Fic: The Best is Yet to Come - Part II

[bratri_ve_zbrani]

Title: The Best is Yet to Come - Part II

Rating: PG-13 for language and mentions of sex

Pairings: Vincent Lecavalier/Steven Stamkos

Disclaimer: Never happened.

Note: Much thanks to froia_arme and hockeysaurus for their beta help and opinions. All mistakes are my own. There are probably a lot since I read over this and edited and re-edited more times that I care to count. My eyes are practically bleeding here, so please let me know if you spot any typos. Any opinions is good. I haven't ironed out the next part so if you have ideas, please please share. It would be really appreciated :)

 

 

To Fort de Soto and back.

 

Two hours of aimless driving.

 

At the end of it, he finds himself at what has become his default destination - the practice rink. He could drive this route blind with a gun to his head. He parks at his usual spot, which he considers lucky after he had a good streak with it once. The charm and novelty has  worn off like chipped paint, but he parks here stubbornly.

 

During the season, he's usually among the first to arrive, and there's guaranteed to be people here hours before any of the players arrive: the trainers, the equipment guys, some who arrive at ungodly hours to have everything prepared by the time any of the athletes step through the double doors.

 

It's a luxury of playing in the NHL he hasn't lost appreciation for. 

 

Not today though, not the appreciation part, the equipment and the people rather. The car park is practically empty. He almost doesn't want to go inside, knowing that the dressing room won't be prepared for his or any of his teammates' arrival. No jerseys neatly hanging from their stalls, no pads lined neatly on the shelf, nor skates upside down by the hooks.

 

Just a hollow space waiting in hibernation in want of its former occupants.

 

He still keeps up with the playoff games though. He has friends and former teammates still playing in them. The remote never leaves his hand while he rotates between one game and the other, staying up late for the West coast ones because there is nothing else to do. Sometimes, he sits with his laptop warm against his thighs, sipping vitamin water.

 

It just seems so unfair that he should be here with nothing to show for his efforts. His hands curl into fists and his eyes squeeze shut because, well, because he can never get used to this sort of frustration. As it is, he's been too angry and disappointed to relish the break. 

 

He has all this pent up… resentment.

 

Resentment?

 

Huh.

He didn't call it that before.

 

Towards what, exactly?

 

Himself?

 

To some degree, yes, because, what did they say about effort. Ah, that's right: you can always do more.

 

The worst is how disappointed he is in his own team. He feels he did his part, what was expected of him from the fans, the coaches, his teammates, himself, too. All the grandiose, lofty expectations of a first overall, he did all that, didn't he? And still they trailed in the conference like beaten dogs.

 

Jesus fuck.

 

Leaning forward, he slumps against the wheel and rests his forehead lightly against the back of his folded hands.

 

And now this.

 

He's just… just so completely appalled at himself. The expression on Vincent's face, or the lack thereof, mocks him every time he closes his eyes. All he can remember is how rigid and still Vincent was, the glimpse of shock and confusion in his eyes seem vivid and accusing in retrospect. 

 

He would have preferred it if his captain had thrown him off, beat the shit out of him, and kicked him to the curb. 

 

Either way.

 

He never anticipated it could hurt so much.

 

Heaving another sigh, he reaches out to turn up the A/C. The rush of air is loud enough to drown out the heart beat thrumming behind his ears and maybe mute his thoughts a bit. The fact that he's wasting gas seems irrelevant. This is Florida after all, where the years cycle between two seasons: summer and hurricane. People who know from experience will tell you that the first is but a subjective paradise and the latter is utter hell.

 

He usually doesn't stick around for long enough for the height of hurricane season.

 

Last year, he was so eager to be back home. This year, he thought he might stay a while, but look where it got him.

 

He thought he might be able to relax a bit in Florida. See the place he lives most of the year as more than just the place he lives most of the year. He wants to grow to like it the way Vincent has even though he knows it won't happen overnight. The captain seems determined to stay here; it's as if he had enough of Canada during his youth. For Steven, he knows that it would take more than just a job he loves to make him love a place that doesn't freeze its ponds in winter.

 

There are days here when he practically melts while walking across the lot after practice. He burns himself on a regular basis with the seat belt latch and car door handles, and the tropical sun is hot enough to scald even through the windshield. It's a microwave world he lives in, frying his hair, the tips of his ears, his fingertips. His complexion doesn't exactly help, and he's sure that were he ever to meet an untimely death, the culprit would be skin cancer.

 

When he finally musters enough motivation to step out, the rays are hot pinpricks against the back of his exposed neck. The stifling humidity rushes to gather sweat on his nose and forehead. He doesn't even bother with the overpriced sunglasses he got for his birthday gift because it was from Vincent and that's all he would think of, and raises his hand to shield his throbbing eyes.

 

It's a recurring theme in his head; none of this would have happened if he'd taken the first flight for Toronto with Smith and Konopka. Basic message being get the hell out of dodge.

 

It was unpredictably impulsive of him, which might sound like a redundancy.

 

It's just the unpredictable part.

 

So utterly uncharacteristic of him. Call it hubris but he prides himself on self-discipline. He doesn't like having regrets, he doesn't like to spend time wishing his life had a rewind button. This isn't the person he's so carefully twisted and crafted and trained himself into. 

 

And it makes it that much more tempting to feign ignorance.

 

In two weeks' time, he'll be on a flight to New York to spend a few days with Downie before they board another flight to Frankfurt for the World Championships with the rest of team Canada. He'll wear a jersey with a maple leaf on it with his peers and for a few weeks he might forget Tampa and everything else under its umbrella for a while.

 

But that's still a fortnight away, and Vincent will reach out to him eventually before then.

 

He wants to never bring it up again, flat out refuse to discuss his… momentary lapse in judgment. It would be so convenient to arrive at a tacit arrangement, tacit being the operative word. It would save both of them a great deal of awkwardness. He would be more than happy to let it write itself off as hero-worship gone awry. Better yet, blame it the confused libido of a twenty-year-old. Whatever excuse that suits Vincent best. 

 

Because he has no idea what he would say, and he's sure the guilt in his eyes will give him away. He's terrified that Vincent will look at him differently. He would be repulsed to know that it was none other that himself that Steven thought of while slumped against the shower walls with soapy hands blurred by motion and steam. There's no way he could know unless Steven told him - which he won't - but a guilty conscience is a funny thing.

 

He won't be able to look at Vincent again without being smothered by shame.

 

Seriously, just how did he end up here?

 

He never looked twice at his teammates during juniors. Maybe a glance toward his roommate in the dark when he was sure his friend was asleep.

 

There was a reason he always he felt the need to be cautious, like he could never shake off the dust of paranoia. It wasn't just the need to fit in that had him putting so much effort into acting normal. It was an easy enough task because he is a normal guy plus or minus a few distinctions.

 

He succeeded, too. Still does in fact. Ask any of his teammates, both present and past. They'll say the same thing. Stammer? Yeah, I know him. He's a nice guy, down to earth, you know, a reliable teammate. Easy to get along with.

 

And he was doing so well, too.

 

Nobody was questioning him, and he wasn't questioning himself either.

 

He wishes that he could have had his little crisis elsewhere, with someone that didn't mean so much to him.

 

Because he did know, didn't he?

 

The girlfriends he's had in the past. They were all prettily decent and decently pretty girls, nice girls whose parents knew his parents. Some had brothers that went to the same school as him, some who played hockey with him in Markham on the street, the pond. He liked them all, too, he likes to think..

 

It wasn't even that long ago, but the memory is fuzzy already. As he grows older, the years lose a fraction of their significance, and he realizes that he really can't remember any of their faces. He has no recollection of their voices, the color of their hair, what their breasts felt like. Worst of all, best of all, he can't remember ever being actually hurt by any of them. His pride was bruised once and it was only because she went and slept with some college kid on summer break, and he was more angry at the guy for being a jackass about it then at her for being a slag.

 

He recalls vividly how nervous he was the first time he had sex but so little of the sex itself, which seemed more like an arduous duty. The second time, he recalls thinking that he could see the appeal, understand the eagerness that the others expressed. He was still perplexed at the end as he zipped his pants again.

The third time, he couldn't wait to get it over with. She claimed to be virgin, but he has a suspicion that she wasn't.

 

Most of the time, they gave him the let's-just-be-friends or you-don't-like-me-as-much-as-I-like-you speech, he went along with it almost too readily. He would apologize afterwards, but for what he still doesn't know.

 

It was difficult, actually, to hide his relief when they said "Steven, we need to talk."

 

Sometimes, his mom comforted him when he didn't really need any comforting, and his sister would just laugh. He imagines his dad was rather proud of him, to have a son who had his priorities straight, choosing hockey over girls, that is.

 

His parents, and most of his family related acquaintances, they fall under the ever encompassing label of "moderates." He knows this.

 

He also knows, however, that there is a difference between being tolerant and being tolerant. It's one thing to smile approvingly at some gay couple you meet. It's another to smile at your own child and know that it's genuine. Those same rules never apply to your own child, and in his household, he's sixty-six percent certain it will be a crisis, severity still pending. 

 

This sort of uncertainty makes him feel twenty all over again. He doesn't at all feel like someone who signed a professional contract and bought his own car and has his own place. He can't muster the confidence of someone who just scored 51 goals.

 

He slips more often on solid ground than on ice.

 

He's morbidly curious as to what they would say. Would he get a 'we love you no matter what' speech? Maybe a 'you're just confused, Steven,' which he thinks would feel worse than any insult they could throw at him. He expects his mother to cry; his sister won't care he hopes. As for dad? He fears this most.

 

They're close, they always were, but he never could read his own father's thoughts.

 

He knows this much though. No paternal figure would genuinely approve of his son harbouring "feelings" - complete with air quotes for dramatic effect - for a teammate, someone with one X chromosome too few and a Y too many, someone who happened to be his son's captain no less.

 

What was he saying? Jesus Christ, this is, this is ludicrous.

 

All these scenarios, they aren't going to happen. Ever.

 

Not even potentially.

 

He's never going to tell his family. This is an exhibit A case of ignorance-is-bliss; there's just no need to drag his family into his non-existent love life, especially when they're so happy right now, and so goddamn proud of him. He's careful not to ruin a good thing. If he ever met someone worth taking the risk for, perhaps he might consider dropping the H-bomb.

 

For now, status quo has worked out well.

 

Besides, Vincent Lecavalier, #4, doesn’t bend that way. 

 

He shows up accompanied by gorgeous women with long legs that end in delicate heels and shapely breasts encased in designer dresses. Vincent Lecavalier enjoys his perennial bachelor status, and Steven can't picture him otherwise. He has a certain lifestyle, albeit a private one, and his interests seem to lie elsewhere. Not like that, god forbid. He has a penchant for travel, that insatiable appetite for cars, and… a unique sense of duty - to the charities he quietly funds, his team and the players on it, the sport itself even if he finds the league wholly frustrating.

 

Despite the criticism he's been under, he's still a frighteningly good player, has a vision and acumen about the ice that comes from experience. He's not resigned like people accuse him of being; just aware that there are players that will come in and replace him one day. He seems genuinely happy for his teammates' personal successes, and he makes no excuses.

 

Along with Martin, he shoulders his burdens with a poise Steven finds admirable. He's familiar with them but not so much to lose his authority, that imposing presence that Steven first found intriguing, then later - as embarrassing it is to admit - attractive. He still hasn't lost his French-Canadian accent although it has faded, washed and bleached by the Florida sun.

Steven never thought the accent could be attractive until he met Vincent.