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There’s an event for Montreal’s athletic stars, and Thomas isn’t invited. Neither are half the Habs, but Anton’s only pissed about Thomas not being invited, as far as Thomas can tell, and even offers to take him as a plus one.
“You’re going to bring me as, what, your less talented date?” Thomas asked, when Anton offered.
Anton frowned, the big one that put a furrow in his brow. “Don’t call yourself less talented,” he said.
Thomas is less talented than Anton, that’s a straight up fact, there isn’t anyone in the world who would argue that, up to and including Thomas’ own parents, except for Anton. Regardless, he managed to convince Anton not to drag him along, saying, mostly truthfully, that he’d honestly rather a night to himself. He doesn’t get many of them.
He’s asleep by the time Anton gets home, so it’s slightly startling when he’s squinting at the coffee maker and a Not-Anton comes in, to the point he jumps a little.
“Shit, sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her voice is familiarly accented enough Thomas feels comfortable switching to French before he says, “That’s okay,” and then, “Want some coffee?”
“Please,” she says.
“Scrambled eggs?” Thomas asks.
“Sure,” she agrees.
“Oh!” Thomas realises. “I’m Thomas.”
“I know,” she says, through a laugh. “I’m Veronique.”
Thomas looks again. “You’re goalie for the Montreal Stars,” he says.
“Guilty,” Veronique says.
“You’re really good,” Thomas tells her.
“You too,” she says. “The second Anton found out I was a goalie he didn’t stop talking about you all night.”
Thomas fiddles with the coffee maker, even though it’s set the way he likes it. “Sorry about that,” he says.
“Better you than his dad?” she says, and they both take a silent moment to consider the amount of goalies involved in Anton’s life. Or at least Thomas does. Maybe she’s just thinking about coffee or eggs or something.
Thomas gives her the first cup brewed, along with milk when she requests it, and asks her about the Stars season while he makes the eggs, since he’s looked at the stats and made it out to a couple games, but he hasn’t really been able to follow it the way he wants to, what with the schedule he has. She mentions a goaltending workshop she runs for girls under ten, and Thomas gets distracted from the eggs.
“Seriously?” he asks. “That’s awesome, do you need any help?”
“I mean, we wouldn’t say no,” she says, and obediently puts her number in Thomas’ phone when he gives it to her. He trades his phone back for a plate of eggs and some toast, and Anton comes in then, going straight for the coffee pot before he seems to realise they have company.
“Um,” he says.
“Morning Tony,” Thomas says. “Eggs?”
“Um, what?” Anton says.
“I should probably head out,” Veronique says.
“No, eat your eggs,” Thomas says. “Tony, sit. Two or three?”
“Two?” Anton says, clutching at his cup, then, “Uh, hi.”
“Hi,” Veronique says, practically shoveling eggs into her mouth, and it’s like two minutes later when she’s cleared her plate. “Okay, got to go, practice.”
“Oh, I’ll call you a cab,” Thomas says.
“Maybe I can just get my roommate to pick me up,” she says after a minute.
“It’s on me,” Thomas says, then when she looks doubtful, “Seriously. Goalie solidarity, dude.”
He holds out his fist, and she bumps it with hers and even humours him when he makes his explode.
“Anton, man the eggs,” Thomas says, and wanders to the living room to call for a cab, Veronique following him out.
“Sorry about Anton,” he says, while she’s putting her boots on. “He’s kind of -- in the mornings.”
“I was trying to sneak out to avoid the awkward morning after,” she says.
“Oh,” Thomas says. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I got eggs out of it. And hey, if you ever do manage to get some time, I know the girls would lose their minds with excitement if you came out.”
“I’ll make the time,” Thomas promises, and hands her over cab fare when the driver comes, huddling against the cold air she lets in when she leaves. When he goes back inside Anton hasn’t seemed to move, but he’s got a plate of eggs in front of him, so he must have.
“Ketchup?” Thomas asks.
“What the fuck, Vin,” Anton says, but when Thomas says, ‘what?’ in return, he just mutters, “Never mind.” and starts to eat his eggs, ketchup free, even, which is weird. Thomas retrieves the ketchup for him, putting it on the island before pouring himself another cup of coffee and going upstairs to get changed for practice.
*
Thomas thinks things might be kind of weird on the ride into practice, but Anton has grumpy days, they’re just a fact of life. He doesn’t realise there’s an actual legit problem in Anton’s mind until he shoots Veronique a text before practice, letting her know it’s him and checking when the girls are meeting next.
“Fournier?” Anton asks. Fournier is coming to Montreal next week, family and all, and Thomas has admittedly been texting him with too many plans for them to actually do, but that’s what he has Fourns for: to shift through them and decide which ones are best. He’s already nixed Thomas taking the girls to the American Girl section at Indigo, probably because he wants to be the best briber ever and won’t allow competition, but Thomas just wanted to do the hair salon thing or maybe get their dolls puppies or something. He’ll have to suggest it again.
“Veronique, actually,” Thomas mumbles distractedly.
“Fourns’ kid? Isn’t she a little young for texting?” Anton asks.
Thomas looks up and gives Anton his very best unimpressed look. “Her name is Vanessa, and Veronique would be the girl in our kitchen this morning, Tony.”
Anton blinks twice. “Why the fuck are you texting her?” he asks, finally.
“She’s doing a goaltending workshop for girls,” Thomas says. “I said I’d help if she wanted.”
“Okay, maybe no one ever taught you etiquette for one night stands,” Anton says. “Like not to make her breakfast and pay for her cab and fucking text her to do some cutesy little workshop.”
“Are you aware how little women in the CWHL make? It’s like maybe minimum wage. And how few resources there are for young goalies, especially girls?” Thomas asks, pretending he doesn’t see Lapointe beaming at him out of the corner of his eye, because no, then realises he’s been distracted from kind of an important point. “And I’d also like to point out I didn’t hook up with her, you did.”
“Maybe you should have fucked her then,” Anton snaps.
Carmen’s approaching with a look on his face like Thomas and Anton fighting is Christmas to him. Thomas knows Anton will say something to him if he gets closer, potentially something cruel, so he puts his hand out. Carmen pauses.
“Not a good time, Sandro,” Thomas says, and is a little surprised but mostly just thankful when Carmen retreats.
“What the fuck, Anton,” Thomas says flatly, but then decides he doesn’t want the answer to that, at least not in a room full of their coworkers. “We can talk about this later.”
Anton looks mutinous, like he’s planning on continuing. “Later,” Thomas repeats. “Unless you want Gagnon yelling at both of us.”
Gagnon looks just fed up enough to support Thomas’ point when he gestures at him.
“You done with the lover’s spat?” he asks Thomas in French, and a good chunk of the room laughs, though Anton just looks even more furious that whatever’s been said is over his head. Thomas would usually be the one translating it for him, but one, it’s not a particularly funny joke and hasn’t been the previous hundred times in English, French, and probably Russian, and also, he frankly just doesn’t feel like it right now. Maybe if Anton wanted to understand French he could have tried to learn in the French city he’s been living in for almost a decade. Though judging by the way the Russians talk to him, maybe language isn’t his forte.
Thomas bites his lip, immediately feeling guilty, even though he didn’t say anything out loud. He’s still feeling guilty in the ride home, which is kind of icily silent on Anton’s part, enough that when they get inside he doesn’t even bother to put it off, just says, “Okay, go.”
“It’s weird, Vinny,” Anton says. At least he’s calling Thomas Vinny, though if he started calling Thomas by his first name Thomas might duck and hide, it’d be such a bad sign.
“You’re weird,” Thomas mutters under his breath, and doesn’t fault Anton for the unimpressed look he gets in return. He spends too much time with Carmen, maybe.
“What were you even trying to do?” Anton asks. He’s not yelling, but he sounds like he might be on the verge of yelling, especially if Thomas does another dumb retort. Which he won’t. “Because if it was to make this morning super fucking awkward, congratulations, you succeeded. A plus, Thomas.”
Thomas winces. “I was just trying to be nice,” he says.
“Yeah, next time don’t do it with my fucking hook-ups,” Anton says. “God.”
He stomps off upstairs, and Thomas stares at his feet for a minute before pulling his phone out.
did i make this morning awkward for you? Thomas sends to Veronique.
a little but you’re cool don’t worry about it. goalie solidarity! *fistbump* he gets back less than a minute later.
“So there,” Thomas mumbles, but he doesn’t really feel that much better, even with goalie solidarity.