s been looking forward to going on this vacation with them, since it's one of the few things getting him through midterms and their annoyingly early conditioning workouts. He just wants to see the beach, he thinks to himself. “You guys are acting like I chose to stay here for two weeks instead of going on vacation. Do you hear yourself?”
“It’s fucked that they’re using the playoffs against you,” Lucas points out. “Coach knows you’d do practically anything to play. We were supposed to have a relaxing two weeks before coming back for our last practice before Christmas, and now you’re forced to stay here in the snow.”
“You’re telling me this like I don’t already know how fucked up it all is.” Mike stands up from the couch, walking over to the small common room between their three dorms. One of the many perks of being a student athlete is that they all room together, and Mike is grateful that he, Lucas and Dustin were chosen for this specific dorm. “I even bought new bathing suits the last time I went into the city.”
“Who’s running the training camp anyway?” Dustin asks, crossing his arms. “Think about it for like, more than a second. Who is willingly staying here throughout all winter break to teach a bunch of kids?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Mike reaches for the crumpled pamphlet on the coffee table, letting out a small sigh as his eyes scan the paper for any indication of who would be running the camp. He didn’t see it the first time, but to be honest, he hasn’t really checked again since his coach told him he had no choice but to participate.
He cringes at the idea of it being one of the athletic department’s professors. Is Mike going to be stuck working alongside someone twice his age? Someone uptight, someone who’s looking forward to reporting everything back to his coach about how he’s doing? He can picture it perfectly: some professor who’s more than happy to finally have power over a hockey player, bossing him around because they know he can’t do anything about it, making him do all the manual labor for the sake of teaching him a lesson. Mike balks at the thought.
Or, admittedly worse: Will it be run by a parent?
“I mean, it says here it’s sponsored by the figure skating program, so maybe it’s a figure skater?” Lucas shrugs, “Or maybe one of their coaches? I don’t know who, though.”
“A figure skater?” Mike blanches, raising his eyebrows. “Why would a figure skater be in charge of a training camp for skating?”
“Maybe because they know how to skate, dumbass?” Dustin snorts, as if it’s obvious. Mike just rolls his eyes.
He obviously knows that figure skaters can skate—it’s literally in the name. But he has no interest in working alongside someone he doesn’t even know for two weeks. Besides, hockey players and figure skaters are so… different, and so is the way they skate. How would they be able to teach if they have different methods? Wouldn’t that be counterintuitive?
Lucas turns toward Mike. “Maybe this will be a chance for you to finally get a girl, Wheeler.”
Mike winces while Dustin lets out a laugh. “Figure skaters are super cute. I saw some of them at Wyatt’s party last month. They were all over him.”
“I don’t need a girl,” Mike huffs, and that’s true. The last thing he needs is a distraction, especially with the playoffs coming up so soon. He needs to focus on making sure his coach isn’t mad at him and will still put him on the first line.
“Come on,” Lucas complains. “You’re the only one on our team who hasn’t even tried to get with girls this semester. You even rejected Daniella, Wheeler. Who the hell rejects Daniella? She’s the volleyball team captain. You fumbled it badly.” Lucas looks over at Dustin, who is nodding his head feverishly. “She was all over you.”
“You guys had the potential to be like, a real Indiana University Power couple,” Dustin adds. “I could see the headlines now: Hoosier Royalty Turned Power Couple!”
“Don’t you have Max to worry about?” Mike retorts, crossing his arms and hoping his friends will take the hint and drop the subject. “I don’t care about Daniella, or any of the girls from the volleyball team.”
“God, are you still a virgin?” Dustin gasps, his eyes widening. “Is that why you don’t care about girls?”
Mike scoffs, “What the hell?” Shaking his head, he pulls tightly on the two strings attached to the neck of his hoodie.“What makes you think I’m a virgin?”
“I mean, objectively,” Dustin continues. “She’s like, a solid ten out of ten. Plus, she’s super smart. She was in one of my chemistry classes, and she’s like, the only one who didn’t need any of the professor’s help during one of our labs.”
“No offense, Dustin, but I couldn’t care less about her, whether she’s smart or not. Volleyball players are cool and all, but I have way too much to worry about to even think about talking to her or any of her other friends.”
“Hence why we think you’re a virgin,” Lucas laughs, and Mike can’t help but feel his stomach twist in a way that makes it difficult to breathe. They’re joking, he knows his friends well enough to know they are, but something about this conversation is making him feel sick.
He has no interest in dating girls. In dating anyone.
He can’t afford to get distracted and lose his focus. The only reason he’s in college is to play hockey, and since it’s his senior year, he knows scouts from actual NHL teams are coming to watch him play. He’s not letting some girl distract him from his goals.
Mike is self-aware enough to know he takes hockey way too seriously. At least, he takes it more seriously than his friends do. Besides, even if he wanted a girlfriend, he wouldn’t have time for her. Hockey takes up way too much of his free time, and the little free time he does have, he wouldn’t want to spend it with anyone else, apart from his teammates or alone.
He doesn’t even want to think about what his dad would say if he found out Mike was seeing someone. There is nothing his parents hate more than distractions—and Mike is willing to bet his dad would see whoever he’s dating as distraction number one. Why would he want to subject anyone to that? Why would he want to bring a girl back to Hawkins?
“I just want to get through this stupid training camp,” Mike rolls his eyes, not bothering to comment about whether or not he’s a virgin—which, in his opinion, doesn’t matter in the slightest.
He’s sure there are a lot of other athletes who prioritize their sport. He’s sure they don’t have time to… entertain anyone else, either. So he’s not different at all. He’s the same as everyone else. Just because he doesn’t go up and talk to volleyball girls at Wyatt’s dorm parties doesn’t mean he’s a virgin. It makes him dedicated!
Even if he were a virgin, it wouldn’t be any of their business. Mike winces. Even though he’d never admit it out loud, he is a virgin.Worry seeps through his veins. Is it that obvious? Is it written all over his face? If Lucas and Dustin notice it, do his other teammates notice it, too? Is that why the Wisconsin player kept calling him… that?
“Do you think they’ll make you teach any figure skating?” Dustin asks, head tilting. “I mean, if one of the girls is running the camp, maybe there’s like… some figure skating element to it?”
Mike wants to scream. “Why would our coach ask me to teach a figure skating camp?”
“Who knows?” Lucas replies, exasperated. “Wouldn’t that be next? Maybe he’s trying to see how far you’d go to make sure you’re still on the roster for the playoffs.”
“I don’t think that’s allowed,” Dustin answers, tilting his head. “Wouldn’t that be like, blackmail or something?”
“Not if he keeps giving players concussions.” Lucas rolls his eyes. "Then, wouldn't that be like... fair punishment?"
“Listen,” Mike says, a headache suddenly crawling up the base of his neck. He suddenly has the overwhelming urge to be left alone, to crawl under the sheets of his bed and sleep, despite not being tired. “It sucks, and I would much rather be with you guys than at this stupid camp, but I would also like to play in the playoffs.”
“Right,” Lucas says.
“Fuck,” Dustin mumbles under his breath. “Who’s going to be the one to break the news to my mom? She’s gonna be pissed.”
“Dude,” Mike tilts his head back, placing both of his hands over his face. “She’s your mom.”
“You’re the one bailing!”
“It’s not my choice!”
“It’s kinda your fault, though,” Lucas points out. Mike shoots him a glare. “What? I’m not going to be the one to tell her anything.” He raises his hand slightly, turning toward Dustin. “Fine, let’s vote on it. I vote Mike.”
“What?” Mike’s mouth drops open. “That’s so unfair!”
“I vote Mike, too. See? That’s two out of three, which is the majority. Mike, you’re going to have to tell her.”
“I’m not telling her shit!” Mike protests. “Haven’t I been through enough already? I’m literally missing our vacation for this.” He looks between Dustin and Lucas, both of whom, for the record, are smiling. Mike wants to scream—they planned this, didn’t they? It doesn’t matter what they say; he is not talking to Dustin’s mom.
“Which, for the record.” Dustin pauses, shrugging his shoulders. “Is all your doing.”
“The hit was clean!” he groans, feeling his headache get progressively worse. He shuts his eyes, tempted to walk to his bedroom and end the conversation before it spirals even more than it already has. “How many times am I going to have to say that?”
“Mike, it literally wasn’t,” Lucas says flatly. “I was there, I saw it, and you can’t deny that you went after him.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Mike turns toward Dustin. “Tell me the hit wasn’t worthy of a game misconduct.”
Dustin grimaces. “It kinda was.”
Standing up from the couch, Mike grabs the pamphlet from the coffee table, crumpling it up with one hand and walks to his room, slamming the door behind him.
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
Mike doesn’t necessarily believe in signs, but given how his morning has been going, maybe he should consider it.
When his alarm didn’t go off at seven-thirty, even though he’d set it the night before, he was able to look past it. It’s okay. Shit like that happens all the time: Mike thinks he sets an alarm, but he doesn’t really—leaving himself late more times than not.
When he burnt his toast (despite setting the toaster to the perfect setting, which normally ends with the most satisfying result), he rolled his eyes. It’s annoying, sure, but he can look past it.
When he opened the fridge to get the butter to put on the toast and noticed how light it was, he realized Dustin must’ve finished the container before leaving on vacation and hadn’t thrown it out. Relax, he tells himself. This is normal. These things happen.
He quickly searches through his admittedly sparse fridge for something to replace the butter that’s no longer there, settling on some cream cheese. It isn’t what he originally wanted, and the thought of having something other than the butter he’s been planning since pulling out the toast makes him feel more frustrated than anything else. But, he needs to eat, so he spreads it against his (burnt) toast.
He stands awkwardly in his dorm room, scratching the back of his neck. What is he even supposed to bring with him to the training camp? Nobody contacted him, and nobody sent him any documents to prepare him for what they’d be doing today. Was he supposed to reach out to them? He figured his coach would handle all of that, but maybe he was supposed to call the number on the pamphlet he was given when he was told all his winter break plans would be ruined. Though it is the first day, it likely means it’ll be a day full of boring introductions and dumb drills to test skill sets; he probably won’t need much, will he?
The majority of his gear is in the locker room at the arena, except for his skates, which he doesn’t trust to leave with the coaching staff. It isn’t that he thinks they would do anything to them, but he just feels more at ease when they’re beside his bed when he goes to sleep at night. Nothing can happen to them when they’re in his sight, he likes to tell his roommates when they question his antics. They don’t get it. They probably never will.
Grabbing one of the small duffel bags he uses for morning conditioning at the gym, he shoves his skates inside (ensuring that his skate guards are properly fastened to the blades—the last thing he needs is to chip them). Should he bring a stick? Maybe he should, he thinks to himself.
He lets out an annoyed groan when he realizes that the stick he likes is back in the equipment room. Whatever, he thinks, throwing on his sweatpants, the ones with the Indiana University logo embroidered right beneath the left pocket. He would prefer to wear the ones he normally wears, but they’re in the laundry, so he settles for the same one he usually wears for morning gym training. He also throws on his Hoosiers Hockey sweater.
Maybe another sign should’ve been that when he stepped outside, it was a full-fledged snowstorm.
For a minute, he considers not showing up at the arena for training camp. They’d understand if he doesn’t show, wouldn’t they? The snow is already covering a majority of the campus, and he hates wearing his stupid boots. He can blame the weather for not being there, say he got snowed in, but the worry of the person in charge telling his coach that he didn’t show up for the first day makes him more anxious than he’d like to admit.
He can’t be benched. He refuses to be benched.
He lets out another groan, knowing that he’s going to have to walk across campus. Fuck, he thinks. He quickly walks back to his dorm and throws on his boots.
Mike knows his way around campus well enough that the snow doesn’t slow him down completely, despite considering turning around and going back to bed at least three times. Who the hell is going to send their kid to a training camp at Indiana University in the middle of a snowstorm?
Nonetheless, Mike finally makes his way into the familiar arena on campus and follows the instructions given to him by his coach the night before: Down the main hallway, to the left, all the way down until you reach the offices. It’ll be your first one on the right.
Finding the office doesn’t take him very long; the usually busy arena is empty because of winter break, and another wave of bitterness washes over him at the fact that his entire break is ruined by this dumb training camp. He should be on the beach right now, drinking an overpriced alcoholic drink with way too much sugar (preferably, a piña colada)—but instead, he’s forced to stay here, in stupid Indiana, with the stupid Indiana winter.
He pushes the door open, knowing he probably should knock before walking into the office, but he’s wet from the snow and just wants to take off his jacket and boots.
“You’re late,” a voice from the other end of the office says, not bothering to turn around as he writes on the paper clipped to his clipboard. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”
Mike fights the urge to roll his eyes, glancing at the watch on his wrist. He’s actually nine minutes late, but in his defense, given everything that happened to him this morning and the sheer amount that it’s snowing outside, he thinks that maybe he deserves the smallest bit of leeway.
The walk from his dorm to the arena is manageable on a good day, but with the snow and the potential for ice hidden beneath it, he knows better than to rush. If he slips and injures his leg, his season will be over before the playoffs even start. So, in retrospect, Mike thinks whoever he’s going to be forced to work with should actually be thankful that he’s late and that he’s helping preserve Indiana University’s hockey season and contend for a championship.
The snow that once covered his jacket is now dripping onto the floor below him, melting into water. Mike tries his best to avoid making a mess, walking slowly toward the hooks by the door, hanging his jacket on one hook and placing his damp duffel bag on a free chair, wincing as water pools around his boots.
“Well…” Mike trails off, clearing his throat and trying to think of a way to spin the conversation away from what sounds like yet another lecture in the past twenty-four hours. “I mean, if you really think about it, being only ten minutes late isn’t that bad. Nobody is even here yet. So.” He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “If we’re being technical, I’m kind of early. Plus, the snow outside is killer. I’m impressed that I'm here at all.”
With his back still facing him, he lets out another loud sigh, like he wants Mike to know that he’s annoyed. Mike looks at him, really looks at him, and he can’t shake off the feeling that he looks… somewhat familiar, despite still being unable to see his face. He’s probably seen him around campus, he rationalizes. Yeah, that has to be it. He must’ve seen him around somewhere, someplace.
“Does that excuse ever work? Besides, it doesn’t matter what the weather is outside, because it is being late when you were supposed to be here, like, ten minutes ago.” The boy turns around, and Mike thinks he must be seeing things. Ghosts, maybe, because that would be the only rational explanation for who is standing in front of him right now.
Whatever sarcastic remark Mike plans to say dissolves on his tongue. He furrows his eyebrows, eyes widening and mouth clamping shut—he isn’t sure he can even get the words out, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.
There’s no way.
There’s absolutely no way this is happening right now.
All he can do is stare directly at the boy standing before him. A boy he used to know very well.
What the hell is Will Byers doing at Indiana University?
He looks different. A lot different. He’s taller now, his shoulders broader, his hair changed from… whatever that bowl cut was, and he’s not in Lenora. Why the hell isn’t he in Lenora? Is this some kind of sick joke?
The reality hits him like a wrecking ball, and Mike thinks he’s going to be sick. Is Will the person he’s forced to spend the next two weeks with? Is Will the one running the training camp? Both Dustin and Lucas said it’s going to be someone from the figure skating department running it, so what the hell is Will Byers doing here?
After what he did before leaving for Lenora, he… he thinks he can just walk back into his life? He thinks he can just… show up at Indiana University as if nothing happened?
“What… what are you doing here?” The only way Mike can describe how he’s feeling is as if he’s been repeatedly stabbed in the chest, with no chance to breathe. For a second, he thinks maybe being left to bleed out might be the only way out of this situation without losing his mind.
This can’t be happening. There’s no way this is happening. Mike blinks once, then twice, as though Will would disappear if he stared hard enough. Except he doesn’t disappear from the office, and he doesn’t disappear from where he’s standing, across from Mike.
He’s right there.
Will falters from where he’s standing, but unlike Mike, he doesn’t seem completely surprised to be face-to-face. “I go to this school too, Mike,” Will says, his voice almost defeated. “I’ve been here since freshman year, just like you.”
That can’t be true, Mike thinks. There’s no way Will Byers has been on the same campus as him for almost four years, and they’ve never come face-to-face until this second.
“You’re lying.” Mike shakes his head, a laugh of both disbelief and anger coursing through his body. “You’re doing it again. I can't believe you’re doing it again.”
“I’m not lying,” Will replies, clearly insulted by Mike’s accusatory tone. “I don’t know what you think I’m doing, but I can promise you that not everything in this world revolves around you. I’ve been here for four years, Mike.”
Mike scoffs, knowing it is about him – especially when the punishment he’s forced to face isn’t proportionate to what he’s done, and now that he’s really thinking about it, this punishment is actually a million times worse, knowing that Will Byers is standing less than ten feet away from him.
“And you just so happened to be running this stupid camp?” Mike asks, his voice coming out harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because he no longer has the patience nor the desire to deal with any of this right now. “You expect me to think this is just some coincidence?”
“First of all…” Will tenses, finally setting the clipboard down on the desk beside him. Mike almost has half the mind to reach for it and break it in half. Is he writing notes about him? Notes to report back to his coach about how he’s behaving? Good, he thinks. Let his coach know that he’s not only miserable but completely and utterly pissed off. “This camp isn’t stupid. This is important for the kids who are a part of it—”
“I don’t care who this camp is important to,” Mike mumbles to himself, anger resonating through every bone in his body. He’s resisting the urge to turn around, leave the office, then the arena, and go back to his dorm – never coming out. He wants nothing more than to never face Will again. Is that too much to ask? He doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to speak to him, doesn’t want anything to do with him. Not anymore. “I still think all of… this is stupid.”
“Second of all,” Will continues, ignoring Mike. “I run this camp because I figure skate. It’s part of our scholarship program. We all need to take turns to get this done, and I’m in charge of the winter and summer sessions.”
This has to be a joke, Mike thinks. There’s no other logical explanation for what’s happening. Mike doesn’t spend nearly enough time with the figure skaters, but he’s one hundred percent sure he would’ve known if Will were part of the team. They invite the figure skaters to their parties all the time, and he’s never shown up with them.
He’s lying, he decides. He has to be lying.
“You… figure skate?” Mike shakes his head. “There’s no way you’re being serious right now, Will. Did my coach put you up to this? Dustin? Lucas? Is that what this is? Because… because I’m in trouble with player safety, everyone thinks it’s suddenly okay to fuck with me knowing I can’t say shit because I want to play?”
“Do you have something against figure skaters?” Will asks, a scoff tainting his voice, choosing not to answer anything else that is spilling from Mike’s mouth. “I figured you’d have a stick up your ass, but I didn’t take you to be that much of an asshole.”
“I don’t have anything against figure skaters,” Mike huffs, realizing very quickly that he really wants to punch a wall. Why would he have anything against figure skaters? He’s trained parallel to them since his freshman year, and never had any of them piss him off quite this badly. In fact, he has nothing but respect for those figure skaters, even when they ask to extend their ice time, cutting into their own practices. “I have something against you; there’s a difference.”
“Right,” Will purses his lips, head nodding slowly as though trying to digest the words being thrown in his direction and sarcasm evident in his tone. “Because that makes so much sense. You have something against me?”
“I do, yeah. Isn’t it obvious?” Mike sneers, crossing his arms. “You… you’re the one who decided I need to come here, super fucking early, by the way, to work at a training camp I want nothing to do with. And to make matters worse, you’re here? Why the hell aren’t you in California anymore?”
“That’s none of your business,” Will scoffs as he bends down to grab his skates, which are leaning against the desk on the floor. His skates are different from Mike’s—black, leather and smaller. “I’m here now, and I don’t need to explain myself to you. You’re here to work, not to cause more issues than you already have.”
“What you need to do is explain to me why the hell my coach suddenly decided to send me to this shit show instead of forcing me to do something normal. I would rather watch paint dry than be a part of this.”
“Shit show?” Will lets out a sarcastic laugh, running a hand through his hair. Only then does Mike realize how long Will has let his hair grow out. He pushes it out of his mind as soon as it appears. Who cares what Will decides to do with his hair? That has nothing to do with him, and it never will. “Listen, Mike. I know you have a nice, shiny scholarship to fall back on because you wear your stupid hockey jersey, and everyone loves you, but my scholarship depends on how smoothly I run this camp over the next two weeks, and I need this funding. So, yeah, I take this shit show seriously, and I will continue to do so.”
Mike shakes his head, unable to believe he’s being roped into any of this. How is Will’s scholarship his problem? It’s not his fault that IU prioritizes hockey over figure skating, and it’s not his fault that Will didn’t get a full ride. Why is he taking it out on him? Why didn’t he ask any other figure skaters to run the training camp with him?
“Yeah, well, last time I checked, your scholarship isn’t my problem.”
“It is when your playoffs are on the line,” Will retorts, cradling his skates before he lets out a soft sigh. Mike bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something stupid. Why the hell is he throwing the whole situation back into his face? “Look, I don’t want to be forced to do this with you any more than you want to be here with me. The person who normally runs this camp with me had to go home for an emergency, which left me all alone. As much as I would rather do this on my own, I can’t. If I had been told by your uptight coach that it was you who was stupid enough to risk getting suspended this close to playoffs, I would’ve told him that you wouldn’t even be welcome here.”
“What are you, twelve?” Mike bites out, unable to believe that Will is even speaking to him this way. Didn’t his coach talk to Will about how important he is to the team’s success? Doesn’t he know just how crucial it is that he’s on the starting lineup for the very first playoff game? Isn’t he smart enough to realize that maybe, just maybe, if his coach is trying this hard for Mike to evade suspension, that it’s for a reason? “Not welcome here? I’m the captain of the hockey team. I deserve my spot on that team, and just because… just because you’re bitter your teammate bailed on you, doesn’t mean you can take it out on me. You’re just jealous that I had my two-week vacation and decided to ruin it for me because you’re forced to stay here.”
“Oh,” Will says, shaking his head and a sarcastic laugh escaping from his lips. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mike, I’m not… bitter, I’m not jealous. In fact, I couldn’t give less than two fucks about you or your hockey team.”
“If you’re not bitter, then why am I still here?” Mike pushes. “How are you saying that running this stupid training camp is too hard to do on your own when you haven’t even done it in the first place? How is that fair to me? I’m missing mywinter break, and the vacation I already paid for with my friends, because you think you need help teaching stupid kids how to skate!”
“I can’t believe you’re still this self-centred,” Will sighs, now holding his skates by the blades, grip tightening against the skate guards until his knuckles turn white. “Jesus Christ, Mike, you haven’t fucking changed at all, have you?”
“I haven’t changed?” Mike scoffs, running a hand through his curls. “What, you mean like you have? I’ve always loved hockey. You know I have. Now what? Suddenly, you move to stupid fucking Lenora and discover you like spinning on the ice and dancing in skates, and I have to pay the price?”
“Fuck you,” Will spits, the anger obvious in his tone. “You’re an asshole, Mike.”
“Fuck you!” Mike furrows his eyebrows. How is he the asshole? He’s not the asshole here. Will is the only asshole in the room. “I’m not an asshole—”
“You are!” Will continues, clearly getting all of the anger ruminating in his chest out. “That’s the thing, Mike. This training camp isn’t about you, and I couldn’t even care less whether or not you play in the playoffs. These camps are important to me, they’re important to the kids who pay to be here, and just because you think you’re above teaching them the basic fucking skills to even have the opportunity to play hockey, or to figure skate, you’re not going to ruin this for everyone.”
Before Mike has a chance to tell Will just how wrong he is, there’s a small knock on the door of the office. Both boys shift their attention to the small hand wrapped around the doorknob.
“Mr, um… Mr. Byers?” It’s a boy, no older than thirteen, standing awkwardly in the doorway, a bag draped over his shoulder. He’s wearing a hat that’s too big for his head, almost completely covering his eyes, with small strands of his blonde hair peeking through, and his jacket is damp from the show outside.
Mike watches as Will’s demeanor shifts completely. The angry look on his face is instantly replaced by a warm smile, and he clears his throat as he walks through the door, ignoring Mike as though he’s no longer there. A wave of annoyance washes through Mike’s core at how… easily Will can switch like that. Something must be wrong with him, he thinks.
“Yes, Evan?” Will asks, his voice delicate. Mike resists the urge to scoff, rolling his eyes instead. “Is everything okay? I thought I put up a sign by the entrance saying you’re supposed to change in the locker room and meet us by the boards in Rink One in fifteen minutes.” Will quickly looks down at his watch, as though wanting to confirm the time before continuing. “You know where the locker rooms are by now, don’t you?”
Mike watches as Evan’s eyes shift from Will to Mike, then back to Will. “Yeah, um, I was going to go there to get ready, but the door is locked. I tried to push it open, but it won’t move.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Will lets out a soft laugh, a smile forming on his face as he digs in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a ring of keys. “Evan, that’s completely my fault. I was totally supposed to unlock those doors, but I had so much to do, it must’ve slipped my mind.” Mike watches as Will’s fingers fumble with the keyring, flipping through each key until settling on a slim one and lifting it up so Evan can see it from where he’s standing by the door. “See, Evan? I have the key right here. Let’s go unlock the locker room together, alright? Are any of our friends waiting to get into the room, too?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “Stacey and Ivan are waiting there.”
“Perfect,” Will replies, rushing to the door. Mike can tell by how fast he’s moving that he’s anxious about this whole situation, and Mike awkwardly stands there, unsure what to do with himself. As if reading his mind, Will glares at the taller boy before exiting the office. “Get changed, put your skates on, and meet us in Rink One in five minutes. Don’t be late.”