don't see what you see
don't hear what you hear
and if they ask you
tell them you don't know

He'd shown up at morning skate the next day, and you hadn't known what to say. Practice had faltered and slowly ground to a halt, until finally Zettler had called for a five-minute break. You'd lined up on the ice near the entrance to the locker room in order of seniority, waiting for him to emerge, and Zetts and Huntsy had thoughtfully busied themselves at the other end of the rink.

The first thing that struck you when he stepped out of the tunnel was how small he looked. In street clothes and shoes, clutching a collection of custom sticks to his chest, he hardly seemed to be the same punishing forward you'd watched on TV for years. He was closer to the mysterious but charismatic captain who had first welcomed you to the team, only with an air of sadness and resigned defeat that you'd never seen in him before, even in those dark days of February. It frightened you; you hadn't thought there was anything that could break this proud, powerful man. He was your captain; he was supposed to be invincible, and right before your eyes he was falling apart.

One by one you filed past him to say your good-byes, while he watched you with wide, unreadable eyes. As the senior member of the team, Vinny was first in line. "Good luck in Toronto, mon ami," he murmured, pulling your captain into a brief hug before skating off. Gravey was next; he clapped him on the back in a warm hug and offered quietly, "It'll be okay." It continued in this way down the line, each member of the team offering well wishes and paying their respects to a captain that had worked and fought and bled for them.

From Mush: "Keep your head up, kid."

From Thorty: "Knock 'em dead in Toronto."

From Selanne: "Think of us when you win the Cup."

From Ricci: "Show them what West Coast hockey is, O."

From McGillis: "Give Philly hell in the playoffs for me."

From Rathje: "We won't forget you."

From Harvey: "Don't let the bastards get you down."

From Nabokov: "I am sorry." From Kipprusoff: "We will miss you."

From McLaren: "Stick it to Boston."

From Smith: "Kick ass over there."

From Bradley: "Show them what you've got, Capt."

From Sturm: "Don't forget us."

From Hannan: "They're stupid fuckers, O."

From Marleau: "We believe in you."

From Stuart: "Make us proud, Captain."

As the youngest member of the team, you were the last man standing when the rest had said their good-byes. Owen was watching you with shining blue eyes that hinted at the threat of tears. You opened your mouth to wish him well in Toronto, but your voice stuck in your throat unexpectedly and you choked on the words. Owen smiled a little, as if he understood, and opened his arms to you as you began to cry. He cradled you against his chest like a child, and as an adult of 22 you should have been insulted, but it felt so good to be held by him. You kept trying to talk, to stutter out an apology, but he hushed you softly as he rubbed small, soothing circles across your back. He understood.

"It's okay," he murmured, his breath light and warm against your cheek. He ran his fingers through your hair and you sighed deeply, allowing yourself to be comforted. "I'm not dying. It's only Toronto."

"Don't go," you whispered, to your utter mortification. You flinched and waited for him to laugh, but he only sighed and hugged you closer.

"I wish I didn't have to. I'll miss you. All of you."

"We'll be lost without you." You drew back slowly, reluctant to leave his embrace, and met his piercing gaze with your own. "We need you. I...I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Cheech." He glanced over your shoulder at something, and you started to turn in the same direction when his lips captured yours in a kiss. You were so surprised you couldn't even react, you just closed your eyes and committed every moment of it to memory, the way his beard scratched your smooth jaw, his hands cradling your face. When he pulled away only an instant later his mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren't, and neither were yours. They were filled with tears.

"Good luck, kid," he murmured, tousling your hair affectionately as he had a million times before. "You're gonna be a big, big star."