the team trauma

SEPT 14, 2017, 10:44 AM San Francisco, California

The Blades’ general manager is in their office flipping through their pile of faxes when they spot something out of place. A trade contract. They’d apparently signed it and gotten it approved by both the Wanderers’ front office and the NHA’s lawyers.

They pick it up and inspect it, then slam it down on the desk in frustration. A first rounder for Sheppard? They never signed for him. They know they never even mentioned Sheppard when discussing a trade with the Wanderers. They only asked for…

There’s only two people in the world that are able to forge their signature, and their daughter definitely does not know how to send a fax.

It must have been him.

Furious, they punch his number into their shitty old flip-phone. They know the digits by heart—his area code is still local to the Bay, anyways—but it doesn’t make them any less mad. Typing it out is faster than finding him in their contacts list. It rings once before he answers.

“Hi, Hans.” He greets in a reserved tone, like he’s bracing himself. As he should.

“Cut the shit, Jakey. Why the fuck does this contract say Sheppard?“ Hans is nearly yelling at their phone, loud enough that their hearing aids squeal in protest.

“It’s an… emergency. Angel needs to get out of here.” He responds quietly. “Needs to.”

Hans’s expression softens for a moment, worried. They’re not sure if the crackle is in Jakey’s voice, or if it’s just because of the cross-continent distance.

Either way, it hurts.

“Please,” he adds after a moment. “Angel’s not safe here. Please take care of him.”

They wince at that, the severity finally registering.

There’s a long pause.

“…Okay.” Hans sighs. “You could’ve said something, I could’ve worked it out. It’s fine. Looks like it was already approved anyways.”

“Sweetheart…”

“And don’t call me that when I’m mad at you.” They hang up abrubtly, folding their phone with a clap and tossing it on the desk haphazardly.

Hans plants an elbow on their table, leans their face on their fist. They glance at photo frame, standing proudly near their pile of papers. It’s an old one, from 2002. Fifteen years ago.

They vaguely remember that it was an early season home game. Hans would always chat with Jakey during warmups. They’re laughing at something he said and he’s got that stupid smirk on his face, obviously pleased.

It’s strange, looking at a memory. The photo looks too saturated, too warm. The glow of the rink reflecting off of Hans’s skin, almost golden, spotlights shining through Jakey’s brown curls—it’s too much.

They were so fucking happy.

Hans pushes the picture away, their chest suddenly tight, their guts not sitting quite right inside them.

The lights flicker, a visual knock, and they look up at the doorway.

“Hey, coach! I was—uh…” The Blades captain drops her hand from the lightswitch, a slight frown at the corners of her mouth. “Is it a bad time?”

Hans notices that she’s changed the color of her braids to her usual in-season Blades maroon. She seems to have been upbeat until she saw them.

“It’s fine, Khai. Come sit.” Hans motions her into their office with a halfhearted wave. They fiddle with their hair, suddenly self-concious, tucking a half-gray strand behind their ear.

Khai steps into the room, sits in one of the chairs opposite to them, legs crossed. Her brows are scrunched, concerned. “Other managers being weirdos again?”

“Nothing like that.” Hans sighs. “A trade just… didn’t go my way.”

“Am I allowed to know?”

“A first round pick next year for Angel Sheppard.” Hans says, spinning a pen between their fingers. They try not to look back at the photo on their desk.

“Oh?” Khai tilts her head slightly, curious at how disappointed Hans sounded. “That seems like a deal. Sheppy’s had a good season. He’s in his prime.”

“Yeah.” Hans mumbles. They stare at the contract again. The forgery is awfully convincing, but there’s a slight leftwards lean of the letters. They purse their lips. It makes sense, Jakey’s left-handed.

“Any other team would love to have him, he just won a Cup.” Khai continues, her gaze steady on the coach. “This is a steal. We needed a d-man to fill the roster immediately, since Benny just retired.”

“Khai…” Hans wants to argue, but stops. The trade makes perfect sense on paper.

If anything, it makes more sense than what their inital proposal was. Sheppard would be a much better, long-term acquisition, only twenty-four years old, his contract still good for another four years.

They scratch at their neck. “Yeah, I know. I just—”

“Wanted a certain other Montreal Wanderer?” Khai finishes, leaning over and nodding pointedly towards the picture on their desk.

Hans shakes their head, grumbles something that sounds like “shut the hell up, Khai.”

“Hey, you two weren’t exactly secretive with it.” Khai says, shrugging. “Anyways. Just wanted to say hi.”

“Go lead dryland, would you? We have an afternoon skate.” Hans says, face flushing, trying to dismiss her before they can get any redder.

“Yes, coach.” Khai rolls her eyes as she gets up from the chair. She pokes at the framed photo on Hans’s desk, taking a peek. “…Didn’t he visit you this summer?”

“I’m supposed to be your general manager, Khai.” Hans points a pen towards her, voice creaking in desperation. “Don’t bring my love life into this. Be professional.”

“Come on, we played high school hockey together. We’re literally childhood friends.” She says, wagging a finger at them. “You know about my love life!”

“Your love life is your liney.” Hans huffs back at her. “And you signed your extensions as a couple.”

“And you wanted to trade for Jakey.” Khai says. “Which definitely feels a little bit more unprofessional than me being nosy.”

“He…” They’re fumbling for words. “He would’ve been a veteran presence for—”

“You don’t have to defend yourself, I know you just wanted your favorite man back home. Year-round and all.” Khai stretches out her words, her voice sing-song. She waves as she heads out of the office. “Anyways, see ya at pracky later!”

“Close the fucking door!” They bark out after her, but Khai doesn’t bother. Hans grumbles again, pissed that she’s not wrong at all.