It had been bad.
Boston had been good. Clinching had been great – despite the skid and how shitty Killian had been playing, even if no one was willing to actually say those words out loud. It had been good and great and Emam tried to break into the TD Garden to talk to him and that might have been the best part of Boston, the quiet admission that he'd absolutely been trying to impress her not quite as terrifying to say out loud as he'd expected it to be.
He wished she was in Pittsburgh.
Pittsburgh had been bad. Really bad. Terribly bad. The kind of bad that took up four pages of The Post sports section and warranted several horribly written headlines and Arthur broke two whiteboards.
Two.
It was not exactly the ideal start to a conference finals – a lopsided 3-1 loss that wasn't even as close as the score made it seem it was. The Pens scored twice in the first period and then again in the second and it had been over before the third even started, the entire Rangers roster trudging out of the visitors locker room with decidedly slouched shoulders.
Arthur yelled and paced and even pulled Jefferson within a few minutes left in the third when he nearly gave up a fourth goal – none of it worked. They lost. They lost badly. And they paid for it the next two days, skating from blue line to blue line as soon as that horrible whistle sounded, Arthur's voice almost going hoarse the more he kept yelling.
Killian was exhausted. His legs hurt and his head hurt and he slept like garbage when Emma wasn't there – bed too big and not quite comfortable and Robin absolutely snored, no matter how much he argued the point for the better part of the last six years.
He needed to score a goal. If he could just score a goal, it would be fine. They could get out of Pittsburgh with a split and he'd get back on the first line and the tabs would stop coming up with puns based off his name.
That was half the reason for his headache, Killian was convinced.
Or it might have been his phone – ringing loudly and obnoxiously, threatening to fall off the nightstand in between the bed the hotel room provided.
"Tell Elsa I don't care if she's eighteen months pregnant, she's messing up the routine again," Robin muttered from the bathroom, not even bothering to leave the tiny room to start issuing commands.
"Yeah, I'm not going to say that," Killian countered, grabbing the phone and swiping his thumb over the screen without even bothering to check and see if was Elsa.
It absolutely was. He didn't need to look.
They'd played horrible and the scoring skid was at seven games and he was still practicing with the third line. Killian was almost surprised it had taken her this long to call.
"I have some thoughts," Elsa said as soon as he put the phone to his ear.
"Hey, El," Killian laughed. "Nice to talk to you too."
"Shut up, KJ. There's a list."
"About your thoughts?"
"Well I wanted to make sure they were organized and I didn't miss anything when I called. That's why it's taken so long to call."
"I was curious about that."
"You know phones work both ways," Elsa pointed out and there was an edge in her voice Killian didn't entirely expect.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"How do you know something is going on?"
"El."
"Nothing."
Killian resisted the urge to groan, brushing his hand across his face as he sat up a bit straighter in the not-quite-comfortable hotel room bed. Robin must have heard his frustration or had some sort of former-linemate sixth sense, because he was already leaning on the bathroom door, feet crossed at the ankle and something that almost looked like worry on his face.
"It's really not a big deal," Elsa continued and she was talking faster now, voice picking up until the words and the syllables were jumbled together. "Come on, I wrote this whole list out so there was a direction to the conversation. You've got stuff to do. I know you do. Oh shit, am I messing up game-day?"
Killian's eyes darted up towards Robin – who must have supersonic hearing in addition to whatever sixth sense he was, apparently, harboring – and something clicked in the back of his mind.
Defensive not-quite-younger-brother mode activated.
"No one cares about game-day," Killian said quickly. Elsa scoffed.
"I'm totally messing up game-day. Did I wake Locksley up again?"
"No," he promised and Robin hummed in agreement. "We're actually almost behind schedule. Come on, El, you've never said the word shit in your life. What is going on?"
She clicked her tongue and something sounded like it creaked behind her. "Arthur will scratch you if you're late for morning skate."
"Mid-afternoon skate and if that was one of the supportive things on the list, you've kind of missed your mark."
"It wasn't," Elsa laughed, sounding as if she was breathing just a bit easier. The creaking was back. It sounded like springs. "You know if you stopped trying to stick-handle so much you'd probably stop turning the puck over. Pittsburgh's defenders are way too good for that kind of nonsense."
"That kind of nonsense," Killian repeated slowly. Robin was almost hysterical, arm wrapped tightly around his stomach and the doorframe was more support to stay upright than anything else.
"Well, they are!"
"You're avoiding the conversation."
"I called you."
Killian sighed. "What is going on with you? And what is that noise in the background? Where's Liam?"
"That was just a lot of questions, KJ."
"Elsa," he said sharply and she gasped on the other end of the phone. Robin stopped laughing immediately. "What's going on?"
"The noise is the bed."
"You answered the easiest question," Killian accused. "Why are you in bed? Shouldn't you be at work? For, like, the next two weeks?"
Elsa didn't answer immediately and Killian was half out of the bed, ready to start pacing or maybe fly to Colorado before an eight o'clock puck drop that night.
"Yeah, well," Elsa sighed. "Things change."
He sank back onto the edge of the bed, air rushing out of his lungs and worry taking its place, coursing through every single inch of him quickly and completely. Robin's eyes were wide, toothbrush still barely held in his hand as he took a cautious step towards Killian.
"You called me, El," Killian said, voice going softer again when he ran his hand through his hair. He needed to shower. They had a game-day schedule to stick to and mid-afternoon skate and Arthur would absolutely scratch him if he showed up late.
That probably would have just sparked more of that distraction talk on the internet. He kind of wanted to punch the entire internet.
"Listen, I need you to score a goal tonight," Elsa muttered quickly, still ignoring the questions and the reason why she was sitting in a creaking bed.
Killian tried not to groan, squeezing his eyes closed as he tugged on the back of his hair with a bit more force than absolutely necessary.
He knew.
"Bed rest, huh?" he mumbled and Elsa let out a watery laugh.
"How'd you do that?"
"That's still not an answer, El."
She groaned and it was almost too easy to picture her sliding down an inordinate amount of pillows, hair falling over her shoulders with something that probably looked like a grimace on her face.
"Yesterday," she grumbled. "There was a lot of medical stuff and Liam freaked and that's not even remotely like him. He doesn't freak out."
"Is he there now?"
"No."
Killian's heart fell into his stomach and he was, very suddenly, standing up, feet treading out a path in between the beds. "Where'd he go?"
"Stand down, KJ," Elsa laughed. "He went to the store. With another list of demands and food-type needs."
"Jeez, El, you can't just say stuff like that."
"I'm stuck in this bed for the foreseeable future, I've got to get my entertainment where I can."
"I thought there was a point to this conversation."
"Rude."
Robin was still leaning against the bathroom doorframe, a worried look on his face and they were absolutely going to be late. "It's fine," Killian mumbled, waving his hand towards Robin. "Honestly though, El, you're really ok? You have a tendency to save these major conversations for game-day."
"That was one time. And I didn't even tell you everything then."
"Exactly."
"I'm fine," she promised. "Frustrated and a little surprised that Liam was so certain bed rest for a few more weeks meant some sort of horrible thing by default, but I think that's mostly because he's so preoccupied with some guy who doesn't know how to stick-handle."
"College kids acting up, huh?"
"KJ! You did hit the post again last game. That's something."
"It's not a goal though. And it was the crossbar"
He had the argument memorized at this point – everything he'd come up with, all the reasons why this was, somehow, the shittiest he'd ever played in his entire career and he should probably stop being such an ass.
Especially to Emma.
She'd called the night before – plans for another fan event in another restaurant and concerns about Soyer and how hard he'd been checking anyone wearing a Rangers jersey. He'd picked up two minutes for interference in the second, keeping Killian from moving in front of the net and he'd hit the crossbar.
Still no goal.
And he'd done his best to stay enthused, to listen to her promises that it would be fine, but he couldn't really do that with Robin snoring on the other side of the door and his legs were killing him and he'd been an ass.
"You should probably apologize," Elsa said softly as the bed creaked again and Liam's voice echoed on the the other end of the phone when he slammed the front door shut in Colorado.
"I'm sorry," Killian muttered. "You guys are dealing with real things and you've got to tell me what the medical stuff was about and…"
"Killian," Elsa snapped.
He wasn't quite prepared for that.
"I can't believe you just thought I was telling you to apologize to me," she continued and she wasn't even trying to disguise her laughter.
"You got all mom on me," Killian argued. "I felt like I was about to get grounded."
"Just bumped to the fourth line," Liam shouted, mumbling something that sounded a lot like ice cream is in the freezer.
"Tell Emma you're sorry for being a jerk and you're just preoccupied with stick-handling because you're worried about not being good enough and you love her a lot. Like an absurd amount."
He did.
He wished she was in Pittsburgh and curled up next to him and she'd been more supportive than he could have ever dreamed, more than he could have ever asked her to be, but Killian had never been quite so terrified of coming up short in his life.
"Mind reader," he mumbled and Elsa laughed again, humming her thanks when, presumably, Liam just brought the ice cream out of the freezer.
"You're almost painfully easy to predict at this point."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Of course," Elsa said easily. "And, to be fair, Emma absolutely knows too."
"You think?"
Elsa made a noise that sounded like an agreement and Robin tapped his wrist meaningfully. He wasn't wearing a watch. "Of course," she said again. "She loves you as much as you love her. Did they send her to Pittsburgh?"
"Nah, she's relating to the hometown community."
"Ah, well you'll be home later on tonight."
Killian nodded. He needed to score a goddamn goal. He needed to try and get some sleep. He'd get, at least, one of those things if he went home.
God, he wanted to go home.
He hoped Emma knew that too.
"Call her after skate," Elsa said quietly and they should put her on TV or something. She was very good knowing exactly what he was thinking. "That's vaguely romantic."
"Vaguely."
"And I'm fine, by the way. Or will be. Once they let me stand up again."
"She's allowed to stand up," Liam added, voice muddled just a bit since he wasn't actually talking into the phone. "She's just encouraged to sit down for as long as possible."
"Why?" Killian asked. He needed to shower. He needed to get dressed. "El if you're not going to tell me, let Liam on the phone and he'll tell me."
"Ok, that's just stupid," Elsa said as Killian pushed by a visibly impatient Robin. "I can tell you myself. I did call you."
"You're just proving my point."
"It's really not a big deal. I just have to rest and I guess trying to make sure my office doesn't dissolve into chaos before the state dismisses for the summer and there are all these half-filled boxes and…"
"And what?"
"I really want you to score," Elsa whispered. Killian nearly dropped the towel he'd just picked up.
"Ah, well, that makes two of us, El."
"You're not the only one who's worried."
Killian laughed softly and he should probably leave his phone on the nightstand before he actually got in the shower. "I know," he muttered. "I appreciate that."
"Good."
"Don't get out of bed, you understand?"
"It's just precautionary."
"So be cautious."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
Elsa grumbled under her breath and Killian could hear Liam laughing softly, muttering that the ice cream was going to melt. "That's true," Elsa agreed softly.
"Go score a goal, little brother," Liam shouted.
Arthur blew his whistle a questionable number of times during skate and Killian's headache hadn't entirely gone away by the time he was off the ice at Paints, sitting in front of his visitor's locker and there wasn't even any time to leave before they had to get ready for the game.
"Did they bring the food in yet?" Will asked and there was a hole in the bottom corner of his ancient team-branded t-shirt.
"What year is it?" Killian countered. "Where did you even find that shirt? And why do you still have it?"
"Talkative today, aren't we?"
Robin groaned, rolling his eyes before staring expectantly. "What?" Killian asked.
"You call Emma yet?"
"He hasn't called Emma yet," Will shouted, looking like he was close to collapsing at the idea. "Are you kidding me, Cap?"
"When have I had time?" Killian argued.
"Right now, obviously."
"You two are absolutely infuriating, you know that? And I'm going to if you'll give me two seconds to get my phone."
"One," Will started slowly, holding a finger in the air. Killian glared at him.
"Ass."
"Two."
"God, Scarlet, relax," Killian hissed, nearly leaping towards his locker to grab his phone off the top shelf. He had ten minutes – and Emma had even less than ten minutes before she needed to get on a downtown one train.
"I just…"
"What?"
Will licked his lips and his shoulders seemed to reset with a determination that didn't quite belong in this conversation. "Don't screw this up because you're worried about a scoring skid. You're disgustingly happy. This is just a game."
Killian blinked once, mouth hanging open as he tried to remember that was Will Scarlet standing in front of him. Maybe this whole day had been some kind of weird pre-game dream.
"That's true," he said slowly, eyes darting towards Robin out of instinct.
"He called Belle his girlfriend before we left New York," Robin explained. "Thinks it makes him some kind of romance expert now."
"Ah, of course."
Will kicked at Killian's ankle, lips twisted in frustration. "Whatever," he grumbled. "You guys are both assholes. I'm trying to do a good thing here. Supportive or something and you're both dealing with your emotional ridiculousness and…"
Killian stood up quickly, clapping his hand on Will's shoulder and he nodded once. "Thanks, Scarlet."
"Move into her apartment too. You barely go to your place anymore."
"Nah," Robin countered. "Cap's place is bigger. They've got to move in there."
"How could you possibly know how big Emma's apartment is?" Killian asked.
Robin shrugged. "Lucas told A who told Gina who told me."
"This team is dumb."
"Score a goal and get back on the first line and maybe this team can win tonight."
"But no pressure or anything," Will muttered.
Killian waved his hand in response, weaving through a crowd of teammates and coaches and pre-game press. He was a world away once he made it into the hallway, quiet and cooler and there was an open corner just begging to be used to call Emma.
She answered on the third ring.
And if he'd known exactly what Elsa was doing by the tone of her voice, then he could practically picture Emma standing in front of him, that tiny crease in between her eyebrows and her hair draped over one shoulder and her thumb hooked through the laces around her wrist.
"Hey," she said a bit breathlessly, but he could hear the smile in her tone. Thumb definitely hooked through the laces around her wrist. "Are you done with skate already?"
"Yup. And pre-game media."
"Did you actually answer questions?"
"Nope."
"Yeah, I figured," Emma laughed, but it didn't quite ring true. "You weren't on the backpage today though. So that's a step in the right direction."
"Scoring would be some kind of leap across the ice."
"Today. I know it."
Killian hummed in the back of his throat and he hadn't apologized yet. He should apologize. Or maybe just listen to the confidence in Emma's voice for the next ten minutes.
"That sounds awful certain, Swan."
"You hit the crossbar last game, seems like this is all pretty inevitable."
"I don't know if that's how it works, love."
"Reese's would tell you that you only have to believe and anything is possible."
"I'm not a fourth grader."
"Something I'm constantly thankful for."
Killian scoffed and he wasn't sure when he'd slid down the wall, just that he was sitting on the floor, feet stretched out in front of him. "Hey," he said softly. "If I tell you I miss you right now, would that be weird?"
She didn't respond right away and Killian ran his hand through his hair. "No," Emma answered after what felt like an eternity passed in the corner of the hallway. "It wouldn't be weird. It'd almost be kind of nice."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And maybe I kind of miss you too."
"That so?"
"Yeah," Emma promised. She took a deep breath before she continued. "The internet thinks I'm ruining your career."
"I thought we agreed we wouldn't look at that stuff anymore."
"Yeah, we did."
"And you did?"
"No, Ruby did. So did David and then he told Reese's and I think Ariel heard about it from someone. Maybe Regina."
"This is stupid."
"You kind of sound like a fourth grader now," Emma laughed. It sounded more genuine that time.
"Doesn't make it any less true."
"Eh," she sighed and she was probably shrugging now. "You've got a lot of things on your mind. I can understand why you've been stick-handling so much."
"Does everyone have an opinion on how much stick-handling I've been doing? You have to work to get around defenders."
"You're not telling me anything I don't already know."
Killian sighed and this apology wasn't going the way he wanted it to at all. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "For this. And having things on my mind. And for whatever happened the other night."
"You were mad."
He could hear her breathing. She'd stopped walking and he still hadn't gotten off the floor. "No," Killian said, doing his best to put everything into one word and two letters. "This is...this isn't about…"
"Me?"
This was, easily, the worst apology in the history of the world. And she'd put everything and then some into her own two letters and one word.
"I don't want you to be disappointed, Swan," Killian said, rushing over the words he'd been considering since the first game in Boston and the start of the skid. She'd believed, finally, and he couldn't quite bring himself to consider what would happen if he didn't live up to that belief.
"In what?" Emma asked.
"Me."
Emma laughed. He hadn't planned on that. "Oh my God, we're the dumbest people in the world," she mumbled.
"Wait, what?"
"I thought...after deadline day and then TV...You gave up all of that. What if it wasn't enough?"
He took a deep breath and traced his thumb over one of the more twisted scars on the back of his left hand. "No," Killian said. "I never thought that. Not once."
"Then that goes both ways. Obviously."
"Obviously," he repeated, but he was smiling too. "You were right about being the dumbest people in the world."
"Did you talk to Elsa?"
"Did you?"
Emma hummed and he could hear her walking again, swinging open a door and Merida was already shouting at someone about the setup of game-used merch. "Yeah," Emma said. "Or at least texted."
Killian's smile was threatening to take up most of his face and God help him if he didn't score that night. He'd probably combust from the after-effects of feeling every emotion a human could possibly feel.
"Is that ok?" Emma continued. "I think she's already kind of bored."
"Oh, she's definitely more than bored already. You'd appreciate the lists she's making though. She had one for our conversation. That was new."
"Did you hit every one of her points?"
"I don't see how we couldn't have."
Emma laughed softly, answering Merida's mumbled question. "She's worried about you, too."
"Too?"
"Obviously. Again." She sighed and her hair brushed over the side of the phone, the noise finding its way into the pit of his stomach and maybe several major arteries. "I just, well, I miss you and your bed is comfortable."
"Are you using me for my bed, Swan?" Killian laughed, nodding in Robin's direction when he appeared in the hallway and starting tapping on another imaginary watch. "And yours isn't all that bad."
"Not bad isn't comfortable."
"Ah, well, you're there so…"
Emma laughed loudly and he could see it – eyes a bit brighter than normal and the ends of mouth ticked up and he'd probably kiss her if she was in Pittsburgh. Score a goal. Get home. Kiss his girlfriend.
"Oof, really gunning for the compliments, aren't you Cap?" Emma asked.
"Nah, just honest."
She took a deep breath and someone was asking about menus and food options and where to put game-used gloves. "On the table," Emma answered distractedly. "That's the point of the table."
"Maybe they should be calling you Cap," Killian muttered. "Throwing out orders like that. Are they not following your plan, Swan?"
"Making fun doesn't seem like it'd be in your best interest right now, Jones. Don't smirk either. I know you're totally smirking wherever you are."
"In the corner of the hallway outside the locker room."
"Yeah, well, stop smirking at air. Why would we put a table out if we weren't going to put the gloves on the table?"
"Game-used gloves, no less."
"Jones."
"Yes, love."
"Don't do that," she sighed, but there was still a smile on her face, he was certain of it.
"Do what?"
"Try and charm me."
"Is it working?"
"Absolutely."
Killian laughed loudly and Robin had never actually gone back into the locker room. "Good," he said. "And your in-game is going to be fantastic."
"An outstanding amount of faith."
"What did you say before? That goes both ways."
"Yeah," Emma said and there was a note of wonder in her voice that, eventually, Killian was going to make sure didn't show up again. "You're going to be careful tonight, right?"
"Careful?"
"With Soyer. He'll probably try and take you out at the ankles."
"Probably," Killian admitted, not able to come up with an argument that didn't sound like the complete lie it would have been. "Might be different if we win though."
"Or if you score right in front of him."
"He's not the goalie, Swan. Or even a defender."
"Well, make sure he's on the ice when you score."
"When?"
"When," Emma repeated. "Tell me a fact."
He still hadn't stopped smiling. "The very first BINGO game was played in Pittsburgh. Invented by Hugh J. Ward."
"That's a good fact."
"Your move, Swan."
She made a noise and clicked her tongue and maybe he'd just smile at Soyer and that'd be enough to make sure he didn't spend the entire game dealing with checks or attacks on his ankles. "The Penguins almost went bankrupt in 1975," Emma said. "A group of investors kept the team running. It was the same group that helped Bobby Orr get to Boston."
"We already beat Boston."
"Exactly."
"Timely fact," Killian murmured, pushing back up and Robin was making some kind of impossibly impatient noise a few feet away. He kept mouthing the words get dressed at him.
"Yeah, I thought so. Is Robin yelling at you to get dressed yet?"
"Currently. How'd you know that?"
"I'm very impressive. And I know how hockey works."
He walked back into the locker room and there were a dozen reporters in front of him immediately, recorders held out and expectant looks on their faces and every single one of them wanted to know who he was on the phone with.
"Go," Emma said. "And stop stick-handling so much in the zone. And I love you."
Killian heard a shutter go off somewhere and Robin was actually pushing him back towards his locker, trying to get him past the horde of media still desperate to know who was on the other end of this conversation. "I love you too, Swan," he said and the horde nearly exploded in front of him.
She hung up and Killian pushed his phone back into his pocket, glancing up at the crowd in front of him. "If I see the word distraction in any of your stories, none of you are ever getting a single quote out of me again, got it?"
No one answered, but Robin might have doubled over with laughter and Will actually fist pumped from his locker.
It took a full minute for the first hit.
That was longer than Killian expected. It did, however, land just above his ankles and Elsa was probably laughing about that in bed in the middle of Colorado with whatever ice cream Liam had bought her.
"Fucking a," Killian mumbled under his breath, kicking back at Soyer's stick as discreetly as he possibly could. He didn't need an interference penalty on his first shift.
Arthur would probably smash the white board above his head if he did that.
Soyer laughed – just loud enough that Killian could hear it over the dull roar of the Paints and the asshole was absolutely smiling. "Welcome back down to the third line, Jones," he shouted, pushing off the fronts of his skates when the puck moved down the ice.
Killian rolled his eyes. He needed to hit something.
He needed to score a goddamn goal.
"You know," Soyer continued, "I've been reading some very interesting things about you and your future in this game."
"Shut up and play," Killian hissed, knocking his shoulder against Soyer's as he tried to work the puck off the boards and not having Locksley just a few feet away from him was messing with his head. There wasn't anyone to just dump off to.
These new line guys couldn't simply read his mind.
"I am," Soyer laughed. "The question for you, though, is whether or not you'll get to keep doing that once this series is over. Looks like both Jones brothers are going to come up short, huh?"
"You've got to come up with new insults."
"Ah that's easy. Bad skating, imminent failure, never winning a Cup. Oh and let's not forget the girlfriend. Distracting, huh?"
Killian's whole body went tense and Soyer laughed under his breath, under some sort of impression that any of that had actually worked, and he'd been counting on that. It gave Killian half a moment to maneuver his stick and kick at the puck and it was on his blade a second later, the set-up to the other winger in front of him as easy as anything he'd ever done in skates.
The goal light went off and the roar of the crowd was, suddenly, a very loud groan and Killian grinned at Soyer as soon as he stood up straight.
"Shut up," Killian said again, leaving Soyer up against the boards as he skated back towards the bench.
There were murmurs of nice pass, but Scarlet and Locksley both looked worried and Phillip was somewhere in the realm of murderous, sitting in between the two of them with what almost appeared to be actual steam working its way out of his ears.
"It's fine," Killian said. "Score more goals."
All three of them nodded once as they swung their legs over the boards and moved onto the ice and it was an easy enough plan, but the Penguins didn't seem very interested in letting them go through with it.
Two periods later and they were losing – again – down a goal with some sort of historic shot-differential. At least that's what Arthur said during intermission. Killian wasn't convinced. It wasn't very good though and Jefferson looked like he was going to stage some kind of goalie-based mutiny on his back line, grumbling complaints about blocking shots and staying in front of them as soon as he sank down in front of his locker.
And Soyer wouldn't shut up.
Every time Killian came on for a shift, there he was, trailing after him with his mouth moving constantly and the word distraction seemed etched onto his lips.
"You can't fight him," Robin muttered as they made their way through the hallway and back onto the ice.
"What?" Killian asked distractedly and Will groaned behind him.
"Don't do it. I know you want to. And I know he's chirping in your ear, but it's not worth it. That's all he's trying to do."
"I know."
He did. He knew it as well as he'd known it every time they played the Penguins and he had no intention of actually dropping gloves at any point in this game.
That wouldn't get him back on his line.
That wouldn't score a goal.
"I'm going to do it anyway," Will said easily, brushing past Killian as he moved onto the ice. Killian felt his jaw drop open – or as open as it could have been with a chin strap hooked around his jaw – and Robin stared meaningfully at him.
"Is he serious?" Killian asked. "They're not even on the same line."
Robin shrugged. "Trust me. He's going to figure it out somehow. I think he's more upset about this than you are, actually."
"That doesn't make any sense at all."
"He likes Emma."
"Are you kidding me?"
The fans were yelling again and he had twenty minutes to figure out how to put the puck in the back of the net and, maybe, watch his teammate defend his girlfriend's honor. And win. Winning would be good too.
"Of course not," Robin said, sounding surprised Killian had asked such a ridiculous question. "And he was right before. This is just a game. The rest of it, distraction or otherwise, is the important stuff."
"That was almost profound, Locksley."
"Well, I got two kids at home now. I've got to at least make it seem like I'm remotely knowledgeable."
Killian laughed and Robin nodded once before skating back to the faceoff circle and a game that, maybe, wasn't the center of absolutely everything.
It only took a few minutes and there were gloves on the ice and sticks on the ice and Will's fist colliding with the side of Soyer's face. There was blood too – a trail of it down Soyer's cheek and Will's jaw looked like it had been smashed in half, but he was laughing when they pushed him towards the penalty box, shouting something at Soyer over his shoulder.
And for half the period, Killian was certain it worked. They survived four-on-four and Arthur didn't look like he wanted to kill half his roster anymore, aggressive on the forecheck and pushing the puck into the Pittsburgh zone.
The arena wasn't loud either, every hit sounded a bit louder than it should have and it felt like they were skating on actual ice, waiting for a crack in the plane or some sign that, maybe, they were going to fall under the water.
It came with 9:38 left in the third.
They were pushing into the zone, again, puck on Phillip's stick and he'd already beaten Soyer across the blue line, half a step away from passing to Killian in front of the net.
It felt like it happened in slow motion. Soyer lifted his stick and it was a slash – two minutes at least – and Phillip's cry would probably echo in that very quiet arena for the rest of the night.
They blew the whistle immediately and Phillip ripped off his glove, flecks of blood falling onto the ice. Killian's stomach clenched.
"Holy shit," he muttered, skating forward before he could stop himself and Phillip didn't look quite as certain on his skates anymore.
Everyone moved and the arena was, suddenly, so loud it felt like the foundations were shaking, the back of Phillip's hand covered in red. Soyer laughed.
"Get him off the ice," Arthur shouted from the bench. Phillip was trying to go after Soyer a string of profanities falling out of his mouth as quickly and easily at the blood that was threatening to stain the sleeve of his jersey.
The entire Rangers bench was screaming, leaning over the boards with sticks on the ice and cries for a penalty and no one listened to any of them. Soyer kept laughing. Phillip could barely move.
"That's a goddamn slash," Will yelled, slamming his stick against the boards until there was a crack running down the middle. "That asshole took off half his finger."
He wasn't wrong.
Killian chanced a glance back down, arm supporting most of Phillip's weight as he pushed him towards an expectant Victor. Phillip tried to pull away from him, something about being fine, but Killian shook his head.
"Rook, stop moving," he muttered and Victor let out a low whistle when he saw just how right Will had been. The top of his finger was gone.
"Fuck," Victor mumbled. "Come on, Rook. You're done for the night."
"What?" Phillip yelled. "No, come on, I'm fine. Tell him, Cap. I'm totally fine. We're only down one. I've got to get out there for the power play."
"There's no power play," Killian said and Phillip's face was nearly as white as his away jersey. "Get off the ice, Rook."
Phillip grumbled again, but his breath caught loudly when he looked back down at his hand. There was a ridiculous amount of blood.
Killian hoped Roland didn't see. He hoped Emma didn't see.
It wasn't the way he'd planned to get back on his own line, but Arthur nodded once and Robin smiled knowingly when he skated up on his side before the faceoff. "Score a goddamn goal," Robin said.
He won the faceoff and Soyer didn't get a penalty, but he didn't switch lines either and Killian was fairly certain he was fueled almost entirely by anger at this point.
There was something to be said for that.
He didn't have to stick-handle as much when he knew exactly where to be, far too aware of what Robin was going to do before he did it. A minute left and they'd pulled the goalie and he just knew, as soon as he moved, eyes zeroing in on the puck and it wasn't going to go in if he didn't hit it.
He did.
He scored.
Killian felt hands on his back and Robin was yelling and Will must have sprinted down the ice, colliding onto his side and knocking him into the boards and the Pens fans behind them booed. It might have been the greatest sound he'd ever heard.
It was cold.
It shouldn't have been. It was May. It should have been warmer. He should have brought a warmer coat. Or gone home. Or gone to Emma's.
He hadn't.
They'd lost.
Again.
Killian scored and tied the game and there was overtime and no less than five perfectly good scoring chances and they didn't score on any of them. Arthur broke a stick.
Down two games and, somehow, being that close was worse than a blowout. The almost of it all was going to kill him.
So Killian didn't go home when they got back to the Garden, didn't answer Elsa's six different voicemails or Liam's text messages and every time his phone buzzed he hoped it was Emma. It wasn't.
She was busy. It couldn't have been easy promoting a team that couldn't win in Pittsburgh. Fuck. A two-game hole wasn't easy to get out of.
They had to win at the Garden.
And Soyer was hysterical by the end of it all, shouting distraction at him again as Killian walked down the tunnel towards the visitor's locker room. He almost turned around and started fighting him right there.
He would have gotten fined for that.
The wind shifted again and the Chipotle had been closed when he'd gotten off the uptown one and he hadn't even tried to find a place to get coffee.
He kind of wanted to be cold.
Melodramatic idiot.
"Killian?"
He spun around, the front of his jacket nearly getting caught on the bench he'd taken up residence at. She must have changed at some point – jeans and a leather jacket and that same Rangers hat she'd worn when they'd gone ice skating pulled low over her ears.
"What are you doing here?" Emma asked and he didn't think he imagined the way she slowed down, cautious, measured steps like she was afraid moving too quickly would somehow scare him off.
"Me? What are you doing here, Swan? How'd you even know I was here?"
She licked her lips and scuffed the toe of her boot into the dirt, staring at her shoes when she answered. "El called me. Said you weren't answering your phone."
"And she said I'd be up here?"
"No," Emma said, shaking her head. "I, uh, I remembered you mentioning coming up here. When you ran. It was a hunch."
He felt himself smiling before he could remember all the reasons he shouldn't have been and Emma's lip in between her teeth was a very specific type of distraction. "A good hunch," he said softly. "Did you take the train up here?"
"Car. And wandered around the block a few times trying to find the kind of bench a little kid would want to claim as his own."
He should have gone home as soon as he got off the bus. He should have called her the second he stepped off the ice.
"Were you?" she asked, mumbling the words together slightly.
"Was I what?"
"Running?"
Killian nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Emma still hadn't moved. "Decidedly," he admitted. "We lost again."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Did you see what happened to Phillip?"
Emma let out a shaky breath and she tugged on the end of her hair, pulling it back over her shoulder. "I can't believe he didn't get a major for that. Is Phillip ok?"
"No. They took him to a hospital and Red said ten stitches, at least. He's going to miss the rest of the series. Probably more. If we get that far."
"Hey," Emma said sharply and she took a step forward before stopping herself quickly. "Two games is nothing."
"Two games is everything, Swan."
"It was close."
Killian groaned, turning back towards the river and the park and he ran his hand through his hair. Emma's boots moved and she sank onto the far end of the bench without a word. "Mrs. V would have a cliché about horseshoes and close only counting there."
"I think you got your point across."
He glanced to his left and she still had her lip between her teeth, eyes staring down at her lap and her hands and she kept tugging at her laces. Killian reached over and Emma gasped softly when he laced his fingers through hers, pulling her hands away from her wrist as he squeezed her hand tightly.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
"For?"
"Running. And worrying. Non-stop. That's been more distracting than anything else. I'm so certain I'm three quarters of the way to fucking all of this up, I can't remember how to move around defenders without acting like I'm in some kind of skills competition."
Emma laughed and he pulled his arm over her shoulders, tugging her against his side until it felt a bit easier to breathe again. "Ah, well, the internet stopped worrying about me tonight, apparently. They were more upset at Soyer for destroying Phillip's hand."
"Are you reading things on the internet again, Swan?"
"No, David is. And defending my honor, apparently."
"Ah, well he's not the only one." Emma quirked one eyebrow and Killian appreciated the noise she made when he kissed her, lips brushing across hers. He still hadn't let go of her hand. "It wasn't me, actually. I'm not the one who got a misconduct."
"Scarlet?"
Killian hummed in agreement. "You're apparently a team favorite, love."
"But he doesn't like me."
"He does," Killian argued. "And he knows, well, he knows how important you are. Soyer wouldn't shut up about it."
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, eyes narrowing slightly, like she was trying to figure out exactly what to say next. "Distraction," she mumbled.
"No, not that. The opposite."
"What's the opposite of a distraction?"
Killian shrugged. "Everything else," he said and it wasn't enough. It wasn't an actual explanation, wasn't the detailed list of all the ways Emma Swan had changed everything or even the conversation schedule he'd half come up with on the plane home, but maybe it didn't have to be.
"If that was an attempt to charm me, it might have worked."
"Might have?" Emma rolled her eyes, but she shifted against him and he could feel her whole body move when she took a deep breath.
"And it wasn't really trying to charm if I was just being honest."
"That's being charming again. That's cheating."
"Well, we are two games down." Emma tensed and Killian tried not to sigh too loudly. "You know," he continued softly. "When we were kids, Liam and I used to come over here. Get out of the apartment and no one ever really questioned it. We used to play baseball. We had one glove and we'd switch who got to use it and who went home with slightly bruised hands."
He laughed softly, eyes closed as he pictured them there – trying to avoid hitting tourists and people just trying to get to work and he couldn't remember what happened to that glove. Probably lost when they moved.
Emma tugged on the front of his tie and Killian glanced down to find her staring at him expectantly. "No one ever questioned it? You must have been young, right?"
"Six or seven. There wasn't really anyone around to care."
"Yeah," Emma mumbled and she kept her head on his shoulder. "But then hockey cared?"
"Can a sport care about you?"
"In my experience a sport can change everything."
Killian trailed his fingers over the curve of her elbow and there was something unquestionable in the tone of her voice. "I wanted to win for me. For as long as I can remember. To be something and do something and I didn't even mind the horrible headlines in the tab. I wanted them. They meant I was doing something right. And then everything happened with Liam and Milah and the only thing I had was winning. But we didn't. We kept losing and coming up short and nothing was ever quite enough."
"And now?"
"And now I don't just want to win for me or even for a contract. I want to win for everyone else, for this team and Locksley and Scarlet and Phillip and, God, even Arthur. But, well, I wasn't lying in Boston, love. I want to win for you. I want…"
"What?"
Killian clicked his tongue – he hadn't meant to talk for so long. But Emma had figured out where he went and maybe talking wasn't the worst thing in the world.
"I've always had hockey, Swan," he started. "And I might not anymore. And that's ok. Really. But the idea of not having hockey and then not having you is enough to fall into the realm of distraction."
Emma sat up straight, eyebrows low and mouth hanging open. She stared at him like she couldn't quite believe what he'd just said. "You really think that's why I'm here?"
"Well, no, not completely, but…"
"There's no but to that sentence," she said, cutting him off and pressing her palm flat against the front of his jacket. "I never cared about hockey. At least not when it came to defining you or this. I am here because of you and only because of that. You're going to win. I know it. But even if you didn't, even if you got swept this series and Arthur scratched you, I wouldn't care. I love you. You. Not the hockey player."
He kissed her and he might have muttered I love you before his lips hit hers, but the movement was so instant and so obvious, that Killian couldn't really consider anything that wasn't the feel of Emma against him.
"It's really cold out here," she said. He'd lost track of time completely. It was freezing and late and impossibly dark on 110th Street.
"Something about the river, probably. Or the water."
"Probably."
"I'll take you home, Swan."
He stood up and Emma didn't blink before taking his hand and pulling herself back up against his side. "If you think I came all the way up here not to take you back to my apartment then you've got another thing coming."
"That seems fair," Killian laughed and he kissed her again when they got into the backseat of the cab.