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“Uh, yeah, of course we’re excited to have Kaladin on the team this year. You know, he’s obviously got lots of experience in the league, and I’m sure we can all learn a lot from him. He's a great player and we've heard nothing but great things, so, you know, I’m really looking forward to getting on the ice with him.”
_____
There’s something magical about a blisteringly hot shower after long hours on the ice. The way the water envelops you, steam rising in clouds all around, heat sucking the soreness and pain from tired muscles like a leech, sluicing it off a battered and bruised body and down the drain beneath aching feet. The hurts will return after, slowly regaining their foothold underneath pink and black and blue skin, as you dry off and dress and do your post-game obligations and drive yourself home.
But those minutes spent standing in the tile stall, breathing in the warm, damp air as the torrent of water pounds into your aching muscles, too tired to have any thoughts except how good it feels, is almost a religious experience.
Adolin stands under the spray far longer than the time it takes to clean the stink of sweaty pads from his skin, head bowed and eyes closed with hair hanging wet around his face. Eventually, when his skin is pruny and the murmur of conversation from the adjoining room has faded, he turns the handle and shuts the water off. His skin takes longer to cool than his surroundings; it still steams as the cool air flows in to replace the humid warmth around him.
He shivers once and pushes the plastic curtain aside, metal rings sliding noisily along the rod. The showers are quiet, the only sound the slow drip of residual water draining into the floor.
The locker room is empty when he enters, naked except for the towel tied loosely around his waist and the slides on his feet. Exhausted, he sits to dress in his team-issue sweats and shirt, pulling a hoodie over top to complete the lazy post-game ensemble. It’s warm outside in South Florida, even in November, but the arena itself is chilly, and he keeps his house just above freezing; at least, that’s what his brother tells him when he comes to visit.
Adolin thinks he does it because he misses the cold weather of home. It could also be that he just really likes hoodies.
There’s a noise, the echo of a metallic ping traveling down the hall, and Adolin pauses his mindless scrolling, looking up from the glowing screen of his phone in confusion.
He thought he was alone, thought everyone had already left by now. Who…?
He shoves the phone in his pocket and follows the sound, down the hall lined with sticks where the boys congregate before every period to perform their superstitious little routines, handshakes and high fives and ass slaps and bear hugs. The air cools even more as he walks, making him shiver as he steps out into the bench he’s spent the last seven years rotating on and off of for every home game.
It always feels strange to him to walk on the padded rubber without skates. Sometimes it feels strange to walk anywhere without skates. His brain forgets that he doesn’t live on the ice, despite how much time he spends on it, that the blades aren’t just an extension of his feet, that he wasn’t born only to skate and glide and speed around frozen surfaces. Or maybe he was just born with feet by mistake.
There’s a lone figure out on the ice, and Adolin leans against the boards from the bench area to watch Kaladin Stormblessed skate a lazy lap around the rink, feet crossing one another gracefully as he loops a wide turn behind the near goal.
He’s still in his new team gear—-sans helmet—-and as he skates by the bench Adolin, not for the first time, appreciates the sharp jaw, dark eyes, strong nose and chin. His long hair is tied up in a sweaty bun at the top of his head, a couple of loose bangs fluttering around his face as the arena air sculpts around him.
Adolin watches as he swipes the puck from behind the far goal and streaks back across the blue line on an imaginary breakaway, then the red. The black rubber sticks to his tape as he juggles it side to side, his stick handling sharp and precise as he flies toward the opposite goal. He crosses the opposing blue line, puck drifting slightly ahead of his stick, and Adolin sees his feet slide into position, watches as he winds up, stick lifting high behind his head, and then Stormblessed lets loose with a powerful slapshot that sends the puck sailing straight into the vertical pole at the back of the net with a resounding metallic clang.
Adolin claps at the performance, the sound echoing sharply across the empty arena. Stormblessed spins to face him, drifting backwards on the ice with narrowed eyes.
“Nice shot,” Adolin calls over to him, voice echoing through the empty arena.
He doesn’t respond. Just stares at Adolin for a long moment before turning and slowly skating to retrieve the puck, fishing it out from the back of the net with his stick and smacking it across the ice to bump off the boards in front of where Adolin is standing with a thunk.
Stormblessed’s skates scrape the ice as he skids to a stop just outside the door, then he bends to pick up the puck and steps into the bench area.
He’s a tall man, a few inches taller than even Adolin, and he all but towers over him in skates.
“I thought everyone already left,” Stormblessed says, nonplussed.
“Mostly everyone,” Adolin corrects. He nods at the ice. “That was a nice shot.”
“Thanks,” the other man grunts, then starts moving toward the hallway that leads back to the locker rooms.
“Wait,” Adolin says quickly. Stormblessed pauses and turns back, though he looks less than pleased to do so.
“Are you…” he trails off, searching for the words but coming up empty.
Are you okay? Are you not happy to be here? Are you ever going to look at me like I’m not your enemy?
Stormblessed waits for him to finish the question, then snorts softly when Adolin says nothing.
He leaves, clomping down the hallway, and Adolin stands there for a long time after wondering why he can’t ever seem to get it right.
_____
“I’m sure it’s been an adjustment, after playing with only one team for the first six years of your career and then watching it be dismantled. But what I think everyone here really wants to know is how you’re feeling about being selected by your division rivals in the lottery. Is the hatred something you think you can overcome easily? How much will it affect you moving forward?”
“However things went down, the fact of the matter is that the Panthers are my team now, and I’ll do everything within my power to be a good teammate to them. I’m just grateful for the opportunity to keep playing the game that I love.”
_____
There are four distinct parts of a hockey season.
There's the beginning, which includes pre-season. That period of time where no player’s spot is secure, where everyone’s still getting to know one another, and the coaches are trying out new combinations and new lines and new styles of play to see what works best and for who.
There are young kids, just brought up from development teams, who still don’t quite understand what it means to play in the big leagues. There are the trades, sometimes guys happy to be here and turn over a new leaf, sometimes bitter old men with chips on their shoulders, dumped by teams who no longer wanted them for future considerations or by organizations that weren’t willing to pay the money necessary to keep them. There are guys recovering from off-season surgeries, and guys trying to slide into those empty slots while they have the chance to prove their worth.
Then there’s the mid-season, the fucking grind, from around the holidays to the All-Star break in February. It’s arguably the hardest part of the year, when one game bleeds into another, when they’re on ten-day road trips on the west coast playing back-to-backs against teams they only see twice a season and only will again if they make it to the Cup Finals. Mid-season is when the outcomes of the games really start to matter, while at the same time it's so hard to care because you’re so. Fucking. Tired. Bodies begin to ache (more than they already do, anyway) and never quite heal, and immune systems get weaker, people catching colds and the flu and Covid left and right. The injuries start to pile up, and everyone prays for the damned All Star break to hurry up and get here before they all crumble under the pressure.
All Star break is a godsend—for those who aren’t forced to spend a week dancing to the league’s media tune, anyway. A week off to recover, to catch your breath, before the third part of the season begins, the stressful downhill slide toward playoffs, where every single game, every single goal, every single shift makes the difference between making it to the post-season or ending your season early. There have been teams coming into the back half of the season at the top of the league that snowballed so hard they didn’t even snag the wildcard, and teams that managed to claw their way into the playoffs from the gutter and come out the other side with a shiny new piece of hardware.
Playoffs is do or die, the culmination of everything you’ve worked so hard for all season. If you’re lucky enough to get into the post-season with only a couple of injuries your only concern is keeping the momentum going. Unfortunately, most teams enter playoffs like a race car skidding over the finish line, paint scratched, engine smoking, bumper hanging half off, and one wheel completely missing. Even if some players are able to get a little rest time for the last week or two because of a solid ranking that all but ensures entry into the post-season, everyone is brought back once that first series starts, because you just can’t afford to lose anymore. Lose, and you go home.
And then the marathon called the NHL playoffs begins. For over a month, if you’re good enough to make it to the Finals, you grind it out, day after day, injury after injury, your only hope being that you sweep an opponent so you can get a few extra days off before the next series starts to give that broken ankle, that sprained wrist, those twelve stitches on your first line winger’s cheek a rest. But that same rest can also be a curse, because momentum is such a powerful, intangible thing, so sometimes, even with a laundry list of injuries, you don't want that break, don't want to disrupt the vibe inundating the locker room and the magic happening on the ice. So you just play broken, and hope you can last one more day, and then one more, until it’s finally over and you’re skating that perfect dream of a lap with a shiny silver Cup raised above your head.
_____
Stormblessed sits squeezed between Roylin and Marshall—his second line wingers—gnawing on his mouth guard, eyes dark and intense as he surveys the ice, players and officials and crowd readying for the first puck drop of the season.
Practices have been going fine, and preseason is always a shitshow, but this is the real test. This one counts. Even more so for Stormblessed, who carries the weight of great expectation around like unwanted baggage.
Their season opener is at home this year, Sunrise Arena loud and boisterous and red—jerseys, hats, scarves, everything a bright, blinding crimson.
Adolin skates in a loose circle past the bench before pulling his dangling mouth guard back into position and clenching it between his teeth, coasting up to the center line to take the faceoff.
They have some good looks in the first period, but nothing finds the back of the net. Their passes aren’t connecting the way Adolin knows they should, puck bouncing hard off the ends of their sticks, and people are never quite where Adolin expects them to be when he looks for them.
Daniil does well, blocks twelve shots on goal, and they go into the first intermission scoreless.
In the locker room Coach decides to mix up the lines a bit, and pulls Stormblessed from second line center to play on Adolin’s wing instead. They practiced this some before preseason, with both Stormblessed on Adolin’s wing and vice versa. It was effective though not impressively so, and the coaching staff ultimately decided against it; they didn’t want to potentially weaken their depth for something that might not pay off.
Seems like they’ve had a change of heart now, though, because when they take up their positions for the second period puck drop, Mackie Samoskevich lines up to Adolin’s left, and Stormblessed’s intimidating figure looms on his right.
He wins the faceoff again, passing the puck back to his defenders, then puts on the afterburners to skate ahead as they dump it into the offensive zone. He smashes an opposing defender into the glass as the puck curves around the boards, falls to the ice after the collision, pops back up and follows the puck to where Samo is battling against the boards with stick and skates for possession.
He shoves his stick between blades, trying to poke the puck free, succeeds, chases it down and sauces it across the ice to Stormblessed, who one-times it into the back of the net with a shot that would make Ovechkin weep.
Seventeen seconds into the second period and they’ve got their first goal of the season.
“Storrrmmmm!” Comes the shouts from the crowd.
He collides with Stormblessed, who’s actually smiling, mouth guard hanging out the corner of his mouth and teeth glinting in the flashing overhead lights while the horn blares and the goal music starts up, passionate fans screaming their enthusiasm. Samo joins them, practically jumping up and down with happiness for Stormblessed’s first goal with the team, and then Forsy and Kola complete the celly, showering Stormblessed with back pats and congratulations.
The magic doesn’t stop there.
Their line gets two more in the second, one for Adolin and another for Stormblessed, putting him on hatty watch, and Dani keeps it a shutout, showing off his Ringling Circus-level flexibility between the pipes.
They let one in in the third, but Brinks—their feisty 6’6” mountain of a defenseman—hammers the nail in the coffin with the empty netter, making the final score 4-1.
Dani gets third star of the game for his mind-bending performance in goal, Adolin gets second because a three point opening night is nothing to sneeze at, and, to a roar loud enough to take the roof off the building, Stormblessed skates out with cheeks flushed to receive his first first star in a red jersey.
_____
They win back-to-back nights on their first road trip.
Adolin’s excused from media after the second game because he’s stuck in a downstairs training room following concussion protocol. Being crunched head-first into the boards hurt, of course, but he doesn’t actually think his brain is bruised. He knows the trainers are just being cautious, doing their jobs.
Thankfully they took advantage of the power play to net the go-ahead, so being pulled for the rest of the game doesn’t sting as much as it could. It was a real thing of beauty, Stormblessed on a breakaway from old man Forsy, dodging two defenders before releasing a wrister between the legs of a third, puck sailing just over the goalie’s right shoulder.
He was watching on his phone.
To his surprise, Stormblessed shows up to check on him right after the game ends, still in his uniform and skates, and Adolin, not expecting visitors, gets caught red-handed with the device still in his hands.
“You’re not supposed to have that,” Stormblessed says, clomping heavily over to him and plucking it away.
“Nooo,” Adolin whines. “I had it on the lowest brightness,” he says, like maybe the other man will return it to him if he understands that even though Adolin is breaking the rules, he's doing so responsibly.
Stormblessed doesn’t give it back.
“No bright lights.” He cuts Adolin off before he even has a chance to explain the precautions he took. “No electronics, doesn’t matter how much you dim the screen, Captain.”
Adolin groans pathetically.
“I’m so bored, though.”
“Too bad,” Stormblessed says without sympathy. After a second he asks, “How much longer?”
Adolin shrugs. “Who knows? I don’t make the rules.” Then he sighs. “I think I’m good though, I’m not nauseous or anything. They said they just wanted to make sure.”
“It looked pretty bad,” Stormblessed replies.
Adolin shrugs again, closing his eyes and laying his head back on the cushioned treatment table.
“Alright, well, just wanted to check on you, make sure your brains weren’t scrambled and we weren’t gonna have to figure out new lines again barely two weeks into the season.”
“Ha. Sorry bud, afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Damn it,” Stormblessed mutters, but the smile in his voice is audible, and Adolin grins as he hears the other man stomp out of the room.
_____
Sometimes, if he’s in a pessimistic mood, or if he's injured, Adolin will wonder why he does this to himself. Why he puts himself through the constant, unforgiving rigor of playing professional hockey. Not only does it break his body again and again, it hurts his soul, having to go through the pain and the heartache year after year after year and always coming up empty. Is a trophy really worth all that, even the vaunted Stanley Cup?
But then he’ll get back on the ice, maybe at a practice or an optional skate, or maybe just on his own, with friends or family or after a long break to loosen things up a bit, and he’ll experience that exhilarating sense of freedom that he doesn’t get anywhere else, and he remembers why he plays.
He loves hockey. He loves skating, loves perfecting the grace and the skill required to make a puck dance around the end of a stick, loves the addictive feeling of controlled power when the puck launches off the tape and through the inch-wide gap between the goalie’s pads. He loves the camaraderie in the room, the rivalries between clubs, the emotional high of winning an important game. He loves burying himself in the nuances, the statistics, the strategies.
It's something he doesn’t think he could live without, silly as that may be, because he knows it’s just a sport, knows his job is to play a game for other people’s entertainment. He understands that.
But regardless of the reason, he loves that he gets to play hockey every day, and nothing in his life has ever even come close to that feeling when he takes the ice; breathless with anticipation, blood pounding in his ears, excitement and adrenaline flooding his body, ready to show the world exactly what he can do.
_____
He’s never connected with someone on the ice the way he does with Stormblessed.
The other man is fearless.
He’s fast, explosive, there one second and gone the next, already halfway down the ice while everyone else is still trying to get their feet under them.
He's wild, toeing the line of recklessness. Adolin will never forget the way Stormblessed once lunged to receive an errant pass, reaching the puck one-handed with his stick extended as far as it could go even as he skated head-on into traffic in the crease. He got hit from one side and dropped to a knee, sliding and still in possession of the puck, spun in a literal 360, then somehow swiped the puck right through the five-hole and into the net. Adolin remembers dragging him up from the ice by the neck of his sweater for the celly, remembers laughing incredulously while Stormblessed grinned.
Every time Adolin looks up, Stormblessed is there. He's right where Adolin needs him to be; on breakaways, against the boards, sweeping around behind the net when Adolin needs somewhere to dump the puck. It’s like the man has a sixth sense for where to be and, unless he’s not physically on the ice, he’ll be there.
The way he plays is reminiscent of Crosby, in the grittiness of it, and of Barkov, in his ability to be everywhere and do everything. Barky was Adolin’s Captain for his first two years on the Panthers, and though Barky was never quite so thoughtless of his own safety, seeing Stormblessed skate reminds him of watching the Finn dominate on the ice. The stick handling, the impossible shots, the ability to be everywhere at once… He remembers when Barky retired, how the league practically mourned him. He thinks maybe the league got something new in Stormblessed.
Adolin’s always been good, one of the best on any team he’s played on including this one, and Stormblessed has been one to watch since the day he was drafted the year after Adolin. People suspected after the Lightning was suddenly and shockingly dismantled and he was brought here that big things might happen when putting the two of them together.
But nobody expected this level of synergy.
They don't just make each other better; they make each other dangerous. The two of them and Samo currently form the most feared line in the league, leading in points by double digits, both Adolin and Stormblessed sharing the top two spots in goals, assists, and points.
What really makes it sweet is that they’re starting to bond off the ice, too. He and Stormblessed—Kaladin—play chel late into the night on their off days, alternating between shouting curses at the players on the screen and throwing couch pillows at each other for winning. They argue about who has the better taste in beer, bitch about the other’s shitty sandwich-making skills, and all in all have a pretty decent time acting like twenty-something year old kids.
Because that’s what they are—kids.
Sometimes Adolin forgets that he’s still young, at least chronologically speaking. In hockey, you’re a veteran as soon as you pass twenty-six, old when you’re thirty, and anyone above thirty-five is considered the team grandpa.
But in the real world, twenty-eight isn't old. Twenty-eight is when you’re finally—hopefully—learning to be comfortable in your own skin, when you’ve figured out what kind of person you want to be when you grow up. Twenty-eight is the age of letting go of past hurts and embracing new experiences, realizing what you once thought was important no longer is and what you once thought was unimportant now means everything.
Adolin’s twenty-eight years old but hockey has made him feel like an old man, while at the same time treating him like a child with no real control over his life. But Kaladin Stormblessed somehow negates that. He makes Adolin feel young enough to enjoy playing stupid video games in his down time, and makes him feel mature enough that he can make his own decisions about things like his health and his future and his career.
Kaladin himself is still mostly an enigma. He's stoic, though he hides a wicked sense of humor under that grumpy facade. He’s calm like deep water, though underneath that steady flow Adolin can sense a surging turmoil. He doesn’t know the man’s story, doesn’t know him well enough to speculate about the source of disquiet, whether it’s related to his career or his personal life or if it’s even just how he’s always been, but sometimes he’ll look over at Kaladin and find a deep sadness in the other man’s eyes, something so profound Adolin doesn’t know if he would be able to grasp its depth even if he did understand the why behind it.
The season goes on, and they fall into the exhausting grind of mid-January. Adolin deals with a stubborn broken finger that refuses to heal, playing with it taped to its neighbors for a week until it becomes painful enough that he's sent to IR with a day-to-day upper body injury, missing three games.
Kaladin get sick, then gets better, then gets sick again. Then he blocks a shot with his hand and needs twelve stitches to close up the split skin of his palm, yet another parallel to Barky (circa 2025 playoffs).
He’s also finally started loosening up with the rest of the guys as well, and despite his default grouchiness everyone seems to want to adopt him like some homeless pet left out in the rain. They call him Storm, Stormy, and Bessie, of all things (Dani insists he said Blessie that first time, but nobody believes him and it stuck, much to Kaladin’s chagrin).
Adolin calls him all those things, too, but he mostly calls him Kal. He's been waiting for Kaladin to tell him off, correct him, but he hasn’t yet, so until he does Adolin's going to just keep on doing it. They’re lineys, after all, so surely he's afforded some special privileges.
_____
Adolin sips his tequila sunrise and pouts.
Across the room Kaladin smiles and laughs—laughs, in public—at something one of his old Lightning teammates says, leaning in close to hear over the general gaiety of the bar. He looks lighter, happier than Adolin thinks he's ever seen him, ever-present groove between his brows smoothed out for once, making him appear years younger.
Adolin takes a longer drink this time.
They came here together after the conclusion of the All Star Weekend opening ceremonies, both dressed in dark jeans and button downs, foregoing the team logos. Right now they’re here to mingle and have fun; they’ll keep the organizational representation to the televised stuff.
They were sitting side by side at the bar, knocking knees while Kaladin made fun of the cherry and orange slice impaled by a miniature sword floating in Adolin’s drink, when Kaladin’s face suddenly lit up. Adolin turned, seeing the old Tampa guys enter the bar, and then Kaladin left Adolin with a pat on the shoulder and a quiet “I'll be right back”, and now he’s over there, happy as a clam, and Adolin’s over here, brooding and wondering why he’s suddenly so pathetically lonely.
Kaladin laughs again, the sound soft but still easily managing to carry to Adolin’s ears, and then he catches sight of Adolin. He turns to his friend, still smiling, and says something with a nod in Adolin’s direction, then he ducks out from under the arm hanging loosely over his shoulders and starts making his way back over.
“Hey, I want you to meet some people,” he says, as if Adolin doesn’t already know Lilleberg and Douglas and Petry, hasn't played against them in one of the biggest rivalries in professional hockey for the last half a decade.
But they’re not just Adolin’s ex-rivals… They’re Kaladin's friends, too, and Adolin finds that he wants to know them, wants to know this side of Kaladin’s life, the one he never played a part in besides being the villain.
He grins, downs the rest of his drink, and follows Kaladin.
_____
Adolin’s never wanted to be anything other than a hockey player.
Growing up, he idolized his father. When he was younger, he’d watch the replays on the TV the next day, because with his dad out on the west coast most nights he wasn’t allowed to stay up late enough to catch the games live. But the first thing he’d do after school the following day was sit down on their red leather couch and turn on the game his mom diligently recorded for him. He knew all his dad’s teammates by number, knew who played on whose line, knew the special teams, the coaches, even the equipment managers.
Occasionally he and his mom and his brother would fly out to LA during a long home stand, and they’d get to go to three or four games before they’d have to fly back home again for fear of missing too much school. They always had the option of sitting in family suites but Adolin begged his mom to let them sit in the stands, and so they would often end up in the first row, with Adolin and Renarin pressing their faces to the glass, just inches away from the action. Pucks flew, snow sprayed, big bodies crashed into the boards… it was his idea of heaven.
He never wanted to be anything else.
He learns over a dinner of chicken and quinoa at his oversized kitchen island that Kaladin came about his love for the sport much differently.
Kaladin grew up a doctor’s son, and, from what he told Adolin, was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps from day one. He didn't mind the work, he said, and he was good at it, always taking medical electives in school and passing the courses with flying colors.
But it turned out that he got too attached to the people behind the injuries, which ended up adding fuel to the fire of his already considerable mood swings, plunging him into deep depressive episodes. Helping around his father’s private office exposed him to the harsh realities of life at a young age, and it hurt him to see people undeserving of the sicknesses they suffered from or the hurts that crippled them, both mentally and physically.
Skating was an escape for him. He and his younger brother, Tien, would trek out across their large backyard in the winter to the pond just beyond their property line, and they’d sit on the pebbled shoreline and lace up their skates before spending the entire afternoon gliding around, racing each other, practicing spins and jumps and other figure skating maneuvers.
Eventually their mother bought them sticks and pucks and a goal, and they played one-on-one almost every day they could, switching off between being the heroic, game-saving goalie and the unstoppable forward who scores the winning goal of game seven in the Stanley Cup Finals.
Adolin also played with his brother growing up. The difference between him and Kaladin, though, is that Adolin's brother didn't fall through the deceivingly thin ice of their backyard pond in late winter.
Adolin didn't dive into the freezing water to try to save him, didn’t nearly die from hypothermia himself as he tried to find his brother trapped under the ice. Adolin didn't struggle to perform CPR for twenty harrowing minutes until his mother found him and his blue-tinged brother on the frozen shoreline, until she screamed for their father, until both boys were whisked away in a helicopter and only one of them came home.
Adolin never almost quit hockey because he couldn't stand to be on the ice for a year after his brother died. And Adolin doesn't have an oppressive blanket of grief weighing down the thing he loves most in the world.
_____
If they were good together before the All Star break, they’re incandescent now.
They're on a hot streak, tearing through opponents like juniors players against Olympic athletes. Kaladin is on another level entirely. He’s powerful and nigh unstoppable, not always the prettiest but effective regardless. Where Adolin Kholin is smooth, fancy, and meticulous, Kaladin Stormblessed is desperate, turbulent, and determined.
On road trips, they end up in each other’s rooms most nights, watching other hockey games or game shows or reruns of cable television programs. Adolin likes police dramas; Kaladin prefers cooking shows.
Their friendship deepens, turns into a bond unlike any Adolin’s had before. Adolin likes who he is when Kal is around. Likes the idea of who Kaladin makes him want to be. He wakes in the mornings wondering how Kaladin is feeling today, then spends the day at workouts, at practice, at games, trying to make the other man smile.
For him, succeeding at hockey has always been the number one goal. But somehow, for some reason, this friendship has begun to shift those bone-deep priorities.
Hockey is his job, and he’s one of the lucky ones to be able to claim that he loves what he does every single day. But it's still a job, something he gets paid to do, and he has an obligation to perform well and do his best to stay in peak physical and mental shape to be able to do that.
Kaladin has filled a space in his life that Adolin didn’t know was even there. Admittedly, he hasn’t had many serious relationships. It's hard when you’re on the road half your life, and dating within the league comes with its own complications, not the least of which is the latent homophobia from some of the older generation of players. His teammates, fortunately, have never had an issue with his sexuality, and he’s grateful for it, but it’s always a risk introducing a new partner, so he tends to keep them very private when he does end up dating someone.
He's very close to some of the guys on the team, including some guys he’s played with for most or all of his career at this point, like Samo and Esky and Dani, but he's never had something like he has with Kal. It’s in the way the other man’s presence lingers in the back of his mind, the way Adolin admires him, goes out of his way to make sure he’s comfortable and content. Kal is the first person he looks for when he enters a room and the last person he texts before closing his eyes at night. He’s the one Adolin calls when he has any kind of news he wants to share or when he’s bored out of his mind or lonely and needs a friendly voice, the face Adolin expects to see when he hears a knock and opens his front door after a tough game, the voice he hears in his head when he’s out on the ice.
When he's with Kal his only goal is to make the other man happy, and when he’s not with Kal his only goal is to be with him.
He wonders if Kaladin thinks of him the same way.
_____
It’s the final stretch of the regular season now, just a couple weeks left until playoffs. They’re neck and neck with Boston for the top spot in the Eastern Division. They’ve already clinched a spot in the post-season, but securing first place will give them home ice advantage once it begins, so while they’re not going all out, they’re still playing most of their top guys, still trying to get as many Ws as possible.
Kaladin is a fucking machine, scoring seven goals in the last six games, with nearly as many assists. He's enemy number one for pretty much anyone they play, because nearly every time he has the puck the Panthers are suddenly another goal up.
Despite playoffs being just around the corner the man is all over the ice; he’s still playing on the Adolin’s line, of course, getting those first line minutes in, but he's also on the first power play unit, and on the penalty kill. He's not only the ‘missing piece’ their team has been needing for a deep run, as the networks have begun to label him; he's also their backbone.
And where Adolin has always been the heart of the team, Kaladin has quickly become its soul.
There’s a different feel when he’s on the ice. A single-minded determination. An unquenchable belief in themselves that comes from somewhere deep inside, some place that cares little of media attention or network chatter. It’s almost like everyone is blind and deaf to the outside world once they’re inside the arena. All they hear is Adolin’s voice, commanding them, and all they see is Kaladin’s example, leading them.
Adolin has to beat the thoughts back every night when they inevitably come creeping up, lest he jinx them before they even make it past the first round.
This could be our year. We’ve never had a team like this before. We've never had him before. He was the missing piece. We could actually do it. We could actually win.
They have four games left in the regular season. Tonight they’re playing against the Flyers, a team on the brink of elimination. It’s win or go home for them, and an opportunity to clinch home-ice advantage for the Panthers.
The first period is a frustrating exchange of icings and turnovers, back and forth across the ice with little real action. Neither team has broken single digit shots on goal yet. There have been no penalties, and therefore no power plays, though that's not to say there hasn’t been tension; Kaladin and an opposing defenseman—Humboldt, known asshole—have exchanged heated words multiple times, and Adolin himself got into a shoving match with Murphy, one of their peskier forwards. Both teams have managed to hold back from throwing fists because neither team wants to end up in the box and give their opponent the man advantage.
The second period is much like the first, though the heat finally starts to boil over. Unfortunately, both teams take penalties so there's no power play; they play four on four for a few minutes, but nothing of note happens besides a flurry of shots on Dani, who bats them away like annoying gnats at a pre-season team bonding barbeque.
Ten minutes into the third, they get a chance for an odd man rush. Adolin steals the puck with an opportune poke of his stick, shoving it between the guy's legs and behind him. As a defenseman moves to intercept Adolin sees Kaladin streaking up the opposite side, tapping his stick once on the ice as he gains speed, and Adolin passes it perfectly, just ahead of Kaladin so he can grab it and go.
And then out of nowhere Kaladin is blindsided, an open-ice hit, a huge, sturdy shoulder shoved directly into his upper body while his head is still turned toward the approaching puck, and Kaladin’s body jerks back like he's a crash test dummy, feet flying out from under him as he ragdolls to the ice. The crowd reacts, the whistle blows, and Adolin sees red.
He blinks and he’s got his fists clenched in an orange sweater, he’s raining blows down on a helmeted head, the refs try to pull him away, he ducks around their outstretched hands.
“You fucking– piece of shit–”
The helmet flies off, and Humboldt starts swinging back, an uppercut to Adoin's gut that has him bent over and gasping for air, then one to his head that dislodges his own helmet.
The zebras finally manage to pull them apart after several more connecting blows, and Adolin doesn’t fight them this time, panting. Humboldt is shouting at him, grinning with bloody teeth as the refs pull him away.
“You’re a fucking pussy, and so is your fucking boyfriend, he deserved what he got–"
Adolin tears himself out of the ref’s arms and tackles the bastard, and they go down, rolling on the ice to screams of excitement and chants of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” from the crowd. Adolin is so far removed from any kind of rational thought, the only thing going through his mind is make him bleed, shut his fucking mouth, making him fucking BLEED.
Eventually the refs and some of the other players manage to pull Adolin off, and he shoves his way out of their hold, still spitting mad. He tries to skate to Kaladin, still down on the ice but sitting now. At least he's conscious—fuck, that hit looked bad—but the refs don’t let him near, pushing him toward the penalty box. He relents with a few choice swear words, gathers up his gloves and stick and helmet, then skates to the box and slams the door behind him.
He watches as Samo and Brinks help Kaladin off the ice, then as trainers take his arms and help him down the tunnel.
Adolin’s given a game misconduct and he exits the box, skating off the ice and following Kaladin’s path down the tunnel.
The trainers tell him he can’t see Kal, not yet, they have to do the concussion protocol, and they must really be worried because usually when it’s just precautionary they don't mind if players or family sits with them, as long as they stay quiet and follow the rules of no phones, et cetera. But if they’re not letting Adolin in it means they’re taking it seriously.
He showers quickly and dresses out, gets a few butterfly bandages taped to the cuts on his face, then greets the guys when they file in after the game. They don't seem to harbor any hard feelings for the ten-minute penalty– the other guy got five, and Luosty stepped the fuck up on the penalty kill and scored a fucking shorty to win them the game. Talk about karma.
Kaladin’s still with the trainers by the time the bus leaves for the hotel, so Adolin sits alone at the back, stewing in worry and frustration the whole drive.
They have their after-game meal in one of the hotel conference rooms, then Adolin heads upstairs. He bypasses his room and knocks on Kaladin’s door instead, hoping that maybe he got back while they were eating.
Kaladin opens the door quickly, almost like he was waiting for Adolin, and Adolin breathes a sigh of relief that quickly morphs into worry when he sees how pale the other man is.
“Fuck,” he says, then he carefully pushes inside, closing the door before gently grabbing Kaladin’s upper arm and guiding him back into the room. One bed is occupied by Kaladin’s rolling suitcase and a couple stacks of clothes, so Adolin pulls him to the one with the rumpled sheets and displaced pillows, urging him to sit.
He does, and Adolin perches on the bed opposite.
“What’d they say?”
His stomach drops when he notices that Kaladin is squinting, despite the lights being on the lowest setting.
“Concussion?” He guesses.
“Yeah,” Kaladin mumbles. His eyes close and his hands clench in the sheets. “Fucking stupid, I should have seen him coming–”
“No,” Adolin cuts him off, leaning across the space between the beds. “That was a dirty fucking hit, Kal. Your head wasn’t down and you didn’t have the puck. Player safety’s gonna review that and he’s gonna get a suspension.”
Kaladin shakes his head gingerly but doesn't argue. Adolin feels sick.
“What can I do to help?” He asks, anger fizzling out in the face of such obvious distress.
“I think you’ve already helped enough,” Kaladin says with a significant look at the cuts and bruises littering Adolin’s face.
Adolin smirks. “He deserved it.”
Kaladin frowns. “Be that as it may, I don't need you to defend my honor, you know.”
“Too bad, I’m your Captain, and I want to.”
“It's not worth taking stupid penalties for, Adolin,” Kaladin says disapprovingly. Adolin’s frustration flares again.
“Yeah, it is, Kal. I’m not going to let them get away with doing that kind of shit to anyone on my team, especially not you.” Kaladin looks like he’s going to argue but Adolin cuts him off again. “No, you’re not going to win this one. Sorry, not sorry. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Kaladin gives him a long look before sighing in defeat. “You're impossible.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Adolin shrugs, grinning. He sees Kaladin fighting a smile and gives himself a mental pat on the back.
“No TV, no phone?” Adolin asks him, and Kaladin nods, turning his body so his back is resting against the headboard.
“You nauseous at all?”
Kaladin shakes his head.
“That’s good, at least.” Adolin stares at the wrinkle between Kaladin’s eyebrows, frowning. He repeats his question from earlier. “What can I do to help?”
There is quiet for a minute before Kaladin answers, voice soft.
“Just… Keep me company?” His words drift up at the end in a question.
“Of course,” Adolin says immediately. He stands and walks around to the other side of the bed Kaladin’s sitting on, then pats the comforter. “May I?”
Kaladin nods and Adolin climbs up on the bed and positions himself right next to the other man, sitting with his body pressed all along Kal’s side.
“Okay?” He asks, and Kaladin nods again, shoulders drooping as he lets out a slow breath.
“Yeah, thanks,” he murmurs, and he leans into Adolin. “Fuck, I hate concussions.”
Adolin swallows, feeling suddenly emotional at seeing Kaladin so vulnerable. It's not right, he's Kaladin Stormblessed, he's not supposed to be hurting and tired and weak, he's never needed anyone.
But a small, guilty part of Adolin thrills at that, too, because maybe Kaladin has needed someone, maybe he just hadn’t found the right someone.
Maybe now, he has.
_____
Kaladin’s out for the last week of the regular season.
They manage to clinch top seed without him, securing home ice advantage. Their record is the best in the league, so they will have that advantage for every series as deep as they go this year.
(Adolin doesn’t even want to touch that; his mind shies away from even the idea of playing on home ice for the Stanley Cup, afraid he’ll jinx it if he so much as thinks about it.)
The great Stormblessed returns for game one of the first round, and they annihilate the Islanders 8-1. Too bad they couldn’t get Dani the shutout.
But that’s okay, because he gets a goose egg in game two, and in game three. Then they hammer it home in game four for the sweep with Adolin’s first playoff hat trick, and they celebrate by drinking way too much in the hotel hot tub before passing out in each other’s rooms.
Adolin ends up in Kaladin’s room, because of course he does, and they wake up in the same bed with his foot squished between Kaladin’s calves, head tucked down into Kaladin’s chest. Kaladin’s breath tickles his hair and Adolin pretends to be asleep for the next half hour despite how much his bladder hates him for it, until Kaladin wakes and stumbles to the bathroom.
The second round goes to five, so they get to celebrate beating Toronto and advancing to the Eastern Conference Finals for the first time since the Panthers’ back-to-back Cups at home this time instead of in a hostile city.
They don’t party quite as hard this time around; it looks like the Boston-Ottawa series is going to be wrapping up tomorrow, so their break before the Conference Finals might not be as long as they’d hoped.
But party they do, and Adolin’s beer-soaked brain can’t stop fixating on Kaladin; Kaladin’s smile, bright as he's ever seen it; Kaladin’s shoulders, wide and strong and filling out his polo shirt deliciously; Kaladin’s eyes, deep and dark and finding Adolin across the room, down the bar, in the crowd, on the ice, always finding him.
The Eastern Conference Finals are tougher, as they should be. It seems right, the way it panned out this year, each series harder than the last.
Boston is aggressive, like they have been since the dawn of time, their forecheck hard to defend, their defenders a brick wall at the blue line. They’re also not afraid to take penalties, which helps as it gives Adolin’s team the power play opportunities, but hurts because, well, it physically hurts. More than one player goes down the tunnel during the series and doesn't come back out. A couple suffer injuries that are for all intents and purposes ignored, because it's playoffs, and they’re taped to kingdom come and sent back out on the ice next game, next period, next shift.
Brinks blocks a shot with his face, breaks his jaw and loses a tooth. He's out there the following game with a bubble mask and a newer, stronger mouth guard.
Adolin lands awkwardly after a hit and twists his ankle, finds out it’s sprained. Wraps it so tight he can’t bend it even outside of his rigid skates and gets back out there, tries not to visibly favor the leg and make himself a target.
Esky tears something in his knee, though the medical staff is being cagey about what, exactly, was damaged. He says he can play through it, so they let him, though they take him off the penalty kill and sub Mierskinen in his place.
Dani is playing his absolute best hockey between the pipes, practically standing on his head to keep the puck out of the net. He lets in more than he'd like, but, as Adolin reminds him, their opponent didn’t make it this far for no reason. Every team they’re playing is one of the top teams in the league. They’re gonna score. The Panthers just have to score more.
They win in six. The Western Conference finished up early but the league has already scheduled the Finals as if both were going to seven, so they have five days to recover as best they can before they’re playing for all the marbles.
Adolin almost doesn’t believe it. The Stanley Cup Finals. He's never been this close, never even made it to the Conference Finals.
This is the dream. This is what they all work for, day in and day out, train for in the off-season and grind for during the season, this iconic, legendary hunk of metal. To have their names etched into its shining surface and into the annals of hockey history.
Both the Panthers and the Mammoth go into the Finals with injuries; it’s impossible to make it to this point and not be held together by athletic tape and desperation.
Adolin finds his stride again, since cooling down some after his standout performance in round one. His line alone buries three in the first game, though the Mammoth eventually outscores them five to four.
They win game two at home, then game three away, before dropping game four. Adolin takes a high stick to the face that almost breaks his nose, but he'd do it again if it ends up with the same result, because they score the go-ahead goal on that power play and take game five. They’re up three games to two.
Game six is back in Utah, and it's the first game that the Cup is in the building, as it always is for possible series-clinching games. They all feel the oppressive weight of it.
Though they all want to win it now more than anything, there's a tiny, stupid part of Adolin that wants to win at home, that wants to play in a SCF game seven, like he did in his imaginings as a kid, like all kids do, in their backyards, in their driveways, on their little league teams. Over and over again he tells that part of himself to sit down and shut up, because this isn't something you mess around with. You don’t ever give up a chance to win something this ephemeral, no matter that it’s not in your home arena.
Unfortunately, they can’t seem to find their flow on the ice. Passes don’t connect the way they should, Dani lets in shots he would normally stop with his eyes shut. Nobody’s open and their shots all go wide, hit the posts, get blocked.
They drop game six, and the series is tied three to three.
Looks like Adolin will get his childhood dream after all, though he feels more sick than happy about it.
_____
Wake up. Drive to the arena. Eat breakfast. Morning skate. Training rooms. Lunch. Home. Pre-game nap.
Adolin’s not napping. He can’t nap. Can’t sit still.
This is it. This is it. The culmination of his career. His worth. If they lose, it’s on him, he’s failed them as a Captain.
He's shivery with anticipation. Legs almost weak with nerves as he limp-paces across his living room, then back. Across, then back. Again and again.
He’s startled out of his reverie by a knock on the door. Doesn’t even stop to consider who it might be, just beelines it down the front hall and swings the door open wide.
Kaladin stands on the other side, frowning as he takes in Adolin’s agitated state.
Adolin turns around and limps back to the living room without a word. He hears the door shut behind him.
Then a gentle hand grabs his wrist, pulling him to a stop, coaxing him into turning around. A second hand circles his other wrist, trapping him, handcuffing him when he needs to move.
“Adolin,” Kaladin says, and Adolin’s vision snaps into focus on Kaladin’s face. Soft with sympathy and sympathetic worry.
“I’m–” he gets out, then stops. Has no idea what he was going to say.
“Hey, listen to me,” Kaladin says, giving Adolin’s arms a little shake. “Listen. It's okay to be nervous. I’m nervous too.”
Adolin feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up out of his throat. His stomach churns.
“I don’t get when people say they like this kind of shit, that they thrive on it. This fucking sucks, I hate it. I hate it. I just want to play hockey, I don't want to worry about losing or failing my team or failing you or watching the Cup slip out of our fingers. I just want to play hockey.”
Adolin’s voice is weak by the end of his rant, pathetic, pleading.
Kaladin chafes up and down his arms once and gives him a soft smile. “Then just play hockey, Adolin.”
Adolin snorts. “Like it's that easy.”
“It is that easy,” Kaladin argues. His hands slip down to grip Adolin's, fingers warm against Adolin’s icy skin. “You know this game. You’ve known it your whole life. Just do what you know how to do, and I’ll do what I know how to do, and everyone else will do what they do, and it will work out.” He squeezes Adolin’s fingers and Adolin squeezes back.
“Adolin, win or lose, you’re the best Captain I’ve ever had the pleasure of playing for,” Kaladin says, and the unexpected words hit Adolin like a sledgehammer. His throat tightens, vision blurring. He tries to chuckle but it sounds wet.
“You had the C for like, the last five years, you idiot,” he says, and Kaladin grins.
“Yeah, well, I’m including myself in that, too,” Kaladin says with another squeeze.
Adolin hiccups, because he’s not even sure what that means. Does it mean he thinks Adolin’s a better Captain than he was? Because that’s complete bullshit. After Barky, Kaladin Stormblessed is the next best Captain Adolin could ever imagine playing under.
“I don't even know what that means,” he mumbles, ducking his head to scrub the wetness off his lashes.
“It means I believe in you. I believe in us. In this team. You should, too. You're the one that got us here.”
Adolin wants to argue, wants to say that Kaladin got them here, they never would have gotten anywhere close without him. But he stops himself, because isn’t that what you learn on day one of playing a team sport, that a team is more than one person? Even if you’re the best player there, in the league, in the entire world, you can’t make it far without a team behind you. That’s the whole point.
Kaladin may have made the difference this season, but that doesn't mean he’s the reason they’re here. It means that with him, and with Adolin’s leadership, this team was able to become something truly special. It means that Kaladin actually was the missing piece to the almost-completed puzzle, snapping into place the second he took to the ice wearing the snarling Panther on his chest for the first time.
Funny, how that feels so symmetrical to Adolin’s world outside of hockey, too. How Adolin has always felt like there was a piece missing, right up until Kaladin came along with his grumpy face and his stormy eyes.
He closes his eyes, feeling warmth flow through his body from their linked hands.
“What if we lose, Kal?”
Because that fear is still there, still strong, still debilitating. The fear of that ultimate failure, when they’re so close, when they may never be this close again.
He feels Kaladin shrug, opens his eyes and takes in the placid look on the other man's face.
“We try again next year,” he says simply.
And Adolin… Adolin finds that he's okay with that.
“And you'll still have me,” Kaladin adds with a soft smile. “Win or lose.”
Whether Kaladin means the team will still have him, or Adolin will still have him, or both, Adolin realizes those words take some of the weight from his shoulders. The thought that Kaladin will stick around regardless of the outcome soothes the worst of his frayed nerves.
“May the best team win, right?” Adolin says with a shaky smile.
“Right,” Kaladin agrees with a decisive nod. Then, “Of course, we’re the best team, so I fully expect to win.”
Adolin laughs, and, suddenly feeling bold, pulls Kaladin toward him by their intertwined fingers.
Kaladin doesn’t startle; his eyes don’t go wide, and he doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he moves forward a step almost like he was expecting it, waiting for it. And when he smiles, Adolin smiles back, and kisses him.
_____
“Hey, Adolin, Mark Trisnar here: Would you agree, after seeing the way this season went and how it ended, that the analysts were right after all, that Kaladin Stormblessed was the missing piece to the puzzle all along?”
Adolin grins.