by me
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All mine.
Summary: In which Billy and Parker have a conversation over IM.
Notes: ::siiiiiiiiigh::
Parker kept shooting me worried glances during practice. I mean, nothing obvious, but he kept looking at me and then looking away really quickly. Eventually, I got sick of it. He was standing by the boards with a water bottle, so I skated over to him. "Knock it off, Parker."
"I'm sorry," he muttered, "about last night."
"Don't be," I sighed.
"I didn't mean to�the last thing I want to do is screw up what you guys have."
"It's ok, Park. I already talked to Billy."
"You did?"
"Twice. Last night and this morning. He just wanted details," I grinned at him, and he blushed.
"Oh. Um, ok."
"And you? Don't you have a boyfriend?"
His eyes were suddenly directed downward. "I can't tell him, Dame."
"Why's that?"
"Because. He doesn't need to know." He pushed off with his powerful first stride and back into the mix of drills at practice.
I sighed. This wasn't good. Now I was feeling guilty again. And Parker seemed apathetic, which was weird for him. He took everything personally. He thought everything was his fault. What was going on? Maybe I should get Billy to call and talk to him. Hell, maybe Chris should call and talk to him.
Or maybe not.
*
*
*
*
Parker sat at his computer that night while Kevyn slept, checking the hockey sites for draft news and wasting time. An IM popped up on his screen, making that irritating noise to remind him to turn the sound down.
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Hey, Parker.
CenterIce says: hi billy
Hockeysouthernstyle says: I hope Dame told you I'm not mad at you?
CenterIce says: yeah well you should be
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Yeah, well, I'm not. What's wrong, buddy?
CenterIce says: how do you mean?
Hockeysouthernstyle: Dame said something was bothering you.
CenterIce says: dame should mind his own business
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Your wellbeing is his business, dumbass. That's what friends are for.
CenterIce says: yeah but�
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Look, I know you, Parker. I know you don't do shit like that. So what is wrong?
CenterIce says: i dont know
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Yes, you do!
CenterIce says: i�i dont know what possessed me to you know
CenterIce says: why would i cheat on him billy? Thats not who i am
Hockeysouthernstyle says: I know, Parker.
CenterIce says: then why didnt i feel bad? why didnt i lose sleep? i dont get it
Hockeysouthernstyle says: I don't know what to tell you, Park. Except that what you're feeling is right. Trust yourself.
CenterIce says: so philosophical ::sigh::
Hockeysouthernstyle says: You know it. But seriously, Parker. Look at where your life is going. The draft is in a couple of weeks. What is the most important thing to you right now?
CenterIce says: im not sure i know
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Well, think about it. Be honest. And let Chris know.
CenterIce says: thats a conversation i don't want to have
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Jesus, you're not scared of six and half foot defensemen, but you're afraid of a conversation? What kind of hockey player are you?
CenterIce says: shut up you
Hockeysouthernstyle says: Just do it.
CenterIce says: so youre a nike commercial now?
Hockeysouthernstyle says: You never know ;-)
CenterIce says: good night billy
Hockeysouthernstyle says: night, buddy.
Parker logged off and put his computer to sleep, flopping on the bed and staring at the ceiling in the near-darkness. He moved his head as Kevyn muttered something about crossbars in his sleep. Goalies. And he tried to take Billy's advice and think, but his mind kept wandering. Eventually, he fell asleep.
He dreamed for the first time in a while that night. He was back in Raleigh, 13, 14, 15 years old. And he was alone on the ice, just him and the goals and the ice. His ratty practice jersey askew, the facemask on his helmet raised, he'd skate for another hour by himself, darting in and out of phantom defenders, beating invisible goalies everywhere, high glove side, high stick side, five hole, over and over and over. Time stopped when he was out there. That was what he loved to do more than anything else. He could feel it perfectly in his dream, the coolness of the rink mixed with the heat coming off his body, the crunch of ice beneath his skates. He raised his stick to shoot, and just as it made impact with the puck, he woke up.
It was 6:12. No one else would be around, they didn't practice until 10. He slid out of bed and pulled on some clothes and went down to the locker room. He left off all his equipment but his skates and gloves and took his stick out onto the ice, flipping on the lights. It was perfectly smooth. Breathing in the chill in the air, he stepped onto the ice, a calm passing him over him with the first crunch.
And two hours later, when he slid down the boards to sit on the ice, exhausted, things were finally clear.