Fic: The Best is Yet to Come - Part I

[bratri_ve_zbrani]

Title: The Best is Yet to Come - Part I

 

Rating: PG

Pairings: Vincent Lecavalier/Steven Stamkos

Disclaimer: Never happened.

Note: I'm sure this is a cliche pairing, but here goes. Inspired in part by this video (At 1:53 - "I want to get to know [Stamkos]," - Lecavalier) and also by The Best is Yet to Come video by the Tampa Bay organization (Sung by Frank Sinatra).

 

 

"Is this from when you were drafted?" he holds up a photograph of Vincent, hair ruffled and out of place after pulling a Lightening  jersey over his head, an impossibly wide smile stretching across his youthful face.

 

Vincent pads into the living room barefoot, two bottles of Blue Moon clutched between the fingers of one hand, and sets one by Steven's knee on the floor where photo albums lay open to different pages. He takes the offered bottle gratefully, knocking it lightly against Vincent's drink. "You look so young," he says smiling as he trails his index finger over the photograph. "You hair, it was longer then."

 

"Yeah, it didn't last too long though," he laughs, crouching next to Steven with an arm propped up on the sophomore's shoulders. "Gets too hot in Tampa for hair like that."

 

"What was it like?" Steven flips the album to a page with photograph of Vincent in the dressing room with his arms around two other players. His hair is matted to his forehead, jersey off and shirt soaked underneath his pads. They look bulkier than they do today, thick against on his still teenage frame.

 

"Hmm?" Vincent takes the photograph out of the sleeve and turns it over. The marker has smudged a bit, but he smiles at the memory.

 

Rookie camp '98.

 

It feels like ages ago.

 

Chuckling, he sits with his back against the couch frame and props his arms up on his knees, "What was what like?"

 

"Your draft. Rookie year and all."

 

"Well," he shrugs and takes another drag from the bottle, trying to decide how best to answer the deceptively weighted question, "probably not all that different from yours. It doesn't change much, does it? It's about the same every year."

 

"That's not what I meant," Steven says. He slides the photograph out of Vincent's fingers and tucks it back into the page, pushing the albums aside. "I was asking, you know, were you nervous?"

 

"Of course," he replies, turning to face Steven's serious expression. The kid is all sincerity and heart, eyes sharp as always with colors Vincent has no label for. "Of course I was."

 

"I can't imagine you nervous," Steven says quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. He means it completely. He's seen his captain angry, frustrated, excited, elated, intoxicated even, but the man's got nerves of titanium with carbon reinforcement. Vincent lives for the game like the edges of his skates, sharp, deadly, and always ready to go, and he wants to keep up. Smirking though, he looks up at his older teammate and adds, "you're just… too captain-y."

 

"I think that's kind of in my job description," Vincent replies, only half joking. He's worn the letter on his chest before and under various circumstances. He's grown accustomed to the duties of his position - and admittedly relieved to be less relied on to find the back of the net night after night - but the leadership role feels new with Steven. He wouldn't say he feels intimidated by the sophomore per se, but Steven has a presence, a shockingly imposing mien, that belies his age. Vincent has only a few times had to step back and see anew - remind himself - that he is speaking to someone who can't even drink legally in the state.

 

"I think you're a good captain," Steven says almost timidly, and Vincent can't tell if the kid's blushing or it's just that perpetual glow he has. His cheeks are always flushed as if he's just stepped in from the cold after hours of pond hockey.

 

"Thanks." Christ, he's never been embarrassed hearing compliments before, but with Steven saying it, it's different. It feels sincere, like everything he does, like he's trying to put his entire weight behind his words. It's not a difficult feat. Steven has a unique voice, a bit gravelly, rough with a youthful edge, like wisdom infused into an unaccustomed child, but liquid clear in its conviction and just as fluid in delivery. He speaks the same way he plays.

 

"And you're a good person, too," Steven adds, to which Vincent just smirks a bit in self-deprecation, "no really."

 

He stares at his younger teammate, wondering where all this is coming from. "Come on," he says and makes to stand, but Steven's hand comes around his wrist, stopping him.

 

"You are," Steven insists, and Vincent can see him swallowing. He says it again, softly this time, "you are."

 

He nods, "okay."

 

"I mean it."

 

"Stev-"

 

He can't get another word in, not with Steven pushing him to the floor and pressing his lips against Vincent's; they're dry and a little bit chapped. He can't even think to react before Steven scrambles to get up, looking as if he's been caught off guard by this as much as Vincent has, stammering, "I - I'm sorry. I just, that wasn't, shit," Steven's eyes are wide rings of blue and green, dilated in panic. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he keeps saying, "I'm so sorry."

 

"Steven," he's just shaking off the shock, "Steven, just hold-"

 

But Steven's already grabbed his keys and the front door's slams behind him.

 

The house feels eerily empty. Save for the sound of Steven driving away, the noise of the neighborhood fades into the background. He doesn't bother to get up from the floor because:

 

What the fuck.