The last game of their roadie is a game against the Knights in Newark and it’s a fast-paced and filthy one. They still have some games left before the playoffs start, but right now they’re set to play against each other in the first round, with the Knights in second and the Ravens in third place. The Knights might catch up with the Eagles, who are in first place right now, the Ravens might overtake the Knights, might drop into a wildcard spot. It’s all up in the air right now. Nothing’s decided yet.
Blake gets knocked over early in the second, loses a skate blade and has to get that fixed on the bench, but he’s still good to go after.
When he gets injured, Elliot isn’t out there.
Their third line is on the ice and they’re skating into the offensive zone and Crab gets tripped up by one of their own guys and he crashes right into Blake, who goes down with Crab. And Crab is quick to scramble off, but Blake is still down on the ice and the Knights are ready to kill Elliot’s entire team for touching Blake. Crab gets shoved out of the way by Brian Kelly. He bends down to talk to Blake, who seems to be saying something back.
Behind the net, there’s still some pushing and shoving, but the arena has gone quiet, all eyes on Blake.
“Is he okay?” Adam mutters. He sounds worried, even though Blake isn’t one of their own guys. No one ever wants to see anyone get seriously injured out there.
“I don’t know,” Elliot says, standing up to see better, but the Knights crowded around Blake are blocking the view.
Kelly eventually helps Blake up and gets him across the ice with Johnny Brammer, who’s saying something to Blake as they skate to the bench. Blake goes straight down the tunnel and doesn’t return.
Crab watches him go, face blotchy.
The Ravens win the game, but their celebration is subdued, and Crab in particular looks like he’s about to burst into tears, so Elliot pulls him aside before they get on the bus.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Elliot says. It really wasn’t. There’s nothing Crab could have done, unless he’d spontaneously learned how to fly. “He got up and he skated off the ice, which means it could be way worse,” Elliot goes on when Crab doesn’t say anything. What he’s telling Crab right now is what he’s been telling himself, too.
Blake made it off the ice on his own. That’s a good sign.
Elliot has been checking the Knights’ Twitter ever since the game ended, but all they posted was that Blake Samuels wouldn’t be returning to the game after getting injured in the second period. On the bus ride home, they put up another update, which is just that the Knights’ coach will be giving an update on Blake the next day after he’s been evaluated.
Crab is sitting next to Elliot on the bus, the guilt is eating him alive. Elliot doesn’t know what to tell him. That hockey is a sport where injuries happen? Crab knows that. It’s different when you’re the one who caused the injury, even though it was nothing but a freak accident.
“Let’s see what they say tomorrow,” Elliot says. Again, that one was also for himself. As much as he wants to call Blake right now, he probably wouldn’t even answer his phone and it’s not like… Well, they’ve been texting a lot since they hung out in January and they managed to grab a coffee a few weeks later, right before Elliot left for Sochi, so maybe they’re tentatively back to being friends, but it might be weird if Elliot called him today. Tomorrow is better.
Crab nods. “I hope he’s okay,” he whispers.
“I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“You know him?”
“We used to play together,” Elliot says.
Crab’s eyes go impossibly wide. “Can you tell him I’m really, really sorry?”
“I will,” Elliot says. “Promise.”
After that, Crab is little less upset. Elliot’s still vaguely nauseous, thinking about Blake going down.
He checks Twitter again.
Nothing.
#
“You still alive?”
“Stop,” Blake groans and picks up his TV remote to throw it at Noah, then quickly decides against it.
Noah’s fingers curl around his wrist, then the remote is removed from his hand. Blake’s on his couch and he’s pretty sure that there’s a cat on his feet, but he has his eyes closed so fuck knows.
He has a concussion because Keith Taylor decided to fucking come for his life yesterday, or at least that’s what it felt like when he barreled right into Blake. He hasn’t watched the replay because he’s not allowed to watch anything right now. Noah has watched the replay and has assured him that Taylor probably didn’t mean to plop his ass right on top of Blake’s head.
Blake is lucky, because he didn’t pass out on the ice, his symptoms aren’t severe, but he has a murderous headache and he just wants to lie here with his eyes closed and with Noah’s fingers curled around his wrist, thumb brushing slowly back and forth against his skin.
He’s pathetically glad that Noah came over. He was going to come over anyway, because Noah has the day off, just came back from a West Coast roadie last night, and they were going to hang out, and maybe that’s what they’re doing, except they’re doing it quietly, because Blake isn’t a fan of loud noises right now.
“You want anything to eat?” Noah asks, voice low. There’s a good chance that he’s had one of these before
