Dean wakes up the next morning to the horrid sound of his phone's alarm and a pounding in his head. Damn, it's been a long time since he had a hangover like this. No time for sleeping it off, though, he has ice time he needs to make. He groans and drags himself out of bed and feels his way into the shower, barely opening his eyes. The water feels invigorating, though, and after a few minutes Dean is starting to feel a little like himself.
Wow, Russian shots hit him harder than usual. Apparently, though, not as bad as Sam. When he kicks the side of Sam's bed, his little brother lets out a pitiful moan, rolls out of bed and heads straight for the toilet to expel whatever is left in his stomach. Dean is dressed and ready before Sam has made it out of the bathroom. He sits on his bed, back against the headboard, shaking his head at Sam, who is leaning against the doorframe groaning about being hit by a train.
"Yeah, man, that shit messed with me too. Can't remember the last time I got that drunk on so few shots. You OK in there?" Dean asks his brother when he hears another moan from the man.
"I think we need to call off practice this morning."
"No can do, Sammy, we can keep it light, just some drills, but we've got to stay sharp and limber. We face Slovakia in a couple days." Dean picks up the phone, "what'd y' say to a nice greasy breakfast for that hangover?"
"Oh! You suck, Dean."
"Yeah, but you love me."
When a woman on the other end answers he orders them both coffee, toast, juice, and eggs with a side of fruit for Sam and hash browns for himself. He hangs up the phone and digs in his duffle bag.
"Hey, Sam, heads up." He tosses a bottle of Advil to his brother when he pokes his head back out of the door before he pulls out his phone to check his e-mail. Nothing of import shows up so he continues to browse the headlines while he waits for their breakfast to arrive. He stops short when he sees a familiar face looking back at him from the phone's screen. It's the guy from last night.
Dean immediately clicks on the picture to find out more about the irritating man. The article says that his name is Castiel Krushnic and he's a Moscow native and figure skating champion, who has been training in the US for the past 12 years and is returning to Russia now to compete in the Olympics. So that explains the accent and perfect English, thinks Dean. Apparently, this guy is a favorite to win the gold, not bad.
Dean starts clicking through related links and pictures. There are lots of pictures of him on the ice but Dean's favorite is one that looks like a candid paparazzi shot. He's just standing outside. It's sunny and windy and he is wearing a suit and too big tan trench coat and, again, a backwards blue tie, blowing off to the side. Dean huffs an internal laugh at the fact that the guy can't ever seem to get his tie right. The wind has blown Castiel's dark hair into a mess of spikes going in every direction.
But once again his eyes are what catch Dean's attention. They are a bright mesmerizing blue. But it's more than that. There is something deep behind them, a melancholy almost sad look. He wishes he could figure out what it is about those eyes that affect him so much.
I mean, the guy's attractive, that much is a no brainer, but Dean's around attractive guys all the time. He stamped down that feeling a long time ago. Stopped looking, stopped thinking about that part of himself. There are no "out" players in the NHL and Dean sure as hell doesn't want to be the first to go down that path.
Dean holds his finger over the picture until he feels the familiar vibration asking him if he wants to save it. Does he? Why? His finger hovers over the screen as his brain fights with some weird impulse inside of him. Why is he even thinking about saving picture of this guy he met once, in a freaking bathroom. A guy who was rude and dismissive and obviously thinks even less of Dean than he always has about himself.
He hears the bathroom door open and presses yes before he can talk himself out of it.
Dean and Sam arrive at the Bolshov Ice Dome and head to the locker room where the equipment manager already has their practice gear waiting for them. As they open the door to the locker room, they hear Benny's voice, sounding unusually wound up. Benny is usually cool as can be so Dean enters the room cautiously, wondering what's got his friend upset. Of course, it's Gordon Walker. The guy's their second line defenseman and complete bag of dicks. He is smart, skilled, and scary on the ice, but a bag of dicks nonetheless.
The two are arguing about an altercation they got into on the ice about a month back. The incident had started with a check from Benny that escalated into a fight. They were both ejected from the game but only Gordon ended up with a 3 game suspension and fine from the NHL, not for the fight itself but for the shit he gave the ref about it afterwards. Benny and Gordon play for teams back home that are longtime rivals and Dean can't see this going anywhere good.
Just as he is about to step in and break these two apart before it escalates, Garth, the starting goaltender, steps between them with a hand on each of their chests. Freaking Garth, man, with his hippy-dippy zen attitude. The guy is as tall as Dean but probably a buck-fifty soaking wet and still manages to be a wall in front of the net with his quick reflexes and an uncanny ability to read players. Dean likes him a lot. He has an easy way about him and gets along with everyone on the team. He's looking forward to playing with him during the Olympics and kind of wishes they were on the same team back home.
"Yo, Benny… Gordon, take a chill, alright?" Garth says, looking between the two as they bore into each other with icy glares. "It's all good. Bad calls, good calls… they happen in every game. You've gotta roll with it. Put it behind you so we can be a team out there."
Dean sighs thinking about how crazy the Olympics are for professional athletes. You take a bunch of guys that have been rivals all year, playing against each other, fighting with words and fists and all their energy one week and throw them together into one stressful group the next and expect them to be a coherent team. Well, these guys are professionals and he is going to remind them of just that.
He heads straight over to the site of the tension and stands directly between the two men. "I got this, Garth. Walker, cut the shit. I need you and Benny to be seamless out there. This ain't helping."
Gordon steps in closer to Dean, "Fuck you, Dean. You boyfriend's little stunt cost me money, man, three games off."
Dean clenches his hand into a fist. It itches to punch the smug look off Gordon's face. But instead he takes a deep breath and proceeds slowly, "Listen, man, I saw that game. It was a fair hit."
"It was a dirty cross check."
"We're not debating this here. The officials made their call. Get past it." Dean glances to the side where Benny is standing, stone faced. "You too, Benny." He says and looks back and forth between the two seething men, "Hey, we good?"
"I'm good, man," Benny nods, never taking his eyes off of Gordon.
Gordon just glares back. Dean thinks that is an ominous sign. Gordon could definitely be described as… vindictive. He's got to get this in check, and soon.
The tension in the room is still palpable when the door down the hall opens and everyone immediately steps back from their defensive positions. Bobby Singer has just walked in and they all know they need to play it cool or face the wrath of their head coach. He tells them all to finish getting geared up and head out the ice.
Bobby was an old school hockey player who skated alongside of some of the greats. He can tell stories of games he played with Wayne Gretsky, pranks he played on Mario Lemieux and loves to tell the tale of the day he stopped a Bobby Orr breakaway his rookie year. Bobby is tough as nails and puts up with absolutely no crap from his players. Dean is thrilled to have a chance to skate for him.
Bobby had spent a couple of years early in his career on a team with his dad and Dean can't help but feel some sort of connection to his father through the older skater. He can still remember early morning practices with Bobby and his dad. Bobby was the man who taught Dean that there was more to hockey than the mechanics. It's more than puck-handling, skating, and shooting. Bobby taught him how to love the game, how to have fun with it, and how to feel the rhythm of the sport in his bones.
There are times when Dean is in the zone. In those moments, for him, there are no screaming fans, no prying reporters, no contract negotiations. Just him, a stick in his hands, this brother by his side, and a mile of ice in front of him. And in those moments, he is the closest to happy that he can remember. In those moments, he is magnificent.
Dean knows he owes that to Bobby. He's never told him, of course. He was a kid the last time Bobby coached him. His dad stayed in the minors while Bobby went off to bigger things in the NHL. Now, for the next couple weeks at least, Bobby is Coach Singer. And Dean is going to do everything he can to make the man proud.
Dean moves away from Benny and Gordon and dresses quickly, laces up his skates and grabs a practice stick on his way out to the ice. He is the first to get to the entrance when he sees that there is already someone there. Dean watches, mesmerized for a moment, as he recognizes the skater on the ice. It's Castiel, and he is flying around the rink, skating backwards poised for a jump.
He looks different today, on the ice. Yesterday, he was stiff and hidden behind his poorly fitting suit jacket and tie. This… this is obviously his element. He is wearing tight fitting jeans and a blue pullover hoodie with black gloves. His hair is completely disheveled, windblown from moving so fast across the rink, and his face is pleasantly flushed from the cold of the ice and the exertion of skating. But it's those damn eyes that cause Dean's brain to malfunction for just a moment when they catch his own.
Castiel stops abruptly when he sees Dean standing at the edge of the ice and skates over to Dean, spraying snow everywhere with perfect hockey stop. Hands on his hips, he stares down Dean and insists, "What are you doing here?"
"We've got the ice reserved for practice now."
"Actually, I have the ice reserved. I think you've made a mistake."
And when Castiel glares at Dean like he's the one in the wrong here, Dean thinks he can't remember why on earth he saved a picture of this guy onto his phone earlier. He must have been crazy to forget what a completely pretentious dick he was.
Dean shifts his stick to his other hand and takes up a more aggressive stance. "No. No mistake. I checked the confirmation this morning. We've got this ice so you may want to head out so me and the other Neanderthals can get our practice in. Despite what you think, I can read."
"I checked my reservation too." Castiel stands firm in front of the entrance to the ice and crosses his arms over his chest. "And who do you think you are? Sorry, the famous Dean Winchester may always get his way but not today, not with me."
"What? Don't give me that shit that you tried to pull yesterday - poor amateur athlete versus pro hockey player. From what I've seen, Castiel Krushnic isn't exactly living on the streets!"
"Oooooh, so you do know who I am? So what was all that last night?"
The other hockey players have begun to exit the locker room and are starting to queue up behind Dean. Gordon narrows his eyes at Dean, a strange leer that gives him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dean catches Sam out of the corner of his eye, looking back and forth between Gordon, Dean and Castiel. Sam's got great instincts and by the look on his face, he can read the strange tension in the air.
Dean chooses to ignore Gordon and Sam and address Castiel. "Just found out this morning and-"
Castiel's eyes widen for a second before a mischievous smirk crosses his face before he flirts, "Oh, Dean, looking me up? I'm flattered but-"
"Don't be," Dean growls as he cuts the man off, "Just happened to recognize a picture of the dick from the bathroom."
Dean stops himself the second the words are out of his mouth and groans internally. Goddammit! Half his team is standing behind him now wondering what the hell happened in the bathroom last night. Fuck! He'll never learn to keep his damn mouth shut. Castiel squints at him and looks like he is about to respond when they are both saved by Bobby's voice.
"Hey!" Bobby storms from behind Dean grabbing him by the front of the shirt. "Knock it off! Pretty sure we can work this out without you starting an ice brawl with a figure skater!" He lets go of Dean and turns to address Castiel, "You, how much longer to do you have the ice for? Sounds like they may have double-booked us."
"I scheduled it all morning." Castiel sighs, "Listen, I really need to work on some spins."
Dean stops him, "Well, we've got to get some shooting in and get used to this ice."
"Cool it, Winchester," Bobby growls. "Listen, you can't need the entire rink to do some spins, right? And we can keep our practice to the other side. That OK with you?"
"Yes, that's agreeable." Castiel nods to Bobby and immediately turns back out onto the ice.
Bobby turns around and addresses his team, "Ok, Lafitte, you take the defense, and head to the gym. No ice time for you today. This morning will just be workouts if you're on D. I'll stay here and work with offence. I need Henrickson and the Winchesters working on passing. We need to get you three in synch. Garth, you're here with us. I need you blocking shots."
At Bobby's direction half of the team heads back to the locker room to get out of their gear while Garth, Dean and the other members of the offence head out onto the ice with a bucket of pucks to start their drills. They keep to their side of the rink, working on puck handling, passing and shooting while Castiel stays at the far end of the ice working silently on his own tasks.
There are four lines of forward players and they work in rotation, each line taking turns on the ice, passing and shooting and generally trying to learn how to synch up with their new line mates.
At first, Dean finds himself stealing glances at the figure skater. After all, he's used to keeping an eye on the whole ice rink. It's just habit. It's not like he's interested in what the guy is up to. He just wants to make sure that the hockey players and the figure skater aren't getting in each other's way. They aren't. Castiel seems extremely focused on what he is doing and the players on his team are at the top of their game, rarely missing a pass.
Henrickson is a great left-winger. It's a tough position, often filled by players with a left-handed shot, and one that requires great teamwork with the other linemates. He, Dean and Sam work on moving together, passing the puck, and learning each other's movements. Dean has seen Victor play many times, they are in the same NHL conference after all, but this Olympics is the first time they will be playing together and the three are working hard to get themselves into a rhythm. It's going well, too. Dean is surprised how quickly Victor picks up on the chemistry that he and Sam already have and works himself into the team.
Dean's line starts by skating into the neutral zone with the puck and passing it between themselves as they move towards the goal. Working as a team is all about communicating on the ice, both with words and movements and Dean finds that the three are quickly getting into synch and even start having fun puck-handling around one another.
Sam passes a puck to Victor but Dean jumps in and intercepts the pass, laughing at his teammate's surprise at his unexpected move. Sam catches on quickly and chases down his brother to try to steal the puck back but Dean is fast, skates around behind the net, and sinks a wrap-around goal.
"Nice one, Winchester," Victor nods as he grabs another puck and starts to head back to the blue line. "Let's see if you can do it again, though. Head's up, Sam." He passes the puck to Sam, out of Dean's reach this time and the game of keep away starts to escalate. The three men speed around their side of the ice, moving the puck gracefully between themselves when Dean and Sam both rush to get a puck along the boards. Sam gets there first and as Dean swipes his stick along the board to take possession of the puck, his skate catches and his arms swing quickly, scooping up the puck with his stick into an inadvertent slap shot… that is headed directly towards Castiel.
"Cas!" Dean yells, but it's too late. The skater wasn't paying any attention to the hockey players, completely absorbed in perfecting his scratch spin. Time seems to switch to slow motion as the puck makes a sickening thunk sound when it hits Castiel just above his left eyebrow. Dean watches in horror as his head snaps to the side and his body follows. He goes down, sideways, onto the ice.
"Sam, get medical!" He yells to his brother as he is skating as fast as he can towards the figure skater who is lying motionless. He stops in front of Castiel and squats down to check his condition. The man is out cold and there is blood on the ice. Dean has seen plenty of hockey injuries. Blood on the ice isn't even a rare occurrence but for some reason looking at that growing splotch of dark slush is turning his stomach.
From the corner of his vision, he sees that someone is skating towards him holding out a towel, which he reaches up and grabs without taking his eyes off of Castiel. He knows better than to move him so he gently touches Castiel's face with the towel, sopping up the blood that is running across his forehead, spilling out in deep red trails under his cheek. Shit, that's definitely going to need stitches. There is a gash above his left eye at least an inch long and he decides the best plan is to keep pressure on it until the medical team arrives.
Dean feels like he is going to be sick. Hockey injuries are a dime a dozen, he has seen broken bones, lost teeth, and bloody noses and he rarely bats an eye. For some reason, though, this is affecting him. Maybe it's that when hockey players get injured, it's just part of the game. You don't play this sport expecting to retire with a full set of teeth.
There is commotion going on around him. His teammates have gathered and are milling around him, waiting for medical help to arrive. He doesn't hear anything, though. He is quietly trying to get Castiel to wake up.
"Come on, man. Wake up. Help's on the way. Castiel. Castiel!"
A hand grabs him on the shoulder and pulls him away. It's Bobby, with the EMTs right behind him. Dean reluctantly moves away from Castiel so that they can do their work. He skates off to the side to watch as they work on the man. It seems like forever. They wrap him up with a neck brace to immobilize him when Sam skates up to Dean's side and tells him that they should leave. Bobby has cancelled the rest of practice and everyone is heading back to the locker room.
Dean won't move. "Sam, I'm not going anywhere 'till I see if he's OK."
"There isn't anything you can do. We should leave him to the doctors." Sam looks like he is going to start leaving the ice but Dean stays put.
"Shit! This is my fault." Dean isn't looking at his brother, who almost misses it when he mumbles, "If he didn't hate me before he sure will now."
Sam turns back to him, "How do you even know him? And what was all that about last night?"
That gets Dean's attention. "Huh?" He shakes his head and looks at his brother. "Oh, nothing. Ran into him at the bar last night. He was really kind of a dick. I didn't even know who he was until I saw a headline about him this morning. Apparently, he's a pretty heavy favorite to win the men's figure skating." Dean runs a hand through his hair. "What if I ruined his chance to compete?"
Sam looks like he doesn't know what to say. He shifts uncomfortably for a moment before saying, "Accidents happen, Dean. You can't blame-"
But he never finishes that thought because they hear a moan from Castiel and his eyes flutter open, if just half way. At the same time, a tiny brunette woman comes storming out onto the ice. A guard tries to stop her, before she shoves her ID into his face snarling, "Meg Masters, I'm Castiel Krushnic's manger and you need to let me out there now. Your lax security has gotten my client injured and you don't want to face the wrath of this woman."
Dean and Sam both watch the scene with open mouths. The woman is small but scary.
"What the hell happened here?" She is yelling as she marches towards the crowd on the ice. She's in tight pants with knee high boots and is managing to move across the ice without falling on her ass. Dean is secretly both impressed and a little scared of this woman.
She is intercepted by Bobby, who meets her on the ice, "Kid got hit in the head with a puck."
"A puck?! He's a figure skater! And who are you?"
"Bobby Singer, ma'am. I coach the US men's hockey team. We got double-booked on the ice with your skater there so he agreed to share it with us. There was an accident; stray puck hit him on the forehead."
The woman glares up at Bobby and points a finger at him, "You better hope he's OK." At that, she shoves past him over to where Castiel is being moved to a gurney. She looks down at him and shakes her head, "Hey, Clarence. What kind of mess did you get yourself into this time?"
Castiel tries to say something, but it doesn't look like his eyes are focusing and his speech is slurred. Dean groans internally. He has seen this before. It sure looks like a concussion. He knows they can be tricky. He has seen guys take a puck to the face and come back into the game after just one period. He has also seen a concussion keep them off the ice for a couple of months. Dammit! Opening ceremonies are in a few hours and Dean doesn't know if Castiel will be well enough to attend or even to complete.
The medical staff slide past him with Castiel laying still on the gurney. The rest of his teammates have already left and Bobby walked out with Meg, trying to smooth over the irate woman. Dean just watches in silence until the ice is empty save him and Sam. He feels a tug on his arm and hears Sam's voice.
"C'mon, Dean. We need to go. Hey, he's awake now, it's gonna be fine."
Dean shakes himself clear of his stupor and looks at his brother, "Sorry, man, it's just-"
"I know, Dean," Sam tells him with all the sympathy that only his sappy little brother can manage. Dean is pretty sure he doesn't know at all. He is pretty sure he doesn't even know himself. What the hell has gotten into him?
Dean doesn't like surprises and this guy? This guy has just thrown a wrench into all of Dean's perfectly laid plans for how these games were supposed to go. He sighs and lumbers off the ice, vowing to find a way to make this right, and maybe get those deep blue eyes out of his head at the same time.
Author's note: Thanks for reading and sorry this took longer than expected to update. Life has been a little crazy lately. As always, feedback is appreciated. Plus, I am my own beta reader so feel free to let me know if you find any mistakes (it's so hard to catch your own). Thanks!
Not too much hockey terminology in this chapter that isn't pretty obvious I don't think but here goes. Gordon accuses Benny of cross checking him. This is when a player checks another, usually in the back, using his stick. It is a penalty because it can cause injuries.