Matthew slammed against the wall, and he felt the wind rush out of his lungs. He staggered, ice threatening to trip him up, but he kept his feet under him. Braginski skated away, guiding the puck like he hadn't just rammed into Matthew.
Matthew grimaced and followed, low to the ice, skittering after Braginski. He may pack a punch, but Matthew was fast. Braginski didn't even see him coming, and suddenly, the puck was back in Matthew's possession.
Lars was open, and Matthew could feel Braginski gliding toward him, huge and imposing, and Matthew just shot off the puck before Braginski skidded into him.
Finally, the coach blew the whistle.
"Easy, Braginski!"
Matthew picked himself off the ice. Braginski shot him a smile.
"Sorry, Matthew."
Matthew nodded, once. "No problem."
He saw the smile turn into a scowl as Braginski turned away. Matthew got the puck three more times, getting a face full of ice with each steal. By the end of practice, his elbows and knees were purple and blotched.
He felt Braginski's eyes on him in the lockers. Matthew changed quickly, ignoring the showers and wiping off the worst of the sweat with a towel.
"Bonnefoy."
Matthew finished pulling on his sweatshirt. He turned, smiled at Braginski. The other boy was only an inch or two taller than Matthew, but Braginski was all thick muscle; the towel around his middle barely made it around.
"Ivan," Matthew said. "Is knocking me around some sort of hazing ritual?"
Braginski shrugged one shoulder. "It's not every day a transfer gets one of the best spots on the teams."
"Didn't peg you as the jealous type," Matthew muttered, gaze drifting from Braginski to the inside of his locker.
"What was that, Bonnefoy?" Braginski stepped closer. "Didn't catch it. You shouldn't mumble so much."
Matthew resisted sighing deeply, but he couldn't quite meet Braginski's eye. "Nothing, Ivan."
Braginski hummed and bumped shoulders with Matthew as he passed. Matthew gritted his teeth, finished getting dressed, and left. His knuckles were white gripping the steering wheel, and he had trouble typing when he got home.
…
"You all right, Matthew?"
Matthew didn't look up from his plate. "Yeah, Papa. Just tired." He eventually settled for watching Alfred inhale his food. "Hockey's been rough. New coach."
He felt Arthur and Francis exchange looks. "Mon chéri, you don't have to go tonight if you're tired."
"You've never had this issue before with sports," Arthur added. "Perhaps you could try out for football, with Alfred? That way you two don't waste gas with separate practice times."
Matthew sighed. "No, that's okay. It's just a different practice routine than I'm used to. I'll be fine in a week or two."
…
Matthew took a deep breath and skipped sideways. His ankle almost gave out, and Braginski sailed by. He had lost the puck, but Braginski hadn't slammed into him and he grinned.
It took a couple of more tries, but eventually Matthew could sense Braginski approaching, the way his skate scrapped on the ice, and he could twist out of reach with the puck. He could see Braginski getting frustrated. Eventually, he was called off the ice after ramming into Oxenstierna, and Matthew shot him a smile as he skated by.
In the lockers, Matthew didn't even have time to remove his jersey before Braginski was standing over him. Matthew unlaced his skates slowly, focusing on the task, wincing internally at Braginski's glare.
"So, you can skip on the ice?" Braginski snapped.
"That's the thing with reflexes: they can get faster. You can only get fatter."
Braginski grabbed the back of Matthew's shirt and dragged him upright. Matthew's stomach dropped to his knees, and he struggled to keep his one skate upright, his free foot dangling uselessly.
"I'm getting real sick of your mumbling, Bonnefoy," Braginski hissed.
Matthew lost his voice staring into Braginski's eyes. It was awkward, and at the back of his mind, Matthew noted the fact that Ivan smelled sickly sweet underneath the sweat. They looked at one another, Matthew hanging off of Braginski's fingers, ankle aching.
A shower shut off, and suddenly Ivan released Matthew. Braginski backed away, glaring and shaking his head. Matthew kept his gaze for as long as he could, but he broke it off, focusing on his toes.
His fingers trembled as he changed, and he clamped them on the steering wheel like it was the only real thing in the entire world. The pain in his ankle was a pleasant sort of throb.