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Andy likes to think that even if Dan Riley hadn’t walked into their dressing room, him and Derek would have figured things out. It’s probably optimistic, but he likes to think that. It’s not like Riley’s the kind of guy to let things go to his head, but he’s already gross enough about Lapointe, the last thing he needs is to know that his true love or whatever is so magical that it actually fixes other people’s lives. But it probably did.
The first thing Andy did after making it onto the final roster of the Senators was develop a giant crush on the guy insistent on ‘showing him how to live’. He thinks this an example of why his mom always says that he’s a sweet boy but he doesn’t have an ounce of sense in him. If anything is senseless, it’s actually liking Derek Carruthers.
Or not just liking him, exactly, because he’s easy to like, everyone likes him, he’s nice and friendly and kind of a dick but in a funny way. He’s a likeable guy. But Andy’s pretty sure no one else gets kind of dreamy about his arms. Or at least he hopes not. Not that he’s protective of his role as the biggest idiot in the room, but. You know. That’d be weird. Not likely, more than one idiot actually falling for Derek’s ridiculous charm.
It honestly isn’t his fault though, because from the beginning Derek is great to him. Sticks around with him after practice to work on his face-offs, showing him where the places that are both delicious and diet friendly are, distracting any bartender who sees past the fact that Andy’s 6’4” and starts to look a little suspiciously at his face. He’s just really nice, except in how he’s not, how he’s a total jerk, making Andy do shots until he has to wobble his way home, talking him up to girls so that they come over, lay their hands on his arm, while he goes bright red and stutters his way through escaping, and Derek laughs at him from the safety of the bar. Short-sheeting Olsen’s bed and then blaming Andy, so Andy wakes up one morning to find all his clothes missing and has to borrow stuff from Barry, who is six inches shorter than him and a lot broader, just so he can go down to breakfast and beg Olsen for his stuff back. He doesn’t rat on Derek, though, even when Olsen pretends he has no idea what he’s talking about and Andy has to get on the bus in sweatpants that go to his shins and keep slipping down his hips, no matter how tight he ties them, praying that his stuff is already at the practice facility.
And that’s all the first week.
He doesn’t think it’s a crush at first, not really--Derek’s really nice to him, and makes him feel welcome, like he fits in, keeps grabbing Andy and inserting him in conversations with vets that he’d be too shy to get into himself. Derek’s twenty-three and kind of effortlessly cool, and Andy wishes he could manage that sort of charm, that it could be that easy for him. So for awhile he thinks he wishes he could be Derek, and then maybe that he just wants to be in Derek’s orbit all the time. It takes awhile for the actual crush thing to occur to him, and it happens in the most ridiculous way, because it’s Derek so of course it does.
They’re in Regina playing the Roughriders, and the media’s paying more attention to him than usual since it’s his first game back in since leaving Saskatoon Blades, and the WHL, behind. He gets some questions about home, about whether he misses Saskatchewan yet, whether big ol’ Ottawa’s freaking him out (it is, a little, but he’s not going to say so). After the interviews and a shower, Derek wanders over to his stall, still dripping, himself, and in Under Armour that Andy really hopes is clean and not from earlier today.
“You’re from Prince Albert?” Derek asks.
Oh yeah, Andy should have expected that since Derek didn’t make the joke, he didn’t actually know where Andy was from.
“Yes,” Andy says, and waits for it.
“Isn’t that like,” Derek says, and gestures loosely at his dick.
Andy feels his ears go red, eyes automatically following Derek’s hand, but he’s answered this question a hundred times by now, so he knows the drill. “Yeah,” he says, hoping his blush isn’t too obvious, and cutting his eyes away from Derek. “It’s the dick piercing. And you’re the first person to point that out. Ever. Congratulations.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, and when Andy looks at him again, he’s smiling faintly. “You’re salty, rookie,” he says. “I like that.” And ruffles Andy’s hair before wandering back to his own stall.
Andy tries to straighten his hair again, and hopes no one’s noticed that he’s gone bright pink. It’s probably hopeless, he blushes and the whole world sees it.
So it’s a crush, he guesses.
*
Andy never thought he’d actually be grateful that he was on a pretty awful team, but he’s a rookie and he’s on the checking line, which is kind of amazing. Most of the guys he was drafted with, guys who were drafted ahead of him, are maturing in the minors while Andy’s getting a prime third-line spot. He has no illusions that it’s for any reason other than the fact that he’s a big guy, even if he’s still growing into his height--kids used to get mad when they played him because they thought he was older than them and it was cheating, not fair--but it’s amazing, playing on Derek’s left-wing, throwing his weight around a little, using his size. He never really got to in the minors, not enough at least, but now he’s not just allowed to but expected to, and it’s good, for the space of the game, like he’s someone else but also himself.
His mom calls a couple weeks into the season, concerned that he’s getting a little too rough and tumble, not liking the way he’s playing the game.
“That’s what they asked me to do, mom,” he says, patiently.
“Still,” she says, kind of doubtfully. “It’s awfully violent.”
“It’s hockey,” Andy points out.
“It isn’t like you,” she says.
“Mom,” Andy says. “It’s hockey.”
He thinks that’s explanation enough. She doesn’t though, and he spends the next fifteen minutes trying to convince her that he hasn’t spontaneously developed a temper.
He tells this all to Derek over lunch the next day, and Derek does absolutely nothing but laugh at him the whole time.
“Are you getting bruises, Bowman?” he asks, reaching out and pinching Andy’s arm. “Are we playing too rough for the rookie?”
“Fuck off,” Andy says, and then Derek’s faking shocked that he actually swore, which is bullshit, he swears all the time. Sometimes, at least. Occasionally.
“You’re the worst,” Andy says, sulky, and Derek condescendingly pats him on the arm.
Who knows, maybe they are playing too rough for Andy, because he ends up spraining his wrist in a game against the Islanders, from a filthy illegal check from behind by Brouwer. Brouwer gets a three game suspension for it, and Andy gets a tensor bandage and Derek bringing him soup.
“I think that’s for colds,” Andy says, when he opens the door to find Derek on the other side. “Or the flu, maybe.”
“Mm, chicken,” Derek says, and when Andy doesn’t move, “let me in, rookie, you are a video game prodigy and I think I can beat you right now.”
“My wrist is sprained,” Andy argues, letting him in.
“Exactly,” Derek says, “You play with one hand, I actually have a chance of winning, it’s perfect.”
Andy ends up watching Derek play Halo solo while he’s eating his soup. He’d have more pride, but it smells and tastes delicious, is from the deli around the corner that Andy can no longer live without, and making anything more difficult than a microwave dinner is really difficult when you have to try not to use your dominant hand. He’d ask Blumm to make food for him, but Blumm may actually burn their apartment down, so. It’s been microwave food, mostly.
“Thank you,” he says, when Derek’s between games, a little shy, and Derek just pulls him in for a one armed hug, a more gentle than he’d usually be.
“Come back soon,” Derek says. “Vogel sucks.”
“That’s not nice,” Andy chides, but he’s laughing.
*
When he comes back, he comes back better than before, or at least less afraid. He sprained his wrist, and it sucked, but he got through it, so he isn’t flinching, he knows he can take whatever is handed out to him, and it’s the most freeing feeling in the world.
“That was fucking hot,” Derek says, after Andy’s first game back, and Andy goes so red he thinks his whole body must be blushing.
Derek insists on taking him out after, despite his protests, and a couple of the other guys come too. Derek buys him a shot for every check he made, so he’s definitely drunk enough to answer, “I don’t know,” when Derek asks “So what’s your type?”, but luckily not drunk enough to answer, “You, I think.”
Derek, unfortunately, knows him well enough to guess, correctly, what he means by that.
“Oh my god, Andy, are you seriously a virgin?” Derek asks, and Andy is so lucky that the rest of the guys aren’t still sitting at the table, or this might be the worst moment of his life instead of just in his top ten.
“Stop,” Andy hisses, looks around to see if anyone has heard.
“You’re in the fucking NHL,” Derek says. “I’m going to fix this.”
“Don’t,” Andy mumbles.
“Take your pick,” Derek says, ignoring him. “Blonde, brunette, redhead? I think that girl in the corner has been eyeing you.”
She’s probably been eyeing Derek. Andy would, if he was her.
“Don’t,” he repeats, but without much hope, and Derek goes off to ‘fix’ his ‘problem’.
He comes back with two girls, a blonde and a redhead, and raises his eyebrows at Andy, clearly checking which one he’d prefer. He’d prefer to go home and pretend this night never happened, but he doesn’t think that’s an option.
“I was just telling these lovely ladies about how great you played tonight,” Derek says. “And after such a terrible injury. This guy’s the real deal.”
Andy wants to bash his head into the table until he knocks himself out, but he doesn’t think that’s an option either. “Hi,” he says weakly.
“Was it bad?” the blonde asks.
“Just a sprained wrist,” Andy mumbles.
“He downplays things,” Derek says. “It could have ended his career.”
The girls look at him sympathetically, and Andy tries not to glare at Derek. Liar.
Derek gets distracted by one of the guys, or maybe a girl his own type, and leaves Andy with both girls. If he thinks Andy can pull a threesome on his first time, he’s got a lot more faith in Andy than Andy does himself.
Andy ends up bitching about Derek, and sort of accidentally admits the whole story. Fucking Derek. Fucking tequila shots.
They are really nice girls, listen sympathetically even though he thinks he might be rambling, is definitely talking a lot more than he does sober, and when the lights come up, the redhead gives him a hug. “He’s a dick,” she says. “Good luck with that.”
Andy pretends he has no idea what she’s talking about.
The blonde tells him her little brother is gay, and a nice boy, and Andy pretends he doesn’t know what she’s talking about either, though she pats him on the cheek, where he’s sure he’s bright red.
He doesn’t even end up getting their names, because once the lights are on he’s busy trying to find Derek. Who is nowhere to be found, is probably back at some girl’s place getting laid, while Andy spent the last hour and a half pretty much spilling the fact he’s gay and completely gone on him to the two complete strangers that Derek tried to hook him up with.
Fuck him. Just. Just fuck him.
*
At practice the next morning, Derek is bright and happy while Andy feels kind of like there’s a squirrel nesting in his brain. Coach yells at him for slacking off, and Derek waggles his eyebrows at Andy and then slumps when Andy glares at him with the entire power of his hangover.
“They looked into you,” Derek says, after practice. “I figured at least one of them would be up for it.”
“Don’t,” Andy says shortly, tugging at his skate laces a little violently.
“Don’t?” Derek asks, and when Andy looks up, he looks sort of hang dog, mournful. Andy doesn’t soften. Mostly.
“Don’t do that again,” Andy mumbles finally. “I just. I don’t like being pitied.”
“Andy,” Derek says, with what sounds like a lot of pity.
“Go away,” he snaps, finally, so pissed, embarrassed, everything. “Please.”
To Derek’s credit, he doesn’t do it again, though he’ll nudge Andy when they’re out, looking hopefully at girls he thinks might be his type. It’s always redheads, it seems. Just because Andy has red hair doesn’t mean he likes it. Derek has dark hair. Not that that has anything to do with anything. He leaves Andy alone beyond that, though, has what seems like a monthly check in on Andy’s virginity status, and Andy would love to be able to lie without blushing just so Derek would get off his back about it. But he doesn’t push girls at him again, and Andy’s grateful for it.
He wishes the season was good enough or bad enough to take his mind off it, but it isn’t. They’re not good, not by a longshot, but they’re not flat out awful, and that’s the same for Andy’s season, which is decent but not great. He wishes he could have come out of the gate running, but he’s sure everyone wishes that, and obviously only a few people can.
And Derek stays great. Andy wishes he wasn’t. Or he doesn’t, because Derek being great is just kind of a fact of life, and it makes Andy’s life better, but he wishes he wouldn’t take it to heart. Derek will remember something Andy said months later, or order his favourite takeout dish without asking first, or praise him, or call him adorable. Andy knows he probably means adorable like a puppy, but he still blushes every time, which makes Derek continue to call him adorable.
Derek’s great, and Andy’s embarrassingly into him, enough that the guys rib him for a ‘man crush’, which, at least, doesn’t catch onto the fact that it’s less a man crush and more a crush crush. Derek’s great, and Andy hates him for a little, for being great, and nice, in kind of a dickish way, and being thoughtful when he needs to be, and being Andy’s best friend, basically, for making himself that place in Andy’s life and refusing to give up the spot.
Derek’s great, and Andy’s getting used to it, is fine with it, because he has a stupid crush but at least he has Derek as a best friend, looking out for him and fucking with him and just generally being there. And it’s totally fine.
And then the season ends, abrupt, them sitting whole spots out of contention, watching half the league move on without them, and the guys go out and get drunk, pretty spectacularly, half celebration half mourning.
If Andy hadn’t been drunk, if Derek hadn’t, it probably wouldn’t have happened. No, it definitely wouldn’t have happened, Andy wouldn’t have let it happen.
But it does, and then things suddenly aren’t fine at all.