by me-who-loves-Arturs-Irbe
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: FAKE!!
Summary: post game 3
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: 3.5
Notes: I. Love. The. Hurricanes.
You could hear a pin drop in the locker room. Ron raised his head wearily, surveying his team. No one was meeting his eyes. He knew what they were doing, all berating themselves for missing coverage on one of the goals, or a missed scoring chance.
His six defensemen looked almost catatonic. They'd been in a zone, unable to let anyone through. They'd blocked shots and people at ridiculous frequencies, and in the end, everything they had wasn't enough.
And his forwards weren't much better, the young ones especially. Bates was doubled over in his locker, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. Erik was sprawled on the floor beside him, one hand rubbing Bates' neck, the other covering his own eyes. Ron knew Erik was already replaying the open shots he'd had, just wishing he'd had the strength to get them high. But Batesy had it worse, and his mantra right now couldn't be anything other than "If I'd just stayed on my feet..."
And of course, Archie, who'd been inhuman. He'd done everything he could, stopped everything that was possible for him to stop. He couldn't be blamed for any of the goals in the least. Which didn't mean he didn't blame himself.
Finally, Ronnie broke the deafening silence of the room. "Hey, guys." His voice broke a little. He cleared his throat and continued. "I...I couldn't be more proud of any of you."
And this time, as he looked around the room, every single player met his gaze. Archie's eyes were clear, and he still fingered the glove in his lap, but he gave Ronnie a little half smile that lightened his heart unspeakably.
Sean Hill looked up slowly, and Ron could see his jaw set and hands clench. Beside him, Aaron Ward's reaction was much the same. The fourth liners looked most uncertain, and as the Captain's eyes met his, Kevyn Adams flinched a little. "You mean it, Ronnie?"
Francis didn't have to reply, because Irbe did it for him. He stood to his full 5 feet, 8 inches. "Yes, he means it," the Latvian said softly. "I am very proud to be a member of this team. And to play with all of you." He smiled a little. "We lost as a team toni- this morning. And we will win as a team tomorrow. As we always do."
Murmurs of agreement - and not just a few "We're proud to play in front of you" statements - ran through the team. Ron felt an energy that hadn't been there since regulation ended. He could see it in their eyes now, the spark that had driven them all this way. Never give up. Never die. And never listen to anyone that says they can't do it. People started to trickle out of the room, and soon Ronnie was the only one left. He slung his bag over a shoulder and started for the door, and then realized that the light under his coach's door was still on.
He rapped lightly and stuck his head in. "Go home, Ronnie," Maurice said without looking up from the TV screen.
"You sure you don't want me to-"
Paul took off his glasses and looked up. "Ron. Go home. Get some rest. I don't want to see you until tomorrow. Is that understood?"
"Ok."
"GO, Ronnie."
"Night, Mo."
"Sleep well." He paused. "That's an order."
Chuckling a little, Ron shut the door softly and headed towards the parking lot. The door of the visitor's locker room opened just as he approached it, and he identified the person leaving easily. That limp was pretty distinctive. "Stevie."
The Red Wings' captain whirled around. "Uh, Ronnie."
"I know talking and all is bad luck or whatever. But hopefully it'll be worse luck for you than me." He stuck out his hand. "But good game."
Relaxing a little, Steve took his hand. "Yeah. It was. Though if we get into superstition, you guys have the worst of it for touching the Prince of Wales trophy all you did."
"So did you."
Steve grinned. "You did it first."
Ron shrugged. "That's true. I'll...see you tomorrow, I guess."
"Yep. Though, could you tell your crowd to keep it down? I'm going to need earplugs."
"They're loud, aren't they?"
"Enthusiastic as hell." Steve looked over Ron's shoulder. "You're slow, Bren."
"Fraternizing with the enemy?" Shanahan asked.
"The enemy's leaving," Ron told them, clapping a hand on Steve's shoulder as he passed. He didn't really know Shanahan that well, but there weren't many that had been in the league as long as he and Steve had and they'd met on a number of occasions.
Feeling better now that he'd finished his captain duties for the evening, Ron headed for the parking lot, leaving a triple overtime loss behind him, thinking only of Game 4.