Chapter 3
"Why are you so worked up about fucking
Kozlov?"
do you want me to say?" Keir says, and he's yelling now, his voice carrying, echoing, and everyone is looking.
Watching.
Seeing.
"Maddox," Russell tries again, touching Keir's arm, but Keir pushes him away, throws his arm aside.
"You want me to tell you he's my fucking
friend?"
Keir says, pushing Ackerman back.
He falls against the lockers.
"That I'm friends with the guy I've known since I was fucking seventeen years old?
Is that fucking
astounding
to you?"
"Jesus, Maddox—"
"Or do you wanna hear that I like playing against him?" Keir says, looking into Ackerman's eyes, unblinking.
"Because he's the best fucking hockey player I know, and the rest of you are fucking
boring."
"If he's so much better than us, why is he the one in the hospital right now?"
"Jesus," Russell mutters behind Keir, and there are a few other hushed voices, mumbling something about Ackerman taking this too far, about him being a dick.
Keir steps closer.
"Because you're a fucking neanderthal," he says lowly, "who doesn't
think
Ackerman's face shifts.
His eyebrows furrow just the slightest bit, and his eyes narrow, and Keir's stomach twists.
"Je réfléchis beaucoup en ce moment."
Keir's jaw clenches.
"About what?" he says quietly, almost whispering.
"Hm?"
"Dois-je dire?" Ackerman whispers, lifting his chin so he's looking down at Keir."Téteux?"
And Keir can't really be blamed for it, can he?
In an instant, Ackerman has the confirmation he was looking for, and the room is filled with shouts and curses and echoes that make Keir's head ache.
In an instant, his right hand is blooming with pain, and more blood is staining his skin.
They're torn apart, ripped away from each other, and Keir tries to fight his way back to him, tries to shove away whoever is grabbing him, pulling him, pushing toward the door.
Russell and Ren are pushing him, holding him back, looking at him wide-eyed.
They look scared, and all Keir can think is fucking
good.
"Nique ta mère!"
Keir is shouting, shoving Russell's hands off of him, stumbling back.
He's breathing hard again, and he feels lightheaded again, but he doesn't fucking care.
He isn't scared anymore, not of fucking Aaron Ackerman.
Putain de merde."
He grabs his bag from the bench Russell had put it on, and he walks out.
Nobody tries to follow him.
He finds himself sitting outside, his face tucked into the collar of his jacket, staring at his phone.
His hands are still shaking, and he tucks them against his chest, focussed on where the phone is balanced on his bent knees.
He's sitting on the ground like a child, hidden away from where anyone might see him.
He heard the guys leave a little while ago, heard them talking and roughhousing on their way out, and he kept his head ducked.
He's waiting.
The screen is off to save the battery, but his notifications are on for the first time in months, and his eyes are trained on it, watching the vague reflection of the tops of the trees around him, leaves swaying and shimmying in the wind that bites at his skin.
He texted Yuri a while ago.
He doesn't know if he should expect a response.
Please tell me you're okay.
The sky dims, and the streetlights come on, and part of him wonders if the other guys are wondering where he is.
Russell texts him, just a brief
hey you good?
that he responds to with
fine.
Including the period, which he doesn't usually include, and Russell leaves him alone after saying
lmk if you need anything.
Keir bites his nails.
He hasn't done that in a while, and they're longer and smoother than they used to be.
He usually would force his hands away from his mouth, tuck them into his pockets or under his legs, but he doesn't right now.
His leg is bouncing, rocking back and forth, and his hands are still shaking, and he can't calm down.
It's nighttime by the time his phone lights up with a notification, and then another, and another from Sage.
He jumps, grabs his phone and opens it quickly, but the messages are in Cyrillic.
Keir shifts, moving onto his knees so he's hunching over his phone, clumsily putting the message into the translator app that he downloaded a while ago.
Sage: i am alive
Sage: hurt
Sage: but they gave me drugs it's nice
Sage: i want you
Sage: my hands miss yours
Keir's eyes burn, and he chokes on his breath, sniffling as he tries to open the keyboard to respond, to ask where he is, but Sage sends one more message.
Sage: 2B15
Keir stumbles to his feet, tripping over his bag and grabbing it as he moves so runs the building, out the shadows he's tucked himself into.
He stops when he's standing by a streetlight, looking around— the parking lot is almost empty, and he instinctively open the GoCab app on his phone, but he doesn't even know where the fuck he's trying to go.
Ivy: what hospital?
But Sage doesn't respond, and part of Keir is glad, because Yuri has a fucking concussion, and he really shouldn't be looking at his phone, texting, reading.
Keir lets out a frustrated noise, shaking his phone, and he looks around again, his breath catching.
Almost everyone is gone.
It's late.
There's no one here.
He rubs his face, squeezing the strap of his bag tightly, groaning quietly.
He should look it up, the closest hospital, maybe find a phone number to ask if Yuri is there, but he can't really think right now, his vision blurred.
And he shouldn't be so open about it, about how he wants,
needs,
to see Yuri in his hospital room.
He shouldn't let people know this.
He spins around at the sound of the door opening, and there's someone walking out.
A woman, maybe a little older than Keir, wearing a polo that's visible under her puffy jacket.
Her phone is lighting up her face, and as she walks, Keir can see light reflecting off a laminated lanyard hanging from her neck.
"Excuse me," Keir calls before he can stop himself.
The woman looks up, startled, and Keir waves, stepping closer, softening his expression and voice.
"Hi, sorry, I—"
"Hi," she says lightly.
She recognises him.
He can see it in her eyes.
"Hi, uhm, do you— do you work here?"
"I do," she says, nodding.
"I'm in event coordination."
"Uhm, would you— do you know what hospital players are taken to?" he asks.
His voice is shaking.
"When they're injured?"
She nods, something like understanding settling in her eyes.
"Yeah, the closest is Havenport General," she says.
"Really complex cases might be taken to different places that are more suited to treating them, but Kozlov was taken to Havenport."
Keir's stomach twists.
He already knew she knows, but
fuck.
He's fucked.