A/N: Time-wise, I'm going to put this around during and before the beginning of "Fire in the Ice," and I'm taking total creative license with Booth's team, given that we weren't privy to any details. Anyway, any feedback's appreciated.


It's All Psychology to Me

Chapter IV: Special Agent Seeley Booth


"Get up. You all right?"
"Did I score, man?"
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, come on."

A full hockey team and games weren't supposed to come to fruition. It had just been an offhand suggestion by, of all people, his son, when they'd been sitting at home once, casually watching an Avalanche versus Devils game back in '08. Parker thought his daddy should do something for kicks, thought pucks, sticks, and skates were much more fun than catching bad guys. Booth had laughed it off, telling Parker "we'll see," like parents did when they wanted a particular thread of conversation to end.

But, after he'd put Parker to bed, the suggestion had come back to him. As he watched Forsberg slapshot the puck past Brodeur to thundering applause by half the stadium, he imagined getting together some of the few squints that were athletic, as well as some men at the FBI (himself, too, obviously) if they wanted to, and having their own version of the NHL (okay, maybe the AHL). He was already aware of a couple pick-up game hockey teams made up of various corporations near to where the FBI and Jeffersonian buildings were, had heard of their competitions.

It hadn't taken long for the idea to catch on, and within a few days of putting out the word, Booth had a full team, some of them squints, which was surprising, but they were all pretty satisfactory in terms of skill. In fact, the "Fed Cases" (as they'd dubbed themselves) quickly got a reputation for doing well, and although it was all still amateur hockey, and it wasn't like they had a sellout audience, they still garnered a fair amount of people per game. Booth had noticed that in particular, Cam, Sweets (who knew?), and Angela usually showed up; Brennan hadn't been to one before, and honestly, Booth didn't expect her to. Seeing her at a sports event would be like…him being at an isotopic microparticles symposium or something.

Unfortunately, they had eventually lost their best left wing due to the physicist's job relocation, and while Booth did have a second stringer, the guy wasn't much of a Robitaille, to be sure. There'd been a couple of guys that had expressed interest in filling that spot, but, after testing them out in some scrimmages, Booth didn't really see them as a benefit. In fact, he was beginning to resign himself to elevating his second-stringer and have one of the centers switch between that and left wing if he needed to substitute.

That changed, however, one day when he'd gone down to the ice rink to practice by himself for a little, in preparation for a game that next weekend. He'd anticipated the arena to be empty, given the hour of night, so when he walked in, skates laced up, he was surprised to find someone already on the ice. The guy didn't have the best of hockey gear, his stick an older Easton, electrical tape holding in some splinters, and his skates scuffed and worn, but as Booth watched, the lackluster equipment didn't seem to faze him.

It took the man a few plays and goals to realize that there was someone else there, and immediately he skidded to a stop by the edge of the rink, looking awkward. There was something familiar about the guy, and it took a second for Booth to recognize him as being the latest in Brennan's long line of grad students.

"Agent Booth," he—Wendell, Booth remembered, impressed with himself—said, reaching down to pick up the puck from the ice. "You play?"

The irony didn't escape him, and Booth chuckled. "Yeah, kid, I play," he answered, and then gestured to Wendell. "You're pretty good. Ever thought of playing for our team? Still need a left winger, if you want to try it out."

Wendell gave Booth a self-deprecating smile, and with any of the other grad students, Booth would be internally laughing more, but at the moment, he was more occupied with realizing that there was actually a squint associated with Brennan out there that was edging towards, dare he say it? normal. Moreover, a grad student that played hockey, an actual sport. None of that flimsy lacrosse—or, God forbid, racquetball—business that he'd heard some of them indulged in.

"You want me to play on your hockey team?" Wendell asked, eyebrows raised as he almost visibly processed this fact.

"Hey, you look better than who we've got now as our winger," Booth said, thinking of the second stringer and his gangliness. He nodded toward the ice and offered, "How about some one-on-one? Never hurts to have an opponent in a friendly."

"I don't know," Wendell hesitates, glancing back at the rink. "I've still got some dissertation work I have to do—"

Booth steered Wendell's shoulders around, and tossed the puck onto the ice, where it slid a few yards before stopping. "Come on," Booth suggested, shrugging off his outer coat and picking up his own stick from the ground. "It'd be nice to find out there's one of Bones's interns that's actually, you know, human."

Wendell laughs, and then nods in resignation. "All right," he agrees, seemingly getting used to the reality that Booth, a senior FBI agent who in general dislikes squints, was asking him, a squint-in-training, to be part of his hockey team.

It was a learning experience for Booth, that scrimmage with Wendell. At first, it appeared the guy was holding back, unsure of himself now that he was facing off against Brennan's partner, but after a couple plays, Booth felt like he was getting his metaphorical money's worth. It didn't take long for Booth to figure it out.

The kid had skill.

Okay, so it wasn't like Wendell was Wayne Gretzky's protégé or anything, but in comparison with some of the other first stringers, and definitely second stringers, that Booth had, he was pretty damn good. He hadn't had a run with the rest of the team yet, but if their one-on-one was any indication, Booth felt he would fit in pretty well with the other guys. Wendell was at least a good ten or more years younger than the rest of Booth's players, but even in the NHL, younger players tended to be favored, as long as they possessed the necessary talent.

Both Wendell and Booth were sweating profusely by the time they unanimously agreed to end the scrimmage, but what were sports without a little sweat, let alone a smattering of blood and tears? They sat side by side unlacing their skates and tapping the residual ice from the blades, for the scrimmage and that moment not an FBI guy and a twenty-three-year-old student, but rather just two guys playing a pick-up hockey game and having a great time. And Booth wasn't so prideful to deny that Wendell had proven to be a worthy adversary. (But prideful enough to say he was still better. Of course.)

"You got game," Booth said, standing up and handing over Wendell's stick and puck. "The jersey's yours if you want it."

Wendell grinned, and after a few seconds and shaking the sweat and ice pieces from his hair, nodded. "Okay," he said simply.

"Practice is on Friday, game's Saturday. Better be ready," Booth relayed, patting Wendell's shoulder before picking up his own gear and walking out of the stadium.


Final Score:

Firedawgs 3 – 5 Fed Cases

When Wendell showed up for his first practice, Booth hadn't failed to notice the somewhat crestfallen look on his second stringer's face when he gave the starting lineup, Wendell to the left of Booth, and the second stringer back to the bench. Wendell had looked a little out of sorts at first, but once they got playing, it was just like their scrimmage had been; after a little bit, Wendell warmed up to it all. Though he made mostly assists, he did score two goals, once of them a ricochet off of the goalpost, and as Booth had suspected, the other players on the team didn't have any problem with their new left wing. A few jabs and sarcastic remarks, but nevertheless it appeared that Wendell's disposition was pretty amiable, once you got the guy to open up a little.

Come Saturday, it was to be Booth's team versus their rivals (or as rivaling as an amateur "league" could be), and once Wendell found this out, his confidence somewhat leached out of him. Booth wasn't—and isn't—one for the huge, intense pep talks that bring up a man from pure desolation to elation, and so he started to get a little nervous at seeing Wendell as such, willing God that his new left-winger, who'd had so much potential, wouldn't lose that confidence and ability.

Thankfully, someone was looking out for Booth and his team, for after a slightly rocky start for the first few minutes, Wendell picked up his game. Which was luckier still, given that this was the one (of course it'd be) that Brennan had decided to come out for, and while Booth didn't have the biggest ego in the world, it's not like he really wanted to have it crushed to irredeemable parts either. Booth wondered if it was this fact that ended up cementing Wendell's will or something, because once he caught sight of the cheering audience of three that he had, he seemed to gain a spring in his step. So to speak, anyway.

The game didn't go as smoothly as Booth had hoped, all because of that damn Carlson, who'd not only been a complete asshole throughout the entire game, but given Wendell a pretty nasty concussion and sprained wrist to boot. Wendell had been pretty impressive, even in covering up his injuries, but it wasn't that that made Booth really look at the guy in a different light.

The game finally ended, Booth and his team trudge across the scraped ice and into the locker room, groaning and peeling off jerseys and long johns to reveal bruises and scratches and sweat-drenched hair, all of which they'd had too much pride to complain about before. Booth is the last one into the room, picking up some stray gloves and even a mouthpiece that one or two of his players had left behind.

Most of the guys had their little niches that they hung out in, despite the fact that the hockey team didn't employ more than eleven players on the ice at a time, and nineteen in total. As Booth walks in, preparing to just book it out of there when he could, maybe give a halfhearted endgame speech, he pauses when he sees Wendell sitting alone on a bench, staring off relatively just into space, his eyes unfocused. It's a very stereotypical expression post-concussion, that much Booth knows, not only from playing hockey, but also from his Army stint and that at the FBI.

With a small grin, Booth goes over to the tub of ice in the room and fills up two Ziplocs with a good amount of it, pressing one against his wrist which he's ninety-eight percent sure is broken. Then, fully aware that it might make Wendell a bit uncomfortable, Booth sits down next to him, pulling off his jersey and unlacing his skates, his own body grumbling at the hits it'd taken. Wendell snaps out of his brief funk to look over to his right, frowning when he sees Booth (or, rather, two of Booth), like he hadn't ever expected the agent to pay attention to him besides just giving out the lineup.

Booth hands Wendell the other icepack, with an apologetic but par-for-the-course smile. "Here," he says. "Put this on your head. It'll help."

Wendell looks at him for a minute before capitulating and taking the bag, pressing it to his scalp, which, Booth catches before the bag covers it, is coated with blood. It riles his mood up more against Carlson, just the fact that he'd caused one of his guys to spare blood that wasn't Carlson's to spare. Yet, Booth does suspect that Wendell's not as bothered by it as Booth is; that he's been in worse scrapes than this current one.

"You played a good game," says Booth, unsticking his undershirt from his chest.

Wendell snorts self-deprecatingly. "I benched myself for a quarter of it," he replies, adjusting the icepack.

"Hey," Booth says sharply, hitting Wendell's shoulder to get him to look at him. Wendell does, a little indignantly. "Stop it. Everyone has off games. It's not your fault that Carlson's a cheating bastard."

Wendell shakes his head for a second before deciding that's a very bad idea, and he settles for a glare that does virtually the same thing. "It's not Carlson," he negates. "Okay, maybe a little, but I should've seen him coming. I was too focused on the goal—"

"That stubbornness might get you brownie points with the squints," Booth interrupts sharply, gesturing vaguely in the direction of where Brennan, Cam, and Sweets were to exit the arena. "But in here? You acknowledge your strengths, and you don't dwell on your mistakes. You're a good player, Bray, and what happened out there was an underpaid ref and an underhanded guy who has nothing better to do than commit fouls and sideline my best players."

Wendell looks up at the last bit, his eyebrows raised (barring the left one, which was starting already to be obscured by a sizable shiner). "You actually giving out compliments, Agent Booth?"

Booth grants Wendell a half-smile. "Don't get used to it, rookie," he says with a tone lacking the venom of his words. He takes another look at Wendell's head, starting to feel worry despite himself. He shrugs it off as just general concern for a member of his unit. Kinda. "You still seeing double?" he asks gruffly.

"Only when I open more'n one eye," Wendell responds with a wince and a husky chuckle. He glances over at Booth, whose arm is a little blurry still, and notices the off-angle that his wrist is at. It doesn't take his bachelor's in anthropology to figure out that it's broken. "Your hand's busted," he comments unnecessarily.

Booth grunts, peeking at it underneath the ice pack he'd loosely put on. "Yeah, well, you know…guy left his helmet on."

It's the flimsiest of flimsy excuses, both Booth and Wendell know that, but neither make a jab about it. It's part of the guy code, after all; there's a line as to when you make fun of someone and when you don't. Well, that and Wendell's pretty damn sure Booth could kill and/or maim him fifty different ways. He's picking his battles, thank you very much. So, all Wendell does is laugh again, he and Booth sharing an indulgent smile. A kind of in the trenches, temporary same-level standing.

And it's all going just fine until the locker room door opens, and Wendell and Booth look up to see none other than Brennan, decked out in her beanie and jacket, an expression of concern on her face. Both men have looks of shock and incredulity on their faces, and maybe a touch of embarrassment as well. It's not as if the locker room is completely empty, after all.

"Hey, you two all right?" Brennan asks, then amends as she sees their horrification, "What?"

"You wanna wait outside?" Booth inquires stiffly, suddenly uncomfortable in his shirtlessness, and wishing he'd waited, like Wendell, to undress. Though, Wendell did have a reason to avoid undressing just yet, given the situation of his concussion and head wound. Which, both men knew, bled like a bitch.

"But your hand might be broken," Brennan persists. No one ever accused her of being less than straightforward. Booth shakes his head quickly. "You want me to take a look at it?"

Booth glares at her. "No, it's all right. You can wait outside, please," he says awkwardly. Then, in a slightly whinier voice, he pleads, "It's the men's locker room, Bones."

Finally, finally, Brennan seems to get the hint, and shuts the door, leaving Wendell and Booth to steadfastly avoid the looks they know the other guys are aiming at them, and look at each other instead, cringing. They appreciate Brennan's worry, truly they do, but there's a point at which enough becomes enough. And Brennan had just crossed that. More than that, she'd rather jauntily sprinted across the line, and danced to "Up, Up, and Away" with mocking jubilance.

Exchanging an uneasy glance, and then a chuckle, Wendell and Booth go back to icing their respective injuries, both feeling an odd sense of bonding. The oddest part being, of course, that it was over Brennan making a complete fool of them, though then again, no matter what Booth made constant objections to, none of their lives were exactly normal. But for his left-winger, who proved his value to the team in more ways than one, Booth's pretty sure he wouldn't have it any other way.

Not that he'd say any of that out loud. No chick flick moments for him, oh no. He has a reputation to protect.