I had hoped hockey would start up again, but, the bunch of ****** mother ****** cannot agree on shit. I was hoping for the moral boost to help me write this faster. But thanks to the return of GRIMMJOW I got my boost and I've finally managed to get something presentable.

I apologize for Kubo'ing you though. O.o

It's not on purpose. My writing style can be very long winded. The story, plot. and character growth has to feel realistic to me or I won't post it.

A beta would be helpful to trim the fat, but, as I'm not using one, you get the JB full fat version.

Enjoy!


CHAPTER EIGHT

For such a bad boy, the Sexta was a real comedian. He was going to ruin Ichigo? That was the emptiest fucking threat he'd ever heard...

. . .

It really shouldn't have come as such a surprise to Ichigo when Grimmjow actually had make good on his threat just a few minutes into the third period.

What certainly did come as a genuine surprise to Ichigo though, was that Grimmjow had found away to do it without even lifting a finger. In fact, it was the distinct lack of finger lifting by the bluenet that saw Ichigo in his current predicament.

And it had happened just when Ichigo thought things were finally going right. The near stalemate... the slashes and high sticks, and the dirty hits and breakout fights once known as the Reapers verses Hollows hockey game... had actually become a tie game just two minutes into the third. The Reapers captain, Kensei Muguruma, had managed to tuck the puck into the bottom corner of the net while the Hollows were down two men during a tripping and a high-sticking penalty.

The Reapers and their fans had cheered but it seemed to Ichigo more like desperate encouragement than celebration. And rightly so. Everyone knew it was a truly sad state of affairs when the Reapers had to have a five on three advantage just to get a goal.

It was also unfortunate that Shiro's naturally pale complexion was now marred by an ugly red welt just beneath his left eye. Getting hurt always sucked, but it was part of the game, and the way Ichigo saw it, they were lucky to get the penalty break. And Shiro was lucky to keep his eye.

As Ichigo shuffled down the bench to make space for the incoming players, he craned forward and quickly took in the hard, discouraged expressions that made up the faces of the line of Soul Reapers. The truly depressing part was that Shiro's welt didn't stand out at all amongst the faces of his teammates. It actually fit in quite nicely, rounding out the team's collection of split lips, black eyes, missing teeth, a busted nose, as well as the less visible injuries; a twisted ankle, a painful charlie horse, and a broken pinkie.

Overall, the team looked like it had been mugged.

But booboos aside, the score was now 2-2, and Ichigo figured that if they survived the game long enough, they might even still have a distant chance of winning.

Winning? Ichigo shook his head as he wiggled his helmet firmly into place and stood up from the bench. Well, what was life without whimsy?

Ichigo hopped over the boards to start his shift and took up his position on the face-off at centre ice. The arena was bursting with constant cheers and thundering music, but Ichigo wasn't giving all the hullabaloo much attention. None of the players were. They had learned to tune it all out when the puck was dropped.

Instead, the young forward took mental note of which Hollows were on the ice with him. Ichigo was less banged up than some of the other players, and he wanted to it to stay that way. (And he wanted to keep his teeth.) Even with the sexta as his special bodyguard, he still had to keep his head up and be aware of who was near him at all times. The game had its dangers and you had to play with your head, and even if you did, serious injuries could still happen in a split second.

Ichigo risked a hard glance to his right to where Grimmjow was bracing himself, tensed body facing inwards towards Ichigo, stick crossed with his opponent's, waiting for the whistle to start the play. It was clear that the battle for dominance was already in full swing between the sexta and his current opponent, but all Ichigo really saw was the hunger. Though they shouldn't have been, a fierce set of azure eyes were settled on him. A shock of equally brilliant blue hair was slung between them, an unruly piece that had snuck its way out from behind its helmet barrier.

Ichigo felt his composure slip just a little bit. He was getting one hell of a mean look, but it was the blue that sucked him in, like a beacon.

Every fucking thing blue. He was sick of being hated and he was sick of blue. Ichigo had to draw a deep breath to steady his nerves and ignore it, but he did, and he turned back to his opponent who had lined up in front of him on the face-off.

After their awkward conversations during their breaks, Ichigo was already feeling a bit unsettled with the idea of having the large, angry bluenet at his back. But he shrugged off the feeling as best he could and tried to keep his focus. They were still teammates, and at this level of hockey you didn't screw around. In theory anyway.

Besides, Ichigo never considered that Grimmjow might intentionally do something against him on the ice.

He wouldn't. Right? At least not during a game.

He spared another fleeting glance to his right. Yup, that was a menacing look all right, and it hadn't budged from him. The blue-haired headcase was eye stalking him and trying to get under his skin. Well, it wasn't going to work. Ichigo could handle it. He could take anything Grimmjow could throw at him. The real question was, how far would Grimmjow go once they were off the ice?

Ichigo frowned as he cast his eyes downward and focused on the blue line that lay trapped beneath the surface of the ice at his feet. He had to get him out of his head, but there he was. On the ice. Beneath the ice.

He jerked from his dark reverie, and the muddle of thoughts that Grimmjow's glaring had brought on were roughly shoved aside as the linesman in front of Ichigo skated into place, the puck hidden inside his hands at waste level. With a sudden motion, the official threw the small disc down, and the play started. Ichigo jabbed his stick forward and raked the blade across the ice as he tried to scoop the puck up first and win the face-off.

Ichigo was fast, but his opponent, Ulquiorra, was faster. He cursed under his breath as the little black disc slipped out of reach and slid into the hands of the Hollow's. Ichigo instantly jumped into motion. The chase was on and the Reapers were determined to regain control. For the next minute the puck changed hands like a hot potato, leaving both teams spinning as they tried to keep control of the disc long enough to actually do something with it.

Ichigo was almost surprised when the puck somehow found its way to him. He was nearing the end of his shift and quite out of breath, but he wasn't going to waste this opportunity as the play moved into the Hollow's end. The fans hollered their encouragement, and Ichigo poured on the speed and raced forward, aware that his blue-haired partner had just taken out a Hollow player. For a few seconds at least, that was one less enemy to worry about.

Ichigo crossed the blue line as the Hollow's defence pulled back. Grimmjow had already moved into position, flanking Ichigo and keeping the remaining Hollow's off his back. Out of all of his issues with the larger man, Ichigo couldn't really find fault with his ability to cover Ichigo. When things went right, Grimmjow's was as effective as Hollow bug spray.

Now, if Ichigo could just keep himself focused enough to score, things might be alright.

Ichigo's body lowered as he rushed towards the net, legs pumping, eyes focused, stick clapping against the ice as it jumped back and forth over the puck. The black disc seemed to hang off the sharp edge of his blade, carried forward in the rush of momentum that was Kurosaki Ichigo coming in for the kill, every muscle trained and responding to his thoughts with flawless precision. He was in the zone. He was in control. The Hollow defence man in front of Ichigo was pulling back, inadvertently screening his own goalie. As far as scoring opportunities went, this was a beauty. Ichigo could see it in his mind's eye, could read the player, sense his responses. He would fake low and the defence man would drop to screen the puck.

Finally, Ichigo had control of the puck and a clean shot.

For a moment, the old feeling was back, and hockey seemed to hold the promise of being fun again. Even though he was still moving fast, everything slowed. Around him battles were raging. Man on man, fighting for positions. Ichigo had enough space and enough time to wind up for a shot. He was in the clear. Maybe they could win this. He raised his stick to launch the puck at the opening he saw. If he could just get a goal, they could turn this game around. He could grab his career by the horns and turn it back around. Maybe he and Grimmjow could even...

Ichigo only had a split second to brace for the hit.

Even though he had caught the guy in his peripheral, coming in fast from the side, the orangette barely had enough time for a mental, oh shit, before he felt the impact. Bodies and limbs connected like hammer and nail, slamming Ichigo into the boards and twisting him awkwardly at the waste. One moment he thought he'd taken the hit without incident. The next moment, he felt it.

It was a low blow. Literally.

His opponent brought one knee up and jammed it firmly into the tender space between number fifteen's legs. And Ichigo yelped as blinding, crippling pain exploded in his groin. Protective cup be damned.

Wide-eyed and stunned, Ichigo went down along the boards with a desperate wheeze as all of the life was forcefully crushed out of his nuts.

As Ichigo was going down, the crowd leaped to its collective feet, those closest to the glass standing on their toes, pressing forward and straining to see past the barrier and catch a glimpse of their fallen hero. And see him they did. Through the plexiglass that surrounded the rink. On the big screen above the ice. On the smaller screens of bars and homes. Number fifteen was choking in air as he curled up on the ice, gloves tucked between his legs, face scrunched into the picture of agony.

He would have whimpered but he could hardly breath. He could merely gasp and grit his teeth against the pain. Watering eyes were ground shut, while white lights danced behind his lids. The sharp whistle and hollering fans became a distant buzzing, and a familiar voice from somewhere above him seemed concerned, but it was all just background noise. Completely unimportant. The jabbering continued as Ichigo lay there, wishing he'd been born a eunuch.

Nearly a full minute passed, and finally Ichigo made a move to rise. But all he managed to accomplish was to roll onto his front, breathing heavily, belly down, face burrowed between gloved hands, helmet resting on the ice.

He was going to need the whole arena floor to ice his balls anyway, so it seemed like a good place to lie.

"Ichigo. Where does it hurt?" Ichigo shifted his arms as he opened one eye and glared into the face that had appeared right next to his own. Ichigo's apparent demise had brought the team's doctor out onto the ice, and he was now kneeling beside him to check his vitals.

And yes, Ichigo thought they were pretty damn vital.

"Nnngh." All Ichigo could really do was groan. He knew he wasn't giving the doctor much to go on, but it seemed to be enough... that, and the fact that his hands were now gently hugging his pride, testing to see if it was still attached.

"Ah, okay. Can you stand?" Ichigo felt a hand slip beneath his arm, where it rested without tugging.

"Mmh." Ichigo blew out a breath and pushed himself onto all fours, though he was still more doubled over than anything, arms bent at the elbows, weight resting on fisted gloves, helmet kissing the ice.

"Alright then," the doctor nudged. "Let's just walk it off, okay?"

"Nnhh. Yeah." Ichigo gathered up one knee and pushed himself up with his stick, the doctor still supporting him by his arm. The slender piece of wood vibrated in his hands as he leaned his weight onto it.

"You good?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

No. No, he wasn't. Things were throbbing in a way they really shouldn't be. But he couldn't just hang around there all day feeling sorry for himself. He had to get up and keep going.

The crowed clapped in unison as Ichigo peeled himself from the ice with visible difficulty and skated gingerly to the bench, guided by the doctor's hand which was still on his back in case anything should happen, though in a case like this, it was more for moral support than anything. Every man in the stadium who'd been paying any kind of attention would have understood that need, and would have naturally winced in sympathy.

Well, almost every man.

Ichigo reached the bench, head still hanging down. Two players patted his back as they shifted over to let him limp into his place in the lineup. The door had been opened for him because there was no frigging way he was raising a leg to climb over the wall. He managed to raise his eyes though, and he let them scan the bench before he turned to sit down.

Ichigo dropped his head again and cursed quietly as he eased himself down onto the incredibly hard wooden seat.

That sonofabitch.

His lineup partner, the infamously useless number six, was sitting carefree two spaces over.

It came as both a blessing and a curse that one unfortunate player was stuck between them while they took their break, both still huffing for air.

When Ichigo got his faculties back in working order, he might have a word or two to say to number six. He was pretty damn sure that Grimmjow saw that hit coming and did nothing to intervene. He'd had every chance to stop it, but he'd totally thrown Ichigo to the wolves. Despite their differences, Ichigo had put his trust in the enforcer and now Grimmjow had purposely betrayed that trust.

Ichigo lifted most his weight with one arm as he adjusted himself on the bench, trying to take the pressure off and lessen the ache in his groin. He winced, though only some of the orangette's expression was from the discomfort.

In some ways, this was his own fault. Without realizing it, he'd become accustomed to having a personal body guard, and lately he'd found himself relying on the foul mouthed attack dog to defend him... trusting that he'd at least do his job. But fuck that. Ichigo wasn't defenceless, and he was really tired of playing damsel-in-distress in this fucked up play. It wasn't how he'd played hockey in the minors and it clearly wasn't helping him in any way. Maybe that was the whole problem. The more distance he could put between himself and the insane enforcer, the better off he'd be.

Ichigo's lips pursed as he came to a decision, one he should have made awhile ago. It was time to take back the ice, on Ichigo's terms. He didn't care what Grimmjow did with himself out there, as long as he stayed outta Ichigo's way.

Number fifteen flinched as a hand landed on his shoulder and he came back to earth. He grunted a thank you and reached for the water bottle and towel that was handed to him. Though he took a sip, he didn't really feel like water at the moment. He was rather busy trying to swallow the puking feeling that came with having one's balls broken. He gasped as he shifted, trying to find a position that didn't press so hard on his tender bits. God, was he bleeding?

"Y'alright Kurosaki?" The coach's booming voice breached the noise of the crowd easily as the game resumed and the fans cheered. Ichigo didn't even spare him a look back.

"Yeah. M'fine coach." He'd be more fine if he'd heard a penalty being called, but what else was new tonight? There was no call except from the faithful in the stands. They had booed and jeered their displeasure with passion. It made no difference in the end, but it was nice to know that at least their fans hadn't abandoned them during their slump. Hockey fans could be a fickle bunch sometimes.

"Alright. Good then. You're back on in two minutes."

Make it four, Ichigo thought to himself as he rested his head on his gloves and tried to clear his head of the pain. He heard a whistle blow, indicating an infraction, bringing the play to a momentary stop. But he only looked back up when he felt the intense sensation of eyes watching him. In a building filled to the rafters with fans and cameras, that would be expected, but somehow this felt different. It didn't take long to pinpoint the source of the hair-raising feeling on the back of his neck.

Szayel Aporro Granz was still out on the ice. The Hollow's number eight was tossing a long, smug look in Ichigo's direction while he slowed to a stop near the Reaper's bench. The pink-haired creep was taunting him. Ichigo's face set itself into a dark scowl, but his attention immediately flew to his so called back-up. The seconds of their short break were gradually ticking down, and Grimmjow was watching the pink-haired player from the bench. Ichigo recognized that look. The sexta was going to hand out some retribution for the dirty hit on Ichigo as soon as the penalty was over.

As if Ichigo wasn't already upset enough at the general state of things, the idea that Grimmjow would even bother to go after Szayel when he couldn't be bothered to stop the hit in the first place pissed Ichigo off even further.

Ichigo twisted to his right and caught Grimmjow's attention with a sharp, "Hey!"

"Back off, Grimmjow," he growled. "He's mine."

Almost as if he were expecting it, Grimmjow turned his hate filled scowl directly onto the orangette, locking eyes with the pale player and somehow managing to dismiss Ichigo with an arrogant nod and a bullish snort. Ichigo felt himself tense. It was like Grimmjow had flipped him the bird with his chin.

"You just do the job that yer supposed to be so fucking good at, pretty boy, and let me do mine," the bluenet growled back, leaning towards Ichigo. He punctuated the command with a malicious sneer, cobalt blue sparkling with disdain.

Ichigo's eyes widened and his pulse quickened. If he'd been cranky a moment ago, he was positively furious now. It didn't take a genius to see that the bluenet was wolfishly pleased with himself for his sneaky, backhanded manoeuvre. Ichigo snapped like a cheap rubber band, lurching across in front of their hapless teammate, who was by now leaning back as far as he could to escape being squeezed flat between the bickering duo.

"Let you do yours?!" he screeched. "If you were doing yours, maybe I woulda got that shot off instead of getting bagged in the first place, asshole."

Grimmjow's head fell sideways, and though a cocky grin seemed like it would follow, his face remained serious as he twisted around and patted the thick material of his own thigh.

"You do look kinda sore there... partner. You wanna sit on my lap?" Grimmjow waited for the inevitable reaction, a beautiful scarlet blush, a face full of shocked disgust, a blow-up, but...

Nothing.

He was met, instead, with the exact same 'giving you shit and not taking it' look that had been stuck there since Ichigo's mouth had started moving. And now he imagined he could feel his own cheeks warming, not with embarrassment, but with rising irritation as Ichigo merely leaned in further and hissed like a viper.

"I know you did that on purpose."

Grimmjow pulled back.

"Keh. Whatever Kurosaki." He rolled his eyes, looking intentionally bored with the other man's whining. "The whole world's out ta get you."

The bluenet turned away from the fuming player. Grimmjow had been feeling rather smug and content for the past few minutes but he was quickly growing annoyed by the bothersome red head. He was also aware that the guys next to him were listening. And Ichigo was starting to make him look bad, as usual. Now that Ichigo was in his face again, he was sorry he didn't get to be the one to knee the little fucker in the balls himself.

Ichigo would look real good down on his knees and whimpering in front of Grimmjow. Real good.

In fact, while he was down there he could...

"Not the whole world, Grimmjow. Just you." Ichigo's voice was lowered, keeping his last sentiments between the two of them and their poor trapped teammate as best he could.

Grimmjow turned back towards the annoyance, about to tell him to get over it and shut the hell up, but instead found himself unable to speak. It was like he had turned a sharp corner and run right into a hundred foot cliff face. He was pinned by brown eyes, suddenly hard like aged rock, immovable. And they grabbed Grimmjow's complete attention, dominating him.

"I don't care what the coach says," Ichigo hissed. "You can keep your fucking charity to yourself."

"Hn."

"I mean it, Grimmjow," he continued in a hoarse whisper. "Stay the hell outta my way from now on. We're done."

"Che."

Other than a derisive snort and jaded sneer, Grimmjow didn't really have a good defence for his fire-haired teammate's earlier accusation. He had let Ichigo get hit on purpose. Yeah, he could have easily intercepted the pink haired Hollow, but Ichigo had it coming. He didn't appreciate Grimmjow enough, or at all. In fact, it was probably fair to say he hated him. Either way, the kid deserved it.

Plus it had been fucking hilarious. Grimmjow may have looked serious on the outside, but the moment he'd seen Ichigo crumple and grab his nuts, he'd nearly become an unbalanced mess of insane cackling on the inside. Christ, he could just picture the kid with a bag of ice on his balls tonight. And he sure as hell wasn't gonna be getting laid any time soon.

Yup, he'd had a sweet little moment of revenge, and he'd been all prepared to play the part and at least look like he wanted to step up in Ichigo's defence. Not that he minded blowing off some steam on the pink-haired Hollow, but he would definitely not be doing it on Ichigo's behalf.

And not that it mattered now, because Ichigo had saved him from feeling obligated and had let him off the hook. He'd said it plain as day.

We're done.

It was only then that Ichigo's statement began to sink in, he'd been so engrossed with the rest of it. Grimmjow covertly slid narrowed blue eyes back towards his bitter teammate as he felt his hackles begin to rise anew. Who the hell was Ichigo to say when they were done?

Maybe Grimmjow didn't wanna be done.

Grimmjow rubbed an arm across his midsection. Maybe that sudden queasiness in his gut was just bubbling anger because Ichigo was throwing around orders again. The bluenet simmered on the bench for a moment, thoughts being pulled more and more away from the game as the words turned over and over in his mind.

We're done.

He couldn't just let that go, and after a moment of contemplation, Grimmjow open his mouth to tell Ichigo how things were gonna be. But before he could challenge the other man's decree, the coach's voice snapped like a whip behind him. Reflex took over, and their lineup was once again scaling the front of the bench and charging back onto the ice.

As the game dragged on, Ichigo was getting more and more agitated. He hadn't had a single good opportunity to get his retribution on the man who had physically kneed him in the nuts. Nor had he touched the puck since. As a result, his frustrations were spilling over and he found himself barking at Grimmjow at every turn. Despite skewering him with his eyes, Grimmjow remained oddly silent, choosing to ignore Ichigo's derisive comment about his playing style and his remark about playing real hockey instead of acting like a brainless thug. That was their only interaction for the remainder of the game.

No longer protected, Ichigo had absorbed several hard hits and was sure to be well painted the next day. But the Hollow's weren't on top of him like he thought they'd be without his enforcer watching over him. Which was odd. Because he had sort of expected the sexta to ease off a little, show his displeasure by sulking and hanging back, maybe even cruise through the rest of the game without wreaking quite as much havoc on the opposing team. It would show the Reapers and Ichigo that Grimmjow's presence was important.

But that was most definitely not the course of action the enforcer had chosen. If anything, he'd stepped it up.

In fact, Grimmjow was acting like a Hollow minesweeper. The sexta was sounding off like an angry badger on every bad call, while aggressively pursuing the officials, the puck, and every opposing player, on the ice and off. He was practically frothing at the mouth.

It was a very strange feeling, and it was rather unnerving to the orangette, because it had nothing to do with Ichigo's defence. And yet, it had everything to do with Ichigo.

Only a few minutes were left in the game when the whistles shrilled as Grimmjow's temper finally erupted. One moment, he was battling Ulquiorra in the corner for the puck, the next, he had the Hollow's number four pinned to the ice and his white knuckled fist was was repeatedly driving into his face. Just before he'd hit the ice, Ulquiorra, bless his soul, had manage to land three sharp jabs into Grimmjow's shoulder and jaw, but the bigger man didn't even seem to notice.

The crowd of course, loved it. Bunch of animals.

Ichigo, on the other hand, had stood back and watched with a growing sense of dismay. He was pretty sure he knew exactly who Grimmjow was really seeing during the one sided fight, where he'd gotten the fuel for his fire. And even through his own fearless anger, the sight still left Ichigo feeling a bit cold and queasy, like his muscles had wrapped themselves tighter around his bones for warmth and his stomach had sunk into his feet. The attack was about rage, not revenge, and Ichigo had had no small part in its birth. He'd been egging the enforcer on as much as possible since the "incident".

Ichigo had seen the way Grimmjow had attacked Ulquiorra like a savage animal. The way he'd just fucking sprung on the guy. Ulquiorra had been hacking at the sexta through most of the third like a hungry beaver on a birch tree, but still, even though Ichigo could understand the fight breaking out, once number four had gone down, and Ulquiorra had covered his face, most players would have backed off.

It was over before it started but Grimmjow didn't let up. It took an official and two Hollow players to pull him off of the downed player, and when they did the wild-eyed enforcer was chirping at them to go too.

Grimmjow was just lucky that Nnoitra Jiruga and Yammy Llargo weren't on the roster that night or he'd have found himself in a hell of a mess real quick. Even Grimmjow's excessively violent temper was no match the two monstrous men, and like the sexta, they had no qualms about laying down the law in defence of their teammates, even if it was just Ulquiorra.

The pale brunette could be a bit of a prick but the guy didn't deserve the beating he got, or the concussion. Ichigo kind of thought he shouldn't have been feeling sorry for him for hounding the bluenet as he did. Grimmjow's building aggression was plain as day for anyone with half a brain to see, and Ulquiorra had to have realized that he was messing with a stick of dynamite.

Even so, he was a stick of dynamite that Ichigo had lit... that should have gone off in Ichigo's hand.

He watched as two referees manhandled the raging bluenet out of the rink. Even as stepped off the ice, the forward was still arguing the five minute major penalty call with the officials. But they weren't going to budge. And they shouldn't. Grimmjow needed to calm the hell down before he hurt anybody else.

As Ichigo returned to the bench once again, he remembered his earlier promise to himself, to just be himself and play the game. If Grimmjow had a problem with him, it would be solely on Grimmjow. Well he'd kept it for the most part, hadn't he?

He looked up to the big screen above the ice which was replaying the explosion, revealing the violence that Ichigo had probably fuelled.

No. He was not going to feel responsible for Grimmjow's dirty outburst. He wasn't the one who had started shit in the hallway. He wasn't the one who had eighty-sixed his own teammate.

Ichigo was being the bigger man here.

Ichigo's shoulders slumped forward, and he rested his helmet against the long shaft of his stick.

Except that he wasn't.

It was almost impossible for Ichigo to just carry on and not purposely nettle Grimmjow. No matter how hard he tried to control himself, the man provoked a reaction from Ichigo in some way. Twice he'd come up to Ichigo and gotten in his face. And when he didn't like the reaction he got, when that wasn't enough, Grimmjow, the dirty sneak, had stabbed him in the back.

And that offer to sit on Grimmjow's lap? He'd instantly gone hog wild inside. His stomach had flipped, his heart had done some weird skittering shit, and he'd had to fight tooth and nail to maintain his composure. He could feel the blood rising up his neck again as he thought about it.

He couldn't just let that go.

And to think, they were going to get to do it all over again tomorrow night.

Delightful.

X X X

Kensei stood in front of a small handful of players outside of the arena, a few of them leaning against the back of Kensei's palladium silver SUV beneath the softly buzzing light post. Snowflakes glittered like diamonds as they passed through the light and drifted down in silence. Even though they'd won the game against their arch rivals, the mood was somber, the men caught up in a serious discussion.

"Oh, believe me. I've tried talking ta him, and I honestly can't figure out what all the friction's about. Ichigo just keeps babblin' that he can't play with Grimmjow. Jaegerjaquez won't cooperate. Jaegerjaquez gets in the way. Jaegerjaquez is too aggressive. Jaegerjaquez...."

"Okay, Shinji," Renji interrupted. "I think we get it."

Shinji glared, pulled a face, and continued on regardless.

"...Jaegerjaquez can't shoot... Jaegerjaquez's a mental case... He just went on and on and..."

"I've talked to Grimmjow about his issues with Kurosaki several times as well," Kensei cut in, face serious. "And I couldn't get anywhere with him either. He says the issue is Kurosaki, not him." The remark set off a round of muttering sighs. "Normally I can get through to him, but he won't back down on this one. He's being a stubborn ass."

"...ya know, I still have the headache," Shinji finally finished as he rubbed his temples, even though everyone was ignoring him in favour of Kensei.

"I've tried to get through to the coach about splitting those two idiots apart, but he wont budge," the white-haired man continued. "He's says Ichigo's not getting pushed around as much with Grimmjow out there, and as far as he's concerned that's half the battle won."

"Well, I think that's great, Ichi not getting creamed all the time," Shinji offered, all eyes falling on him once again. "But is that really fixing the problem?"

"Yeah, he still ain't scoring like he was before," Shiro added, voice slightly muffled from having his chin tucked far down into the neck of his jacket in the minus twelve degree weather. His face had already seen enough beatings tonight.

"Well, the coach seems convinced the kid'll snap out of it and magically start scoring again," Kensei replied.

"Sounds like wishful thinking to me," Renji stated flatly, arms crossed and lips pulled into a tight frown.

"And if he doesn't?" Shinji asked. All eyes returned to the team's captain.

Kensei sighed and shifted his weight off of one leg to the both of them, arms folded in a solid barricade across his broad chest.

"This is a team effort. We can't afford to put all the weight on one man's shoulders." Kensei shrugged and shook his head, for once at a loss for real answers. "We'll just have to pull up our straps and play better."

The other men nodded. They were empty words at the heart of it, but nobody blamed Kensei for not having all the answers. They'd tried to talk to the two feuding players, and short of a full on intervention, what else could they do? It was up to the coach to sort out their team's problems after all.