marie ✌️

“Okay, okay, wait,” Nado said through his laughter as he took the phone from Kuny. “They’re a six, but they’re a goalie.”

“Instant ten,” Finn said immediately.

“Thanks, Harz!” Kasey called offscreen.

“Not you!” Finn shook his head. “Uh, they’re an eight, but they put their right skate on before their left.”

“Oh, tough one,” Remus mused. “Eight and a half?”

“Ten,” Sirius answered. “I do that.”

“So that makes my vote a solid five.” Logan grinned as Finn passed him the phone; he dodged Sirius’ punch to his shoulder by less than an inch, then winced at the following smack upside the head. “That’s an abuse of power, asshole!”

“Bite me.”

Logan pulled a face at him before turning back to the camera. “They’re a five, but they play for the Snakes.”

“Zero,” several voices said in unison.

“Cap, your brother played for them. Be nice.”

Sirius frowned. “Negative one.”

“You literally look the same.”

Leo snorted as he took the phone. “Bold of you to assume anyone on that team is above a three. Okay, they’re a five, but they use a stick with the same flex as you do.”

A moment of quiet contemplation passed through the group. “Nine,” James finally answered. “I took a point off because I don’t like to share my sticks, but… that’s hot.”

“It’s hot,” Talker agreed. “Can confirm.”

Logan wrinkled his nose. “Ew.”

“Um, they’re a nine, but…” Kasey bit his lower lip in thought, then grinned. “But they dress exclusively in khakis and polo shirts for seven years.”

“Ten,” Sirius answered without hesitation at the same time Remus said, “fuck you.”

“You’re only giving Loops a nine?” Talker whistled lowly. “Damn, Bliz, harsh grade. They’re a six, but they drink blue Gatorade.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” James whooped. “That’s an eleven, baby!”

“Definitely at least an eight,” Olli said with a nod. “They’re a seven, but they have red hair.”

“Ten,” James, Leo, and Logan chorused. Finn gave the camera a pleased look while Olli handed the phone to Dumo.

“I just say how attractive someone is, then something that makes them more attractive, yes?” he asked. Various agreements came from offscreen and he hummed in thought. “What’s the grading scale?”

“A ten is someone very attractive,” Sirius explained. “So for example, Remus would be a ten. And then at the bottom is a one, like Tremzy—ow.”

“And so Celeste would be an eleven?” Dumo continued mildly.

“Sure—stop hitting me!”

“D’accord. Ah, they’re an eight, but they can bake madeleines.”

“Ten.”

“What’s a madeleine?”

Kota poked his head into the locker room and breathed a sigh of relief when he found it entirely empty. No bags, no music, no teammates still navigating that awkward line between “welcome to the team” and “I hate your fucking guts”, a line that had seemed to trap even the most positive players. Kasey was still nice, at least. Kota had missed their shared dry humor.

He gave the captain’s stall a wide berth as he passed despite being alone—as hard as Black was trying to be welcoming, Kota didn’t want to push his luck by messing up his stuff. The guy was superstitious as all hell. He’d probably notice if his jersey had been breathed on by the wrong person, and the last thing Kota needed was the captain crushing him into a grease spot with those massive arms and perma-scowl. The goal of his first season on the Lions was pure fucking survival.

He left his duffel on his bench and stretched, basking in the peace and quiet. Nobody was staring at him. Nobody’s silent judgment prickled his neck. Nobody was wandering around mostly naked and talking at the same time. Kota had been the subject of many chirps for his general embarrassment around naked people, but he figured he got a pass when those naked people were strangers. It wasn’t the goddamn YMCA—would it kill them to put underwear on now and then? O’Hara’s ass was permanently burned into his memory.

His ankle crackled as he rolled it out and he wrinkled his nose before trying again. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Perfect form would be the name of the game as he tried to earn the Lions’ respect. Anyone could score a goal. He needed to stand out just enough to ease the hatred into at least ignoring him.

Kota took another minute to limber up before wandering out of the locker room with a yawn. It wasn’t that early, but he had stayed up late enough that he could feel it lingering in the back of his head. The quiet rink with its lack of blaring, chattering noise almost made him more drowsy, and he stuck his hands in his hoodie pocket while he headed down the nearest hall. The floor plan wasn’t hard to remember—PT offices, Coach’s office, break room…

The break room didn’t sound too bad. A cup of coffee might even do him some good, shake off that sleepiness. From the rustling sounds he could hear inside, the nutritionist had probably arrived already. Maybe he could ask for some pointers. Maybe he could make a friend. Down the hall, something clattered, and Kota looked toward it as he reached blindly for the doorknob and pulled the door open.

A broom smacked him dead in the forehead. It was the third most surprising thing he found.

A strange sense of frozen calm came over him, then. There was simply no emotion to describe his… shock? Horror? Bafflement? Hysterical amusement?

Remus Lupin’s throat bobbed in a hard swallow, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. He licked his swollen lips and his cheeks grew even redder than before as he slowly straightened and pulled the captain—The Captain Sirius Black, Hockey Legend—up with him from where he had dipped The Captain Sirius Black, presumably to kiss him stupid.

Oh, yeah, somebody had definitely been kissed stupid. Captain Sirius Black looked even more rumpled, even more flushed, and even more embarrassed before a mask of total neutrality came down over his face. “Kota,” he acknowledged, clearing his throat and extracting Lupin’s hand from under his shirt.

Kota decided to be nice and not mention the hand still on his ass. “Captain.”

“You’re here early.” Lupin gave a brisk nod, wiping his palms on his pants. “Good habit.”

“I try.”

“Are we in the way?”

It was a true talent that Black could keep that poker face with at least three moderate hickeys in Kota’s direct eyeline. “No,” Kota said after a moment. “No, not at all. I was—I was looking for the break room.”

“Next door,” Lupin corrected.

“Yeah, I figured. I should probably go now.”

Lupin nodded. The Captain remained statue-still. “Probably.”

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“I’m just—“ Kota made a vague gesture toward the break room as equal parts mortification and hilarity battled in his stomach. “I’m gonna go? Uh, have fun?”

He regretted every single second of arriving early as he moved three feet down the hall. Even O’Hara’s bare ass would be a welcome replacement for The Captain Sirius Black’s freshly-flushed cheeks from what he assumed was a rather charged morning routine.

—

“Kota.” The post-practice conversation buzz dissipated like mist in the sun.

Fuck me. “Yes?”

The captain jerked his head toward the ice room and Kota prayed for a swift death. Then again, it was a little hard to take those biceps seriously when he had seen them flung around Lupin’s neck not four hours earlier. The captain turned to him with flinty eyes when the door swung shut behind them and all of Kota’s momentary faith in his mortality withered. “I’m sorry.”

Kota blinked. “You…what?”

“I’m sorry,” Black repeated. His ears were red at the tops and he coughed lightly. “The events of this morning were extremely unprofessional and I would like to apologize for any discomfort you felt.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Kota said, feeling rather faint.

“As you know, personal relationships have no effect on gameplay or any related aspects of the team. This morning was a lapse in judgment and it won’t happen again.”

How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that? “I don’t really care if you make out with your boyfriend,” Kota blurted.

Black’s eyebrows shot up and Kota considered laying on the floor to accelerate the grease spot process. “Pardon?”

“I—“ You fucking moron what the hell— “Full support, you know? Your business is your business. I’m an ally. I was here early, it was my fault. You guys can do whatever, whenever.”

“An ally,” Black repeated slowly.

Kota’s ribs felt like they were compressing all his internal organs. “A hundred percent.”

“You do know that’s not really what I was worried about, yes?”

“Mhmm,” he managed. Black looked at him expectantly. “I appreciate the apology. It wasn’t necessary, but it was…you know. Nice.”

“I’m working on it.” The awkward silence stretched for another few moments. “We can go back in now, unless you want to talk—“