“Ladies,” He croons, pointing finger guns at Tabitha. They laugh and wave him off, amused by his antics, and he settles in and begins stretching his arms. “How’s it going, Beth?” He asks, trying not to notice Linda's ever-watchful gaze.

Beth flicks water at him playfully. “I saw you talking to our fearless leader after class.” She says, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. It’s dramatic and usually Adam would eat it up because he loves gossip just as much as she does, but he just shrugs off her question and looks down at the water.

“Oh, yeah, he was helping me get to the bench. Remember when walking was easy?” He jokes, and for a minute it seems like she’s going to drop it (old people love talking about when they weren’t old, he’s discovered) but she presses on.

“Oh, I remember, but I’m not sure how getting his phone number helped you walk.” Beth glances at Justin, who’s currently stretching by the kickboard stand, but her mischievous smile vanishes the moment she looks back at Adam.  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” She places a comforting hand on his forearm and Adam winces, knowing his face must be doing that stupid wistful look he falls into nowadays.

He pats the back of her hand, turning to face her fully. “Don’t worry, Beth. It’s just a weird situation. I - ” Adam looks up at Justin, then back down at the clear water. The pink scar on his knee, usually straight as an arrow, dances as it refracts beneath the surface. “It's not going to work out,” Adam says, and Beth squeezes his arm silently.

There’s clapping and an echo-y greeting and then Justin’s starting class. The next thing Adam knows he's waving his arms and making waves with a bunch of septuagenarians. He looks ridiculous and his knee doesn't feel much better than it did last week but he's been told by every doctor and physical therapist he's seen that progress will feel glacial. He feels like a glacier himself when he exits the pool after class, wet and freezing and walking across the slippery tile at the speed of a mile per century. Just when he thinks he's going to have to sit down and scoot over to the bench on his ass there's a warm presence at his side. Before he can protest Justin has a steadying arm around his back and a hand under his arm.

"Thanks," He mumbles, gaze trained on the floor, as if knowing exactly which tile he's on will help him keep his balance. He uses the same technique in the shower and it’s worked so far.

Justin tightens his grip on Adam’s arm. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come today.” He says quietly, and Adam hates that he’s the reason Justin is so unsure. They take another step forward, somehow already in sync.

“I didn’t either until this morning.” Adam says truthfully. He hadn’t even set an alarm to wake up in time, but something had forced him out of bed. Justin smiles and Adam realizes, oh, that’s what.

“I’m glad you did. It’s like - you’re my coach, right? But here I’m kind of your coach so it feels more equal.” Justin raises his shoulder in a little shrug.

Adam can’t stomp down the burst of incredulous laughter that bursts from his throat. “Equal? You think me flopping around in the water is the same as watching you skate?” He doesn’t have words for how incredible Justin looks on the ice but he has a few choice ones for the mental picture he has of himself in the water.

Justin laughs and pats his side, and Adam's suddenly aware that he's still shirtless and soaking wet. “Well, you’re a very good flopper. Excellent form on your k-treads.” There's a smile in his voice but he also sounds genuine, as if he thinks Adam really is improving even though Adam couldn't agree less.

“Yeah, but I’m bad at every supine you throw at me.” Adam sighs, remembering how awkward he'd felt as he'd tried to maneuver himself into the position. It's been months since the accident but he still forgets that his body is going to fail him.

“You know, if you need any extra help with technique…” Justin trails off, and hope sparks in Adam’s chest for one perfect second before he carefully extinguishes it. He’s about to shake his head and explain why he can’t even if he wants when Justin continues. “You can ask Tabitha. She’s my best student.” Justin finishes his sentence just as they arrive at the bench, and Adam eases himself down carefully. He laughs, half in relief at arriving safely and half from the chirp.

“That’s cold, dude.” Adam says, leaning against the backrest as he begins to dry himself off in quick strokes. Justin watches him for a half second before looking around the room, checking over both shoulders before sitting down next to Adam. His knee presses into Adam's thigh, all light pressure and sudden warmth.

Justin sits in silence, hesitating for a long moment before speaking. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Adam stills his hands, letting the towel fall to his lap so he can turn to face Justin head on. “Sure. What’s up?” He tries to keep his voice light despite the small ball of dread that's formed in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Justin's going to tell him he shouldn't come to aerobics anymore - maybe he's going to ask if Adam will tell Hall and Murray how inappropriate he'd been - maybe he's going to ask Adam to resign and --

Justin's voice halts his increasingly panicked thoughts. “Can we like, be friends? Here, at least? You’re my coach and I’ll listen to whatever you say at practice and during games and stuff but." He cuts himself off with a short huff, trying to find the right words. "I don’t want to stop joking around or talking with you when it’s just us. Or would that violate the Coach Honor Code?” Justin's brows are downturned in worry but there's a small smile on his lips, and he looks so hopeful Adam's immediate instinct to turn him down is halted in its tracks. Adam's at a crossroad. If he says yes, he'll get too close. If he says no, he'll be alienating himself from the one person at Samwell he has a connection with. Justin's waiting patiently for his answer, face steady even as his hands pick at the hem of his shorts nervously, and it's the small, vulnerable motion of his fingers that makes Adam's decision for him.

“You know," Adam begins slowly. "No one mentioned that during the swearing-in ceremony of the International Society of Collegiate Ice Hockey Coaches, so...Yeah. Let’s do it.” Justin's beaming, and Adam can't regret his decision. He'll be careful.

Adam’s sitting in his first class of undergrad at the ripe old age of 23 and he’s surrounded by infants. Samwell is a liberal arts college so he knew he’d be in some core curriculum classes with other freshmen but he hadn’t expected how fucking ancient he’d feel. The beard definitely doesn’t help, he thinks, scratching along his jaw awkwardly. The stares he’s getting just might be the catalyst he needs to shave it.

He slumps in his seat, trying to look less massive in the sea of tiny babies he’s found himself in. Adam seriously considers leaving but the seats next to him had filled up far before the rest of the lecture hall. He’s encircled by fresh-faced eighteen year olds who keep asking him for pencils and checking if they’re in the right room. He’s trapped, surrounded on all sides, and if one more freshman laughs and places a hand on his arm he thinks he’s going to snap. Just when he’s planned the perfect escape route three familiar faces walk in.

It’s the freshmen defense: Chow, Nurse, and Pointdexter.

It makes sense that they’re here - all four of them are starting at the same time and have the exact same schedule constraints with games and practices. The more he thinks about it the more obvious it becomes, and it’s weird. It’s so weird. He’s worked so hard to keep a healthy distance between himself and the team - between himself and Justin - and now it all seems so futile. Maybe he could - would it be so bad if - it just might be possible for them to -

His circling thoughts are interrupted by a sudden flurry of movement in front of him. Chow, Nurse, and Pointdexter have spotted him and they’re settled into seats directly below him. Chow opens his mouth to speak but the professor saunters in and begins class before he can say anything. The professor begins to talk about attendance and expectations and Adam tries to pay attention, he does, but every expectation and boundary he'd constructed has knotted up inside him, tangled and heavy as it sits in the pit of his stomach. He can hear Nurse and Pointdexter whisper-fighting throughout class and every now and again Chow looks back at him like he’s checking to make sure Adam’s really there.

Adam’s there, all right. He’s pinned in by youths and Frogs and he doesn't know how to feel about any of it.

The rest of class passes in a long, awkward blur. He hears something about due dates and plagiarism and gender neutral language but Adam can't concentrate on any of it, too busy trying to determine exactly where to draw the lines between being a coach and classmate and friend and more without becoming the weird old guy who's hanging out with teenagers.

He's drawn from his thoughts by the sudden movements of everyone around him standing up and shuffling out. Class has ended, and he hadn't even noticed. He's just shoved the syllabus into his bag when Nurse stands and turns around, looking relaxed even in the chaos of a hundred-odd people flooding out of the room.

"Hey, C and Dex and I are going to get coffee and chill on the beach before practice." Nurse pauses, expecting an answer, but Adam stays silent. "You could like, come with us if you wanted." He continues, steady gaze falling directly on Adam's face. It's unnerving, being the sole focus of someone's attention outside of the rink. When he's there he can hide behind drills and the literal barrier between himself and the players, since he doesn't get on the ice with them, but now it's him and the freshmen. He looks between them, wondering if he should go. They're five years his junior but apparently his peers but there's still the strangeness of being their coach and if he's willing to be their friend then he can be Justin's friend and that leads to being more than friends and he's gone over why that's not possible too many times to count so Adam just shakes his head, halting the increasingly panicked flow of thoughts.

"Thanks, Nurse, but I'll see you at practice." Nurse nods, accepting the dismissal easily but Chow visibly deflates. Adam's stomach twists when the goaltender gives him a little wave and heads out of the lecture hall, Nurse and Pointdexter close behind him. As he slings his backpack over his shoulder he realizes he's not only uncomfortable; he's disappointed. He wants to hang out with them. Awkward as it may be, he wants to consider them friends - all of them, the entire team. He'd thought that the draw he felt towards Justin was a one-off, a moment of weakness that's dragged on far too long, but he's getting too close to the entire team to avoid the slippery slope of familiarity. If he becomes their friend, he'll be tempted to get closer to Justin when he's already promised that he won't.

Adam sighs and makes his way out of the lecture hall, taking his time on the steps. He has to stop and reset his position before every step, too cautious to place his full weight on his bad knee. Forward, pause, forward, pause. The halting rhythm is all too familiar these days.

In all honesty, Adam can't tell if he just had one of the best or worst Friday nights of his life. He'd had fun, but the objective fact is that spending the evening with a sixty three year old woman in a library because he doesn't really know anyone else in Samwell other than the players he's coaching sounds absolutely pathetic. Still, hanging out with Beth during her late shift had been a good time. He just has to come to terms with the fact that his closest friend is an elderly librarian he met in water aerobics.

Adam's been out of Founder's for all of thirty seconds when he hears the shouting and laughter of familiar voices across the quad, and before he can stop himself he’s walking past the Well to investigate. When he gets closer he’s greeted by the sight of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team parading four mostly-naked men by the pond. He's content to let them walk past and continue their - what did they call it? Hazeapalooza? - when Knight, who's leading the procession, stops suddenly. He turns in one sharp motion and points directly at Adam. He can feel the weight of each gaze drop on him as each team member looks over in quick succession, but before he can try to get away the team crowds around him.

"Hey, boys." He begins, a little worried by the intense look Knight's directing towards him. The team is eerily silent.

Knight's mustache twitches as he looks Adam up and down. "Were you just in the library? Studying?" He asks slowly. Adam's tempted to lie, but he's standing in the quad directly in front of the library, the only building open this time of night. It's either that or pretend like he just walks through campus alone in the dark.

"Yes? Why do you ask?" Adam looks at the team, hoping one of them will help him out, but they're all looking to Knight.

"Right, right, right, right, right, I forgot, you're a student." The glint in Knight's eye makes him distinctly uncomfortable. Objectively, he knows he doesn't have anything to be ashamed. Samwell offered him the opportunity to take classes while he coached and Hall and Murray hadn't ever seemed worried about his class schedule. He hasn't done anything wrong. Knowing it doesn't ease the churning in his stomach.

He takes a step back, feeling trapped by the circle of hockey playes around him. He's bigger than them but they have the distinct advantage of numbers and full physical ability. Adam swallows. "Uh, technically." He admits.

“Yeah, he’s in our seminar!” Chow, blindfolded and almost naked, adds, and Knight's eyes light up. Adam groans, knowing that light doesn't bode well for him. Knight cackles in unabashed glee.

"Technically...You're a freshman." He continues, speaking slowly as his intentions become clearer and clearer. Adam doesn’t like the turn things are taking one bit. 

Adam sighs, looking up at the dark sky, hoping he'll find some reservoir of patience he's buried deep. "I guess that's right."

"Which means you're a Frog." Knight points at him accusingly.

"No." Adam says firmly. "You have to be on the team to be a frog." Knight just takes another step forward, reaching out to place both hands on Adam's shoulders. Adam's not entirely sure why he's wearing sunglasses when it's already dark out; he can barely make out his own frowning reflection in the dark lenses.

Knight looks up at him for a long moment before nodding his head in one decisive burst of movement. "Yeah, you’re definitely a frog. We got another one!" Knight throws his hands in the air triumphantly as the team cheers, and Adam turns to Justin for help.

"He wants to initiate you." Justin explains. His sunglasses are resting on his forehead so Adam can at least see his eyes.

Adam shakes his head, holding up his hands. "Oh, I don't think that's appropri - " He sputters, but Knight refuses to drop it. He goes up on his toes to wind an arm around Adam's shoulders, bridging the height gap between them through sheer force of will.

"Fuck propriety! You're one of us, dude!" He yells directly into Adam's ear. Adam winces and leans away but Knight's holding on tight. He looks to Justin again, hoping he'll have some way to get him out of this, but Justin just shrugs and gestures to the team.

They’re all looking at him, and it’s clear that they want him to come. Even without the weirdness of being their coach, Adam’s hesitant to accept for another reason. They don’t actually want him, Adam Birkholtz, to come. They want Holtz, #4 for the Seattle Schooners and professional hockey player, to come. It feels disingenuous for him to accept when they won’t even get what they expect. Still...Chow somehow manages to look excited even when he’s blindfolded, and Bittle’s looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Even Jack is smiling, and when he glances over at Justin, who’s worrying his bottom lip, he can’t say no. He wants to be a part of this, even if he's told himself time and time again that it's not a good idea.

"I can't formally be a part of this, but...I did park my car by Faber, and if you're heading that way..." He trails off, unable to keep from giving in. The team cheers and they immediately set off, traipsing past the commons, through the North Quad until they reach Faber. Larissa unlocks the doors and the team storms in, running through the halls as they whoop and yell. Adam walks behind them, wondering how long he'll have to stick around before everyone else realizes just how strange it is that he's there. No one seems to notice as they weave through the building until they reach the rink itself.

The cool air drapes over Adam's shoulders when he pauses just before stepping onto the ice. He holds onto the boards with a white-knuckled grip, trying to work up the nerve to step off the rubber pads. Justin turns back, somehow already attuned to Adam’s every mood, looking back at him with concern.

“You good, dude?” Justin asks, making his way back to stand across from him.

Adam nods, an automatic reaction. “Yeah, it’s just. It’s been a while.” Three months and four days, to be exact. Justin hums, a low, throaty sound, and leans against the boards.

"You haven't been on the ice since it happened?" Justin asks softly. Adam shakes his head. His only solace is that Justin has seen him in far more embarrassing positions during water aerobics. Adam can feel Justin's gaze on the back of his hand but he doesn't dare let go of the boards. He's not even on the ice yet and he's nervous.

"You can make it," Justin says suddenly. When Adam looks up his eyes are intense but earnest; he really believes what he's saying. "I mean it. You haven't fallen once after aerobics class and it's less slippery out here than it is by the pool." Adam stares at him, considering, and Justin meets his gaze.

Adam has imagined this moment too many times to count, and he never, not once, considered that his return to the ice would be during the initiation of a team he's not even on when he isn’t even fully healed. He’d always skipped the recovery in his head, even though he objectively knows he’d have to do months of skating to get back into NHL shape. When he was in the hospital, or moping at home post-op, or when his physical therapist bent his leg into the most painful position possible, Adam always imagined stepping onto home ice in Seattle, the crowd screaming as he joined his teammates in a pre-game warmup. He’s supposed to be in a Schooner’s uniform and skates, not a faded Dunder Mifflin t-shirt and sneakers thousands of miles away from home ice.

The rest of the team hasn’t noticed his hesitance, yet, focused as they are on guiding their freshmen and captain to center ice and setting up the coolers of beer and fucking fire cones, apparently? Justin is watching and waiting, though, and Adam can’t distract him from bonding with his team, so he takes in a deep breath and steps onto the ice for the first time since that horrible day in June.

It’s really not that bad. The conditioned air is cool in his lungs and Justin’s gaze is heavy on him, but he has enough traction and caution to take a few steps, and then a few more, until he’s walking by Justin to join the team on center ice.

“You coming?” He ask when he moves past, and Justin’s soft laugh is enough to give him the confidence to keep walking, slowly but surely, until he’s joined the crowd. It’s strange how normal it feels to stand among them, and despite the divide he’s been so aware of, he realizes that there’s actually space for him here. Larissa hands him a beer while O'Meara and Wicks include him in their pre and post fist bump conversation, and Adam thinks he just might get away with this when Knight appears right beside him.

“C’mon, brah, I can’t make you strip because of professionalism or whatever, but you’ve gotta kneel if you’re being initiated.” Knight says. He places his hands on Adam's shoulders, trying to push him towards the Frogs who are already kneeling on the ice.

Adam shakes his head and stands his ground "I really can't - " Knight has enough sense not to try to shove him but he cuts him off nevertheless.

“No! No more of that, dude, you’re a part of this now!” Adam can't really argue with that. He's here for better or for worse. He turns around and Knight's suddenly right there, in his space, and Adam defaults to the truth.

“I mean I can’t, as in physically can’t.” He explains, and Knight immediately flushes in embarrassment.

“I fucked up, man, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t take accessibility into account, that’s on me.” He pulls off his sunglasses, voice low and serious for the first time all evening. He claps a hand on Adam's shoulder, giving the muscle a firm squeeze. It's oddly comforting coming from a man wearing only hockey pants and a mustache straight out of a 1970's porno.

Adam shrugs. “Nah, you didn’t know, I’ll be fine.” It's impossible to know who on the team knows the full extent of his injury. It was announced when he retired but he's not sure if anyone on the team read the press release. No one ever brings up his injury.

“No, we have to have your back. Rans! Get over here!” Justin hadn't gone far and is back at Adam's side in a flash. He immediately feels more at ease. Knight places his other hand on Justin's shoulder and addresses him seriously. “You are hereby charged with the sacred god damn duty of keeping this man safe. Do you accept?” He asks.

Justin's biting his lip to keep from laughing but he manages to nod gravely. “I accept.”

Knight whoops, the sound immediately echoing around the rink. “Fuck yeah. Let’s get this fucking thing started.” He slaps them both on the back before running back over to the initiates to begin the proceedings.

Bittle sidles up to him when Justin gets distracted by the frogs bickering. The forward’s shoulders are slumped as he looks down at the tupperware he’s holding. “I can’t believe Shitty won’t let me give them just one lil’ sweater! I was freezing during this part.”

“I don’t have much experience with Samwell traditions, but I don’t think there are pies in hazing.” Adam says, hands Justin the beer Larissa had given him as he speaks. Justin takes it seamlessly, almost as if he'd been expecting it.

“Maybe not, but…” Bittle trails off, looking up at him with a calculating expression. “It would make me feel a whole lot better if just one of the frogs got some pie.” He sways, rocking up to his toes. “And Shitty said you’re a frog.” He continues, looking far too pleased with himself.

“He said that, but that doesn’t make it true.” Adam says, worried by the glint in his eye. Bittle might crumple into a ball at the first sign of physicality but now he's advancing on Adam with a steely determination. Adam might be taller and broader but he has a sinking suspicion he's not going to get out of this unscathed.

“But you’re a freshman, and I’m a sophomore, which means I get to make you do whatever I want because I’m hazing you! You’re being hazed, Coach Birkholtz!” Bittle attempts something akin to an evil laugh, but it's more endearing than frightening. Adam crosses his arms and looks down at him, one eyebrow raised.

“You know, calling me coach really takes the wind out of the sails of your sophomore authority.” He points out. Bittle frowns and draws the stack of tupperware and sweaters close to his chest.

“You’re being hazed, Holtz!” Bittle tries, sounding triumphant until he looks up at Adam. His face falls, and Adam realizes he must be doing that wistful thing again. “I’m sorry, did I get it wrong? Ransom always called you that when he watched your games.” Justin’s currently shotgunning the beer three feet away from them but he sputters when Bittle drops that piece of information, white foam dripping down his chin and throat. Adam coughs and looks down at the ice, trying desperately not to think about Justin watching a game just for him, maybe even wearing his jersey, and fuck, if he lets himself go down this path he'll have to lay on the ice to avoid embarrassment. Adam shakes his head forcefully, trying to knock the mounting fantasies away as Justin cleans himself off with one of the spare bandanas.

“No, that’s me. Well, that was me. It’s, uh, it’s been a while since someone called me that.” Adam looks down at the ice, raising his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Eric Bittle is five feet and six and a half inches of Southern comfort and it feels safe to admit that he's not that guy anymore.

Bittle just nods, kind gaze trained on Adam's face. “We can call you something else." He says. "What other nicknames have you had? It feels weird to use your first name."

Adam can understand that. “Boys back in Juniors called me Birker.” He says with a wince, remembering the terrible nickname. Thankfully Bittle automatically shakes his head as Justin balks.

“Back in Toronto the boys all called me Ranser.” Justin commiserates, finally recovered from the onslaught of foam from his fumbled shotgun. Knight chooses that moment to wander by, sunglasses hanging off one ear and beer foam in his mustache.

“Oh, shit! Ransom,” He throws himself against Justin, wrapping one arm around his torso as he points to Adam with the other. “And Holster. Sick nicknames." Knight presses a sloppy kiss to Ransom's forehead, wandering off as quickly as he'd appeared. Adam barely notices him leave, too focused on the syllables echoing in his head long after the rink swallows the original sounds. Justin's staring straight at him, frozen.

Ransom and Holster. It's perfect. Something unknots in Holster's chest, some long-forgotten ball of tension he's been carrying around since he arrived at the first practice of the year. The shadowy corners of the rink seem brighter, the moonlight streaming through the windows more ethereal. Ransom's smiling and he is, too, and everything that seemed so wrong about his presence at Hazeapalooza fades away.

“Holster, you’re being hazed!” Bitty crows with joy, laughing in a way that would be maniacal if it wasn't so endearing.

“All right, all right, what horrors will you enact upon me?” Holster holds up his hands in surrender, completely at Bitty's mercy. He’s just a freshman, after all.

“You have to eat pie! So much of it! Before it gets cold.” Bitty thrusts the tupperware into his hands and opens the lid. The smell of fresh-baked pie wafts out immediately. He can tell that the crust is still perfectly crisp and flaky even though the warm pie’s been sitting in its own steam.

“Lay it on me, Bitty.” He says, and Bitty's smile grows impossibly wider. Yeah, Adam’s dreamed of returning to the ice a million times, but he never, not once, thought he’d end up eating still-warm-from-the-oven pie as he watches a mostly-naked Jack Zimmermann howl with his classmates. It’s nice to be Holster, for a little while. He's not sure how long it will last after tonight but for now, it's harmless. Most of the team won't even remember he's there, judging by the rate at which the cooler of beers empties. He watches the ceremony with the team but peels off when they decide to go back to the Haus.

"Holster!" Adam turns, body already attuned to the name. Justi - Ransom's jogging up to him, cheeks flushed. His sunglasses are hanging from the collar of his shirt and he's lost his bandanna somewhere in the chaos of initiation but he's smiling, clear and bright, and Holster can't help but grin in return. "I'm really glad you came, dude. Did you have fun?" He asks, idly rubbing his hands over his bare biceps to warm up now that they're out of the rink.

"I did. I didn't expect it, but I did." Holster says. Ransom's smile grows wider, and he holds out a fist for Holster to bump before he runs off to re-join the team. Adam feels warm as he wanders out to his car and drives home, his knuckles tingling long after he arrives at his apartment.

The first roadie is a deeply confusing experience.

Adam spends the first half of the bus ride in the front with Hall and Murray, bent over a clipboard as they determine the lineup and discuss various plays. It's only the first away game of the season so team cohesion isn't quite where it needs to be, but Adam knows that after a hard fought game and a night in a crappy hotel the team will be closer than ever. He discusses the state of the defensive line until his knee protests too much, and Hall and Murray finish up without him as he makes his way to the only open pair of seats that's tucked firmly in the middle of the bus. The team stares as he makes his way back, but the second he stretches out his leg on the seat they all seem to realize why he's ventured back there and the chatter picks up again. Justin is curled up in the row across from him, knees tucked against his chest as he devours the textbook in front of him, but before Adam can weigh the pros and cons of disturbing him Chow's head pops up from behind his head rest. Bittle's appears a moment later and he immediately gives Adam a small hand pie. It's still warm from the oven despite the fact that they've been in the bust for several hours, and Bittle just responds to his questioning look with a shrug.

"My moomaw - my grandma, that is - says that'll cure any ailment." Bittle's voice is matter of fact, as if his moomaw's advice is law. Adam nods, a little relieved that someone's actually acknowledging his injury, the huge, life altering thing that affects him every single day that no one ever wants to talk about.

"My grandma's the same way with her kneidel." Adam says. He's tried to keep the personal talk to minimum with the players, but even he can't pass up an opportunity to talk about his grandmother's cooking. Bittle's eyes light up and he immediately launches into a string of questions about the recipe, hardly stopping to breathe or to wait for Adam's answers. He's just asked about the texture for the third time when Jack cuts in.

He's seated next to Knight across the aisle from Bittle and Chow and doesn't look up from his book when he speaks. "Kneidel is another word for matzo balls, Bittle. You tried some at Passover last year." His voice is matter-of-fact but not cold, reminding but not chastising.

Shitty, who Adam had hoped was asleep, stirs in his seat. He leans against Jack, entering his space easily as he flops on top of the book. "Fuck yeah! Zimmerball soup was the tits!" 

The conversation turns to last year's Haus-wide Manischewitz-heavy celebration, but Jack just turns the page and settles in his seat. It's astonishing how he can capture the team's attention with a few words but always relinquishes it the moment he's finished.

 Adam leans his head back against the cool glass of the window and takes a bite of the hand pie. Blueberry, just like he'd mentioned at the first practice. The filling is warm and sweet and perfect and the crust gets all over his pullover and later, when he's brushing the final crumbs out of his beard in the home team's guest facilities after he's changed into his suit, he's surprised to find it may have actually worked.. He bends his knees experimentally, relieved that the muscles aren't seizing up after the long bus ride. He knows better than to put too much stock in it; there will be more ups and downs to come.

He stares at his reflection as he ties his tie, studying his own face intently. He looks better than he has in a while, but that's probably more to do with the fact he got his haircut at an actual barber shop instead of doing it himself. The navy suit he's wearing looks nondescript; he's hoping between the beard and the neutral color he won't stand out much.

The dressing room is a whirlwind of activity as the boys rush back and forth to find their gear. Jack's taping his stick with an intensity that's frankly frightening and Chow's eyeing a wayward puck warily as Knight's latest profane-laced rant carries over the general din of thirty-odd men clamoring about. He stops by Nurse and Pointdexter's booths to make sure they haven't started fighting yet (they have), swings by Bittle to give him a word of encouragement (I'm still thinking we can make a play out of that), and ends up by Justin just as he's lacing up his skates.

"Nursey and Dex still fighting?" Justin asks offhand as he ties the laces with sure movements. He looks up just as Adam's about to reply, eyes growing wide. Adam turns, concerned that something terrible is happening directly behind him, but all he sees is Ollie and Wicks taping each others shinguards. Weird, but not at all enough to warrant Justin's wide-eyed stare. When he turns Justin is looking him up and down, eyes tracing over the lines of his suit, and -- oh.

He must look better than he thought.

Adam coughs, once, and waits until Ransom's eyes are back on his face before replying. "They were, but I calmed them down."

Justin looks up at him in surprise, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. Oh, no. He's cute. "How'd you manage that?"

"You just have to remind them why they work well together." Adam explains with a half-shrug. Justin looks dubious and glances over at the frogs, but they're both pulling on their uniforms in relative peace. "Since we've got this three man rotation going you'll be there as a buffer." Adam says as he sits down in the empty cubby beside Justin, stretching his leg out in front of him. Standing for the next three periods isn't going to be pleasant. Justin's eyes flicker down to his knee; Adam can tell he's already planning Monday's water aerobics class in his mind.

"So I have to keep them from fighting and play?" Justin asks, lips turning down in a worried frown. He's been caught between the freshman too many times to count.

Adam immediately shakes his head. "No, I'll keep them from fighting. You just play and when they see your focus, they'll be focused, too." True to Adam's word, Nurse and Pointdexter are both concentrated on the game from the first puck drop to the last buzzer. They bicker between periods but Adam's always within earshot, stepping in to diffuse any chirps that threaten to become more. He's just switched their gloves back to the rightful owner (how on earth did they manage to trade mid-game?) when Larissa appears by his elbow. She's a steady, calming presence in the chaos of the dressing room.

"Hey, Larissa, did you see where I left that whiteboard?" He asks, glancing around the immediate area. He moves a bag to the side with his foot, hoping it hasn't fallen to the floor. The manager is silent beside him, but when he turns she's gazing up at him head on.  "Larissa." Adam repeats, confused by her silence. They stare at each other, as Adam scrolls back through every interaction he's ever had with her, trying to determine what he's done wrong. Nothing's changed, they've barely even interacted one one one since -

Adam sighs, wondering if his appearance at Hazeapalooza will finally stop haunting him. He glances around the room and leans in, hoping no one will hear him. "Lardo, do you know where my whiteboard is?" Adam tries.

The change is instantaneous. She immediately turns towards him, lips turned up in a satisfied smile. "It's right by Ransom's cubby, and here," she reaches into her pocket and produces a marker. "Is your marker. Let me know if you need anything else, Holster." He takes the marker and she's gone, walking to check in with Jack with another roll of tape already in her hand. Adam doesn't have time to dwell on the interaction, confusing as it was, and he whistles for the defensemen to gather around while he goes over their plays.

One victory later Adam's laying on a lumpy hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling while HGTV plays in the background. It's either that or QVC, and the last thing Adam needs is to order a bunch of shit he doesn't need because he's trying to distract himself from the strange place he's found himself. Just when he'd thought he'd let go of Holtz for good he'd suddenly become Holster. It's not just a nickname - it never is for hockey players. It's two syllables of possibility and a giant step over the line of professionalism and worst of all, he loves it.

When he'd been hurt last June he hadn't just lost his career; Adam had, for the first time in his life, found himself without a team. Holtz had the Schooners, Birker had the Waterloo Black Hawks, and Adam has no one but Holster - Holster has Samwell Men's Hockey.

Adam closes his eyes and lets himself imagine it: living in the Haus, having his own jersey, playing with them instead of coaching them. It feels right, too right, like there's a whole life just waiting for him in some alternate universe. Adam groans and heaves himself out of bed, needing to put some distance between himself and those thoughts. He can spiral all he wants when he gets back to his apartment, but on the road he has to keep it together.

Sighing, Adam grabs the ice bucket and his key and steps out into the hall. The fluorescent lights are harsh compared to the soft glow of the television he'd become accustomed to over the last hour. He rubs his eyes as he wanders towards the ice machine, knee protesting every step. When he turns the corner he jerks in surprise, unprepared to find Murray standing in front of the ice machine in a SMH sweatshirt and mussed hair. Murray nods, a quick greeting. They stand in silence, both waiting for the churning machine to fill the bucket.

"Good work tonight, Holster." Murray says suddenly, a sly smile playing on his lips. Adam almost drops the ice bucket. Murray just laughs softly, shoulders shaking as the ice machine grumbles beneath his hands. "Yeah, I overheard Larissa's power play." He explains, releasing the button once his ice bucket is full. The machine quiets to a soft hum.

"I know it's unprofessional," Adam begins, shrugging helplessly. "They just...decided." He says lamely, not wanting to lie but unable to say that he got the nickname when he joined in at initiation. Murray just laughs again and shakes his head.