A/N: While I can't really promise any kind of regular updates to this "story" (can you call it a story if it's actually just a collection of them?), I can promise that tidbits about this team are always clanging around in my head, so more will come eventually. :) Everything I write is of my own invention, though based almost entirely in fact. Hope you enjoy reading 'em as much as I enjoy writing 'em!
Sweet and Sour
Jim Craig was having a really, really bad day.
He was sure that some of it had to do with the fact that he was in Holland and definitely not over his jetlag yet, but no, this particular day was always awful. Or, well, this was the third year in a row in which this day was awful, and he knew it would continue to be awful for the rest of his life.
The anniversary of a mother's death could really cast a dark cloud over a day.
And what a day to be thousands of miles away from his family, huh? Last year he'd been in Boston and had gotten to spend the day at home, grieving quietly, surrounded by people who understood and hurt just as much as he did. And he'd had his teammates who felt like brothers and a supportive coach, all of whom he knew might not understand what he was going through, but would be there for him in any way they could.
This year, he was jetlagged and in a country where he didn't speak the language and on a team full of guys that he, for the most part, just wasn't clicking with yet. There was nothing wrong with them, and he got along with them all just fine, but he just… there was something missing. He was having trouble connecting with most of them, even the Boston guys. All friendly as hell, sure, but all a little too hard and loud for Jim's taste. He was a product of a Boston suburb, where life was a little slower and a little less mean. Jack O'Callahan couldn't understand why (or how) all of Jim's scars were hockey related, and Dave Silk was always rolling his eyes at Jim's utter lack of desire for a crazy night out on the town. Jim was always much more inclined to grab a few beers at a low-key bar than go to a disco, but he'd much prefer just staying in. He'd long ago learned to accept the fact that he was a homebody.
And then there were the Midwesterners, with their hunting rifles and fishing poles and flannel shirts and country music. Hell, it was like a different world out there, because even in North Easton did people lock their doors. But these guys would leave their wallets lying around without even giving it a second thought, so sure that nobody would even think of stealing it. Well, except maybe Rob McClanahan, who took one look at OC and stuffed his wallet in his sock before the team's first practice. But for the vast majority of the time, the Minnesota guys were always plucky and upbeat, and Jim found quickly that the "Minnesota nice" thing was far from a myth. It was nice that they were all so nice, but damn, didn't any of them ever have a bad day once in awhile?
In any case, if any of them suspected that something was wrong in Jim's world, nobody had said anything. As he made his way through the back corridors of the arena towards the locker room, he reflected that maybe it was because they'd only been together as a team for a little over a month and they didn't know him that well yet. It's not like he was going around talking about it, after all, and it was much harder to read moods and body language. And he liked to think he'd gotten pretty decent at keeping his hurt tucked away where nobody could see it.
Reaching the locker room, he pushed open the door and made his way to his stall past teammates in various stages of pre-game prep. Some guys were still out in the hall stretching and warming up, and Jim would normally have stayed out there with them, but he knew he needed more mental prep than physical tonight. He needed some time to sit quietly and get his head in the right place.
He was about to dig into his bag for his padding when he noticed it.
A bag of Cherry Sours was sitting on the otherwise empty shelf.
Straightening up, Jim plucked the bag from its place and hefted it in his hand. What the hell? Cherry Sours were his all-time favorite candy – in fact, he was having a lot of trouble not tearing into the bag and devouring it on the spot – but why had someone just left this here for him? Did someone know he needed some cheering up?
He was suddenly feeling a little bit emotional and had to take a deep breath around the tightness in his chest. Stupid, he chastised himself. Feeling like crying over a damn bag of candy.
But hell, he was tired and grieving and feeling alone, and knowing that somebody knew and cared enough to reach out was… well, the closest to home he'd felt since leaving Boston for Colorado Springs that summer. And as suddenly as he'd noticed the bag of candy, he suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who that someone was.
He wasn't the only person on this team to have dealt with the loss of a loved one or a similar hardship. Ken Morrow's dad had passed away several years earlier, and Silky had lost his when he was a kid. And then there was Mark Johnson, whose mentally handicapped sister lived in a home, which Jim knew caused him no small amount of angst. But everyone grieved in their own unique way: Kenny, ever the stoic one, took it in stride; Silky had rebelled, as well as developed a fondness for fatherly coaches; and Magic, always the optimist, used his situation to make himself even more thankful and appreciative of everything good in his life.
The only person that Jim knew dealt with loss in a similar way as himself was Mark Pavelich.
Jim remembered clear as day the night he found out about Pav's loss. It was the end of their first week of training, up in Lake Placid. He'd been making his way through the crowded room, beer in hand, no particular destination in mind but feeling more comfortable moving than just standing around. A couple of guys had thrown a party in the lounge on the ground floor of their building; he wasn't much of a fan of the college-like party scene, but he'd decided to show up to get to know his new teammates a bit better. And he had, and it had been fun. But then the alcohol started hitting people's bloodstreams in a big way, and things got rowdy pretty quickly. Jim was only starting his second beer – because, seriously, they had practice the next day – and this was rapidly feeling like less and less of his type of thing.
He'd scanned the room absentmindedly, and something jumped out at him: he hadn't seen Pav all night.
"Hey Bah," he said, catching Bah's arm as his teammate moved past him. "Where's Pav?"
Bah shrugged, taking a swig of the beer that had to be at least his third or fourth. "I don't think he's gracing us with his presence tonight."
"Why not?"
Bah shrugged again. "Beats me."
Jim paused. "You went to school with Pav. What's his deal? He doesn't talk much..."
"That's just Pav's way," Bah said, clapping Jim on the shoulder and staggering slightly. "He's the strong, silent type. Oh, but one of his best friends died. That might have something to do with it too."
"Might?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. "Bah. Details."
Bah sighed heavily and cast his eyes upwards as he wracked his memory. "Okay, uh... Oh, the two of them were hunting, I think. The summer before he started at UMD. It was an accident."
"Wait, you're saying that Pav killed him?"
"Yeah," Bah said, nodding impressively and taking another slug of beer. "Baker told me. They've known each other for a while. Apparently he was pretty wrecked about it."
"Yeah, no shit," Jim said, utterly stunned and vaguely nauseous. "I barely know him and even I know Pav wouldn't hurt a soul."
"No shit," Bah agreed. "Billy says he was always quiet, but that... I don't know. I guess he's never really been the same."
"No shit," Jim repeated on a breath as Bah meandered away.
God, he couldn't even imagine what that must've been like for Pav. That kind of guilt? Hell, Jim dealt with guilt when his mother died of cancer, which was not even in the realm of being his (or anyone's) fault. But he knew the gaping hole the death of a loved one left in a person, the raw, jagged edges scraping around the simplest of everyday tasks. He knew what it was like to have your perspective change, your life forever colored by loss, to feel as if you'd never be the same person you were before.
Pav might wear more checkered flannel shirts in a day than Jim had in his entire wardrobe, but he was suddenly starting to think that they had more in common than he'd realized.
Glancing down at the beer sweating in his hand, Jim snatched another from the bucket of ice under the counter before turning and swiftly leaving the party. He hurried down the empty hall and up the stairs, wondering briefly which room Pav shared with Buzz. But – ah, right, they were three doors down from him.
Jim knocked several times, and waited. He was about to knock again when the door swung open.
"Hey," Jim said as Pav blinked up at him. He held up the unopened bottle in his hand. "Beer?"
Pav shrugged, taking the proffered bottle and stepping aside to allow Jim to come in. He glanced around the room as Pav shut the door; it was basically the same as his own space, only slightly bigger than Jim's single, to accommodate two of everything. It was also significantly messier, though Jim was more than willing to admit to himself that he was abnormally tidy, and the TV in the corner was switched on.
"Why are you here?" Pav asked.
Jim swung around to look at him, almost having to hold in a chuckle. Blunt. He liked that. Another thing they had in common. "I wasn't really feeling the party. How come you didn't go?"
Pav shrugged. "Dunno."
Jim swallowed, running his thumbnail along the groove at the mouth of his bottle of beer. "Look, I – Bah told me about… your friend. And what happened." Pav's face went slack, and Jim rushed to continue. "I just wanted to let you know that I get it. What it's like to lose someone close to you. And I'm not going to say we should talk about it, because talking about it fucking sucks, but—" he shrugged, feeling kind of awkward, "I don't know, sometimes I just like knowing that someone understands. So, uh… we're on the same page, I guess is what I'm trying to say."
Pav was silent for a few seconds. Finally, he twisted the cap off of his beer with a sharp pop, nodding slightly. "The Twins game is in extra innings, if you want to watch."
"I think it's a rule that a beer and a ballgame is never turned down," Jim said seriously.
Pav grinned, bobbing his head, and clapped Jim on the shoulder as he moved past him to return to his seat on his bed.
Jim smothered a grin of his own as he took a seat on Buzz's bed. "Y'know, Pavelich, you're alright."
After taking a swig of his beer, Pav wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I'm going to use that as my epitaph."
Jim burst out laughing. And it was in that moment that he knew things were going to work out just fine.
Over the next few weeks of training, their common understanding had blossomed into a comfortable, if not close, friendship. Pav still wasn't a talker, but that suited Jim just fine. On several occasions, when most of the other guys went out, they'd meet in one of their rooms and essentially do nothing. Sometimes they'd watch whatever game was on TV, or play poker, or whatever. There wouldn't be much conversation, but it was never awkward. It felt really good knowing that there was someone who was the same sort of crazy he was.
But at the same time, they'd never spoken of anything particularly personal after that one time. And to say that Pav was a difficult person to get a read on would be putting it mildly.
Granted, Jim knew that there was a whole lot going on underneath Pav's quiet exterior. Hell, at their last practice before leaving for Europe, he'd somehow managed to put Scotch tape on the skate blades of every defenseman on the team. While the rest of them howled in laughter as their teammates wobbled and slipped and face-planted on the ice, Pav surveyed his handiwork with a Cheshire cat grin and a proud glint in his eye. It didn't escape Jim's notice that the prank had OC clutching at Rammer for balance before helping a stumbling Baker to the boards. He wasn't sure if Pav had planned for it to have quite the bonding effect it had, but either way. Pav was short on words and stature, but that's about it.
The door to the locker room banged open and jolted Jim out of his thoughts, and he hastily shoved the candy into his bag. He didn't want anyone asking him about it – or asking him for any candy, 'cause heck no, he wasn't going to share – because he wasn't quite sure what he'd say. He knew Pav wouldn't appreciate being outed.
It was just in time, too, as no sooner was the bag hidden than OC plopped down onto the bench in front of the stall immediately next to Jim's.
"'Ey Jimmy-jam, how we doin'?"
Jim chuckled, and was surprised at the answer that slipped easily and honestly from his lips.
"Good. I'm good."
Jim climbed onto the team bus by himself that night, the bag of Cherry Sours weighing heavy in his pocket, and squinted through the dim lighting, looking for an empty seat. He had to stifle a grin when he saw one several rows from the back of the bus, next to Pav, who was already strumming quietly on his guitar.
Yeah, this would do.
He made his way down the aisle, squeezing past teammates with limbs too long and shoulders too broad to make it comfortable to travel on a bus this size, and slid into the seat he'd had his eye on. Pav didn't give him any sign of acknowledgment, not a glance or a pause in his playing, which made Jim chuckle as he dug into his pocket.
Finally tearing open the bag of candy, he nudged Pav with his elbow.
Pav stopped playing and looked at him.
Jim offered him the open mouth of the bag. "Thanks."
Pav blinked. "For what?"
But after several seconds of Jim's pointed silence, a pleased, knowing smile crept across Pav's face, and he reached out and plucked a piece of candy from the bag.
"Thanks," Pav said, tossing the candy into his mouth and crunching it.
Jim popped a piece of candy into his own mouth. "Yeah," he said, smiling as the tart flavor burst across his tongue. "Don't mention it."