Chapter 2

It's just one word, but Damir can hear Nash's tone in it --- exasperated and fond and worried all at once. Nash's good at that, at packing a thousand emotions into a single word.

He called me a slur, Damir types. What I was supposed to do? Smile? Say thank you?

Kai: No. You're supposed to do exactly what you did. I'm not mad. I'm just worried about you.

Damir's anger, which has been simmering at a low boil since the face-off, softens slightly. Just slightly.

I'm okay, he types. Promise.

Kai: Okay. Call me later?

Sam: After I deal with the media circus. Love you.

Kai: Love you too. Even when you're being an asshole.

Sam: Especially when I'm being an asshole.

Kai: Yeah, okay, you're right. Especially then.

Damir's grinning at his phone like an idiot when the door to the locker room bangs open and his teammates pour in.

"ZAITSEV!" That's Enzo, practically vibrating with excitement. "Holy shit, man, that was incredible! You fucking demolished him!"

"Did you see his face?" Blake is laughing. "He looked like he was going to cry!"

"Pretty sure he was crying," another voice chimes in.

Damir looks up to see half the team crowding around him, all talking at once, all grinning like they just won the Champion's Cup.

"Guys, guys." That's Coach Larsen, pushing through the crowd. He's not smiling. "Give him some space."

The room quiets down, but only slightly. Everyone's still buzzing with adrenaline, still riding the high of watching their star player beat the shit out of someone who deserved it.

Coach Larsen crouches down in front of Damir. "Let me see your hand."

Damir holds it out. It's definitely swelling now, the knuckles already turning purple.

"Ice," Coach Larsen says. "Now. And you probably need X-rays."

"Is fine."

"It's not fine, it's fucked. Come on." Coach Larsen stands and jerks his head toward the training room. "Medical staff wants to see you anyway."

Damir sighs but follows. The rest of the team parts to let them through, and he can feel their eyes on him --- some admiring, some concerned, all of them aware that this is going to be a thing.

The training room is small and sterile and smells like disinfectant. The team doctor, Dr. Bishop, is already waiting, arms crossed.

"Zaitsev," he says, and his tone is the particular brand of disappointed that only medical professionals can really achieve. "What did we say about protecting your hands?"

"Is not my fault," Damir protests. "He was asking for it."

"I'm sure he was. Sit."

Damir sits. Dr. Bishop takes his hand and examines it with the kind of clinical efficiency that comes from dealing with hockey players' various acts of stupidity for way too long.

"You're lucky," he says after a moment. "Nothing's broken, but you've got some lovely contusions and you definitely sprained something. Ice, elevation, anti-inflammatories. And you're not playing tomorrow."

"What? No, we have game-"

"Not playing," he repeats firmly. "You've been ejected from this one anyway, and your hand needs time to heal. Coach will agree with me."

Damir scowls but doesn't argue further. There's no point, Dr. Bishop is immovable when he's made up his mind.

Brett is leaning against the wall, watching. When Dr. Bishop steps away to get ice and bandages, he speaks.

"Nash texted me," he says quietly. "Asked me to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, I can see that. Still the same Damir."

There's something in Brett's voice --- not quite approval, not quite disapproval. Just observation.

"You think I should be different now?" Damir asks, and there's an edge to it. "Because I'm with Nash? Because I'm out?"

"No." Brett's answer is immediate. "I think you should be exactly who you are. But other people are going to expect you to be different. Softer. More ... palatable."

"Fuck palatable."

Brett laughs. "Yeah, that's what I figured you'd say." He pushes off the wall. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're not changing. The league needs more people who won't take that shit. Even if your methods are, uh, aggressive."

"Only language some people understand."

"True." Brett heads for the door, then pauses. "You should probably prepare a statement, though. Media's going to be all over this."

Damir groans. "I know."

---

The media scrum is exactly as bad as Damir expected.

He's showered, changed into his suit, got his hand wrapped and iced, and now he's sitting in front of a wall of cameras and microphones and reporters who all want to know the same thing: why did he snap?

Damir keeps his expression neutral, bored even, as the questions come.

"Damir, can you walk us through what happened out there?"

"He said something. I responded."

"Can you tell us what he said?"

"No."

"Was it related to your recent coming out?"

Damir's jaw tightens. "Next question."

"Do you think your response was proportionate?"

"Yes."

"The league is likely going to review this incident. Are you worried about supplemental discipline?"

"No."

A younger reporter, someone Damir doesn't recognize, raises her hand. "Damir, some people have suggested that your relationship with Nash Everett has made you more of a target for homophobic comments. Do you think that's fair?"

Finally, an interesting question.

Damir leans forward slightly. "I think," he says slowly, "that people who say homophobic things are assholes. I think they have always been assholes, and they will always be assholes, no matter who I date. And I think if they say these things to my face, they should be ready for consequences."

"So you don't regret the fight?"

"Only that I didn't hit him harder."

There's a ripple of laughter, quickly stifled. The team's PR person, Tessa, looks like she's developing a migraine in real-time.

"What do you say to critics who think you should be setting a better example, especially for young LGBTQ fans?"

Damir's expression hardens. "I say that I am not a role model. I am hockey player. I play hard, I play to win, and I don't let anyone disrespect me. If that is not good enough example, then they can look somewhere else."

"But don't you think-"

"No," Damir interrupts. "I don't think I should be soft because I'm bi. I don't think I should smile and say thank you when someone calls me slur. I don't think I owe anyone niceness when they give me hate. You want role model? Find someone else. I'm just me."

Tessa steps forward. "I think we have time for one more question."

The last reporter is older, someone who's been covering the league since before Damir got drafted. "Damir, do you have any message for the player you fought?"

Damir smiles, slow and dangerous. "Yes. Next time, keep your mouth shut."

---

The video is everywhere by the time Damir gets home.

Not just the fight --- that's on every sports network, replayed from six different angles, analyzed and dissected and debated. But also the aftermath. Him raising his hands to the crowd. The cocky smirk. The kiss he blew. The sound of seventeen thousand people chanting his name.

Wave is losing its mind.

@HockeyFan2951: Zaitsev is UNHINGED and I'm HERE FOR IT

@SportWire: Damir Zaitsev drops the gloves and drops a Warden in one of the most vicious fights we've seen this season

@QueerSportsNews: This is what happens when you fuck around and find out. Zaitsev isn't your soft bi rep and he doesn't have to be.

@YorktonFan67: Absolutely disgusting behavior from Zaitsev. Suspend him for the season.

@CitadelFanatic: THAT'S MY CAPTAIN

Damir scrolls through it all, half-amused and half-exhausted. His hand is throbbing despite the painkillers, and he's got a headache forming behind his eyes.

His phone rings. Nash.

"Hi," Damir says, sinking onto the couch.

"Hi yourself." Nash's voice is warm, familiar, home. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Annoyed. Hand hurts."

"I bet. I saw the press conference."

"And?"

"And you were perfect. An asshole, but perfect."

Damir huffs out a laugh. "This is why I love you."

"Because I appreciate your asshole tendencies?"

"Da."

There's a pause, comfortable and easy. Then Nash says, "I'm proud of you, you know."

Damir blinks. "For beating up a homophobe?"

"For not letting anyone tell you who you have to be now. For staying yourself."

Something tight in Damir's chest loosens. "You know I never change for anyone. Except maybe you."

"You don't change for me either. You just ... let me see the parts you hide from everyone else."

"Is same thing."

"No, it's not. But we can argue about it when I see you next week."

Next week. Havenwood plays in Ironwood next week, which means Nash will be in town. They've gotten good at this --- the long distance, the scheduling conflicts, the constant juggling of careers and lives and media attention.

"Cannot wait," Damir says, and means it.

"Me neither. Get some rest, okay? Ice your hand. Take the painkillers. Be nice to your teammates."

"I'm always nice to my teammates."

Nash laughs, bright and disbelieving. "Sure you are. I love you."

"Love you too."