Chapter 2
"How bad was it?" he asks Russell when he's breathing evenly, sitting on the bench next to him.
They ignore the obvious.
"I don't..."
"I didn't see," Russell says.
His voice is quiet, gentle like he's worried about sending Keir into another spiral.
"I saw the blood on the ice, but I didn't get a clear view of his face."
"What the fuck happened?"
Keir isn't sure if he's asking about Yuri's injury or himself.
It's never happened like that before.
He's had times, sudden moments of breathless panic, chest tight with anxiety, but it's never been so intense.
So pressing.
He's never felt like he's dying before.
"Ackerman slammed him into the boards," Russell says.
"He must have been face-first."
Keir nods slowly.
He's looking forward, hands hanging between his legs.
They're stained with Yuri's blood.
"You okay?" Russell says softly.
"No."
They're quiet again.
Keir doesn't know where the others are, if they're still playing, if they've cleaned Yuri's blood off the ice.
"Keir—"
"We're not, like..." He trails off, hesitating, stuck, because he doesn't even know what the fuck he's trying to say.
What he's trying to defend himself against, how to defend himself against
caring
"Keir, I don't care."
About— About what?"
"Keir, come on, man."
Keir stares at the ground.
He doesn't feel attached to his body, like he's floating above his body, watching himself here, sitting in a void next to Russell Kane.
"I saw how you looked at him," Russell says softly.
"I know, Keir."
Keir shakes his head, hiding his face again, because if Russell saw it, everyone else did too.
He's crying, and he fucking hates it.
"I'm not gonna say anything, Keir," Russell says gently.
"You know that, right?"
"I— I don't know fucking anything, Russell, I don't..."
"Keir, listen to me.
You haven't done anything wrong, and you couldn't help how you reacted to that," Russell says.
"Right, I would have lost my shit if I saw Molly hurt like that, but— but people are gonna talk, right?
They're bound to."
Keir looks at him, quiet, and he nods.
His chest is tight again, and he exhales slowly.
"But you've known Kozlov for fucking years now, right, even if you're fucking rivals," Russell says.
"And you guys play each other, like, every few months, and you shot that commercial together, and you see each other pretty often, so you're friends."
He says it firmly, like it's a done deal, like it's true.
"Got it?" Russell says, raising his eyebrows.
"You're friends, and you care about him, because you're friends.
It's a friendly rivalry, for the fans, and for the game, and you panicked because that's your friend."
Keir's vision blurs.
His eyes sting, and his throat is tight, but he nods.
"Okay?" Russell says, leaning his head in a little.
"Okay," Keir says weakly.
He nods.
"You don't have to explain yourself," Russell says, his voice softening.
"But people are going to talk.
You just gotta ignore them, alright?"
"Alright."
"So what you're gonna do now, is you're gonna go wash your hands, and your face, and you're gonna drink some water, and you're gonna change."
"I..."
"Keir.
Just do it."
He does.
Russell leaves the locker room for a few minutes while Keir gathers himself.
He feels almost guilty washing Yuri's blood from his hands, and his eyes sting again as he watches the pink soapy water wash down the drain.
Like he's discarding it.
Throwing it away.
He lets the water, steaming hot, run over his hands for a few moments, closing his eyes.
When he looks in the mirror, he stops.
Looks at himself.
Stares.
There's blood, dried and cracking, smeared across his cheek and chin, staining his skin from his anxious shield.
His stomach aches, flipping over the way it does when Yuri says something about coming on him or leaving bruises on his neck and chest and arms.
He can't help it, looking at the blood like it's Yuri's signature, like he's marked his territory.
He washes his face.
The soap makes his skin feel dry, but he ignores it.
He looks like a fucking disaster.
His eyes are still red, puffy from crying, his cheeks flushed.
Even his lips are reddened.
He turns the faucet to cold, hitting it so hard it hurts his hand, so hard he could break it, and he washes his face one more time.
The water is cold enough that he holds back gasps every time he submerges his face.
He can't tell if it helps or not when he looks at the mirror again.
He lingers a little longer.
The guys come into the locker room, their voices softer than usual, hushed.
Keir's chest tightens, and he rubs his hand over it
roughly, exhaling shakily.
The guys fall quiet when he emerges from the bathroom.
He keeps his head down, eyes downcast, pretending he isn't... whatever he is.
He can feel them looking at him, curious, watching him as he goes to change.
As he folds his clothes, as he pushes his hair out of his face.
It's damp with sweat, and he hasn't even showered.
He doesn't want to, doesn't feel like wasting any fucking time.
Russell comes up to him.
The others turn away, like he's glaring at them, telling them to fuck off, and Keir's chest aches.
He's quiet, shoving things into his bag absently.
Is he..."
"Concussion," Russell says quietly.
"And a broken clavicle.
He'll probably need stitches for his face."
Keir's hands are shaking.
He fumbles with the zipper of his bag, nodding.
Russell leaves him alone.
He stays by Keir, watching silently as he struggles with the zipper again.
It catches on some fabric, snagging and getting stuck, and Keir can only pull at it for a brief moment before he throws the bag to the ground, exhaling sharply.
Russell picks it up.
Keir watches him, his hands pulling the zipper down, getting the fabric in the bag loose from it, pulling the zipper closed.
Keir looks around the room.
He takes the bag from Russell's outstretched hand, still looking around the room.
Ackerman is talking to someone else, but Keir doesn't notice who it is, or what they're doing.
He doesn't think he's ever felt like this before, so fucking angry he's trembling.
Enraged.
"Keir," Russell says quietly.
Keir blinks.
Glances at him.
"Yeah," he mutters.
"It was a bad fucking fall, man," someone is saying.
Keir looks toward them again, watching as Ackerman fucking
shrugs,
opening a locker, tugging his shirt up and over his head.
"You saw how much blood there was?"
"'S not my fucking fault the guy didn't see me coming," Ackerman says.
"It was rough, but it's fucking hockey, man."
"Are you fucking serious?" Keir says before he can stop himself.
The room falls quiet, save for the rustling of clothes and the echoes of voices.
There's a shower running somewhere, the water dripping steadily.
"What?" Ackerman says, turning toward Keir.
"You know how this shit works, don't you, Maddox?"
It sounds condescending.
Mean.
Mocking.
This
isn't how it
works
," Keir snaps, gesturing vaguely.
Russell says his name softly, but Keir ignores him.
"You could have the fucking decency to feel
bad
for him."
"Feel
bad,"
Ackerman laughs.
"Jesus.
Maddox, he got knocked out, and we won.
It's hockey."
"You are fucking unbelievable," Keir says flatly, stepping a little closer.
"If you need someone to get fucking hospitalized to win a game, it wasn't your fucking game—"
"What's your fucking problem?" Ackerman snaps, a hand lifting and pushing Keir's shoulder.
Keir doesn't stumble.