Chapter Text
Newark, New Jersey
Pre-season
The future of their franchise is hovering outside the rink, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket and standing—shoulders rounded, disappearing into his hood, one shoe scuffing the concrete—like he doesn't quite know how to hold himself.
Silverr decides that's why he doesn't recognise him immediately. He's seen Doogile all prim and polished, hair pushed back with pomade and suit sharpening his rough edges, and he's seen him in layers of gear and pads under the glare of stadium lights. This, him, standing washed out and awkward under the watery September sun—this is new.
Silverr can work with new.
It would be stupid to pass on a chance to talk to Doogile before the other rookies get to him. They've all seen his highlight reels, his first-overall draft, his Hobey Baker. They know his place in the team is cemented in a way the rest of them have to fight for.
That's not something Silverr has to worry about, exactly. He'd been picked the same round, just a couple slots later; played first line centre for Vancouver in the WHL and wore the C on top of that. It's safe to assume that he'll head into the season with a contract in hand, but he's got his eye on something else.
Silverr straightens his cardigan and his posture, runs a hand through his hair for good measure. Then he crosses over to the front doors where Doogile is waiting. For someone to let him in, maybe?
He'd be here a while. Practice isn't due to start for another hour.
"Hey."
Doogile startles, whipping around.
"Sorry," Silverr says. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"No, that was my bad. I didn't see you coming." He gives Silverr a once-over before his eyes flicker back to his face. Silverr searches for any reaction and comes up empty, but Doogile is always carefully, precisely, neutral.
"Silverr, right?" Doogile holds out a hand. "I remember you from World Juniors."
"Yeah?" It's embarrassing, the flare of satisfaction that curls through him just by having Doogile acknowledge him like that. He reaches out and clasps Doogile's hand to shake. His palm is dry and warm, grip firm.
"You're Doogile," he says. It's not a question, doesn't need to be, and Doogile doesn't expect him to ask. He just nods. Silverr flashes a grin at him. "You guys gave us hell at Toronto. Congrats, I guess."
Doogile coughs. "Sorry about that."
It takes Silverr staring him down with an eyebrow raised, lips pursed in a half-smile, until his mouth lifts wryly and he admits, "Okay. You're right, I'm not."
"Own it," Silverr tells him. Canada never really had a chance this year, not against the kind of competition Team USA brought. Didn't mean he hadn't fought like hell the whole way. "Second place is not that bad anyway."
"No," Doogile agrees, though Silverr is certain he's never had to be runners-up to anyone.
"And we're teammates now."
"Teammates," he echoes. His smile settles into something warmer, as though he likes the thought of it.
Which—good. Because if Silverr had it his way, he would have a place on Doogile's line too by the time pre-season was over. He'd have to give up centre. He's heard Doogile is as difficult to read on the ice as he is brilliant, easily and quietly frustrated. He doesn't really care.
"Wanna see if they'll let us in early?" Silverr nudges their upper arms together. "We could warm up before the others get here."
Doogile looks at him and says, "I'd like that", and Silverr feels his heart knock against his ribs.
The New Jersey Thunder are a team that never seem to get anywhere. Stuck in limbo between a proper rebuild and trooping on with their vets, they finish solidly bottom half season after season, more losses than overtime losses than wins. Fans can stick through bad hockey for a team worth supporting; the Thunder have gone stagnant.
So when they win the draft lottery, and there's a forward like Doogile in the pool, adorned with all his accolades and so much potential it practically sets him alight amongst his peers, swallows him whole—
It's not a new story. Young superstar pulled from the draft to right a flailing ship of a franchise, drag them battered and half-drowned to some mirage of a shoreline that keeps slipping out of reach. All while they are never taught how to keep their own head above the roiling storm.
Doogile doesn't seem to feel any of this weight, or at the very least he doesn't let it show. Once he gets his skates on, the awkward boy Silverr met outside the rink is lifted off his shoulders like the jacket left hung up in his stall.
The Thunder reserves the first week of training for their prospects: all fresh from juniors, minor leagues, guys who've played a handful of NHL games scattered through the season—in other words, inexperienced. It makes sense that Doogile out-skates a group like this, but he sets himself apart so entirely it's hard to look away.
There is needlepoint precision to the way he moves; frictionless, dancer-elegant like a figure skater, but without any flair. It's a show anyway. The edge control in his turns. The way he goes flying across the ice with an effortless few crossovers. And he doesn't even have a stick in his hands yet.
Camp is fresh and loud and exciting. They are united and divided by the fact that they stand on the cusp of everything they've dreamed of. The arena and their jerseys and the company of the couple vets that show, circling the rookies with their easy confidence. Here is a place for you, all of it says, and lets them taste their futures in the grip of a hockey stick and the snap of blades against new ice.
Now all they need to do is follow through.
Silverr leans against the boards and tips his water bottle back, keeping an eye on the four poised to start on the ice.
They’ve been divided into two groups, half in the yellow of the team colours and half in the alternate navy blue. Doogile stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his opponent, the puck on the dot at centre ice.
Their coach blows his whistle.
Doogile gets to the puck first by a good margin and sends it to his partner waiting in their offensive zone before rushing in himself. His partner takes a shot for the goal and sends it wide; Doogile is at the boards in an instant and stickhandles the puck away from the incoming defenders with the sort of dexterity that pulls a chorus of appreciative whoops from the bench. He goes for a pass in the split-second a lane opens up, but his partner’s a step behind, doesn’t quite realise what Doogile’s doing, and a defender intercepts it.
Another whistle ends the drill.
As the next set of players move forward, Doogile loops back to the end of the line silently. Silverr sees the frustration in the terse set of his mouth, the way his blades dig into the ice as he skates past.
It happens again.
And again.
Silverr has read enough articles from ESPN and Sportsnet and the Athletic and a couple nobody blogs with UI a decade old to know the sort of things said about this season's top prospects. Especially Doogile.
He can score but his passes don't connect. He needs to rein in the intensity on the offence because he can't work with his linemates, and he's too sparse on the comms. He gets deep into his own vision and leaves them scrambling.
Doogile is a blur of navy as he skates by the group waiting by the boards and sinks the puck top shelf in a dizzying snipe of a shot. Silverr taps his stick against the ice.
He thinks all that about Doogile is bullshit.
He doesn't have to rein himself in for anyone. They're on fucking NHL ice now and Doogile just plays like he's always been here.
Silverr could keep up. He'd read Doogile's plays, he'd go where Doogile needs him, and they'd score goals. Win games. Silverr can't outdo a talent like him but sharing his ice is more than enough, and they could turn this whole damn thing around together.
To his side, one of Silverr's teammates whistles. "He makes it look so easy."
"He's Doogile," Silverr says, automatically.
"Isn't it crazy we get to play with guys like him?" His teammate grins.
He stands a few inches shorter than Silverr, stockier, smiles with all his teeth. There's an errant curl over his face where his hair has tumbled free from his helmet. Silverr knows he plays defence; thinks he remembers him being drafted third-round-something a few seasons back.
Silverr makes a vague sound of agreement.
"And you, too," his teammate continues. Silverr startles and turns to look at him properly. Finds his eyes are bright. "Bet Vancouver isn't happy you ended up here. I saw that OT goal you scored at World Juniors. It was awesome."
It was a good goal, but now Silverr feels infinitely worse that he doesn't even remember the guy's name, let alone which junior league he plays for. Or maybe he's in one of the minors.
"Thanks," he says, and tries to think of something to add.
His teammate doesn't seem offended, only throws out a hand for Silverr to shake. "Call me Reign."
He takes it. "Silverr."
"We'll be seeing each other a lot."
"Hope so." Silverr relaxes enough to shoot back his own smile.
"I play for the Storms, by the way," Reign says, his words taking on a teasing edge. "Oh, that's our AHL team."
Silverr crosses his arms. "You didn't have to tell me that."
Reign laughs.
"Have you," Silverr starts, then pauses. "Have they ever, like, called you up?"
"Once or twice," Reign replies. "I played when Fein was out for a few weeks last season. Remember he took a bad hit in that Terriers game?"
"Feinberg?" Silverr doesn't know the Thunder's full roster very well, but that's the kind of name that comes before his team. "Must've been a lot of pressure."
Another one of those crooked, beaming grins. "It's half the fun."
Silverr nods even though he can't imagine agreeing.
Coming back down the boards, Doogile passes them looking every bit as put-together as the morning, even though they're hours into running drills.
Reign leans in and says, conspiratorially, "You'd work well with him."
I fucking know, Silverr wants to say, feeling vindicated though no one's told him otherwise, feeling the fierceness of his want knot tight in his chest.
But he just shrugs. "I guess."
"We're gonna run scrims later." Reign looks at him intently, like he can see right through Silverr. Maybe he can. "Show 'em, yeah?"
There's a casual, boyish charm about Reign that makes him easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, and Silverr finds himself lingering at his side whenever he can that day.
He's introduced to Feinberg during a break, who was picked early in the draft class two before them, well on his way to being a legend in his own right. He has defence strategy to talk with Reign and plenty to say to Silverr even though he's a defenceman by position; practically the platonic ideal of a two-hundred-foot player.
The vestiges of his earliest seasons still cling to him like a skin he hasn't quite shed, the need to carve himself a place in this world fraying the edges of a confidence he’s just learning. Even with a contract with his signature at the bottom and a newly embroidered C on his jersey.
Feinberg—just Fein, he says—is another one of those star players with the hope of a franchise balanced onto his name. There's unending talk of where he could take them once he settles into his team, what a captaincy so young means, but when Silverr asks he shrugs and repeats, like he tells it to himself, “It’s just noise.”
At that, Silverr can't help but search out Doogile in the room, finding him flicking pucks into graceful arcs in the air at the end of the rink. He doesn't join in on any of the conversations forming and dissolving amongst the team. When he glances up and catches Silverr looking, he turns away before Silverr gets the chance to even wave.
But then they do sprints and Silverr keeps pace with him right to the end until Doogile ekes out ahead. He turns to Silverr, who's leaning breathless against the boards; smiles with his cheeks splotchy and red from the exertion and says, "That was the warmup, right?"
It wasn't even a race and Silverr must have something very wrong with him because a stupid chirp like that makes him feel warm and weightless, like he'd do anything to feel the thrill of his competition again.
In the locker room at the end of the day, he packs up the last of his gear while Reign waits beside his stall.
"I meant to ask where you're staying," Reign says.
"I'm billeting with a family downtown. They live near a park and stuff." Silverr hoists his bag over his shoulder. "It's good."
"You want a ride back?"
"No, dude. It's so out of your way."
Reign looks at him far too earnestly for someone he met six hours ago. "I don't mind. Seriously."
"I like the trip," Silverr tells him. Which, true, on any other day. But he’s so tired he could pass out standing and the thought of sinking into someone’s passenger seat and cranking the heater to thaw his chilled hands is far more appealing.
“You look exhausted,” Reign says pointedly.
Silverr smiles. “That obvious?”
“I don’t wanna be responsible if you walk into traffic, or something.”
“I might fall asleep,” he relents.
Reign laughs as he digs through his pockets, tosses his keys between his fingers. “Fair enough. You skated hard today, man.”
"We all did," Silverr says absently.
His attention drifts to a few stalls down, where Doogile is watching them talk. His hair is damp from the showers, soaking a wet spot onto one shoulder. There's a crease in his brow, like he's trying to figure something out.
Silverr turns away and follows Reign out of the locker room.
The next day Silverr shows early again, breathes in the arena’s cold, clean air and the quiet. He pulls on all his gear with practiced efficiency, then steps into the rink where he finds someone else already on the ice.
Doogile stands with pucks littered by his feet, taking methodical shots at the goal. He’s aiming them bardown, and they hit more often than not, ricocheting off the crossbar and sinking into the net. Silverr thinks he genuinely goes a little breathless watching the precision in the twist of his forearm as he sends the puck exactly where he wants it, one perfect wrist shot after another.
One has managed to drift into the neutral zone, so Silverr skates up silently and takes the puck a little closer until it's hovering just over the line; lines up the shot carefully and snaps it right into the goal with a satisfying crack that breaks the rhythmic hits of frozen rubber against metal.
Doogile flinches hard, loses his edge, and if he were any worse of a skater, he would’ve gone sprawling onto the ice. Instead he rights himself and pivots back around, glaring at Silverr and the smirk he's biting back.
“Nice shooting,” Silverr says.
Another puck from the pile goes flying by Silverr's feet. Even though he's left his helmet and mouthguard aside, he doesn't flinch. Doesn't need to.
“You scared the hell out of me." Doogile stands his stick back to his side.
“It was a good shot, though,” Silverr coaxes, gliding his way up the ice until they're standing side by side. "Clean. All the way from the blue line."
Doogile crosses his arms, but there's the hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “I didn't see it."
"Shame."
"That depends."
"I'll do it again in practice." Silverr grins. "Just for you."
"Yeah?" Doogile's looking at him all pleased and flushed from the cold.
Like Silverr, his helmet has been ditched at the boards, and he keeps having to push his hair out of his eyes. It's very—sandy. The shade of it. Dark at the roots. Catches the sun and gleams flaxen between the tug of his fingers.
"Yeah," Silverr says. His mouth suddenly feels very dry.
He skates further from the net, as though maybe putting physical distance between them will pull him away from errant thoughts about Doogile's pretty blond head.
"C'mon," he calls, a little louder than necessary, "are we warming up, or what?"
Doogile responds by sending a pass to centre ice, quick enough that the puck blurs into a dark smudge. It connects neatly with the blade of Silverr's stick, and something that had felt disjointed notches into place. The shift of Doogile's expression makes sense; why it's all bright and warm with satisfaction. Hockey makes sense. It's so easy to let the world take a backseat.
What makes no fucking sense: Doogile cornering him when they’re on a break. Silverr is sitting in the stands working at his lunch, some kind of chicken-vegetable-brown rice combo he threw together haphazardly earlier in the week. Reign was here, but he'd left to take a call, or something. And the next moment Doogile appears like a spectre in the row just in front, leaning in against the folded-up plastic seats to look up at him.
"Hi." Silverr can't think of anything else to say. They'd split off after the rest of the team started filing onto the ice, and Doogile had spent the second morning much like the first, keeping to himself, talking only when a coach asked him a question or when he was paired up for drills.
"Hey." Doogile shifts his weight, darting away from the eye contact then back. He looks unsure. "Wanted to ask you something."
"Okay," Silverr says.
"I heard you talking yesterday. When you were leaving."
"Okay," he says again.
"Um—sorry, this is stupid." Doogile ducks his head and breathes out, harsh through his teeth. Silverr opens his mouth but he doesn't know what to say and the words stick fast in his throat.
It's a relief when Reign chooses this moment to sidle back to his seat, slipping his phone into his pocket. He looks between the two of them slowly. "What's up?"
Neither of them responds, so Reign brushes it off and turns to Silverr.
"You might need a different ride today. Something came up with… my agent." He gestures apologetically towards his phone. "Sorry, man."
"Don't worry. I wasn't expecting it to be like—every day," Silverr says. "Everything all good?"
"You know how it is," Reign says vaguely.
Doogile says, "I can. Drive you, I mean. We're," he makes a wave-y gesture, "in the same direction."
"You're downtown?"
"Near a park."
"Oh." Silverr pauses. "Same."
"Perfect." Reign beams, clasping his hands together like he's just struck a deal. "Didn't you have something to ask, Doog?"
"No," Doogile says, quickly. "No, I… I've figured it out."
Come the end of the day, Silverr finds himself following Doogile to the parking garage beneath the rink.
He drinks in all the details like they'll reveal something, except he doesn't quite know what he's trying to piece together. A charm swings from the keyring slotted between Doogile's fingers; some kind of dog, Silverr thinks. They stop at a practical, compact car, the same shade as the concrete pillar it's parked next to.
Their gear is tossed in the trunk, two identical bags side-by-side. When Silverr takes the passenger seat, he finds the inside is about the same as its exterior; clean, new-car smell still clinging to the grey cloth seats, pine tree air freshener hanging above the dash. Nothing in the back.
"It's a rental," Doogile says, as though he knows what Silverr's thinking. "I'm not this boring usually."
"I didn't say that," Silverr protests, but now his thoughts wander alongside his eyes, pencilling in all the empty spaces. Wondering if Doogile's the type to keep a cushion or two in the back, a paperback in the seat pocket. Tinted windows and sunglasses clipped to the rear-view mirror. He's a California boy, and it's sunny there as far as Silverr knows, so maybe.
Silverr knows things about Doogile like the precise curve of his stick blade, that it's a custom one, a hybrid between a couple commercially available options; that he likes the power it gives to his slapshots and the control when he's stickhandling the puck.
Nothing like—his favourite colour. The kind of air freshener he keeps in his car.
"Silverr."
His breath catches, and the guilty twist in his chest feels like he's been caught wanting something he shouldn't. "Yeah?" he ekes out.
Doogile glances over. Eyes him a little weird. "Where's your house?"
Silverr exhales like he's taken a rough check and leans over the console to punch his address into the GPS.
The sky is streaked with gold when they pull into the street outside. The heater finally starts up, everything moving like molasses, slow and syrupy, as the day burns down to embers.
Silverr is already getting restless with the silence. He finally relents when they stop at an intersection, and they're just left with the low hum of the engine to fill the space.
"Do you seriously drive with no music?" he says, a little despairing. "Radio, anything?"
Doogile flicks his blinker on. "No. Am I supposed to?"
"Yes," Silverr says, incredulous. "It's so quiet."
"Put something on, then."
"Do you even have an aux cord?"
"Glove box."
The cord is the only thing in there besides a pen and a couple post-its, folded once. Silverr plugs everything in and thumbs through his music library critically.
"What do you like?" he asks.
"Anything's fine."
Fuck, Silverr thinks. Out loud, he says, "Alright."
Before he can overthink it, he puts some indie pop mix on shuffle and drops his phone into the cup holder. Acoustic guitar layered with synth filters through the speakers. He sneaks a glance at Doogile for approval, but he's making a turn, and his eyes are on the road.
It's easier, now, to tip back against the headrest and let the streets blur as the high-rise buildings fall away into suburban homes. Doogile drives like he plays hockey; so smooth it’s textbook. Adhering precisely to the limit, slowing for speed bumps.
The sun sets properly during the drive, and Silverr is drifting off by the time they pull into his place.
"We're here," Doogile says when he parks, a touch to Silverr's shoulder, and Silverr jolts up so quick he nearly hits his head on the low roof. "Oh, my god, careful."
"Sorry," Silverr mutters, shaking Doogile’s hand off. His heart is going far too rapidly. He opens the door and the chill of the night air stings his face. Before he goes, he pauses and adds, "Thanks for this."
"I'm only a couple streets down, so…" Doogile drums his fingers over the wheel. "Anytime."
"Yeah. Yeah," Silverr says.
"Don't forget your phone."
"No. Thanks."
Doogile idles in the driveway until someone comes to the door to let Silverr in, and he reminds himself it's just good etiquette but a burst of warmth edges behind his sternum anyway.
It's not supposed to become a thing, but they are hockey players and all they can work with are things. The routine makes them tick, rituals that maybe do nothing but are etched so deep into muscle memory they do everything.
In the weeks of training camp—a strange, malleable period—come the additions. Addendums. A new running circuit around a new block. A different cafe, his hometown regular thousands of miles away. Silverr sliding into the passenger seat of Doog's boring, practical rental in the mornings and putting on whatever music he happens to be listening to.
"What is it today?" Doogile asks as he reverses out of the driveway.
Silverr shows him the album and he hums in acknowledgement. It's something jazzy, piano and guitar and snare drums, words melting together in the singer's slow, soft voice. "Too sad, you think?"
Doog shakes his head. "It's calming."
Then they lapse into silence.
There's tension in the air. Silverr can't sit still, leaning back against the headrest one moment and shifting right to the edge of his seat the next. One hand wraps around the door handle like he's got a stick in his hands, winding up for a shot; the other presses under his leg to stop it fidgeting. Doogile stays stock-still but taps his fingers against the wheel and keeps checking his mirrors like there's something on their heel.
Prudential Centre passes by outside Silverr's window, a blur of concrete and glass. The GPS blinks directions to Newark International Airport.
Across a state line in two days, the pre-season games will round out their training camp. Just exhibition matches. Six divisional rivals showing off their prospects leading into the regular season. They’ll play New York first, who are the closest to home ice besides Buffalo; then Ottawa, and then Boston.
All they have to do is step into the rink and give the audience a show. A game's a game, though, and a game is something they need to win.
Silverr itches to make conversation, even with the quiet undercurrent of music filling the car. But he thinks Doogile understands how he feels implicitly, and whatever Doog's thinking from a place like his, Silverr can't figure out at all.
So there's not much to say.
Buffalo, New York
Prospects Challenge
Puck drop's in half an hour, and Silverr needs to get onto the ice right now.
It's been one of those days that drags on, the hours clinging to each other stubbornly. But they've managed to inch by because he's standing in the tunnel leading out to the rink and there's a crowd filling up the stands.
He's not sure of the turnout pre-season matches draw, but he knows he's played in front of larger audiences for higher stakes. The Memorial Cup, back with Canada. World Juniors hosted in Toronto, one of those hockey cities that lives and breathes and bleeds the game, had been sold-out arenas and being recognised in the streets and a loss that felt all the more crushing under the hefty gaze of his whole nation.
Somehow this feels—more.
They're not even on New Jersey ice.
But he's decked out in yellow and navy for the first time, where he's used to Vancouver's black and silver and red. He's been put on the starting lineup, right wing, and his centre is the prospect half the audience is here to see.
This game doesn't mean much at all, but he can't help but feel like this is where it all ends. Or where the hockey world opens for him in infinite, spiralling, possibility.
When they're finally let onto the ice, they're met with noise from the crowd and music with the bass cranked so full and low it thrums through his bones. Silverr gives himself one lap to drink in all the clamour, wraps it around himself like a safety blanket.
Then he tries to fall back into routine. There's a strange sort of rhythm the rink settles into during warmups, a hazy automatic edge to the movements. Predictable, comforting.
He exchanges passes with Reign across the full width of the rink. Stretches out the stiffness in his limbs. Moves onto stickhandling down the edge of the boards, forehand to backhand to forehand. The team gets together to practice with their goalie, aiming pucks at his net like they're in a shootout.
As the last minutes tick down, Doogile stands at the empty net and flicks shots top shelf one after the other while Silverr feeds him passes. Then, taking a puck way back to the blue line, Silverr sinks a goal in with a clean snap shot. For luck.
That gets a reaction from the crowd, but Silverr's waiting for Doog to join him, flashing a brief smile as he skates back.
Warmup corrals the restlessness bounding through him into a buzz beneath his skin. That's something manageable that never settles, not until the game's over.
They take the puck off the draw—Doog's always good with his face offs—and Silverr cuts between New York's Falcons in pursuit. Every inch of him thrills with the elation of playing again.
It's the feeling he gets the first game after every summer, only amplified tenfold. Where he learns all over again that this, this, is the place for him. He loves this game down to his bones and there might not be room for anything else and he'd be okay with that.
Even when the horn blows for the end of first and the scoreboard stays stubbornly stuck at nothing-nothing.
And not for lack of trying, either. New York's got solid defence and a brick wall in front of their net when the Thunder do get a shot on goal. Their coach is saying something about their strategy, probably chewing them out, and Silverr's barely listening with a tablet in his hands and lip caught between his teeth.
Doog leans into him, pressed together shoulder-to-shoulder on the bench. He's running hot, just off a shift right before intermission, and his arm burns a line of heat down Silverr's side.
"There," he says, voice almost lost beneath the crowd. He turns his head to speak into Silverr's ear, warm breath fanning over his cheek. A finger touches the blurry frame of New York's goalie on the screen. "See, the puck's there. It just got caught on his pad."
Silverr curses. "I should've aimed higher."
"Maybe." Doog reaches over Silverr to rewind the footage. "Dunno if you had time to be any more accurate, though."
"Still. Could've been a goal."
"Think you needed more space," Doogile starts, in that tone that means he's got more to say, and Silverr ducks in to listen like his words are precious, close enough their heads bump together and the tablet's balanced precariously over both their laps.
Halfway through second period, Silverr's got the puck deep in their team's defensive zone and misjudges a pass. One of the Falcons' forwards capitalises on the mistake with ferocity, and the score is one-nothing in a heartbeat.
The Buffalo crowd loves it. Silverr gets off the ice after forty-five seconds with his ears ringing and a taste in his mouth like that stings like bile. He doesn't make eye contact with the forward jumping the boards to take his shift. Doogile joins him fifteen seconds later, pushing the tablet into his hands and muttering, it happened, nothing you can do, get that back from them, yeah?
Later, that same New York forward gets sent to the penalty box for elbowing during a scuffle for the puck.
Silverr knows their power play is good so he breathes slow at the face-off dot and hopes his opponent doesn't see the tension in his shoulders.
He wins it. Then Doogile scores thirty seconds into the penalty like he's got something to prove, and Silverr feels a little lighter as he drags Doog into a brief hug.
The clock ticks over into third, still one-all.
It's been a frustrating game, the kind that prickles under his skin like an itch, energy from the first period drained. The audience feels it too, a frenetic tension fissuring through the stands with every almost-goal. Silverr really doesn't want to play an overtime, but no one can seem to break the tie.
A shot. Blocked by a defenceman before it ever reaches the crease.
He takes another shot, and a hard hit. Both teams are playing safe, avoiding injury before even reaching opening night. But this practically felt like boarding; the force of him slamming against the plexiglass wrenching his vision on its axis. Or maybe he was just too riled to properly brace for the impact.
Either way none of the refs call it, New York’s defender skates off, and Silverr rolls out the dull ache in his arms.
Doogile raises his voice as he passes to say, "You okay?"
"Fine," Silverr replies through gritted teeth.
There's no time for anything more. They split off.
One of their team gets two minutes for cross-checking. Silverr spends most of the penalty kill on the bench and restless, leaning so far into the rink he’s probably risking an interference call.
He's worried about their defence without Fein. Reign just barely makes a block and he flinches on the spot. At one point Doog shoots him a look and lays a hand on his knee to stop it from fidgeting.
New York doesn't score.
At this point Silverr just needs to see something happen.
Two minutes left of third. Silverr's dogging the steps of one of the Falcons' forwards who's got the puck, blocking him from the net. Doog is right there with him, turning in a slow, wide arc, watching, waiting for—
An opening. The turnover happens so quick Silverr almost misses it, but Doogile's already gone, sprinting down the edge of the boards. Silverr, taking the cue, follows him down through the centre of the ice.
Doog skates straight for the goalie like he's sizing up his defence, gunning for the goal. He doesn't spare a glance to his left.
At the last—the very last—second, he passes.
It connects to Silverr's blade like the puck's magnetic. He's by the net, right where Doogile wants him, right where they're both expecting it. Every other person on the ice is scrambling—the goalie jerks to his right, reaching out—but Silverr’s already got the goal. It flies in top left.
And that's it. Doog skates up as their team's song plays over the speakers and gets an arm around Silverr's shoulders, bulky glove curved around his upper arm, helmets knocking together. He's breathing hard and grinning wider than when he stood in that Toronto rink with the gold.
"It's just pre-season," Silverr chirps, breathless, "what are you smiling so hard for?"
Doog pulls away and shoves him. "Get back to the bench."
The goal is so late the game's practically over. They're just playing keep-away with New York, but the lead is barely anything and Silverr doesn't relax until the final horn sounds, and they can leap the boards with the rest of the team.
He's won them their first pre-season game. Proved something more. The feeling is heady and almost too much.
In the locker room, Doogile gets tapped first for media. Silverr can just about catch a glimpse of him between the reporters around his stall: he's thrown a Thunder-branded hoodie over his compression shirt, hair wet, face flushed. A polite half-smile is fixed to his expression.
Their questions are the typical post-game fare: a whole lot of nothing. Doog puts on his PR voice and obligingly explains the team's strategy, though he knows what they're interested in is a snappy little quote from the first overall draft pick.
One asks him an objectively stupid question about his assist that makes Silverr duck his head to hide the way he cringes. But Doogile seems to—melt, a little. Tension loosing from his shoulders as he leans into the phone's mic.
"I mean, obviously I'm not sending it and hoping—" A smattering of laughter, "—but I knew Silverr had it. He's always kind of, uh, in the right place."
He catches Silverr's eye in all the commotion, peering through the gap left between a mic and the spiral binding of someone's notepad.
There's your fucking soundbite, Silverr thinks. But all he wants is to pull that phone from the reporter's hand and rewind the voice memo just to hear Doog say it again.