#sourdy

It's a fleeting jealousy, maybe, when the new rookies debut. It wasn't long ago when he was the only rookie the Caps had, so he can't be faulted at the twinge in his chest when he sees another dude get their hair ruffled or the captain's attention.

At Rookie Camp, he stood there on the ice and looked around, determined. Not only were these guys vying for his spot on the roster, they were also, maybe unknowingly, gunning to stand between him and the team that welcomed him with open arms. Though, they never quite did last, and even if it made him feel guilty, a weight lifted off his shoulders every time one of them was sent down.

Justin, though, stuck around. Soon, he'd racked up more games than Leno, more goals. He was making fucking milestones in franchise history, and all Leno could do was sit back and watch. (Technically, he'd done more than just watch, getting an assist himself on one of his goals.)

The locker room is alive after the game, music pumping and bass spilling all into the hallway. Leno sits in his stall, gear half off and cheeks red, and watches as the guys jump around. 'Racks er'where, they showin' racks, I'm throwing racks.' He glances down at the ground, away from Zini's knowing eye, and toes his socks off.

It'd be easier if he didn't like Soursy so much. If he wasn't such a good bro, a good roadie roommate, funny as hell, a fucking good linemate.

Nevertheless—and Leno would die before he ever admitted it—it hurt. It hurts when, after the game, they go to their usual bar, the same one they went to after Leno's first goal. It hurts when, from the same corner of the same booth, he watches as Soursy gets passed drinks from their teammates and gets congratulated and gets their captain pressed into his side at the bar.

It's the worst when he leaves the bar with PLD and tucks into his own bed, staring at the popcorned ceiling until time for morning skate.