Stepping carefully onto the ice, he's not sure what's worse – the pounding of his heart or the anxiety slicing his stomach into tiny ribbons. Neither is entirely pleasant and he forces himself to focus solely on the task of re-adjusting his gloves, on quieting his mind, before the slap of a heavy hand on his shoulder forces his attention towards the man leading over the rail beside him.

"-Now, make it good, dearie. You know we've got quite the audience tonight," Coach Gold announces with a gleeful lilt to his voice.

Scouts. Scouts are here tonight.

He's going to be sick.

"I know, Coach," he answers around a painful swallow, forcing his features into a (hopefully) confident expression. "I got this."

Gold sees right through the façade however and he cringes instinctively when the man grabs the front of his jersey to haul him closer. "You better – or our next little chat won't be nearly as pleasant," he warns, coating each word with a venomous grace.

Killian nods once, twice, three times before Gold finally shoves him towards the center. Taking his place next to the official, he tightens his grip on his stick while staring at the goalie across the way.

This is it. His one shot.

Jerking his chin to the side, he peers at the crowd, instinctively seeking out the familiar faces of his family. His father stands there, stern as ever, as if he were above such proceedings, while his mother clenches her hands together, mouth moving in the shape of a prayer.

But the seat beside them is empty. It's fucking empty.

Turning his head, he casts a few desperate glances at nearby stairs, the surrounding benches, but he doesn't catch a glimpse of his quarry -

The whistle sounds and he has no choice but to propel his body forward, a sudden swell of anger flooding his veins and chasing the fear away.

Strangely, he doesn't hear the scrape of his blades against the ice when he moves, but instead the reckless roar of a speeding engine, and when he draws back his stick to slam the puck home, he hears the scream of tires and the crash of colliding metal -

Jerking upwards, Killian awakens with wide eyes and lungs burning. His cheat heaves as he attempts to gather his breath, and, slowly but surely, the familiar landmarks of his bedroom swim into view and he's able to settle into the realization that he is home, that it was just a dream, it was nothing.

When he embarks on his daily run a few minutes later, there is a subtle desperation to his stride, a frantic urging in his mind to go faster, faster, faster - until the world fades away, until he is able to block out everything but the pounding of his feet and his view narrows to little more than the strip of pavement before him.

"—And then the pirate cried out and swung his sword like this!" Henry shouted while lunging forward, arm swinging wildly as he dueled with an imaginary opponent.

"Oh-kay, easy there, Captain," Emma warned while quickly catching Henry's arm before he smacked the little old lady passing by them on the sidewalk. "I think that's enough fighting for one day. Besides, the bus will be here any minute," she reminded him while running her hands along the straps of his backpack, adjusting the collar of his shirt absently. At the sound of his groan, she hums in amusement, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. "I know, I know – but it could be worse, you know. You could have to work." Wrinkling her nose, she watched him weigh the options for a moment before he shrugged.

"Yeah, okay – whatever."

"Whatever? I'll show you whatever." Dancing fingers along his sides in a quick tease, she then wrapped him up in a hug and smacked a loud kiss to his cheek. "Be good, hm?" Releasing him with a light push in the direction of the corner, she nodded towards the approaching school bus. "I'll pick you up after practice."

"Okay, bye Mom!" He called before jogging towards the group of children awaiting the bus nearby.

Humming softly, she waited until he was safely aboard the bus before making her way down the street in the direction of the diner.

Granny's was an institution in this town – due primarily to the fact that their small neighborhood didn't boast much in terms of competition as opposed to the actual originality of the menu – and Emma appreciated the small diner's casual charm. Decorated in the fashion of most '50s diners, it had a long counter with circular stools mounted in front and a window for the waitresses to grab food from the kitchen. The booths surrounding the outer walls were nothing special, and the leather seats were beginning to show signs of wear and tear, but no one bothered to complain.

One should never complain at Granny's – not unless you liked your meals with a special "garnish" from Granny herself.

Nudging her way through the front door, Emma surveyed the small collection of early-morning regulars while snaking her way through the maze of chairs in order to sneak behind the counter. Unbuttoning her coat, she exchanged a couple of quick pleasantries with Mary Margaret, one of the other waitresses, before the woman bustled off to take someone's order.

"Order up!" Leroy shouted from the kitchen, banging on the little bell in the window. Leroy wasn't the best cook by any means, but he was obsessive about ticket times – and there was nothing he hated more than watching food die in the window. Channeling his inner Gordon Ramsey, he continued to shout incessantly from the window, pounding on the little bell until someone answered his summons.

"Finally," he sneered when Emma appeared before him.

"Chill out, Leroy," she remarked while scanning the ticket for the table number, free hand reaching for the plate. "I'm here now, it'll be all right." Glancing up, she took in his thunderous expression with a sunny smile. Turning the ticket towards him, she decided to stoke the flames a little bit higher. "Is this a four or a five? Or, maybe it's a seven." Humming thoughtfully, she tipped her head to regard the ticket from a different angle. "Nope, definitely not a seven."

If looks could kill, she was sure she'd be six feet under by now. "I swear to god, if you don't take this plate I will –"

"—love us 'til the end of time?" Ruby cut in, flashing a smile Emma's way, while draping an arm about her shoulders. Taking in Leroy's expression, her grin shifted into something far more wicked. "Easy, darlin', keep looking like that and someone might think you're hankering for something off the menu."

Leroy sputtered for a moment before simply waving his spatula at them, dismissing them with a grumble about damn women and gonna be the death of me.

"I'll drop this off," Ruby said while relieving Emma of the steaming plate, "You've got a table." Nodding towards the corner booth, she turned back to Emma with an expression that would have passed for innocent if it weren't matched with her trademark grin. "Funny that Sheriff Graham always manages to find a table in your section, huh?"

The man in question glanced upwards just as Emma glanced towards him, and he lifted a hand in greeting, smiling sheepishly. Waving back, Emma flashed a quick smile before glancing back towards Ruby.

Watching the exchange, Ruby hummed in amusement. "Poor puppy. If only there was someone who could give him a good home, you know – with a warm bed," she continued, brows waggling with the force of the innuendo.

"Oh shut up," Laughing softly, she gave the woman a playful shove before making her way towards Graham's table, fishing her pen and pad out of the front pocket of her apron as she walked.

"Good morning, Graham. What'll it be?" Pen poised to take down his order, she couldn't help but smile faintly when he hummed in surprise and shifted his attention towards the menu, as if he was still weighing his options – which was laughable given that the menu hadn't changed in at least five years – but it provided Emma with a moment to study him.

He was an attractive man, what with his shaggy hair and gentle brown eyes – and as much as she might try to ignore it, his attraction for her was painfully obvious, given the anxious way he spoke whenever she was nearby, the shy smiles, and the fact that he always sought out her section.

Maybe she should give him a chance.

Maybe.

But then again, there was Henry to consider. And, of course, she couldn't forget the way things had ended with his father…

"I'll have the pancakes," Graham announced, distracting her from her thoughts.

"Hm? Oh, sure – of course." Scribbling down his order, she grabbed his menu before turning to head for the window. Turning in the ticket, she threw herself into her regular routine, forcing away all thoughts of Graham, of taking risks.

She knew the price for taking risks, after all.

While Killian had known going to lunch with Jefferson was a terrible idea – especially when it became clear that cocktail specials was the driving force behind their restaurant selection – but it hadn't truly dawned on him how terrible of an idea it was until he found himself surrounded by a group of young boys.

Having swarmed around him the moment he had stepped foot instead the rink, eager hands tugged at his sleeves from every direction in an effort to gain his attention, voices blending together into a dull roar that made his head throb and set his teeth on edge.

The sound of laughter caused him to force his attention back towards Robin's place near the rink's entrance – the traitor, he'd set him up, lead him to this place like a lamb to a slaughter – before he saw the man raise a hand towards his wrist, signaling that it was time for him to go.

"I'll see you in a few hours, Killian!"

"I'm going to kill you!" He shouted back.

Robin waved a hand in half-hearted acknowledgement of the threat before disappearing through the double doors.

The tugging on his shirt increased in intensity, and Killian was forced to return his attention to the mob attacking him.

"Enough! Enough! At ease – back off for fuck's sake!" He shouted, hands raised in surrender.

A chorus of gasps echoed around him as the boys retreated, eyes wide in the face of such a bad word being used in their presence.

"Aw, fuck – shit, I mean…Well, you know what I mean," he muttered while raising a hand to rub at his brow. "Now, look kids, I'm Killian –"He raised a hand in their direction when he heard an intake of breath, cutting off the inevitable chirping of names that he'd never remember. "-And I'm sure I'll figure out what to call you all eventually too. But for now, why don't you go … do whatever it is that you do here normally," he continued with a vague gesture towards the surrounding area, "and I'll figure out our game plan. Now go!"

The boys took off, splintering off into small groups and skating around the ice with glee. Killian surveyed the madness with idle disinterest, before another jolt of pain caused him to stagger towards the bench. Settling down with a weary sigh, he rubbed at his temples and prayed for peace.

God, apparently, had no interest in saving him because he felt the presence of another person on the bench beside him. Cracking open one eye, he took in the curious expression of a dark-haired boy.

Their staring contest went on for a few more seconds before he finally forced himself to speak. "What?"

"I'm Henry! This is my second season, and I can't wait to play, Coach." The boy burst out as soon as the stand-off was ended, and he continued to babble while Killian stared. He didn't seem bothered by the continued silence, providing commentary on the boys around him, discussion of their stats, etc.

When Killian tried to escape into the bleachers, Henry followed, just as he followed him to both penalty boxes, the other bench, the side stairwell – and his commentary never paused, never skipped a beat –

"Look … whatever you said your name was –"

"Henry!" He supplied helpfully.

Killian grimaced before forcing himself to adopt a more pleasant expression. "Henry, is there a place where your old coach went whenever he needed to, you know, have some privacy?"

Henry paused, considering this for a moment. "Like the office?"

"Perfect," Killian breathed. "Where is it?"

Henry pointed to the set of double doors to their left and Killian wasted little time making his escape, patting Henry's head with a quick there's a good lad, as he went. Slipping into the office, Killian took in the simple furnishings with a sigh of relief. Flicking off the lights, he climbed onto the desk and settled in for a well-needed nap.