Tony's played hockey all his life. The first time he picks up a hockey stick, he's two and still toddling. He remembers it feeling right in his hand in a way nothing else ever would. He learns to play by watching his father, doing what he does. Sometimes, when he's good and his father isn't drunk, he takes Tony to the rink in the evenings and they skate together. Those early years are the best times Tony ever has with the man, and even now, after he's surpassed his father's stardom, he still thinks of them sometimes.
As soon as Tony's old enough, his father ships him out to boarding school, a prep school, first, the best money can afford, then to Shattuck-Saint Mary's as soon as he turns twelve. Tony's a star there; on a rink full of potential NHLers, Tony always shines brightest, and after years of thinking he'll never be as good as Howard, it's nice to be validated. Tony plays his heart out and gets pulled into the OHA without even really trying. From there, it's only a little step up to being the number one draft pick for the Avengers.
They call him "The Next One," but he's no Gretzky. He's no Lemieux, either, and he sure as fuck is no Howard Stark. He's Anthony Stark, first round draft pick, number 5, first line left winger, darling of the NHL. He scores 115 points his first season, wins the Calder, the Art Ross, the Hart. The cameras love him and the fans swoon at his feet. Tony loves it. "I'm Iron Man," he tells the papers, in a fit of euphoria after a game and it sticks. He's on top the world, untouchable. He's the star of the league.
Tony's line, the line he was meant to have all along, the line that can keep up with everything he throws at them, materializes slowly. They show up in ones and twos over the next few years after Tony plays that first incredible season. With them, he scores more than ever before and things just keep getting better. Except, then Steve Rogers shows up out of nowhere and ruins it.
Hockey makes some things terribly easy and others frustratingly hard. Clint spends so much time in the rink in school that he pretty much constantly neglects his schoolwork. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, no one ever really gives a damn. He makes it into juniors and then pros without actually being able to read at more than an sixth grade level. He's not stupid, by any means, and he's a fantastic strategist. But, well, no one ever really pushes him to learn, least of all his shitty foster parents, so he never does.
They call him Hawkeye for his mad scoring skills. He's a defenseman originally, in juniors, and he plays good defense, it's true, but after he starts making goals pretty consistently while still keeping the puck off the net, they bump him up to right wing. It doesn't matter to Clint, honestly. As long as he gets to play, that's all he's ever asked for.
He's pretty damn psyched when he gets picked up by the Avengers. Number 25 pick overall, too, which is way better than he'd ever dreamed back when he was hitting pucks into a sideways trash can with his pals while his foster mother screamed at him to get back into the house and do his chores. He's no Tony Stark, but he's good, better than he has any right to be, with where he came from.
He spends three years in the baby leagues, playing with everything he's got, hoping to get called up. He plays with some great guys there, makes some good friends, but he thinks he could be better than this, if he gets the chance. For three years he hopes and prays and plays, and then, finally, the Avengers call him up.
He starts out as a fill-in, a trial run while Richards is out with a torn groin muscle. They switch the line-up around, put him on third. Still, third in the NHL beats first in the babies, so Clint takes what he can get and aims to impress.
Then one day Tony Stark, the Tony Stark, skates up to him in practice and says, "You should stretch more."
Clint's not gonna act star struck, he isn't. This guy is on his team, and just because his face is on every NHL magazine and video game out there doesn't mean anything.
"Huh?" he says coherently. Nice one, he thinks, and plans to make his next reply majorly cool, to make up for it.
"You should stretch more. That's Richards's problem. He never stretched enough before he went out. If you wanna not end up like that guy, you should do some more stretching."
"You just want to see me flex my groin muscles," Clint tells him and is super proud of himself for coming up with it.
"You're not wrong," Tony tells him, and then invites him to be his buddy in the next drill.
So Clint keeps drilling and he keeps doing his absolute best, every single night, and when GM Fury calls him into his office one day to tell him he's there to stay, Clint finally gives in to his impulses and freaks the hell out. He gives himself one day, alone in his apartment, to do whatever the fuck he wants, jerk off to any picture he goddamn pleases, regardless of whether or not it happens to be a magazine clipping of Coach Coulson. Then the next day, he's back on track, scoring goals and making a name for himself. By the end of the season, he's got a set of devoted fans who hold up signs for him every time he's on the ice, and that, that's when he knows he's made it.
The reading thing, though, it's still kind of a problem. It's not exactly easy, either, once he's in the NHL. Reading isn't necessary, really. Hell, speaking English isn't even necessary. But he's on a team with Steve Rogers, who likes the long, complicated classics, and Tony Stark, who gives lectures on the physics of hockey to school groups in his spare time. It could really get to a person, if he let it. Which Clint doesn't. He just continues to ignore it, like he's done all his life, until one day when he's talking to the Coulson about the new contract he's just signed and it somehow comes up.
Really, it's as simple as saying, "I don't read so well." It's then that he learns things no one ever thought to tell him in school. Things about learning disabilities and statistics. Clint is not alone. It helps, knowing other people are out there with the same problems as him. So when Coulson approaches him about doing some sort of outreach program to help kids with learning disabilities, he's all for it. He's made it, he's where he's always wanted to be, and now, it's time to start giving back.
Thor comes to America and everything is different. It's in English, for one, but that's just the beginning. He misses his life at home, back in Sweden. He misses the language, he misses the size of the rink, he misses the meatballs. Most of all, though, he misses his brother.
"Come visit," he begs, when he can get him on the phone. "Come see me play."
Loki never does, though, just says, "I've got practice," or "I've got a competition."
"You're always so busy," Thor complains once, but Loki just says, "I'll see you at the Olympics."
That's almost two years away, though, and they'll see each other over the summer before that, anyway. It's Loki's way of reminding Thor that he's not the only athlete in the family, as if Thor could ever forget. His brother is enchanting when he skates, mesmerizing, and Thor could never hope to do anything like that.
He always ends his conversation with, "Give Amora my love," to which Loki always replies, "She's my partner, not my lover, you idiot."
Thor's sure that if he knew English better, he'd be able to find someone with just as much snark as his brother on his team, but until that happens, he's going to be awkward and alone.
Or so he thinks, anyway. Somehow, with only the use of his broken English and Tony Stark's terribly mispronounced Swedish swearwords, they become something like friends. Thor's not sure how it starts, only that one day after practice Tony tosses him a bootlegged CD with the words "Rosetta Stone: ESL" on it and winks. Clint, too, becomes his friend. They bond over being new to the league, since Clint only came up from the American Hockey League last year.
So then, Thor has two friends and many more potentials on his team. He plays the good hockey he was brought up to, and even if the rink is all wrong, he still keeps as many pucks from crossing the blue line as humanly possible. He makes a few goals, quite a few assists and he even gets in one or two fistfights. He still misses his brother, but Loki's right: there's always the Olympics.
Bruce starts playing hockey in junior high as a way to deal with his anger issues. He knows why he has the issues and doesn't especially think hockey will help, but the counselor says to give it a try, so he does, going down to the community center one afternoon and asking to join the team. They need defensemen badly, so that's the position he's given. He's never played before, never so much as been on skates, so he's surprised as anyone at how quickly he picks it up.
Hockey works for Bruce in a way nothing else has. He can fight when he needs to without it being too much of a problem, and all the rest of the time he can work out his rage through body checks. He feels a certain satisfaction, too, every time he stops a goal. He's not the goalie, so he doesn't feel the pressure as badly, and if a goal gets in, he's not the one who gets blamed. Not that he doesn't do his absolute best to make sure goals never even get close, because it's the team's failing, really, when it happens, but when they do get in, Bruce isn't the one under all that stress, which is good for his anger issues, as well.
He makes his college team on the first try, so he supposes he must be pretty good. It's not a college especially known for hockey, but apparently there are still NHL scouts at the games, sometimes, because one approaches him one night about his performance. Bruce isn't sure he likes what the man has to say, but then he remembers what his life was like before hockey, and decides he never wants to give it up. He's a second round draft pick, but that doesn't matter. What matters is, he gets to keep playing hockey. As long as he has that, he'll never, ever have to get angry again.
Bruce comes over from Anaheim to the Avengers the same year as Thor, the God of Thunder, and even though he thinks it's probably not a good idea, Coach Coulson pairs them together on defense. Bruce just shrugs and goes along with it. He's no coach, after all, just a lowly defenseman who lucked into this great team by being in the right place at the right time. It took years to get here, too. He was drafted by the Wild, originally, and from there went to Tampa, then Columbus. Anaheim was a good fit, he thought, but this place, these Avengers, they're better.
Natasha takes shit her whole life about being a girl. Not that she minds being a girl, or a woman when the time comes. She's not especially tough or masculine, either. She just loves hockey. Ever since she's a school girl, she loves the sport, even when the boys don't let her play with them. She learns quickly, though, cuts her hair and steals some trousers. She keeps her goalie mask on as often as she can, especially after she gets old enough for her face to give her away.
Her parents never approve. They send her to the ballet academy, once she gets older, and her mother sends her letters about what a pretty little ballerina she's going to be someday. Natasha trades her pointe shoes for a pair of skates when she's sixteen and never looks back.
It's still not easy, even now that she's left the schoolyard. She tries out for team after team and all of them tell her she's a good prospective until they realize she's a woman. She gets her fair share of practice in, though, with the little women's teams around the country, and by the time she tries out for the national team at twenty-one, she's a shoe-in. They win the world championships her first year, bring home Olympic silver the next. It's good, great even, better than ballet would have been, but Natasha wants more.
So she buys a book to study English and practices every day after she gets home from hockey. After two years of study, she knows she'll never be an American, but she's good enough to be getting on with. She leaves the Russian team and gets on a plane for New York. She writes her mother a lovely little letter in the air, but forgets to send it once the plane touches down.
Natasha travels the country by Greyhound, tries out for every single team in the League before she finally gets to the Avengers. They're her last resort, and if this doesn't work out, she's going to have to try the lower leagues. She kicks ass at try-outs (an American phrase she's come to favor) but she sees the looks on their faces as she pulls off her mask. It's a no-go, she thinks and starts planning her next stop on this never-ending road trip.
She's more than a little shocked when the General Manager calls her in, congratulates her on her performance and her new job, if she'd like it. A real American job playing in a real American league. She'll be playing back-up for now, but on a team with Iron Man, the Hawkeye, the God of Thunder, and the Hulk. She needs a nickname, she thinks, a real American nickname.
Much to her surprise, none of the guys on the team ever really treat her any different. She speaks English well enough to know what they're saying mostly, and though some are very forward, they're all sure to back up a bit after they see her play. She puts the fear of God into them, as best she can, the way she learned how as a girl in the playground.
The best part of it is she doesn't even need to keep her helmet on. The camera loves her face and the girls look up to her. They call her the next Manon Rhéaume, but Natasha's better than that. She plays more than exhibition games. She's not a starter, not yet, but she'll get there, and when she does, the league won't know what hit it.
She sleeps with Tony Stark accidentally. It's an after-party and though she's Russian, even she can't outdrink the God of Thunder. She doesn't mean it, and it doesn't mean anything to her, but he's only bitter for a few days afterward. She doesn't regret it, though, because that's where she gets her nickname. The Black Widow, he calls her, but he smiles as he says it, not sorry at all, and no one ever thinks any less of her for it. She embraces the name, wears it with pride. She's the Black Widow and she's playing in the NHL. What more could a little Russian girl want from life?
Steve grows up sick and tiny and only gets into hockey because it's what his pal Bucky is doing. The other kids laugh at him at try-outs, and no one, not even Steve, expects him to be so good. He is, though, and he sticks the season out, despite his asthma. He's back the next year, too, and the year after that, moving up the levels as they present themselves. By the time he's fifteen, he's good, better than good, and his asthma's completely gone. It happens sometimes, the doctors tell him, and it's called childhood asthma. Steve doesn't even care what it's called, is just so grateful that it's gone and he can play the sport he loves.
When an agent approaches Steve about playing professional, Steve can hardly even believe it. He's played juniors for a couple years now, but he never thought he'd go any higher. After all, he's really just playing because he loves it so much, and maybe a little because they told him that first year he wouldn't make it. His last growth spurt made him desirable, though, apparently in more ways than one, if all the press he's been getting lately is any indication.
He gets into the draft the next year completely accidentally. He stands there nervous as all get-out in his suit and tie with the other draftees, just hoping not to get picked last. He knows he should be grateful he's here at all, and he is, really, but he wants a good number, too. The predictions have him as the surprise top pick, and they're right, but even Steve's not sure how he gets there. He goes to the Avengers, who traded away some really good players to get this pick. He just hopes he doesn't disappoint.
He meets his new teammates at camp and he's only slightly starstruck. There are so many of the big names there, including the God of Thunder, Hawkeye, the Hulk and Black Widow, who Steve has a huge amount of respect for, because he knows what it's like to keep pushing against people who told him he couldn't do it. Tony Stark's also there, and Steve flushes a little when they meet, because Tony Stark's ben his hero for the past five years, ever since the man was drafted into the NHL. He smiles a little, too, just for good measure, but he needn't bother, for all the good it does.
Because, as it turns out, Tony Stark is kind of a jerk. He insults Steve every chance he gets, any time they're on the bench together or close on the ice. He also body-checks Steve especially hard when they're on opposing sides during practice and even sometimes when they're on the same side.
"He's only jealous," Natasha tells him, once. "You take his spotlight."
It's not logical or completely true. Steve gets a lot of attention, more than he'd like, but Tony's still the face of the league, the big player they bring out whenever they need a star. It's good that way, better, because Steve doesn't mind interviews or pictures, but he never wants that much media attention.
The whole thing is ridiculous and juvenile and if it affected their working relationship, Steve might have reason to complain. It doesn't, though. They're paired together, along with Clint on Steve's right wing, and they're in sync every step of every game. They're on fire.
The Stark-Rogers-Barton line becomes the best line in the whole league over a season. Even losing Clint to a sprained ankle for a few games doesn't change anything. As soon as he's healed, he's back on the ice and they're back to the game.
Eventually, too, the animosity between Steve and Tony dies down. Tony stops being such a jerk all the time, starts inviting Steve to his legendary after-parties. They start hanging out by themselves, too. The summer after that first season, Steve and Tony have plans together almost every night. They watch movies, have dinner, play video games. They hang out with the rest of the team, too, the ones that stay in town, especially Thor, Bruce, Clint and Natasha. They're all really great and Steve loves being with them all, but when he's alone with Tony, it's something special.
One night, as they're watching the Mighty Ducks for the fiftieth time, Tony turns to him and says, "They're making you captain, next year."
"Yeah?" Steve asks, a bit warily. On the one hand, he's extremely proud and excited to wear the title. On the other hand, though, if this sets something off in Tony, if things go back to how they were at first between them, Steve's not sure he can take it. Tony's his best friend, maybe more, and he doesn't want to lose that, not even for the big C.
"Yeah," Tony tells him easily. "And since I'm an Alternate Captain, I guess that means we'll be working pretty closely together." He reaches out to touch Steve's chest, slides his fingertips down to rest on one of his pecs. "Do you want to work closely together, Steve?"
Steve does, so badly. Tony's a good guy, better than Steve ever thought, and Steve wants this so much he'd give up hockey for it. "Yes," he breathes and Tony smiles, takes his hand. They barely make it to Tony's bedroom before they've got each other's clothes off, and they have such sweet sex that it can't be anything other than making love.
Afterward, Steve reflects. He's in the NHL, somewhere he never even realized he wanted to be until he was. He's got a great boyfriend now, one that's part of his fantastic team. Next year, he'll be captain and then he can help every person on the team be the very best they can be. It's everything he's ever wanted and never knew.
"We should go out on dates," Tony tells him, dreamily, still coming down.
They could, Steve knows. It wouldn't be easy, coming out, but it would be right. And no matter what kind of problems they cause with the media and the league, the Avengers aren't going to trade them just for that. They're too good together, score too many points. And even if they did get traded, it might be worth it, for the sheer number of people it would help. Clint and Coulson, for example, though their relationship is a special case, but they've both been looking at each other with hearts in their eyes all season, at least. There's the kids, too, the ones who are gay and want to play sports anyway. There are so many people it would help, and compared to all that, the personal consequences are laughably small. Plus, coming out would make this whole thing with Tony more permanent, and Steve can't pretend he doesn't get anything out of that.
"Okay," he agrees and kisses Tony squarely on the mouth. "Let's go on dates."