happy five year anniversary to this dumb show; thanks for all the memz and friends. also, happy ten year anniversary of toews and kane being blackhakws; thanks for making this last decade so much fun to be a hawks fan.
i make no apologies for this level of self-indulgence, but i do believe we need more au stories in this fandom so here's my contribution.
title comes from "chelsea dagger" by the fratellis
He wonders, at times, what he's done to deserve this—to raise the Stanley Cup high above his hometown three times, to captain the team he spent his entire childhood rooting for from those same stadium seats that surround him now.
…with our first-round pick, the Blackhawks select Chicago native Matthew Casey…
Ten years on, some days he stares up at the rafters of the United Center from center ice listening to almost twenty thousand fans yelling his name, seeing hundreds of people wearing his number and can't believe that this is his life.
Some days, though, he thinks about that two-story house on Nordica right off the Kennedy and tries to forget being eight years old, clutching his stick and skates, wavering on that last step before the front room, unsure if his dad would be wearing his beat up old Cubs hat and a crooked smile or clutching a tin can of Old Style with a furrow set deep into his forehead. He can still remember the shouting, the fighting, the echoing bang of the screen door bouncing against its metal doorjamb as his father stormed out in anger.
A puck whistles past the side of his head, sailing straight into Pete Mills' left glove.
"Heads up, Captain Serious," shouts the team's best right winger and resident charismatic asshole, Kelly Severide, "They don't pay you all those millions to stare into space on game night."
Matt rolls his eyes and chokes up on the handle of his stick, rushing towards Kelly as his teammate does some unbalanced version of a pirouette.
"Aw, man, what the hell," whines Kelly as he overbalances into the boards and waves his arms to stay upright.
"Just keeping you on your toes," Matt replies, spinning out and around the crease. Pete swears at him as he dekes and whacks a puck towards the upper left corner, making it sail into the unguarded space. "Same to you, mountie."
"Fuck off, Cap," Pete yells back, forcing up the faceplate of his helmet to spray some water on his face.
Matt gathers a few loose pucks in preparation for tossing them over the boards to some of the kids who've come early for warm-ups. "I thought your sister was coming," he shouts out over the roar of the crowd.
"Nah," replies Kelly, mindlessly tapping the puck back and forth before kicking it up into the air. "She ditched for some fancy-ass restaurant opening that her roommate scored an invite to. I swear, she should've just ignored what Benny said and put her name down for some fancy-pants culinary school. I didn't go to a real college and, look at me," he spins around, stick raised in the air for flourish, "I'm doing just fucking fine."
"That's cause you're an asshole," Andy Darden calls out as he skates past them, kicking ice up as he takes a sharp turn, braking suddenly.
"Not my fault your sister couldn't see past my flaws," Kelly yells back as they skate back to the benches. The clock is counting down from three minutes, letting everyone on the ice know it's almost game time. "It's been over a decade, she's married with kids, now. You need to get over it."
"You ditched her on prom night," Andy says, pushing his faceplate up to spray some water in his face from one of the water bottles left on the boards.
"I was gonna ditch the game—but there was a scout coming out and, dude, I couldn't miss that. Plus, it was her junior year, it doesn't even count."
Andy taps Matt on the shoulder and shakes his head "I'm telling you, Cap, asshole. Why's he on our team again?"
"'Cause I scored the most goals in the entire league last year, fucker," Kelly shoots back, grabbing him in a headlock, the two of them jostling on the ice for a few minutes.
Matt rolls his eyes as he listens to the two of them argue. Andy pulls out the same grievance every few months to rile Kelly up, just for the hell of it. They had played in the pee-wee leagues in the northeast when they were kids, Andy and Kelly, and had come up in the league together. It showed too, the familiarity, when they got on the ice even though Kelly was a right winger and Andy played defense. Matt knew a couple of guys in the league like that, left winger Jason Kannell and him had circled the same traveling leagues during high school, but they had never played on the same team.
Boden catches his eye and jerks his chin back, the universal signal for get off the damn ice. Matt taps a couple of loose pucks to Kelly and between the two of them, they manage to give a practice puck to a handful of kids who were watching behind the glass. Boden's stroking his Twitter-famous mustache as he watches on, clipboard shoved under his left arm. Matt makes sure the ice is clear before he heads back to the locker rooms, tapping his glove against a few fans' fists as he disappears into the tunnel.
Today, he thinks, will be one of those games he won't believe how lucky he really is to play for his home team.
—
Matt finds stadium sounds to always be loudest when the team is losing. The fans were always rowdier and more passionate and too hyped up to bring the noise down to a dull roar. Of course, it never helped that the media team would blare rap music and egg the crowd on, challenging them to make some noise and tapping the goal horn a few times for good measure. On the nights they won, Chelsea Dagger was always his favorite way to skate off the ice. It made him grin in the same giddy way as when he saw the C stitched on his sweater the first time or picked up his first professional hat trick.
Tonight, he can feel the disappointment rolling off the crowd as they trek back to the locker room. It was an overtime game; "Free hockey," Kelly had shouted gleefully before they returned to the ice. It wasn't anybody's fault in the same way that all the fans would blame Boden's coaching or Pete's glove or, even, his face-offs on Twitter. Three on three always sucked and, tonight, the puck favored the Predators sticks instead of theirs.
Boden makes sure the press stays out of the team's way long enough for him to get out of his helmet and pads and skates and pull on a hoodie and his favorite Cubs hat, the one with the brim perfectly broken in, its fabric faded to a muted blue. The locker room's quiet as they get out of their gear. Jimmy Borelli, the rookie brought over from Finland's league, is whispering under his breath to right winger, Brian Zvonecek, nicknamed Otis by the team after dropping like an elevator on his very first practice in from Russia. Pete's sitting in his stall, helmet off, but still wearing the bulky leg pads required of goalies. Kelly's undressed except for a pair of basketball shorts, hair sweat-slicked off his forehead.
The press makes their rounds and Matt finds himself blinded by camera lights with microphones and phones shoved in his face for a thirty-second sound bite on what he thinks the team's chances are on winning the Stanley Cup this year. His answer is always the same: the game wasn't their worst showing; it was still early in the season and they had picked up a point; everyone had done exactly what they were supposed to, the Preds had just done it better.
He's exhausted by the time security shuffles everyone out and he can tell everyone around him is too. Most of the guys have left already. The ones with families waiting — like Andy and center, Joe Cruz, and their new defenseman, Adam Ruzek — had all ducked out after answering a couple of questions, looking to unite with their wives and small kids after a long game. The door to Boden's office is shut tight, where the coaches are probably already watching the tapes from earlier. He should be in there, as team captain it's his job to find weak spots and execute better plays. Instead, he leans further back into his stall, closing his eyes and cushioning his head against one of the sweatshirts he leaves hanging for cold nights and early morning practices.
"Who died?"
Matt shifts his head against the wood to see Leslie Shay standing in the middle of locker room, arms crossed in front of her chest, already bundled up in a team fleece and a navy beanie with the word, PARAMEDIC, stitched in red along the side. She's new to the organization, having joined at the start of team training back in August. In the last two months, she'd managed to win over most of the guys on the team and had somehow become Kelly's new roommate after two days of knowing each other.
When Matt had asked as they moved her stuff into Kelly's chrome and brick loft in River North, he had shrugged and replied, "Shay's cool, chill. Just needs a place to hang since her ex-girlfriend kicked her out." That had been the end of it and now it was the middle of October. They're an odd pair, in his opinion, not that he knows Shay all that well. She knows her medical shit, for sure, but he's called this team home since he was nineteen years old.
"You lost one game. In overtime!" she exclaims, stalking over to Kelly's spot and yanking off his headphones. "Pretty sure it's only, like, the sixth game of the season. This doesn't put you at the bottom of the league standings, or whatever it is."
"How the hell did you get this job when you clearly know nothing about hockey?" asks Kelly, making a halfhearted grab at Shay who's already scrolling though the music library on his phone.
"I don't need to know what the fuck 'icing' is to know how to check your sorry ass for a concussion."
There's a brief silence and then Chance starts blaring out of the locker room's sound system. Matt goes back to resting his head, not in the mood to listen to Shay and Kelly gripe at one another this late at night. There's a thud and he turns his head to find the blonde staring right at him, "Severide won't go out unless you agree to drag your sorry ass out, too. So! Up and at 'em, Captain. I know a great place open late and they don't even charge me for drinks."
"It's not one of those 4AM train wrecks is it?" asks Jason, exiting the shower room and running a towel over his head. "'Cause I've been to those places and it's not worth the hype."
"It's a good sports bar. Wood paneling, kitschy neon signs, grumpy regulars—the works."
"I'm in," says Jason, zipping up his duffle bag full of gear and slinging it over his shoulder. "You coming, mountie?"
Pete glances up from where he's methodically removing the tape wrapped around his ankles, "Yeah, sure, sounds cool."
A balled-up pair of old socks sails across the room, whacking Matt in the face. "Come on, Captain Serious," Kelly calls out. "Have some fun in your life for once."
Matt groans stretching out his neck until he hears the bones pop, "Alright, fine, one drink. We have a late practice tomorrow anyways."
"Won't stop you from being back here in six hours anyways," Jason jokes, giving him a push on the shoulder to get him moving.
—
"Last call was fifteen minutes ago. So, unless you're here to rob me, we're closed."
Matt peers around Kelly and Shay into the well-lit space. Some brunette stands behind the counter, her focus on the glass tumblers drying on a rack next to her. The rest of the bar is empty, no one's sitting at the tall tables placed strategically around the space or at the wooden bar counter nursing a beer. SportsCenter plays on the handful of televisions hanging from the ceiling towards the front windows. It's recap time and Matt watches as they show the puck sliding between Pete's glove and the post to make the game-winning shot.
"Bullshit," laughs Shay, walking further into the bar to lean against the counter. She's got her head resting on an upturned palm when the brunette finally looks away from her task. Even from the doorway Matt can see her rolling her eyes, mirth written across her face as she tosses a couple of shot glasses Shay's way.
"Tequila, Dawson. the good stuff that I know Herrmann hides way up 'cause he can be a cheap bastard when he wants."
"He only stocks the cheap stuff," Dawson says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. Still, she turns around and reaches up to the taller shelf, shifting bottles to grab one filled with amber liquid. Shay grows impatient and moves behind the counter, too, shifting around to find a couple salt shakers and a bowl of limes. "What can I get the rest of you guys?"
"Whatever's on tap is good, Dawson," says Kelly, dropping his leather jacket on one of the stools and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. The tie that Boden makes them wear on games days is already loose around his neck.
She nods and grabs a tall glass off the drying rack, hip-checking Shay on her way to fill it up. "You gonna introduce me to your other friends?" she asks.
"Kannell, Mills, Casey," Shay says, pointing to each of them in turn. Shay, Matt's learned over the weeks, has a strange aversion to first names. "Watch out for Mills, though, he's Canadian."
"Oh please, you're from St. Louis and I've put up with your shit all these years. I'm Gabby, by the way. Beers?"
Matt notices her eyes first, a warm brown that gleam in the bar's orange glow. It's clear Kelly knows her, but then, Matt's convinced his teammate knows every pretty girl in Chicago. She smiles wide, all cheeks and teeth, at something Pete says, and slides two shot glasses down to him and Jason and tops them off with whiskey.
"Pour a shot out for Casey, too, Dawson. He needs it," says Shay, mouth around a slice of lime. "He's all quiet because he's over analyzing the fact that they lost in overtime tonight."
Gabby smiles at him, but pours out a beer instead. "Shay thinks all problems can be solved with a shot of tequila. It's gotten us in trouble more times than necessary."
"You Shay's bartender or something?" he asks taking the glass. It's an IPA, bitter and hoppy and just how he likes it.
She laughs, bright and happy. "Nah, she used to be my partner on 61 before ditching me for the private sector. Me and some of the guys at 51 own Molly's." Matt figures he must look as confused as he feels because she tacks on, "I'm a paramedic with the fire department."
"Damn right she is," interrupts Shay, slinging an arm around her petite friend and holding up a shot glass. "Best damn PIC in Chicago. Now, take a shot with me."
—
He sticks around long enough for a few drinks and, he admits only to himself, long enough for Shay's friend to finish closing up the bar. He's exhausted from the game, but her energy is infectious as she teases Kelly and laughs loudly with Shay and trades jokes with Pete and Jason. She finds her way to his side a few times, too, brown gaze open and kind as she pours him another beer; fingers warm against his skin as she hands him a bag of ice for the blossoming bruise to his left jaw.
They all tumble out of Molly's with the clock closer to 3AM than he would like with practice the next day and a game the day after that. Kelly shoves Shay into his Mustang and Pete and Jason grab their Ubers idling on the street. Matt turns towards his own truck to see Gabby stuffing her hands in the pockets of her coat and head down one of the streets.
"You're not gonna walk home, are you?" he asks.
"What?" she turns around and the streetlamp catches on her dark strands turning them auburn for a moment.
"It's basically morning," he says lamely, waving a hand around. "And it's cold out."
She smirks, the left corner of her mouth turning up and scrunching her nose, "Easy, Cap. I'm a big girl, I only live a few blocks away."
He lets the nickname slide, for no other reason than it sounds so much better coming from her than one of the guys. "I know, I'm offering," he replies with a shrug. "It's just a ride home."
Gabby narrows her gaze and raises an eyebrow, "Just a ride?"
Matt nods and gestures to the truck parked across the street. He can afford to update the beat-up silver truck, but it had been the first purchase he had made once he'd been drafted and he's found it hard to part with. It also, he'll admit, makes it easier to hide—no one expects someone like him to be driving around Chicago in something like that.
She seems to weigh her options, before shrugging slightly and hitching her purse higher on her right shoulder, "Sure, what the hell, why not." He hangs back, waiting for her to pass in front of him on the way to the truck, when she turns around her curls almost hitting him the face. He catches the faint scent of lavender as she pulls up short.
"I'm not inviting you in for coffee," she says, "I don't care how many Stanley Cups you have."
"Duly noted," he replies, giving her a small grin. She's different, he thinks, a little unpredictable. "I have to be at the rink in six hours anyways."
She nods, giving him another one of those bright smiles, before sliding into the truck's cab. He circles around and climbs into the driver's seat. They listen to the engine shudder to life in silence, she's humming a vaguely familiar tune under her breath. She wasn't lying when she mentioned living only a few blocks away. He drives east down Cortland for a few blocks before making a right and then left, pulling up in front of an old greystone, the entry light giving off a warm glow in the night. It takes all of five minutes.
"Thanks for the ride," she says, looking at him over her shoulder. "It was nice to meet Chicago's golden boy. You've got good taste in bars."
With that she hops out, hurrying up the walkway to her door. He idles until she makes it safely inside, waving him off as the door shuts securely behind her. He shakes his head and continues to drive south until he hits a street that will take him to the Kennedy and home to his place in Streeterville.
He's climbing out of the truck when he finds a bright yellow post-it stuck to his game day bag. It's blank except for a phone number written in black Sharpie. He laughs, wondering when she had time to do that during their brief ride. He tucks the piece of paper in his wallet and shakes his head. Definitely unpredictable.