Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ever since Georgie joined the team, things have been confusing. David knows it’ll likely settle down, that it’s only been two weeks, and Georgie joined them on the road, has yet to play a home game with the Capitals. Road trips can be a pressure cooker, but things always settle down at home, when everyone can get a break from each other.
It’s just — Robbie’s gone back to normal with David, mostly, except when Georgie’s around. And since the night Robbie yelled at David, Georgie always seems to be around, like a shadow, if Robbie’s shadow could be half a foot taller and look nothing like him.
More than one Capital has referred to Robbie and Georgie as the married couple, which David doesn’t understand, because they’re constantly fighting. It’s married Capitals calling them that, too, and David doesn’t know why anyone would ever get married if that’s an example of marriage. Robbie seems to genuinely hate Georgie, and Georgie goes back and forth between being nice to Robbie and snapping back at him, which is just — it’s all very confusing.
Obviously they have to play together, and they have stalls beside one another in the locker room, but David doesn’t know why they don’t just ignore one another the rest of the time, steer clear when possible. It certainly doesn’t make sense for them to bookend David at dinner after a matinee game against the Rangers. David hopes they’ll be civil, or even ignore one another, because David likes them both individually, but when they’re together he feels uncomfortable.
It seems fine at first: Robbie talks to David about the latest episode of Breaking Bad they watched, Georgie talks to Matthews across the table. David’s started to relax once the entrees arrive, but then Georgie asks “You want it?” right in the middle of one of Robbie’s sentences. David looks over at him, frowning.
“What?” Robbie snaps.
“You’re staring, you want my veg?” Georgie asks. “Trade you for your broccoli.”
“Fine,” Robbie says. “Give me your plate.”
Georgie picks up his plate, hands it to David, and this is — weird, especially because Robbie’s scowling as he takes it.
“He eats like a child,” Robbie says to David. “Won’t eat his vegetables.”
“Broccoli is a vegetable,” Georgie says.
“Yeah, well, part of being an adult is eating more than one thing,” Robbie snaps.
“Islanders tomorrow,” David says quickly, because he thinks an argument is about to start, and he can hardly walk away in the middle of dinner.
“How’re you feeling about it?” Robbie asks, sounding normal again, “First time back, right?”
Considering the media after he and Oleg left, it’s not going to be a warm welcome from either the team or the fans.
“They’re probably going to boo me,” David says.
Probably is understating it. David knows they’re going to boo him. Maybe they’ll boo Oleg, maybe they won’t. David hopes they won’t. Oleg gave them a lot, he doesn’t deserve to be booed.
“Anyone goes after you—” Robbie says.
“Count on anyone but Lombardi,” Georgie says.
“You know what, fuck you, you don’t get any broccoli,” Robbie says, and hands Georgie his plate back through David.
Matthews raises his eyebrows at David, and David grimaces back at him.
“Any tips on the Isles defence?” Matthews asks just as Georgie opens his mouth. It’s a relief to be able to answer, especially because Georgie and Robbie are both quiet, paying attention, and even when David’s done they don’t go back to snapping at one another. Matthews pantomimes wiping his brow after a few minutes of silent, slightly uncomfortable eating, and David smiles tightly back.
A few of the guys drift off to the bar after dinner, since it’s still early, and David hurries to sit beside Oleg when Salonen gives up his seat.
“Robbie and Georgie are being weird,” David says.
“I do not want to know,” Oleg says.
“You’re an A,” David says, frowning.
Oleg gives him an unimpressed look. “I do not want to know,” he repeats firmly.
“Maybe I should talk to Quincy,” David says.
“Quincy is aware,” Oleg says. “Stay out of it.”
“I can’t,” David complains. “They’re always around and they’re always fighting.”
“I do not want to know,” Oleg says, turning back to his meal.
“Fine,” David says, frowning again, then goes to find Robbie. He’s left his own seat, now sitting in a booth in the corner — thankfully with Matthews instead of Georgie — the two of them watching a Celtics-Knicks game.
David doesn’t mind sitting across from them, back to the TV – he doesn’t care much about basketball outside the Raptors, some Pistons games he watched so he would know who Jake was talking about, get a bit of a feeling for how awful they were, despite Jake’s protests to the contrary.
He orders beer when the waitress comes by, frowning when she returns to the table with a murky brown drink, but she’s already halfway across the bar before he can say anything. David looks dubiously at it. It’s beer, he knows, but it doesn’t look particularly drinkable.
Matthews wanders off to talk to Crane before David can force himself to take a sip, and when he finally does he regrets it.
“Not a stout man, Chaps?” Robbie asks, sounding amused.
“I guess not,” David says.
“That’s not a stout, it’s a porter,” Georgie says, then sits down beside David, seemingly oblivious to the way Robbie immediately starts glaring. “I think they’ve given up on serving the main table, I’ve had an empty pint for like twenty minutes.”
“You can have mine if you want?” David says. “I had a sip, but —”
“Thanks babe,” Georgie says, reaching over for it. David feels himself go red immediately, and he knows there isn’t a chance Robbie and Georgie haven’t noticed. He thinks he should probably say something, that there’s some kind of response that’s considered correct, but he doesn’t know what it is, so he’s left frozen, caught out and mortified.
“Don’t worry,” Robbie snaps. “You don’t have to jump back three feet and yell ‘no homo’. He’s not flirting, he just calls everyone babe.”
“Hey, I could be flirting,” Georgie says, grinning at David before taking a sip of his abandoned drink. David didn’t think he could go any more red, but he might be, right now.
“Um,” David says, looking away from Georgie’s smile, “I have to talk to Kurmazov about something, could you please let me out?”
Georgie scoots out of the booth, and David keeps his head down, sliding out without looking at him. He doesn’t end up going over to Oleg, though he’d intended to, if only so his excuse wasn’t a lie. He really doesn’t want to deal with the grin and the wink from him right now, that sign that everyone knows, everyone must know, that it’s an open secret and David’s stupid if he thinks the entire Capitals roster isn’t snickering behind their hands that David Chapman — that pretty boy, who wouldn’t think he was gay? — honestly thinks he’s getting away with anything.
He goes to the bar, orders a beer he knows is safe, and then, after a second, a glass of scotch, remembering Kiro’s advice on shots. He looks back at Georgie and Robbie once he’s ordered, hoping they aren’t looking back. They aren’t. They’re arguing, which David is starting to find normal, but at least that means they aren’t looking over, laughing at him for not even being able to talk to Georgie without going red. They must have noticed. Everyone probably did. Georgie was on the team that dubbed him pretty boy, and babe really doesn’t feel very far from that.
Georgie comes by a few minutes later, and David can feel himself going tense, tenser when Georgie’s fingers brush over his wrist as he sits down on the stool beside David’s.
“Sorry,” Georgie says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
David almost says ‘you didn’t’, but he doesn’t think it’d be very believable. “It’s okay,” David says instead.
“Robbie’s right, I kind of say it to everyone, bad habit I picked up from my mom I guess,” Georgie says. “I’ll try not to call you that, but I might fuck up, so sorry in advance.”
“Okay,” David says. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Georgie pats the back of David’s hand, and David feels his neck go hot.
Georgie pulls his hand back. “Don’t like being touched?” he asks. “I’m fucking up all over the place, here.”
“No, it’s,” David says. “It’s fine.”
“Sure?” Georgie asks.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” David says.
“Okay,” Georgie says. “I still owe you a drink, hey?”
“I’m going to head back after this one,” David says.
“Another time, then,” Georgie says.
“Yeah,” David says. “Another time.”
When David finishes his drink he goes over to Robbie, nursing the end of his own beer. “Want to head back?” David asks.
“Sure, Celtics are a lost cause anyway,” Robbie says, “And you need to tell me the game plan for tomorrow.”
“I’m not the coach,” David says. “I don’t—”
“Robo-Chapman, relax and tell me everyone’s weaknesses,” Robbie says. “You’re like Terminator good at that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” David says, but does his best to give Robbie the information he needs to better defend tomorrow.
David sleeps well enough that night, but the next morning he wakes with a pit in his stomach. It doesn’t go away with breakfast, just worsens, especially once they’re at Barclays, which is familiar but not, David feeling like he’s going the wrong way when he walks to the visitors’ room.
Oleg doesn’t look any different than usual, but David wonders if he feels the same way, thinks he must, after all the years he spent — not here exactly, in this arena, but with this team, this management, these staff. Oleg quietly greets a few people in the halls, but David keeps his head down, walks as straight a path as he can to the room.
Everything’s backwards. The room is dingy, cramped, the way visitors’ rooms usually are, though not as bad as some arenas he’s played in. David’s on the wrong side of the ice for warm ups. David’s wearing the wrong colours. He doesn’t regret leaving, he hasn’t regretted leaving even once, but everything’s strange. It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t feel right.
“You’re okay,” Oleg says to him in warm ups, hand landing on his back. It isn’t a question.
“Okay,” David agrees.
“Davey Chapman,” Benson calls from ten feet away, just when the knot in him starts to loosen. David wasn’t aware his name could be said so mockingly, but if anyone could manage it, it’d be Benson.
Oleg looks up. “I don’t want any bullshit, Benson,” he says, loud enough to carry. A few Capitals and Islanders look over curiously, and David feels his cheeks burn.
“You’re not my captain anymore, Kurmazov,” Benson says, but he doesn’t say anything else, skates back over towards the Islanders’ net.
“You’re okay?” Oleg asks, a question now.
“You didn’t have to do that,” David mumbles.
“Like I said,” Oleg says. “I don’t want any bullshit. It is not about you.”
That’s obviously not true, since said bullshit was directed David’s way.
“Thanks,” David says, and Oleg grabs his shoulder, shaking it almost gently, before skating over to Quincy.
“Benson’s a loudmouth, but he’s harmless,” Georgie says, skating past a minute later. David’s sure he is, to Georgie. He’s seen what Benson’s like with Jake, and he imagines he’s no different with Georgie. Georgie, who’s charismatic, friendly, popular, and the last person someone could get away with bullying, especially because he has half a foot on David, and therefore Benson.
All David can think of is what Benson was like when they were ostensibly on the same side. He doesn’t really want to find out what he’s like now that they’re opponents, but he doesn’t think he has much choice in that.
The game can’t start fast enough. David spends the anthem wishing they’d dropped the puck already, wishing the game was over, his typical anticipation twisted into dread. He doesn’t know what to expect. He knows not to expect anything good. This crowd hates him, and he knows that. It’s fine. He’s prepared for that.
The Islanders fans don’t boo Oleg, which David is thankful for. It seems like it at the outset, because every time Oleg’s on the ice there’s a healthy round of jeering, but soon David realises the boos only start whenever the puck touches David’s stick, sometimes trail on after he passes it off. He expected them, at least, knew it was coming. He thought he’d braced himself for it, told himself he had ignored worse before, but it’s so distracting, and David isn’t playing as well as he could, as well as he wants to.
It doesn’t help that everywhere David goes, Benson follows. Benson’s on the first line, which says a lot about the state of the Islanders, is explanation enough for their spot in the standings. It also means he’s on the ice when David is, and he always seems to be in the same place, getting in the way every time David’s trying to do something, like he’s been told to shadow David. Or maybe he decided to do that himself. Neither would surprise David.
In the first, Benson trips David twice without a call, brings his shoulder up on a hit that David shakes off, used to opponents bigger than Benson, and commits so much interference David’s faintly astounded he hasn’t been called. So is Quincy, judging from the number of conversations he’s had with the refs.
“I don’t think he likes you,” Robbie says during the second, when David returns to the bench flexing his hand, trying to shake off the sting of a slash.
“He doesn’t,” David says. “He’s never liked me.”
“Benson’s a little prick,” Oleg says, and David stares at him.
“He always has been,” Oleg says, looking out at the ice and not at David.
“Yeah,” David says.
“He wants to spend his time chasing you and losing the game, we let him,” Oleg says, chin tilting up to the Jumbotron, the shots at 18-7, the score 1-0.
“Right,” David says, “You’re right.”
The next shift against Benson’s line, David reminds himself that Benson’s only hurting the Islanders, and Oleg punctuates that in their following shift with a goal. There are a few scattered cheers when Oleg’s name is announced, followed by boos from the entire arena when David’s mentioned for the assist.
“That’s a beautiful fucking sound,” Benson says, skating by the Capitals bench.
“So’s the goal horn,” Robbie says beside him. “And only one of them means shit, move along minus two.”
Benson’s smirk drops off his face and he opens his mouth, but one of the refs gets a hand on his jersey.
“Not social hour, move it,” he says, and Benson goes back to his own bench.
David looks down at his lap, trying to bite back a smile.
“Yeah, I’m proud of that one,” Robbie says. “Robbie Lombardi, word master.”
“You’re a dork,” David says, giving up on biting it back.
“Oh shit, I’m a dork,” Robbie says. “I lost my word master crown to the Canadian champ, David Dorkmaster.”
“Oh my god, shut up, Roberto,” Matthews groans. “You make worse jokes than my dad.”
“David likes them,” Robbie says, elbowing David in the side. “Right?”
“You chirp better than you joke,” David says.
“I am defeated,” Robbie says, and then ducks when Matthews grabs a towel and whips it at him.
“We do have a fucking hockey game to play, gentlemen,” Coach says, directly behind David, and he straightens up immediately, watches Robbie and Matthews do the same.
“I don’t know these children,” Oleg says.
“Me either, Kurmazov,” Coach says. “Me either.”
The Capitals dominate through the second, going up 3-0. In the third, the Islanders break the shut out, but no one on the bench looks all that concerned. David doesn’t feel as relaxed as everyone else looks, but it was a deflection off Salonen’s skate, nothing that Richard could have saved — even Crane wouldn’t have been able to save that — and a two goal cushion isn’t safe, but time’s on their side.
Georgie buys them a nice bit of insurance with another goal on the power play, and there’s a roar from the crowd just as David’s getting back to the bench. David knows what that means without looking, but he does anyway, just to see who’s dropped the gloves.
“Is that fucking Robbie?” Georgie says behind him, sounding horrified.
It is Robbie. He has a fistful of Benson’s jersey, and it seems to be the only thing keeping him upright. Even that fails after a moment, and they go down, Benson landing on top of Robbie. He’s attempting to get another hit in when the linesmen step in.
They show a replay of the fight on the Jumbotron – it wasn’t very long – and David watches it while the refs confer, before handing Robbie an additional roughing call, and Oleg, groaning, has to climb right over the boards again to kill the penalty. Thankfully, they do; the Islanders power play was never good, and right now it’s ice cold, so the Capitals simply have to wait out the clock while the Islanders kill their own momentum. When Robbie gets out of the box, he comes straight to the bench with a towel over his nose, shoulders his way in between David and Georgie.
“How’d I do?” he asks, dropping the towel into his lap. Objectively, Benson won the fight. Robbie got maybe one good punch in, took at least five, and went down under Benson within fifteen seconds. Robbie’s nose is still bleeding sluggishly, and Benson looks like he doesn’t have a mark on him.
“You did really well,” David says. Georgie snorts, but he doesn’t argue, which is good, since Robbie’s already gotten into one fight today.
“Told you if anyone went after you I had your back,” Robbie says.
“Did he—” David starts. He doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer, if Benson’s been saying the things he always said to David, if he’s implied — if Robbie thinks —
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says instead.
“Eh, he was getting on my nerves,” Robbie says, shrugging, then tilting his head back so the trainer can get at his nose. “Had to get into my first fight eventually. I think Quincy was taking fucking bets.”
“For once in your life please shut up and let me do my job, Lombardi,” the trainer says.
“I had one hundred bucks on it being against Boston, fuck you, Bardi,” Matthews says.
“Thanks, Robbie,” David says.
“Hey, any time, right?” Robbie says. “Except not any time soon, my nose hurts like a fucking bitch right now.”
“Lombardi,” the trainer says.
“Sorry,” Robbie says.
David shucks his right glove, holds out his hand in a fist, and Robbie grins when he notices.
“They’re non-optional for being a bro, right?” David asks.
“Damn straight, Chaps,” Robbie says, and bumps his fist against David’s while the trainer glares at both of them.