Oh-and-Two
Oh-and-Two
Five to three. Five to fucking three. He tried to shake the thought, forcing himself to concentrate on his exhaustion-numbed fingers as they unlaced his skates, but the words circled like vultures in his mind. Five to fucking three. Five to fucking three.
The locker room was soundless except for clatter of skates and the soft hiss of distant showers. Most of his teammates were bent silently over their equipment, neatly folding sweat-soaked jerseys and shoving pads into their sports bags, distracting themselves from the pain of tonight's crushing loss. A few, like their captain, sat motionless in their lockers, staring at their callused hands as if they somehow held the answers. On a bench in the corner Niklas Sundstrom was huddled in Thornton's arms, eyes dull with weariness and defeat as the injured winger whispered consolingly into his hair. Scott felt a stab of brief jealousy watching them. Thornton lifted his head slightly, and their eyes met across the locker room; the older man nodded slightly in sympathy, and he looked away.
Scott found him leaning against his car as he entered the parking lot, head tipped back against the window, throat exposed, achingly beautiful in profile. He opened his eyes as Scott approached and smiled, the sentiment behind the expression muddled and unclear; a little sympathy, a little sadness, and something Scott could not quite identify. If he had to put a name to it, he might call it regret.
"I'm sorry, baby," Brad whispered as he slid his arms around his fellow defenseman, the words a warm thrill across Scott's cheek. "You played your heart out. You really did."
"I know," Scott replied coldly, eyes drifting closed despite himself as Brad's lips brushed tenderly along his throat. "They were better than us."
"You'll win the next one," Brad offered softly, leaning in to kiss the other man; blinking surprise when he found himself abruptly pushed away. "Scott?" he asked, frowning in quiet confusion.
"Fuck you," Scott replied bitterly, the mask slipping to reveal the anger that burned just beneath the surface of his exhaustion. "We'll win the next one?"
"Scott," Brad began helplessly, trying vainly to correct his blunder, "that's not what I--"
"Fuck you," Scott whispered again, without passion, voice cold with defeat. "We needed you out there. We need you. This team needs you, and you're too much of a stubborn asshole to see that."
"Please," Brad whispered, but Scott shook his head, turning his back on the younger man. "I'm going home," he informed his boyfriend stonily, climbing into the jeep. "Don't call me. Not tonight."
Brad closed his eyes and breathed a hurt sigh. "I love you," he murmured tonelessly, but the empty parking lot offered only silence.