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You think that being an athlete for years, Clay would have a proper sleep schedule. But after staying up all night gaming with roommates, he wakes up late for team practice.
Clay jumps right out of bed, his bag pre packed from running into this problem a few times, and grabs his skates. When he gets into the car, he realizes he forgot his shoes. With a groan, he slips the blades off his skates and puts them on.
He knows coach is gonna yell at him for mistreating his skates, but he’s already gonna get raked over coals for being late. Again.
Soon he’s at the ice rink. It’s a decently sized building with a big rink and hundreds of seats. Clay already misses the crowds of people cheering from those seats when he does a particularly fucking mental hat-trick.
Reaching the glass metal doors, he’s eye level with a sign taped to the door.
“Practice Cancelled on 2/25. Resumes 3/01. - Coach H.”
Clay rolls his eyes at himself. Of course he didn’t get the stupid text again, of fucking course he didn’t. He’s gonna have to message his coach and tell him it’s not working. The team is gonna get on him so hard for this.
But the ice was open and he might as well practice. He pushes the glass door open, giving the sign an eye roll, like it can even comprehend Clay’s petty attitude. Walking down the hallway of the rinks lobby and through the doorway to the ice. He sits down and out on his blades when he notices there are other people there.
A quick look over tells him that they’re figure skaters. Great, these snobs. Clay gripes in his head. He has no problem with ice skaters, it’s just they all act like the ice is for art, when Clay would rather slam into someone to steal a puck and score.
Nonetheless, he glanced around between each skater. It’s mostly women younger than him, all in frilly leotards with glitter and sequins. A few guys too, but Clay doesn’t let himself linger on them.
There’s a girl out on the rink, he assumes this is a private practice for some recital, when she gets off the ice and someone takes her place. Music slowly fades in and that’s when Clay sees him.
A man about his age steps out onto the ice. There's no more chatter from the stands, but Clay doesn’t even notice their reactions, too stuck on the way the right black bodysuit clings to the pale boy's body. It probably feels like silk, he probably feels like silk Clay’s mind slips in.
After the first eight count, the boy skates the fastest lap around the rink Clay has ever seen as he slowly spirals into the center. He does a low axel spin, rising and getting momentum for a held arabesque. He glided for just a bit, before his body tensed. Clay can tell he’s about to gear up for something amazing and he’s practically leaning over the railing onto the ice.
The pretty dancer gets near center, prepping for a triple axel, his body tightens in and he sends his body off, quick spotting so he doesn’t get dizzy. He looks like an absolute force of nature as he spins. As it slows, he braces for landing.
Clay let’s go of his breath only for it to be stolen right out of his mouth as they make eye contact. A flash of confusion, of course he’s not recognizable, he’s not one of the skaters, then very suddenly, the boy blushes. Clay would’ve winked, but his train of thought is interrupted by the boy losing his balance completely.
The poor, pale beauty falls onto the ice, the side of his head making harsh contact, his legs tangled up.
Clay, already having his skates laced up for his nonexistent practice, is rushing on the ice before anyone can react at all.
“Are you okay?” Clay asks, voice shaky when he reaches the other man.
“I- uh I am.. I’m George.” The words have a british lilt as the boy nods fast. He reaches his arm out to take Clays and he is helped to his skates. As soon as he is upright, his skates slip and he trips right into Clay's chest.
“Is it okay if I pick you up?” He hears the deep voice ask.
“I doubt you can lift me.”
“Challenge me, why don’t you!” The blonde laughs and scoops the figure skater up like he's feather light.
George stutters and gasps, blushing into Clay’s chest.
Clay skates, rather aggressively, off the ice towards his skating company.
George must realize everyone is looking because hides further into the strong boy. Clay instantly decides that he likes the feeling of the smaller boy in his arms, pressed against his chest, but forces it from his mind.
People rush towards the edge of the ice, calling out.
“Oh my god, George are you okay???”
“Pfft we knew he should’ve stuck to the double axel.”
“Oh no, that’s not the problem. The problem looks to be blonde and dreamy.” Someone whispers and Clay laughs.
Once slowed, George is helped back to the benches.
He is instantly swarmed by the other skaters.
“I’m okay, I’m okay guys.” George reassures.
Very suddenly, the commotion calms down when the coach walks right past George, and instead straight to Clay.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, distracting a figure skater like that,” they start, “You brute hockey players always think its fun out on the ice and you wouldn’t know finessed skating if you were Todd Elderige, I swear to God”
“Saaaaammm! Stop it, I’m fine.” George calls from the bench. His coach turns right to him and they all prepare for more rage.
“As for you, George-” Sam starts, but is interrupted.
“Oh come on. It’s not his fault, he’s in pain right now anyways.” Clay protested.
“Get out! Get out of my rink, this is a private booking and as so long as I am here you will not be tearing up the ice!”
The rest of the people there are trying hard to ignore their coach and himself, Clay can tell.
Clay gives one last smile at George before he backs off and makes his way out of the rink. He gathers his bag and takes off his blades.
Walking into the hallway, he can hear the music start up again. His mind is already starting to reel.
I hope George is okay. Clay seriously thinks about it; wiping out on the rink is horrible enough. Clay would know. Hockey games get really rough and he is not exempt from ignoring the puck in favour of knocking people flat on their ass.
Causes quite a few fights. Clay laughs.
“What are you laughing at, dreamy?”
Hearing the accent, Clay expectantly turns around to see George, ankle wrapped in an ace bandage.
“I’m laughing about how stupid your coach is.”
“Yeah, well I’m sure they’re thinking the same thing about you.”
“You look like you don’t disagree.” Clay quips.
“Well I mean. Who comes into an ongoing rehearsal knowing they’re like, a 6”0 tall Adonis of a man!” George is blushing and rolling his eyes with a small ‘huff’.
Clay is wheezing, leaning against the wall. His laugh is getting to the point of just silence and high pitched squeaks.
“You sound like a tea kettle-“
“Kettle!” Clay says in between breaths, “it’s a teapot!”
George mutters something about the tea pot calling the kettle names, but is laughing right alongside his new counterpart.
Clay gets enough breath to get focus in on George. He has a cropped and lightweight fur jacket over his skin suit, but he’s lost the skates, seeing as he’s not performing. He’s a lot shorter now. Clay wonders how much taller he is than George.
I wonder how much bigger my hands are than his.
“Stop.. stop staring, you weirdo.” George catches his full attention again. Clay fully unabashed just smiles at him.
Outside the window he can see the sun rising in the sky as the day starts for people who aren’t forced to get up. Nonetheless he knows he should get on with his day but…
“Can I get your number?” It would look like George was asking Clay’s shoes, but his brown eyes meet green ones.
“I was gonna ask you the same.” Clay chuckles, surprised; he wouldn’t expect the boy to ever ask for what he wanted.
“Well, give me your number then. Idiot.” His accent so emphasized on the insult. Clay stumbles for his phone in his pocket, unlocking it and wandering his homepage before finding the contacts app. He watches intently as the pale, long— but small- fingers type in a series of numbers. Next the name:
George Davidson
God, that name would ring in Clay’s brain until death or amnesia.
“You can put yours in mine too.” George mutters, handing over the phone. Clay puts in his number and name just as George did. George nearly snatched the phone out of his hand before deleting the name and typing something else.
Dreamie <3
Clay blushes, this guy doesn’t even know that Dream is his literal nickname and yet he has affectionately nicknamed him that twice in the span of meeting.
Once Clay gets home, he completely ignores his phone so that he doesn't text George first.
It’s too soon and I cannot scare him off, he thinks as he sets it across the room from his desk. Not before turning on his ringer and ensuring the volume is on max though…
He turns the PC on and hops on some first person shooter with his friends. Rounds and rounds of even victory and losses, probably destroying his K-D because all he can think about is-
Ding
Clay’s head turns whiplash inducingly fast towards where he threw his phone. His hands pause the controls as he just sits in his chair dumbly for a moment.
“Dream?!” his teammate can be heard through the headset, “I swear to fucking god, if you’re AFK.”
Clay snaps out of it and jumps out of his chair to check his phone. Right there in the notification center is a text from George Davidson:
1 attachment.
Is this you?
He opens it and is met with a picture of him on ice, jersey on and hockey stick in hand. He has the puck too obviously.
Dreamie: Yeah, that’s me
George Davidson: oh, I didn't know your team was like... good.
Dreamie: Oh come on, what does an ice skater even consider to be good on the ice?
George Davidson: Shut up!
George Davidson: does that say Dream on your jersey..?
Dreamie: Yeah, its my team nickname
George Davidson: sooo I wasn't far off in thinking you're dreamy
Dreamie: I guess not :)
And without fear of double texting dream shoots another,
What was the song you were skating to?
George Davidson: Guiltless but i think sweater weather wouldve fit better :P
Dreamie: Adgsfsddhg
Dreamie: Sorry i totally just spazzed while wheezing
George Davidson: ur such a weirdo
Dreamie: You like it
Clay takes a deep breath and watches as the three dots type. He's probably gonna tell me to shut up again, Clay laughs, but then the dots continue. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably 45 seconds, the dots stop. Anxiety slowly finds its way into Clay's mind.
I so fucked up, he thinks i'm a creep, how did i already scare him off. For about three minutes, all Clay can think is damage control; how can he make this poor guy not uncomfortable and how is he going to leave without further embarrassing himself. He settles on an apology like anyone else would, but as he opens his phone, he finds a text.
George Davidson: sry, it was my turn, i landed that triple axel this time :)
Clay exhales, and laughs at himself. So much for ruining it.
Dreamie: I won't believe it until i see it.
George almost replies instantly.
George Davidson: Would you like to??
George Davidson: The contest is this week and I didn’t want to scare you off, so I wasnt gonna invite you but i think it would be nice? I would like you to come.
Dreamie: I would love to go.
George Davidson: :)) !!!!!
Clay smiles to himself, his heart feels so full at the childish texts this boy sends and his mind is already deciding this feels right. Above all else, he smiles because it's easy to do; that’s not always the case. He’s not gonna fuck this up.
Right before he locks his phone, he goes to his contacts.
Georgie <3