Reese Halston-Vale | RW13 | a whole assortment <3

“What do I have of yours? I don’t know. Fan mail, I assume.” That was a reasonable enough answer. Reese didn’t have high self-esteem, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he had a fanclub, primarily consisting of young women who knew nothing about hockey and older men who were obsessed with the sport, and thus, with his stats. He was supposed to go first overall, and if it weren’t for politics, he would’ve. The second half of the answer, however, was completely unexpected.

“I was cornered in the airport and told to give it to you. I thought at first it was a bomb, but I am still standing. I don’t want it anymore, though. I don’t like being in possession of others’ things.”

Now, Reese had two options in this scenario. First, he could assume Elliot was absolutely, one-hundred percent mental. Second, he could take him at his word and accept the potential of danger that he was indicating. Unfortunately, despite every reason not to, he chose the former option, raising his eyebrow at the idea that the Swede had somehow jumped to the conclusion that some overzealous fan had given him a bomb. Weren’t Swedes supposed to be unfeeling and rational?

Unceremoniously taking in a forkful of the roasted vegetables that had come with his venison, Reese finished chewing, a smug look still on his face as he replied, “how very noble of you.” The slightest upturn of his lip indicated a smirk, studying Elliot with an uncontained amusement as he stared through his lashes. “Was she hot?”

–

Their dinner was cut abruptly short by the fact that their teammates had become bored and Cormac allegedly had some bet to settle with one of the other guys that required them to be back on the property. Reese assumed it was either illegal or involved skates and ice, probably both. Regardless, he was equally happy to escape the repetitive cognition in his head that he was on a date, something that did not get any better or worse as time passed in the dimly-lit restaurant. He had this uncomfortable tension bubbling under his skin because of his intrusive thoughts, as if he couldn’t even find the other man’s accent charming without validating a thought that he shouldn’t have been having in the first place. He was straight. He didn’t have to prove that to anyone. God forbid a man appreciate the green in another man’s eyes without it being a thing.

Although he was sure he probably acted weird before, during, and after the dinner, and in any circumstance he was in Elliot’s presence in general, Reese made no effort to rush off when the men got off the bus. In fact, he turned, not drunk off the glass of wine he’d had with dinner but perhaps acting a bit buzzed because of their company–who were all definitely drunk–and swayed a bit in Elliot’s personal bubble, unintentionally boxing him in against the van. He just studied him thoughtfully, completely non-threatening, just observing him like a bug under a microscope. Testing his limits. “You wanna watch Cormac fall on his ass trying to prove himself for this bet, or should I follow you back to yours so I can throw away the fan mail in my own trash bin?”

He tried not to think about the implications of his question. They weren’t a bonded pair. They weren’t a couple. They weren’t even linemates to begin the season. Why was he making decisions with him like he was? God, he really needed to get a grip and stop overthinking. No one was psychoanalyzing them except for him. Not in this setting, anyway.

Eventually, Reese followed Elliot to his room which was on the upper floor like his, but located all the way at the end of the hallway. He tried not to feel resentful and to quell the anger bubbling to the surface, nothing directed toward Elliot, but irritation at the way he was being used as a pawn to get a reaction out of Reese. The Swede didn’t seem malicious in the least, but Reese still didn’t trust him. He couldn’t, not in this setting, when nothing and no one could.

“Nice digs, William,” he observed from the doorway, not having been invited inside formally and not intending to stay. “Very minimalist starter furniture of you. You seem like a real Homes & Gardens type.”

Offering a look that wasn’t necessarily amicable but aspired to be, Reese idly controlled the quirk of his mouth, unwilling to smile. He took the box that was offered, studying it with an expression of distaste on his face. “Now I see why you didn’t just throw it away yourself. I’m gonna need a bigger trash can.”

–

With very little interest in actually unwrapping the contents of the box, the Canadian lugged the heavy item back to his room with little more than a lingering goodnight to his new teammate, more spoken in glances than in words. He let it rot in the corner of his room beside the small garbage bin next to the door, feeling exhausted from the day but still restless and uneasy. He contemplated wandering the halls, trying to find someone willing to talk with him, but he didn’t want to come off as lonely or needy or emotional and he knew everyone other than a select few would focus more on their differences than what they had in common. He had no work to do for his degree programs considering that he’d worked ahead to avoid having one more thing to do during this process, and, even if he hadn’t, the internet was spotty at best. He’d already made up his mind that he’d be working ahead on assignments from the road until either he got traded–unlikely–or he graduated–more likely, but still a far way out. He showered and changed his clothes, allowing the drowsy feeling he had from the wine and days of sleep deprivation to take him over, falling asleep on the bed before he’d even had a chance to turn out the lights.

It didn’t last, though. It was still dark out when he woke up in a panic, the underwhelming view of darkness from beyond the massive windows in contrast to the bright lighting of his room. He had this uneasy feeling, pure nervous energy that had likely renewed itself at the first indication of energy returning to Reese’s body. The band on his wrist and the clock on his dresser were unanimous in informing him that it was too early to be awake, but too close to the time he actually needed to be up for him to even attempt to sleep. Not that it would come anyway, when all he felt was fear pulsing through his veins and uneasiness about something he wasn’t even aware of. Yet, it wasn’t like there were any good alternatives, either. There were no board games, no people to interact with, not even food with which to cook. Reese had a habit of stress cooking when he felt panicked, but even that wasn’t a method of coping that appeared to be permitted here. Not that he wouldn’t try to change that.

Putting on the team clothing that had been allotted for today, Reese slipped on a hoodie, a heavy coat, and a hat over his base layer. He put on a pair of sneakers that stood out against the required outfit, moving slowly enough that the sun was beginning to rise by the time he was prepared to go. He’d thrown a few things in his team backpack that he needed for the day before making his way down to the nutrition center. While it had been filled to the brim the evening prior, the early morning hour showed no indications of being that same place. Only himself and Matias had made it down to breakfast at this time, and Reese made no effort toward attempting to interact with him. Reese didn’t want to be bothered, and Matias struck him as the type of guy to reciprocate that desire. It was enough to be seen as the second guy awake, dressed, and going about his routine. Matias could decipher whether they were the actions of an ambitious, driven pre-superstar or a lonely, anxious kid who was struggling to survive in a place like this. He wasn’t even sure which one he was, maybe in some sick and twisted way, he was both. He pondered this as he picked at the hard, oddly-textured cubes of vegetables and protein, considering that it wasn’t unlike something you may feed a household pet. Then again, there wasn’t much that pointed to their humanity here, just their commitment to a sport that kept them in shackles.

Just as the Canadian was leaving, signs of life began to appear across the property. The other guys were milling about, going about their routines as needed before practice. In the hallways of the living complex, itineraries were posted at the exits and in the gathering areas. Today they had morning practice which was to end in a scrimmage, then media day to begin the season in the late morning and early afternoon. Most of the guys had afternoon appointments with one person or another, but those were scheduled and listed separately from the group activities. The rest of the night was theirs to prepare for the first preseason game against a powerhouse team that was objectively better than the majority of the teams in the TCHL. The Central Division was a powerhouse, and unfortunately, that meant that nothing came easy for the Volt. They would have to earn every advancement in the rankings they made, and Reese wasn’t sure they would manage much if their GM didn’t make some massive moves to improve things. Selfishly, Reese considered that perhaps they’d taken Elliot first overall to make him more desirable for trading purposes. They could trade him for multiple contributors to make the team better than it would be with just two superstars and a bunch of twilighting has-beens. Reese would volunteer himself to go, but he knew it would be futile. Somehow, he assumed the prospect of trading Elliot was just as much so, if not more.

As the morning went on, free time turned into preparing for practice in the locker room, which turned into stick-handling drills and skating critiques. Luca was gruff and unamused, never sparing any sort of fondness or softness like Assistant Coach Weber did, but Reese still survived primarily unscathed. The team broke into two for the scrimmage with Weber handling one group and Mattias handling the other, Reese ending up on a team that was objectively less talented than the other team, which had Elliot, Jasper, and Nicola as its top line. Reese had the other two alternates on his team and Tomaselli as the goalie, but their defense still wasn’t equal to that top line’s offense. They also had Weber coaching them while Matias did his best to play the role of coach for Reese’s team, but it felt like an unfair advantage either way.

Reese’s team lost 7-3, the majority of the goals for the other team scored by that top line. Elliot had five assists in the game which was impressive on its own, despite the fact that there was often too much pressure on him for him to make the kinds of plays he seemed to want to make. Reese scored two, a top-shelf breakaway on Solovyov that answered the Jasper Rook goal that opened scoring, and a tip-in from Eky in the third that he had little right to claim, other than being in the right place at the right time. Lemoine got the other goal for their team in the second, not long after Reese had blocked a shot that left him more bruised and achy than he had any right to be, but the rest of his team seemed asleep at the wheel. No matter how much he yelled at them or tried to knock any sense into them, it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

While both teams caught their breath, a debate came up regarding what Reese’s nickname would be. He said he didn’t care and would come to anything, as he had during the scrimmage. Some of the guys were hellbent that they all get on the same page about it now, to avoid confusion later.

“Well what did they call you at Everton?”

“Anything they wanted. Haller, Hallsy, Valer, Vales, any possible combination that sounds decent. They didn’t care like you guys care.”

“With a name like Halston, no one ever thought to use the end and call you Stunner?”

“Nah, I feel like you’d have to earn that. I’m not sure I ever did.”

“Oh, the kid’s being humble now. Playing like the next Ivan Petrov and getting coy on us.”

“I like Stunner,” another guy said. Reese still hadn’t mastered all of their names, and the attention on him was making him implode. “Then we’re giving him something original that’s ours.”

“Kid’s right, he has to earn it.”

“You would say that,” Cormac replied snidely, irritated at the pushback on his suggestion.

“Put him in the shootout, then,” Coach Weber replied, skating up to get things moving along. “If he sinks it, he’s earned it, if he doesn’t, back to the drawing board.”

With everyone in agreement, they began the optional shootout, which was more for practice than to decide a winner. The team with the talent had clearly won, despite having an equal goaltender and worse defense. They sent Elliot out first, and he stickhandled wide, something that looked to Reese like nerves. No one chirped him, no one said anything, they just watched as René was poke-checked by Tomaselli, since the goalies had swapped teams for the shootout. The next round, Rookie had a dirty toe drag, bar down goal, which was answered by Grübs going five-hole on Emil, keeping the teams tied. After Varga’s shot was saved by Solovyov, Matias reluctantly sent Reese out, saying something about big time players showing up in big time moments. No pressure.

Luckily for Reese, he had always been clutch in shootouts, so although he didn’t particularly care what or why they called him on the ice, he did appreciate having an opportunity to show a skill that this team clearly needed and lacked. With zero hesitation or nerves, Reese shot a nasty backhand roof, earning excitement and amusement from both teams about the kind of talent they’d acquired for their team.

As they made their way inside, everyone sat at their stall and waited for the coaches to speak. Weber elected Matias to speak first, so the Finn stood and began speaking as if he’d already prepared it. “Good job boys. Rookie, Nics, Lemon, good work today, good showing from the rookies, Elly five assists, Stunner two goals and the shootout winner, let’s keep it up boys. We’ve got a big one tomorrow. No matter what happens, it’s just a game, it doesn’t set the tone for the season, yeah? Keep it up.”

Unable to contain himself, Reese spoke up before Weber could resume his own speech. “I’m sorry, why are we talking about tomorrow like it’s already a scheduled loss? ‘It doesn’t set the tone for the season?’ Come on guys, do you even want to win at all?”

No one spoke up at this, and Matias glowered from his position in the opposite corner. If looks could kill, Reese might’ve been buried already. It was a good thing he didn’t care. While he allowed Weber to continue on talking about the logistics of media day and the pre-game schedule for the following day, he sat there, dumbfounded, wondering how he’d ended up on a team with the only professional athletes in the history of sports who didn’t want to win. Unceremoniously, he slipped out to the showers before anyone could reprimand him, knowing no one would try to talk to him there. Fortunately, he showered, came back, and dressed before anyone could confront him, slipping out to handle his meeting before his scheduled slot for media day. They still hadn’t assigned him a number or handed over his competition gear, which was what the meeting was for.

“What number would you like to be,” one of the staff asked as he sat down in her office. He forgot what her official title was, and he didn’t care to glance around to be reminded of it. “Seven, eight, nine, ten? We heard you’d been nine and ten before, so we went ahead and made them both in advance.” She passed them across to him, but he made no effort to show interest.

“Impressive counting, but I’ll be choosing thirteen,” Reese replied, not at all surprised by the way her expression hardened in confusion and perhaps fear. She let the jersey in her hand fall to the table, still waiting for him to take back his claim and say he was kidding. He wasn’t.

“But…but…you must know, no player in the history of this franchise has worn that number. It doesn’t happen.”

“It’ll be nice to be first in something,” Reese countered steadily, never missing an opportunity to get a dig in, even if it shouldn’t have been directed at her. He inhaled, then exhaled slowly, watching her formulate how to tell him no in a way that wouldn’t end in termination. Before she could, he added calmly, “I’ve already made up my mind. I’m assuming that’s not one of the options you had in your box, so I’ll wait outside while you get it arranged for me.” Then, adding gas on the fire, “I appreciate your cooperation with me.” He nudged the plaque that said Director of Hospitality in her direction, saying, “very hospitable of you.”

While he waited, Reese wandered the halls unsupervised, giving the occasional nod or walking with more purpose as he passed an open door with a staff member inside. After about an hour of wandering, he had passed an opening that looked suspicious enough and he heard what sounded like speech coming from inside, so he entered curiously. To his surprise, as he continued, he ended up in a control room full of screens, the door slightly ajar which allowed him entrance. Bored and with nothing better to do, he hacked the system, not stopping until he’d been granted temporary access to the security system of the entire facility at the top of the mountain. While he wasn’t exactly surprised, he was unnerved to find that each and every residential area, office, and hallway had multiple cameras inside, most of which were hidden. He’d caught about four in his room the first night and had promptly covered them with stick tape, but he was uneasy to find that there were still two he’d missed, one of which was built into his mirror.

Despite this, not much seemed ajar until he’d managed to tap into the audio, catching snippets of two conversations that intrigued him. The first was between Lars and Élodie, a closed-door conversation in Lars’ office that seemed to have to do with him and Elliot. Sigh. Dad drama.

“They’re not ready, Lars. If you try to force it, they’re not going to trust each other and it’s never going to work. We need to wait a while longer, no good will come of trying to push them before they’re ready.”

He skipped to another monitor before he could hear Lars’ rebuttal. He assumed the conversation had to do with getting himself and Elliot on a line together to generate some chemistry. He was a hockey dad, and like all hockey dads, Reese assumed that Lars wanted to push for his son to be a winner no matter the cost. It was kind of boring, really, a conversation he’d heard millions of times between parents and those in power. It wasn’t like the head psychologist was forming the lineys, but at the very least, she could persuade the coaching staff in one direction or another.

The next conversation was between Elliot and one of Élodie’s assistant techs. Elliot had some sort of brain monitors connected to him that were lighting things up on the screens in front of the psychologist, and that also appeared on the screens in the room Élodie and Lars were in. They must’ve been sitting in on his psych eval. Funny, they didn’t make Reese wear any monitors or anything.

Reese found himself fascinated by the prospect of having secret knowledge about Elliot. He had no idea what the screens meant, and it was probably illegal to be listening to his psych eval, but most of the fun things in life were. It’s not like it would’ve been his first offense. Yet, to his utter bewilderment, when he turned the sound on, he found that all of the questions were about him. And, according to what the tech had said, he’d been asked these questions before, and would be asked them again. What the hell was going on here?

Before he could switch back to the other conversation in hopes of gaining some context, he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. He moved swiftly enough that he was able to come off as innocent and unsuspecting when a tall man came rushing down the hallway, a malevolent aura wafting off him that made Reese squirm. He was lucky to get out of it when the woman called his name down the hallway, jersey in hand, 13 stitched into the arm. Reese could almost feel the apprehension stitched into the fabric as he accepted it, making some excuse about being lost that he didn’t even believe as he smoothly walked toward the exit, managing to escape a second near-catastrophe unscathed. He spent the ride back up to the upper facility pondering what he had seen, slipping the jersey on and walking briskly toward the offices which had been set aside for media day.

The media team made quick work of getting him dressed and polished to their liking, everyone’s eyes lingering on the number he’d chosen, the only one that had never been worn by this team. The team owner had indicated that 13 was a foreboding number, something dangerous to their franchise, and asked that none of their players wear it for as long as he was owner. That didn’t scare Reese. After taking his photos and videos on the ice, he exited again, prepared for his interview. An attractive woman he hadn’t seen before stood with the microphone, waving him over and failing to give him any instruction or time before jumping right into the questions.

“Reese, you’re the youngest player on the team. What does it mean to wear the same jersey as so many veterans?”

“Well,” he replied, “I’m not. I’m wearing a new one.”

“I noticed you’re wearing the number thirteen. Why have you chosen that number, despite the controversy it may cause?”

“I just wanted to be first in something,” he deadpanned, looking straight at the camera. It was a power move, something that said, come and get me, Antoine.

Though she smirked at his boldness, she continued on, trying not to take the bait. “A lot of people have been talking about the fact that you left the draft early. Did you have an opportunity to connect with Elliot at all prior to getting here?”

“Who?”

“Elliot Hawthorne?”

“Who’s that?”

“I’m sensing a bit of resentment toward him.”

“Are you? May want to get your senses checked.”

“Do you think you’re a better hockey player than him?”

“I think he’s a very respectable hockey player.”

“Are you willing to answer a few questions with him?”

“It depends. Are you going to act like a professional?”

Clearly irritated by Reese’s behavior, the woman simply waved for Elliot to enter the room, and when he did, Reese couldn’t help the smug look that came on his face. Elliot looked disheveled, out of place in front of a camera, perhaps, in a way that Reese couldn’t afford to be given his family and their insatiable hunger for attention. As the woman, Chloë, as he’d heard her say once more, reintroduced herself to the camera with both of them present, Reese leaned into his personal space to murmur just low enough for his ears and no one else’s, “you’re acting shy, you been talking about me or something?”

–

The rest of media day went off without a hitch, a bunch of loaded questions and shifty answers, nothing out of the ordinary. Reese had rehearsed his unproblematic answers over and over in previous settings, but it was so much more fun to speak from the heart. He was sure they wouldn’t be using much of what he’d given them for their official release, which was fine by him. The only soundbite anyone seemed interested in was the portion where they’d asked about the man he’d been traded for putting up 60 points for the Volt the season prior, and Reese saying he’d double that before the season was over. He wasn’t sure it was true, but it wasn’t like he could be any more hated than he already was by the fans. He might as well give them something valid to hate him for.

Afternoon turned into evening, and after the wellness recovery protocol he’d endured to ensure he would be feeling his best to play Stockholm the following evening, Reese settled into an easy game of cards in the lounge with Matias, Ilkka, and Eky. They finished around ten in the evening, joking about having old men bedtimes despite Eky being one of the younger guys on the team. He struck Reese as the introverted, antisocial type, who needed time to himself to recharge. He was the same, and he was hungry, so he didn’t complain.

Rather chilly and containing little desire to leave the warmth of his room to eat more cubed nothingness, Reese stared at the package in the corner of his room, contemplating that perhaps there was some sort of candy or snack food inside. Opening it casually, but with a slight stiffness at the remembrance of Elliot’s fear of this harmless box, Reese opened it, intrigued by what he found. On the top was a child’s drawing of a dark-haired boy crying in what appeared to be a hospital bed, his eyes drawn in green crayon. The initials RHV were written above him, and on the other side, a blond figure seemed to be positioned behind a room or a mirror or a door, seemingly watching him cry. This figure was just labeled as me.

The next items were two hospital bands the size of a child’s wrist, both broken. Each had a symbol on it that corresponded to the other, the first labeled as Subject RHV, the second unlabeled with initialized, simply the word Stabilizer. There’s a blood-stained letter written in nonsense code that Reese cannot begin to understand, some newspaper clippings from some of the incidents of Reese’s life from the time he went missing as a child to the large-scale takedown he’d done of the underground world at Everton, which he’d done under an alias, a birth certificate for a person he did not recognize, and a child’s toy which appeared like the one he’d had as a child, but in a different color, and smelling faintly familiar, but not as if it were once his. At the bottom of the box was a small metal recorder with no labels or scratches, which revealed speech when prompted.

“Subject RHV activates successfully without complications, and will only return to baseline when stabilized. Proceeding without consent.” Then, a few seconds later, muffled screaming in a voice he recognizes as his own from childhood. He does not remember any of this, although his body is reacting to everything in this box with the fear and urgency of being known. Whoever sent this knew more about him than most, to the point where Reese almost believed the majority of this was real and not manufactured in some way to get a reaction out of him. If Elliot had gone to bed already, he didn’t care–he needed answers.

Grabbing the spare roll of tape and the box of things, the dark-haired man hurried with urgency down the hall, knocking on the fellow rookie’s door loudly. “Open up, William,” he said in an annoyed tone, his face almost indicating softness at the sleep-rustled clothes and hair of the figure before him. It wasn’t clear if he’d been sleeping or just lying there bored, a feeling and behavior the Canadian knew all too well.

“I’m sorry to barge in like this, I just need answers,” he stated, gaze earnest, its typical smugness gone. He walked around frantically covering the various cameras and monitors with tape, only explaining himself when prompted to by the confused Swede. “What am I doing? You a favor. This place is fucking littered with recording devices, and while I don’t necessarily care about your privacy, I care about mine. We need to speak freely about what happened when you were given this box.” He put it out before Elliot, nodding his head as if he expected him to look through it. “What did the person look like who gave you that box? Did you recognize them? Tell me anything you know about this, it’s important.”

Reese Halston-Vale | RW 13 | Sep 9, 10, 11

“Reese, do you know what time it is? Next time, just let yourself in, please.”

Ignoring the oddly familiar way that the Swede interacted with him, Reese pushed away any sense of safety or security it gave him with a cold remark. “Great, I’ll even let you choose which limb to cut off to get past the biometric lock.”

Reese had never enjoyed tea. He much preferred coffee, but seeing as it was more of a social formality than something for enjoyment, he accepted it, letting it go cold without making a further move to consume any of it. He wasn’t sure where Elliot had even gotten it from, he’d probably brought it from home, and that caused him the slightest twinge of guilt that he was wasting it on a strained interaction that was unpleasant for each of them. It was easier to be bitter and believe that Elliot was stupid–oddly charming, but stupid–for always trying to be so polite and hospitable.

Of course, he was aware that the audio was coming from elsewhere. He hadn’t had time to figure it out, but he had a inclination to believe the band around his wrist that felt more like a shackle had the capability to pick up audio. He couldn’t get it off, he couldn’t cut it off, so he was stuck with it for the time being. It was too tight to slip off, and frankly, he was almost positive it would set off some sort of alarm if it stopped measuring biometric data off of him. So, while it wasn’t a perfect solution, he switched from English to German. Although he wasn’t fluent and Swiss German was different than the German Elliot spoke, it was something.

“Why do I need to know? This…this,” he gestured to the items in the box, “isn’t fan mail. Those are my initials on that hospital bracelet, these are newspaper clippings from events in my life, that’s someone’s blood on that letter, and that’s certainly not my birth certificate.” Fishing out the recorder, Reese asked, “do you remember what his voice sounded like? Was it the same as the man in this recording?”

Playing the recording a second time, Reese heard the same words he’d heard prior. However, Elliot seemed to still be waiting for it to begin. A few moments after the recording ended and the Swede’s expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, the Canadian said, “well? Is it?” That was how he learned that he was the only one who could hear the contents of the recording.

–

After returning to his room to sit with his thoughts for a while, Reese eventually got up around nine in the morning to fulfill his pregame routine. He had been following this routine since Everton, and it had brought him a significant amount of success. Despite this, the intensity and structure of it often caused people to make fun of him, and now that he was here, it was more difficult to follow closely. In fact, he had just about zero of the things he needed to fulfill it closely. The first segment of the morning was supposed to be golf. There was no golf course, nor golf balls, nor clubs, so he ended up improvising by repeatedly using a stick to hit a rock into a hole he dug and buried a cup in. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could manage.

The next part of his routine was hitting a tennis ball against a wall and back into his racket 33 times in a row. Luckily, he was able to borrow a juggling ball from Emil, but there were no rackets, and he knew no one in the village would have what he was looking for, so he didn’t even waste time on a trip. Giving up on a racket, he threw the ball off the wall and back into his hand 33 times, feeling uncomfortable with the lack of adherence to his routine. What really made him angry was that he believed that what he was doing was helping Matias’ case that they would lose to Stockholm. It didn’t matter if it was preseason or not, Reese was competitive. He wanted to win.

Next, he was to play himself in chess. He would’ve liked to have had a chess board on hand, but he didn’t. So he just envisioned the game in his head and wrote the notation on a sheet of paper, the whole process taking about forty minutes as he comprehended the best moves to take and the different opening, middle, and end games he could play. He decided he wanted black to win, so black won. That portion of his routine was all about control.

Finally, he went and sat in the ice bath for forty minutes. When it gave him the warning and kicked him out after the maximum twenty, he got in another one, sitting and feeling everything slow down in his head and body as his fingers and lips began to turn blue. Perhaps it was a bit sick the way he enjoyed doing this to himself, letting himself come to the verge of harm, but aside from a few trips to medics now and again, nothing significant had ever come from this ritual. It was the only way he could gain a clear head and kill the nerves that threatened to ruin his game. If he didn’t do this, he wouldn’t be able to nap, and if he couldn’t nap, he’d be exhausted and out of sorts and overthink everything that happened in the game.

After his nap, Reese woke up a bit disoriented and out of sorts, shaky from not eating since the day before. He’d sort of forgotten, sort of wilfully declined the need to, considering that everything there was horrible. However, Viremont was a small town, and there was no way he would get in and out of the restaurant unscathed with so many fans here, so many fans likely angry at him for choosing thirteen, angry for more reasons than he could list on one hand. So, he went to the nutrition center, purposefully avoiding sitting with anyone as not to disturb any pre-game routines, and ate the blocks of substance. He wasn’t unaware of the way that they tasted somewhat better this time, perhaps because he was starving and desperate. He hoped that wouldn’t become routine for him.

Getting down to Stormhold Pavilion a little after four, Reese moved through his pre-game workout, all light activities that wouldn’t take too much energy or strain away from him. Usually he preferred not to work out much at all, but he’d had time to kill, and he wanted to avoid any sort of power struggle with players, coaches, or staff. He was awaiting punishment for choosing his number, and he assumed it would come to him sooner or later. It did.

The team lost 7-1 in a game where Reese was only allowed to play three shifts, totaling 1:39 in ice time. Toward the end of the first when the team had already allowed three goals and a fourth was scored the second Reese’s skate touched the ice, the winger did not miss how everyone was subtly blaming him for the loss. It was never spoken outwardly, it was implied. It was his fault for choosing thirteen and being punished with minimal ice time, it was his fault for saying they could do better than this, it was his fault for playing, it was his fault for not playing enough.

At the beginning of the second, Elliot managed to get on the score sheet with his first TCHL point. René shot a one-timer off a dish from Luka, and the person who’d passed it to Luka had been Elliot, gaining him the secondary assist. Other than a brief, sorry glance in his direction, Elliot hadn’t spoken to Reese much at all, likely being respectful of everyone’s routines in the same way that Reese was trying to be. Even with the achievement, there wasn’t much to celebrate with the score they’d finished with. By the end of the game, Matias had gotten tired of yelling at everyone and offering scathing glances at Reese, and the team stripped, showered, and filed out in silence. Reese felt like yelling, but he knew it wouldn’t do anything. Not when the staff and management had made a statement by keeping him as virtually a healthy scratch, not when he had no credibility as a -1 who stayed off the score sheet. He had to choose his battles, which was why he went to the bike and the ice bath instead.

By the time he finished, it was almost ten, and the team were leaving at eleven to arrive in Münich in the middle of the night. They’d have the day to do whatever they pleased with the exception of a mid-afternoon practice and a team dinner at the Reign’s facilities. He didn’t have much he wanted to bring, with the exception of a suitcase he’d already packed. Instead of waiting in his room, he went back to the nutrition center, deciding to get something to eat before the trip. It was unlikely that he’d want to go anywhere to eat in the middle of the night upon arrival, and he was hungry still from the game.

Accepting his food gratefully from the staff, Reese sat down alone at a table by the door. He was the only one in the building other than the workers, and it caused him some anxiety that he would miss the bus that was taking him to the airstrip if he didn’t get back early enough. To his surprise, after some time, Elliot’s father walked in.

“Come to share in your son’s success, Karl?” Reese’s voice was calm and collected. He was obviously confused as to why the man was there, but far be it for him to question family dynamics. His dad had lied to him and Charlotte for years telling them they were adopted to ‘avoid fostering too much attachment.’

To his surprise, the man sat down at his table. He couldn’t recall exactly what the team joke was about calling Lars by a different name, some joke a former teammate had made about Swedish names or something to do with the guys they had on the team at the time. Lars had always been Karl during his time at Everton to a select few, and while it wasn’t necessarily amicable or respectful, neither was their relationship.

“They hired me to keep an eye on you,” he replied in what seemed to be a joke, but Reese believed there was some verity in the claim. Then, more seriously, “which means I can be very clear: stay away from my son. Antoine and I have agreed that if you don’t, there will be consequences.”

Reese grinned, a smug grin that indicated just how much he wanted to break that rule. It was almost like they wanted him to spend more time with Elliot. They were just daring him to attach to him. “And if I just can’t stay away?”

“Your choices are your own,” he replied vaguely, before getting up and leaving.

–

Wrapping up his dinner, Reese stood outside of the residential facility until someone let him in, pushing the button and looking up at the security camera with a dramatic shrug, putting on a show for those who still hadn’t cleared him psychologically. He grabbed his suitcase, the items from the box stashed inside so they didn’t get stolen in his absence, and his heavy coat, shrugging it on as he stood out in the cold with some of the vets, waiting for their bus. The team didn’t have anything big enough to fit everyone that could still maneuver the windy mountain roads to the airstrip, so they were split into three vans like the one they’d taken down the night prior.

While typically he would’ve preferred a seat in the back of the van, alone or shoved in a corner that felt somewhat isolated, Reese had a mission. They’d been given a list of room assignments for the trip, and he’d been put with Matias while Ilkka had been assigned to Elliot. Still seething from the ice time he’d been given, Reese was now on a mission to spend as much time with Elliot as possible to spite Antoine and Lars. And, luckily, Ilkka struck the dark-haired forward as a selfish fellow, full of pride and attached to Matias at the hip. It didn’t take much convincing to get him to swap key cards for the hotel room in exchange for leaving him alone the rest of the trip. Easy enough.

The next time Reese saw Elliot was when he boarded the plane to Münich. The Canadian’s bus had apparently been the last one to arrive, so everyone was already seated, some already asleep when he walked down the dark aisle, looking for a seat he could be alone in. He felt the Swede’s gentle gaze follow him for a few steps, thinking back to the previous night in amusement, and perhaps a bit of fondness. How was it possible that Lars’ son was the type to invite you in for evening tea in the middle of the night? How perfectly formal of him. What a gentleman.

Eventually finding what he was looking for–a seat alone, in a back corner–and what he wasn’t–the seat across from Cormac and Luka–Reese put his suitcase up and attempted to rest his eyes, failing to with the constant banter of the men beside him who were trying to be quiet but failing. The entire team had an air of devastation, as if they’d already given up with one loss. It irritated Reese to no end. While he might not have been elected captain of this team, he was a captain at heart, and one that knew that this team needed a different kind of leadership than what Matias and the coaches were offering. He vowed to make an impact, sooner or later, one way or another.

When they landed in Germany, cleared customs, and made their way to the hotel, Reese had ended up crammed between Brody and Leandro, two of the players he preferred much less than the others. Leando was quiet and disengaged while Brody was once again trying far too hard to get Reese to like him, bordering on creepy in his ventures to do so. He made his way off the bus and through the group of men, all tired and quiet and defeated after the loss. Münich wasn’t as good as Stockholm, but they were still better than the team that Viremont had brought, so it was as if everyone was already expecting another loss incoming. As he weaved his way through the crowd, he found Ilkka and Matias with Elliot, Ilkka pointing at Reese as he came into sight. He didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what that conversation was about.

Still, Reese was unwilling to defend himself for his actions, despite feeling Elliot’s curious gaze on him. It was obviously strange that he’d asked Ilkka to trade, and it probably seemed to the Swede like a subtle act of friendship when Reese’s demeanor had not indicated any desire for that thus far. He was a cold individual who was hard to break down and warm up to, it wouldn’t have been surprising to Reese if Elliot was thinking too hard about what it all means.

They went down the hallway together, finally blissfully alone once the door to their hotel room closed. It was a luxurious, warm-toned room with two beds, a living room, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a fairly spacious closet. As he heard the door click, Reese spoke immediately.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said bluntly, voice affected by drowsiness, “it’s not about you, it’s about me and Antoine.” Then, more softly, “you can shower first, if you like. I need to organize my things.”

This, of course, was another one of Reese’s intricate rituals. He always needed to unpack and organize when he got to a new space, it was something his mother had ingrained in him at a young age. She’d always told him that unpacking and organizing made any place your home, even when you were far from it. So, he’d taken this to heart, and made every hotel room his home before he attended to other things. As he moved through this routine, he glanced over at Elliot, now shirtless, a few bruises on him from the game, and more suspiciously, a small bandaid on his body, oddly placed and not large enough for more than a papercut or a small cut. He was such a strange man, Reese thought, turning his head again before he could be caught staring.

“Did your psych eval come with a tetanus shot,” Reese questioned, voice full of sarcasm. What business did Viremont have injecting him with anything, unless he’d been behind on some sort of vaccination he needed to play? To Reese’s knowledge, the league didn’t require any vaccines, but Elliot would know better than Reese–his dad was Lars Hawthorne, former biochemistry professor and fill-in head team doctor for Everton Academy.

Once things were organized and arranged in a way that was satisfactory for Reese, he gathered the shorts he wanted to sleep in and a Volt hoodie with his number on it since it was warmer here but still rather cold to be sleeping shirtless. Bored, he looked through the letter again, then listened to the recording. How could Reese hear it, but Elliot couldn’t? Putting it to his ear again, he thought the voice sounded familiar. Maybe it was wishful thinking, since he was so desperate for answers. After the third time, Reese still had it to his ear when Elliot returned from the bathroom, coming to a realization as he studied the man’s figure, hair wet and soft features focused briefly on him. However, it was a big accusation and one Reese couldn’t prove.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize any of this stuff,” Reese asked, gesturing to the items laid out on his bed. He held up the recorder, “this, especially? I know it sounds crazy, but the voice in this recording, the guy talking about the results of this experiment, he sounds a lot like your dad.”

Reese Halston-Vale | RW 13 | Sep 11

By the time Elliot woke up the next morning, Reese was gone. He’d complied fairly easily with the Swede’s request to go to bed, exhausted from the day himself and not wanting to frustrate himself over the puzzle he’d been trying to solve. However, the center’s kind words kept him awake, a puzzle of their own. Why was he being nice and complimenting Reese’s play? What did he want, or what kind of damage did he want to cause Reese? The unnecessary and frankly startling amiability made Reese bristle, tossing and turning in his bed until he lost himself to another evening of restless, unsatisfying sleep.

Sometime around eight in the morning, Reese woke up on his own, still exhausted but feeling the pressure of all of the things he wanted to get done while he was in civilization. In theory, he was still in his junior year of four separate degrees he’d begun at Everton, and the majority of his professors were so impressed with him that they were willing to see past the scandals he’d caused in his time there and assign him the work necessary to graduate. On top of the work he was expected to complete for his degrees, Reese was on a mission to do some digging into the items in the box he’d been given. He also wanted to purchase some things he desperately needed to make his room in Viremont less bare.

Starting off his day at a cafe a few blocks from the hotel, Reese had a light breakfast and a coffee that wasn’t quite to his standards, but was coffee nonetheless. The service was surprisingly inefficient, and several of the staff members came to serve him, acting strangely. They seemed to recognize him, although he’d only played one preseason game and had evaded the majority of the press during his draft. It was odd, but perhaps it was life now. He didn’t think much of it, even as they forced him to take his receipt as he’d denied it. He slid it in his pocket without a second thought, making his way from the cafe to a public library in the city that had computers, according to the young woman working in the hotel lobby.

Although a bit distracted by the books, Reese succeeded in writing no less than five papers regarding various items within his degree programs. It took him the majority of the morning and early afternoon to finish his papers, quizzes, and the other work that would be due soon, so much so that he’d forgotten to eat lunch and was running out of time to get everything done before their practice began at three in the afternoon, which means they were expected there at two, which meant Reese was behind. There was something of an antique store across from the library, so Reese took his chances with that and was lucky to find a collection of old German books, a dusty chess board, and a tennis racket that still appeared to be in good condition. As he went to pay for these items, the receipt from the cafe slipped out, revealing writing on the back and a logo that looked like the logo that had been on the hospital bands in the box. He slipped it back in his pocket and tried to make light of the urgent expression on his face when the shopkeeper asked him about it, promptly ending the conversation and taking his things in a bag. Rather than walking them back to the hotel and preparing for the practice they would have in less than two hours, Reese moved with haste toward the address on the receipt, the band on his wrist providing him with directions. This was the first time it had proved good for something since it’d been placed on him.

After a walk that took no less than fifteen minutes, Reese ended up in front of an older office building that seemed to be functioning as a business in some capacity. He studied it from the outside for a few moments, noticing that it seemed to have been remodeled recently. After a number of minutes of looking and noticing nothing, he saw the same logo from the receipt and the band engraved into one of the front bricks near the door. He kicked at it with his foot for a moment and then gave up, realizing there was nothing in it for him.

Deciding that he still hadn’t gotten what he’d come for, he walked around the building, noticing that there were two additional doors on either side that seemed to be no longer in use. On the side trapped in by the alley, a manilla folder was taped to the rusty mail slot, the logo imprinted onto the folder and Reese’s initials hastily scribbled on the front in permanent marker. He knew there were cameras all around this building and he had the distinct sense he’d been watched since he left the hotel that morning, so he didn’t open the envelope, just slipped it in the bag with his other items until he could open it somewhere more privately. Then, without turning back, he walked as briskly as he could back to the hotel, not stopping for directions, not stopping to see if he were being followed, just one foot after the other until he made it into the lobby. And, fearing what might happen if he took the elevator, he flew up eight flights of stairs, only stopping at the sixth to see Brody and Malcolm sitting in the stairwell, chirping him for taking the stairs.

“Real fitness fanatic, eh Stunner?”

“Something like that,” he replied, without stopping. He didn’t stop until he was in his room with the door locked, out of breath more from the panic than the exertion. Elliot wasn’t in the room, probably out to lunch with some of the boys before practice, leaving him to himself. He slipped open the envelope, revealing another encoded document. This looked like a medical document, with different symbols for letters and numbers. It appeared to Reese to give dates and some sort of message behind each, a list of about twelve to sixteen items that he could not comprehend. A second one appeared to Reese to be a list of names with writing beside them. He wasn’t sure if the names were of people, places, teams, or something entirely different, but they appeared to be names nonetheless. In the bottom of the envelope was a biometric lock, one that looked suspiciously like something the Canadian had created for a project in secondary school. Regardless of why it was there, it was useful enough for keeping his things secure, and fit perfectly into the box Elliot had given him. He would try to decode it later, but for now, he needed to go to practice.

Deciding that he felt safer going to practice with teammates than walking alone, Reese got into a cab with Jonah and Auggie, which proved to be a mistake with the vast amount of traffic that had accrued in the streets. The driver mentioned that he believed there was an accident somewhere near the Reign’s practice facility, for he’d been hearing the ambulances and the police for the last hour or two. It was a nice, sunny September day and Reese contemplated getting out of the cab and walking several times, if it weren’t for the fact that his teammates already had opinions about him that he needed to change if he were to get anywhere with changing the culture of the team. He gazed idly out the window, focusing on the driver’s every turn, realizing they were going in a familiar direction as he passed the cafe, then the antique shop, then went further down the path Reese had took that morning, crossing several familiar landmarks. An awning that Reese found too bright, an Italian restaurant with many birds harassing the patrons, it was all familiar. That is, until the driver made a left turn down the road Reese had been on, causing his heart to begin beating harder in his chest. Was this a setup? Were his teammates in on it?

Reese took in the familiar view of the location he’d gathered the envelope from this morning, but he hardly recognized it with the onslaught of flashing lights and crime scene tape that now wrapped around the building. The driver swore under his breath and flipped the car around rather haphazardly, giving the winger a view that was slightly better for a brief amount of time. It didn’t take an expert to recognize blood and body bags, although it certainly wasn’t the first time Reese had seen them in his life. The older men beside him murmured condolences for whoever the people were, then to Reese, that he had to witness such a grotesque sight. He wanted to tell them he wasn’t a child, he’d seen worse than this, but he doubted they would believe him. Not many people knew about the things that had transpired at Everton, or even before that.

It was another twenty minutes before they arrived at the Munich Reign’s practice facility. It was twenty minutes until three, which wasn’t exactly late for practice, but it would be by the time they got their gear on and got out on the ice. They paid the driver and gave him their thanks before slipping out, moving quickly but not necessarily as quickly as Reese would have preferred. It felt like the world was caving in on him, and everyone was a threat–the least the boys could’ve done for him would’ve been to walk at an adequate speed.

Moving quickly about the halls, Reese was relieved to see Websy, the assistant coach, in the front foyer of the pristine building. He would’ve been lost otherwise, which only would’ve added to the concern. Auggie and Brücksy didn’t seem concerned at all, which was irritating, considering he couldn’t walk ahead of them without seeming like an asshole.

“Sorry we’re running behind,” Reese offered, knowing no one else would. “There was some sort of incident, hard to get past the police and the ambulances on the way here.”

“Not a problem,” he replied easily, “that’s been the general consensus today. We’re still waiting on Luca, anyway, so don’t have a heart attack trying to get out there on time. It’s just one of those days, it seems.”

Nodding in affirmation, Reese never really stopped to speak with Websy, just listened as he continued in motion from the door down the hallway. The assistant coach yelled directions after him, and the older men had clearly been here before, so they directed him through the hallways until they arrived at the locker room. Most of the guys were already on the ice, with a select few still lacing up, and more coming in behind the pair of them. Emil and Artyom came in not long after Reese and his two companions, others after him. By the time the majority of the team made it to the ice, Websy had his own skates on, some of the core group asking about their head coach. Reese overheard this before the official announcement was made.

“Alright boys, well, we haven’t heard from Luca yet, so let’s just get started and hope he’s running behind, yeah? We’ll talk strategy tomorrow, but let’s start with some drills.”

Reese Halston-Vale | RW 13 | September 11

It wasn’t the first time Reese had been hauled off from practice in handcuffs. Hell, it wasn’t even the second or third. But, there were some variations. Usually he knew what they were accusing him of, and usually he had done it. This time he had only a lingering suspicion, and unbelievably, he hadn’t done it. He was also usually alone for these types of things or with an accomplice, not awaited by a teammate who was dressed as if he’d had no intention of showing up for practice. Why was he wearing his walk-in clothes for the game? Or did he just dress like that voluntarily? Briefly, Reese wished he were the head interrogator of the fashion police instead of becoming a suspect in a murder by dumb luck.

"William," he took his time attempting to unravel the Swede with his impenetrable gaze before taking the seat that was pulled out for him, "likely place for you to be." He was still dressed in his practice clothing minus a few items, hair disheveled and sweat barely tried atop his skin from the open window during the transport to this facility.

Elliot looks up at the man, glancing at the cuffs. "They brought you here in cuffs? What did you do, run away? I came here voluntarily." He chuckles.

"I'm sure you did," he replied, withholding the fact that he hadn’t come because he hadn't known what exactly they were trying to get him for. He had minimal knowledge of why Elliot was there too, beyond the fact that he’d identified him in some camera footage from earlier in the day. Fucking snitch. “Did I look hot in the identification photos?” He didn’t expect an answer to that one, and didn’t get one before the man who had brought him in began talking.

"What did I do?" Elliot asked, shrugging his shoulders in a worried manner, "Are you saying that I did this?"

"Yeah, are you saying he did this?" Reese studied the investigator calmly, an amused look on his face. "I understand having me in here, but him? He didn't do it. He's the kind of person who would make a citizen's arrest." He maneuvered his body closer to the other man’s, nudging him with his shoulder in a way that might have conveyed empathy. "Calm down, we all know you didn't do it," he murmured in perhaps the kindest tone he was capable of.

Elliot watched Reese take a seat, feeling the man's shoulder bump against his. "For the record, I have only ever done one citizen's arrest." He pouted, looking down at the table, his cheeks flushing lightly.

Reese grinned disbelievingly, a rare sight, all teeth. He quickly fought with it, reducing it down, but leaving the aura of amusement and disbelief in his expression. “That’s one too many,” he murmured in a low tone in the space between them, unsure of whether to be more amused that he had read Elliot correctly or at the concept itself. He nudged Elliot’s foot teasingly, uneasy about being there but imploding about it, not letting it show externally.

"Mr. Hawthorne, you had said that you went out to lunch with Luca, is that correct?" "Yes." Elliot responded. The detective turned towards Reese, "So, where were you at about 2 PM this afternoon?" He then repeated the date for the recording device on the table.

"At 2pm? I was sharing a ride with two teammates to the practice rink. You can ask them, or the driver. Theres a security camera outside of the hotel that would attest to my whereabouts if you need to know that badly."

"Can you go into more detail?" The detective asked Reese, leaning in towards the young man, glancing at Elliot out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you supposed to be interviewing us together?" Elliot asked, leaning back in his chair. The detective gave him a stern look. Reese thought Elliot was a fucking beauty for trying to be rebellious, and saving him from having to answer a stupid question he didn’t want to answer. The pride of rubbing off on the Swede didn’t escape him, even as he became more obligated to answer the dumb question anyway. Maybe he could corrupt him yet.

“We’re hockey players, we're here for a game tomorrow, we had a practice at 3, we got in a cab at 2. Do I need to explain how that works or do you get the picture?"

The Detective rolled his eyes. "Yes, I am aware that you are hockey players, this young man has told me how many times? This is your coach, correct?" The man rubbed his hands and leaned in towards the two, "so tell me why you," He pointed at Elliot, "went to lunch with him, and you," pointing at Reese, "was seen at a crime scene today? Coincidence?"

Elliot’s mouth dropped open before Reese could reply. "I came in on my own! I could leave at any time!" He cried, throwing his hands up. But he knew that he wouldn't leave Reese here alone. He wouldn't leave him to the wolves.

“What crime scene?” His sardonic tone left nothing to the imagination. “It wasn’t a crime scene when I left it. If you think otherwise, get me a piece of paper. I’ll write down every security camera I observed between the hotel and the scene of the murder and you can prove my innocence from any view you like.”

“How did you know it was a murder?”

“Our dumbass driver didn’t think to take a detour until we were knee deep in body bags. I don’t like the indication in your tone.”

“Give me the locations of the cameras.”

“You’re going to have to take the cuffs off, I need to sketch them. It’s not like I stopped to get the coordinates, and even if I did, you wouldn’t know exactly where to look.” Then, when the officer gave him a skeptical look, he rolled his eyes and added, “I have a photographic memory and twelve years of art lessons under my belt, I think I can handle this one. It’s not like I have a shiv in my back pocket, Jesus.”

So, he sketched. He sketched and he sketched in perfect detail, the scenes of exactly 26 cameras on his route. It wasn’t like he’d been lying, but the detective had clearly underestimated his memory or his drawing skills or both. "Let me go and look at these recordings. You two sit tight,” the detective said, leaving them both in a heavy silence.

“You never answered me, by the way,” Reese began after a few moments of watching the Swede implode with anxiety, “on whether you thought I was hot in the photo.”

–

It was late in the evening by the time they finished their questioning of the boys, although the latter half was mostly Reese evading questions he didn’t feel like answering and providing just enough bread crumbs to be deemed helpful despite a true aversion to this advancement. Luca had turned up somewhere doing God knows what, not a guaranteed murderer but guaranteed to be horrible at his job considering he’d missed the first away practice of the season. Reese knew enough to feel uneasy, but what he didn’t know made his head spin. He’d gotten tired toward the end of the interrogation and said some things that probably would’ve been better left inside that Elliot had been witness to. Nothing obscene–or worse, personal–but bordering on indicative that there was more to the story with Reese, years of trauma and pain bubbling under the surface.

The first time they spoke again was when Elliot suggested they get a cab instead of walking the sixteen blocks back to the hotel. “I’d rather walk, there’s a good chance we pass somewhere I can obtain tomatoes,” Reese replied coolly, not hesitating and somehow trusting Elliot to keep following his stride.

“Tomatoes? For what?” It was a fair enough question, the Canadian assumed. He’d spent the better part of a day giving some of the most evasive, elusive answers in the history of mankind, and he was sure that bringing up tomatoes out of nowhere seemed like another off-the-wall comment that had little merit.

“To cook with, idiot,” Reese replied, giving him a playful shove as they dodged the tourists who were out beneath the city lights. “I’m making us dinner.” It was already decided, there was no room for Elliot to do anything except comply.

The September air was cool, with a hint of warmth that kept Reese on the edge of being cold while still managing his composure. It was a lovely evening in comparison to Verimont, no ice or snow or altitudes to add to their misery. It was almost picturesque, with the architecture and the tourists and the bright city lights that kept them from having clear vision of the stars.

It wasn’t long before they passed a grocery store, a corner building with an ugly interior. The bright white of the walls and the lights gave Reese a headache as he moved with purpose throughout the store, glancing back every so often to ensure the Swede was nearby or making a comment about something, anything to engage in a way that kept the silence from going on for too long. When Elliot offered to help him carry some of the bags, he accepted, and the pair managed to fit themselves and their groceries in a taxi to take them the remaining nine blocks to the hotel. Reese found himself struggling not to stare at Elliot in the darkness of the cab, studying the softness of his features and the subtle intricacies of his expression as he engaged in a polite conversation with the cab driver. Objectively, he was rather good looking. His hair was starting to grow out and his roots were blond, and Reese thought he would look better with hair his natural color. Maybe it was just the truth, or maybe it was Reese’s natural inclination toward blond men. It didn’t matter either way, Reese was straight. Even if he wasn’t, it wasn’t like Elliot was soliciting him for hair advice.

They got out of the cab and Elliot didn’t mention anything about Reese staring. He hadn’t been discreet, so the older man was probably just being polite. Or maybe he’d been so distracted with his boring small talk that he’d hardly notice the sharp gaze burning into the side of his face. It didn’t really matter for Reese: if he was avoiding an opportunity to be held accountable for his actions, it was a win in his book.

They didn’t speak in the elevator, not at the door, not until the bags had been set down on the kitchen counter and the pair lingered in each other’s orbit awkwardly. Reese didn’t let it go on for very long before he was stripping off his practice jersey, annoyed that his sweats were either at the rink or it would take some level of human interaction to obtain them from a teammate. Neither option sounded good, and although he had packed a pair of shorts and a sleeveless gym shirt to wear in the hotel gym, it was too chilly in the room for him to be comfortable in so few clothes. He threw the shirt onto his bed from across the room, murmuring something to Elliot about showering before moving into the bathroom and shutting the door.

Reese’s shower was quick, robotic, mechanical, despite the fact that he might’ve stayed under the hot water all day if given the choice. He was starving and his brain had stopped working hours ago, and the more he settled into the comfort of the room and acclimated to the dangers around him, the more a hungry feeling emerged in his stomach and he felt the need to engage in one of his primary soothing behaviors. Cooking had been a major comfort for Reese and a way he’d learned to cope with the stress and insanity of his lifestyle. As captain at Everton, he almost always had a rookie or a codependent teammate following him around like a lost puppy, eating whatever he cooked and taking any advice he was willing to spare without complaint. Although he wasn’t ashamed of the events that had transpired that got him quietly exiled from the institution, he did miss the feeling of connection sometimes in a way he knew he would never have here. Things were different now.

With practiced ease and skilled precision, Reese cooked in a frenzied manner, expression blank and brain fully offline. Cooking was something he could do with little thought, all muscle memory and movement and something to occupy his body while his brain either rested or fixated on whatever was bothering him. In the back of his mind, something had been irritating him like an itch he couldn’t scratch since he’d been in the police station, an old memory he’d willed himself to forget. Or, at the very least, suppress.

Leaving Elliot’s dish on the counter for him, Reese brought his own food into the living room area and set it on the table in front of the couch. He hadn’t really expected Elliot to want to spend any more time with him than he had to for the day, given that he’d extended the duration of the interrogation by at least several hours, and Reese didn’t mind himself. He was grateful to be in a place where he could watch a movie and feel like a human again without the lingering threat of being tracked or killed. He’d already put on whatever German-language rom-com had appeared first on the screen, something easy he could make fun of in his own jaded way and validate his own belief that love wasn’t real. Not for him, not for anyone. It was an amusing enough pastime, for him at least, and one he wasn’t looking for a critique on. That was why he was rather surprised when Elliot sat down wordlessly at the other end of the couch, a natural action that appeared to Reese as if they’d done this exact thing a million times. It made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t express, perhaps because it was an intrusion on a personal ritual he didn’t care to share with others, or perhaps because, for some odd reason, Elliot seemed to want to spend time with him. Unfathomable.

Despite his reluctance to share in this routine with the older boy, Reese countered his discomfort by shifting his body toward Elliot and toward the door, occasionally making a sarcastic comment about something that occurred in the plot, occasionally glancing over Elliot’s shoulder at the door as if he were expecting someone to come in and harm them at a moment’s notice. As he grew more drowsy, he became less interested in the plot and more interested in studying the gentle rising and falling of the Swede’s chest, the way his lip turned upward in amusement at anything Reese said, the way he looked in the warm hotel lighting. Suddenly, before he could stop himself and without any warning from his own brain, Reese spoke of the thing that had been bothering him, the thing that had been irritating him since early that afternoon.

“I didn’t do anything, by the way. I mean, I’ve done lots of stuff, but I’ve never harmed anyone. When they questioned me and I said whatever I said about it not being my first crime scene or homicide or whatever, my au pair threw herself off of the third floor balcony when I was five. Well, my father probably did it himself, but that’s beside the point. I’m not him. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a killer.” He paused, considering the vulnerable position he’d placed himself in with these calm, casually thrown words, before adding, “we’re on a team together, we’re sharing a room together, I don’t want to fuck with team chem because you heard me say some shit I shouldn’t have said. That’s all.”

Reese Halston-Vale | RW 13 | Sep 12 - 17

After the morning’s events, Reese hadn’t seen Elliot either. He’d debated signing the jersey without being asked, then debated whether his signature was even good enough to sign someone’s jersey, then ultimately waited to decide if Elliot was even going to ask him for it. Swiss German wasn’t exactly similar to German from Germany, but Reese had still understood the basics of the conversation Elliot had with the cab driver the night before, and even if he hadn’t, it wasn’t like the tiny jersey was for Elliot. He’d left it neatly folded and signed on the table when he’d left that morning to attempt to obtain more items, namely tennis balls and golf clubs.

It wasn’t ideal but he’d managed to bribe someone to give him a tennis ball they were throwing to their dog in a field near the golf course he’d chosen to go to. He’d also been able to buy golf clubs and balls after he’d golfed in the early afternoon, despite the fact that they felt a bit off for him. They were still something, until he could figure out how to get his own things from home. They were supposed to be in Toronto in a little more than a week, and that lingered in his mind as he considered whether or not his parents had even kept any of his things or thrown them away. His mother put Reese on a pedestal and kept things perfectly preserved like a shrine while he’d been gone to a private Catholic school and then Everton, but his dad seemed to always want to erase any evidence that Reese had ever existed, seeing anything his personal items took up in the family home as junk or a waste of space. The clubs and balls were a good purchase, then, as a way to not get his hopes up or freak out if he got there and his items had been sold on the internet as collector’s items, or donated to some charity or another for an auction. He’d also managed to find another pile of books to purchase in a variety of languages, which he was glad for, knowing he’d be returning to Viremont by the end of the night. It was something, at least.

The next time Reese interacted with Elliot, it was on the ice. Sure, he’d seen him before then, he was slightly overdressed and looking nervous as ever, and Reese had made it a point not to sit next to him. He didn’t want to be too attached to anyone or anything. He didn’t want to give Elliot the wrong idea. His father had taught him from a young age that anyone you gave the power to love you was someone you were also giving the power to destroy you, and to keep everyone distanced. Still, he found the Swede endearing, and he knew leadership started with inspiring the players to do better and be better. He wasn’t captain yet, but he had aspirations to be, if not in title than in action.

Seeing how pale and visibly anxious Elliot looked, Reese paused in the middle of his warmup to grab a water bottle off the wall and squeeze it in the blond’s direction, spraying him lightly with water until he got his attention. He offered a mischievous half-smile, something contained but amused. “We’ve got this, alright? We’re gonna have a good game. Trust me.”

It was not, in fact, a good start to the game. The defense were playing horrible and Emil let in two goals in the first ninety seconds of the game, putting them at a disadvantage to start. Elliot had been out on the ice for both goals, which wasn’t ideal, and no one seemed to be able to generate any offense. Websy was filling in as head coach for the game because Luca was being investigated by the league for something or another, and the assistant coach was trying to be compliant with his lines. They went in for the intermission having done little to no damage control, although the defense seemed to have woken up after the first minute and didn’t allow anything else. The intermission followed as usual. Matias getting up to say something jaded, Reese butting heads with him and trying to inspire the team but gaining little traction. He went out for the second angry, having promised that he would do his part and asking others to step up and do the same.

Reese was true to his word. The first goal for the Volt came just after four minutes into the second. He was in the penalty box serving a too many men call and flew out, turning over the puck and managing a breakaway with a beautiful cross-ice sauce pass that ended up right on the tape of Rookie’s stick and in the net. He’d done all the heavy lifting and cut the lead in half. The Reign came back a few minutes later and scored again, but the goal was recalled as offsides, and the one-goal lead continued.

Around sixteen minutes into the second, Reese scored his first goal in his professional career. It wasn’t exactly official since it was just preseason, but it mattered. It tied up the game, a clutch power play goal that came from Rook again, who’d gotten the puck from Elliot. It was a tic-tac-toe type play that moved too quickly for the goalie to track, two of the larger defensemen crowding the net. Elliot was the last one to join the celly, and although the older men were all around him celebrating, the Swede was the only one Reese was focused on. His eyes searched for him from the moment the puck hit the back of the net, focused on him as he skated up from the other side. “I told you,” Reese yelled emphatically over the roar of the crowd. “I told you we were gonna have a good game. You’re next. I’m not getting off the ice until I get you one too.”

They went in at the second intermission with the score tied. Another lukewarm message from the captain. Another eye roll from Reese. An overly positive celebration from Websy, as if they’d already won. Reese thought it was too naive and hopeful, but kept his mouth shut. Websy had been going against Luca’s instructions and giving Reese plenty of ice time, which was producing results. He was playing him on PP1, which was practically illegal by Luca’s plans for the game. With everyone against him except for the assistant coach, Reese was still finding ways to contribute.

About halfway through the third, Munich scored. Reese had been yelling passionately at the team on the bench, asking them where their sense of urgency was and telling them they needed to step in and score first or they’d lose the game. No one seemed to care. In fact, they seemed more annoyed than motivated. Still, Reese kept pressuring them. Still no result. They pulled the goalie with five minutes remaining, and Reese asked Websy to call the time out. He did, and Reese developed a play between himself, Rookie, and Elliot. They tried to execute it, but Elliot got hit pretty hard and turned the puck over, the Reign player going just wide of the empty net and allowing Eky to bring the puck back up. He was typically the quarterback of the Volt’s PP1, and Reese knew from reviewing game tape that he was something of a visionary. Luckily, Reese’s game IQ was through the roof, and he had the ability to read the defenseman’s movements, getting open and in a spot to shoot the puck when the goalie was out of position. He could’ve easily shot it himself and scored again, but he waited until Elliot got open and shot it to him, a smooth no-look pass that had the center flustered because of how convincing it was. The goalie was still focused on Reese when Elliot scored, top-shelf, with a little over a minute remaining in the third.

Reese could barely hear over the roar of the crowd when he went to join his teammates in the celly, bumping into the Swede with brute force and excitement, knocking him back into the boards as he pushed their heads and helmets together. “I told you we’d do it. Beauty goal, Willy,” he shook his helmet with his gloved hand, mocking the team’s nickname for Elliot by replacing it with his own.

“And a beauty pass from you,” Jasper added, shaking Reese’s helmet in the same manner he’d just done to the blond.

“We just need one more,” Reese replied as they skated back to the bench. “Who’s going to step up and contribute?”

The team came back out for the OT period exhausted but in a more jovial mood than they had been in for any period of hockey up until this point. Reese thought they seemed like they might actually have a bit of hope, like they might actually try to win. It was a nice change from how they’d been previously, and made him feel like he might actually be able to change the team culture if given enough time and dedication.

The first five minutes of OT were hard-fought. Munich was hard on the forecheck and didn’t give much to the team easily. They were a large, physical team and were able to dominate the Volt for this reason. They didn’t have a lot of big guys, and they definitely didn’t have many young ones. The veterans were more fearful of injury, and thus, less diligent in all the ways that counted.

Reese didn’t go out for his first shift until a few minutes in, having done much of his work from the bench until that point. He tried to motivate the guys who were going out and work with Websy to create strategies that could benefit the team. He didn’t complain that he had been demoted again to his position on the third line, despite the way he’d racked up points in the game. He just took it in stride, focusing more on the team win than the individual loss.

When he finally went out for his shift, he found himself checked into the board, hard, by a larger, enforcer figure, their heads knocking together below the helmet. It was a late hit, and Reese had been facing the man, paralyzed as he flashed on the physical contact and a picture of a file came into his mind, this man’s picture and name on the front: Dominik Wächter. Several things were interesting about the file. It had the same logo as the other items he’d received, and the document was classified. At the bottom were the words reassigned to non-scientific visibility role under Operation Glasshouse, and a last seen date next to a name that felt oddly familiar, Dr. Imani Khoury. Wasn’t that the name of his pediatrician in Ontario?

Before he could think about this further, Reese was crunched into the boards, head hit hard enough that everything went black for a moment. He was limp on the ground when he regained consciousness and play had paused on the other end of the ice, Websy yelling at the referee, probably trying to get an interference call. He looked up at the scoreboard and saw that the OT had ended, 4-3 them. Had they scored? He didn’t remember hearing the goal horn.

Getting up and skating off gingerly, Reese felt confused. He also felt faint, hot and out of breath in a way he usually wasn’t. He was struggling to walk without getting this sensation, bumping into walls and equipment racks until he stopped in a room off to one hallway, slumping against the wall and falling to the ground. He must’ve blacked out again because when he came to, Ilkka was standing over him, not saying anything, a knowing and concerned look on his face. He didn’t ask if Reese was okay, didn’t ask what happened, just sighed, shook his head, turned, and went back to the locker room.

The rest of the night was a blur for Reese, having missed the after-game speeches, which he assumed was when Ilkka went to find him. He’d moved through his routine in a way that was neither slow nor rushed, focused on what had happened to him when he’d made skin-to-skin contact with the other man. Every time he tried to will the file back to the front of his memory, Reese felt faint and symptomatic again, having to stop what he was doing to get a grip on himself, major gaps in his memory when this occurred. Yet, he was stunned by this newfound capability, and where it had come from. He hadn’t seen that man in his life, nor the file. And what did that have to do with his pediatrician?

By the time they got back in the vans, then in the plane, Reese was exhausted. He could’ve sat with Elliot, but he honestly didn’t want to talk about how he was or what he was doing, and he knew that was what the man would require. He just wanted to nurse his wounds in peace, sitting beside someone who couldn’t care less about him. That was how he ended up wedged between the Finns on the flight home, and in the bus on the climb back up the mountain to the Viremont compound. He didn’t say anything to Elliot on the entire way, doing so much as taking the stairs to avoid him, but passing him in the second-floor hallway on his way back to his room. They were both tired, and Reese needed sleep before he could properly handle anything, let alone emotions and questions he didn’t have answers to. His shoulder was throbbing, clearly agitated by the dirty hit, and he was covered in bruises that were starting to turn colors. Plus, he had the symptoms from the flash, which went away for a time, then seemed to return out of nowhere. He knew he had to stay silent about all of it, however, if he wanted to play the next day.

The next day, Reese flew into the room in a frenzy, complexion weathered from standing outside in the cold. He took a seat beside from Elliot, though he didn't pause his passionate discourse in French to greet him in one of their mutually intelligible languages. He was sure the Swede had heard plenty from the monitor that Élodie had observing the front entrance of the office building, which had undoubtedly conveyed his frustration through the surveillance measures. When he was finally done with the psychologist sitting across from them, Reese huffed and crossed his arms, turning to point an accusing finger at the center beside him. "And you," he started incredulously, "your incompetent father is denying me medical care, isn't that, like, the whole point of his being here?"

And, really, wasn’t it? He’d gone to Lars to receive his weekly x-ray of his shoulder, which he’d been getting for his entire stay at Everton and even before. It’d always remained 9/10ths healed, a medical anomaly that no one could comprehend. It wasn’t something that had healed wrong, it had never healed at all, still exactly the same as it had been as a child, as if not a day had passed since the injury was acquired and then partially healed. But, for some reason, today he’d been denied. He didn’t mention his injuries, didn’t mention anything that could’ve prevented him from getting treatment, but the answer had still been no. He was sure it didn’t help that he’d called him Karl, but when had that ever stopped him before?

In addition, he’d gone to get his medication. He had some kind of rare condition which he could never remember the name of, something where if he were to get sick, his body would not heal itself. If he caught something, he would die, so he took medications which boosted his immune system and prevented it from occurring. Apparently, despite his insistence that he’d requested these medications and they had arrived to Switzerland from his doctor in Maine, they’d misplaced them and he would have to wait to take them.

Then, to make matters worse, he was still locked out of every building except for the nutrition center and the residential hall. So it wasn’t exactly like he was in the mood to join Elliot for a joint psych eval, which–what was the point of that anyway–and talk publicly about his problems.

"Easy there," Elliot responded calmly, unaffected by the chaos swirling around Reese, "I can't do anything about it. He isn't a fucking doctor, so I have no idea why he is here. I'm sorry Reese, but I can't do anything to help you, Lars won't listen to me."

"It's fine," he breathed out, although it was clearly not fine as evidenced by how red his face was and the beads of sweat that threatened to drip from his hairline. "It's not couples counseling... I think. I don't know. Youve done this before, I haven't had the pleasure." His voice was dry and sharp as he said this, focused more on the psychologist in front of him than at the man beside him. Why was he sorry he couldn’t help? Was he that goddamned altruistic that he needed to be helpful all of the time?

It wasn’t until the Swede looked over that Reese realized he’d made a comment without providing the context. Obviously Elliot didn’t know he’d watched the last evaluation he’d done with more curiosity than he spent on most things, and he didn’t know that Reese had been lingering on every answer the other man had given, quietly and when he had moments to himself. It was an odd ritual Élodie had forced him into, and one that made Reese think. The only reason he’d been willing to partake was because the threat on the table was that if he attended, he would get his clearance reinstated, and if he didn’t, he’d be locked out of everything for another two weeks.

"We will start by asking both of you what your stress levels are today on the scale of 1-10."

“Whatever answer will get me my fucking clearance,” he replied, true emotions barely concealed. She didn’t bite.

"And you Elliot?"

"Um, about a three."

“Careful,” Reese chided, “one wrong move and you may end up standing outside in the cold for two hours because you’re deemed too inept to open doors on your own.” He smiled evilly at the psychologist, watching her sharply. He knew Elliot was panicking, for whatever reason he could not tell, but he wasn’t about to let that get in the middle of the war that had been waged between himself and Élodie.

"If your mood today was a weather forecast, what would it be?" She gazed at the two young men, waiting for their answer. "I don't know," Elliot responded, "I'm not Meteorologist." Élodie clearly wasn't happy with Elliot’s answer, but Reese was. And, for whatever reason, the way Reese was looking at Elliot seemed to make Élodie relieved or perhaps intrigued, which only made him scowl immediately and withdraw from how he’d leaned in closer to the Swede in his chair.

“Hell, frozen over,” he replied swiftly, trying to get her to stop making whatever face she was making about the brief fondness Reese had shown for Elliot. She seemed to move on.

"How many hours of sleep did you get last night?"

"I got nine,” Elliot replied. Fucking suck-up. They didn’t get back to their rooms until around four in the morning, had he really slept that well up until this 14:00 appointment? It was probably the placement of his room. Or something.

“Two and a half,” Reese said bluntly, “for various reasons I don’t care to get into, so don’t ask.” Miraculously, she didn’t.

"Tell me Reese," Élodie said, turning towards him, "Since I last saw you, have you experienced sudden, intense feelings of fear or panic?"

“Have you?” Asking her to answer her own question didn’t cut it, so he followed up with, “only when thinking about the waste of time that this appointment would turn out to be. Is that a better answer?”

"Yes." Elliot replied, and maybe Reese felt mostly annoyed, but also a bit fond of the man’s honesty. He was obviously always full of anxiety when Reese saw him, but it was different to admit that to Élodie. Had he gotten his clearance by being honest? That was an unfathomable concept to the Canadian.

"Reese, I am just checking to see how you have been coping these past few weeks since coming to Viremont." Of course it came back to him. God forbid she run with the perfectly good talking point Elliot had served her up on a platter.

“Best fucking days of my life. Every athlete’s dream,” he replied sarcastically, with a vicious smile on his face. Anything he could say, he swallowed. He was in everything alone, he couldn’t have any loose ends.

"And Elliot?"

"I haven't done much since coming to Viremont. Just really reading and working out." Conveniently, he left out the interrogation in Munich, and the box, and everything else that would consist of doing much.

"And how do we feel physically?"

My shoulder is a bit sore but other than that, I have no issues."

Reese studied her for slightly too long, giving away the deliberation he felt toward whether this was a safe topic. Ultimately, it wasn’t. If she had enough power to get him locked out of all of the buildings, she had enough power to get him benched for the game against Toronto. “Better if I had my medication and my x-ray,” he spat back. “Perhaps your time would be better spent acquiring that, considering you’ll have no one to interrogate if I get sick and die.”

The rest of the session went on like this, a series of questions about wellness and again about the relationship between the pair of them and their other teammates. Reese didn’t hold back on his true opinions, and Élodie made a few comments about Reese being a good read of people and having issues with trust, both of which he kept himself from reacting to. When they were done, she kept Reese behind and freed Elliot, causing more irritation. He hadn’t been cleared, and she was ordering more remedial sessions. Reese must’ve confused Switzerland for the seventh circle of hell.

The game that night was at an ungodly evening hour, as if it wasn’t difficult enough to get people to come to the mountains to watch a sport they could watch from their own homes. There was almost no one in the crowd, which was good, considering the snoozefest of a game it turned out to be. The game ended 1-0 in regulation, another loss to add to the series of losses that had transpired as of late. But Reese didn’t feel like yelling, he could barely keep his head above water himself. His symptoms were a concern and everything felt like a potential danger.

At the end of the game, a fight broke out, a moment of catharsis from the emotions which had been running high all game. One of the guys who had dropped the gloves went for Malcolm and got Reese in the side of the face, nothing very damaging but enough physical contact to make him flash. He skimmed the file quickly, as he’d done with the man’s the night prior. Luca Marin, Subgen Trial BETA-South, Florence. Unexpectedly Stable, full memory erasure post-program, memory locks implanted: subject does not recall participation. Monitored by Dr. Evelyn Dubois.

He then skimmed the next portion, incident log: temporary blackouts during games, one recorded nose bleed during press conference, 0.3s muscle response spike. On Flagged and Watched lists indefinitely.

When Reese woke up, he was on a stretcher in the back hallways of the pavilion, being brought to the medical center. He had something pressing against his nose, which he found out was to stop his own nosebleed when the medical staff lifted it from his nose to check the bleeding. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, “did we win?”

“The game’s still being played,” she replied easily, “but you got hit pretty hard and we’re going to have to check you for a concussion, alright?”

He did not, in fact, have a concussion. He knew he wouldn’t, and he knew his symptoms were getting worse if his vitals were any sign. His blood oxygen was dangerously low, and his heart was beating out of his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and his temperature spiked higher than it should’ve been, causing him to sweat through his clothes. It seemed to calm down after a while, however, and he was allowed to go back to the upper complex with a note in his file that he would not be traveling the next day for the game. It wasn’t a huge shock, really, despite his annoyance with the process and the lingering feeling he was being abandoned by the team.

For the next three days, he made the staffs’ lives even more of a living hell than they usually were with the team gone. He spent an ungodly amount of time at the gym and playing himself in chess, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was attending remedial sessions with Élodie and harassing Lars and Sabine for x-rays and medication. He eventually wore down Sabine and got his x-ray, and everything was exactly the way it always was. He didn’t understand what the big deal was. The medication, however, was a problem. He couldn’t call anyone from Viremont, and he couldn’t leave, so he was at a stalemate there until he could follow up with the outside world. Even with the team gone, he wasn’t sleeping better in his room.

On the sixteenth, Reese was called in for an emergency meeting. He wasn’t scheduled, but Élodie was acting strangely, saying things he didn’t understand in cryptic ways and slipping him a file. It said RHV / AK at the top, and was written in English. It gave a lot of information with language that Reese didn’t particularly understand, but there were things that captured his interest more than others, among them skin-to-skin contact, emotional trust, and under no circumstances should RHV be made known of AK’s regulatory role in big bold letters at the bottom. He was obviously RHV, so why was she making him aware?

Before he could ask, she was moving him out the door quickly, as if something would happen if he stayed and asked the questions he wanted to ask. She whispered to him that he needed to hide the file, and then more loudly announced that Ilkka had sustained a lower-body injury that required Reese to fly out to Kiev, they were reinstating his health, and Luca had requested him specifically. He packed quickly, bringing his documents with him, as he’d noticed that they’d taken the tape off of the cameras when he’d left. Someone had been in his room when he’d gone, without his permission, and he’d been too tired and too concerned with other things to address it. However, the tape had gone back up, and he was bringing his things, for they were too important to lose.

Reese got to Kiev in the middle of the night, having several delays for weather which prevented him from arriving at a reasonable hour. He was exhausted when he made it to the room he was assigned, dragging his things behind him as he knocked on the third-floor door. He assumed Ilkka hadn’t been rooming alone prior to his injury.

When Elliot opened the door, looking sleepy and disheveled, Reese let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in and mumbled, “thank god,” to himself, glad to see the Swede as opposed to literally any of his other teammates. “Sorry to wake you,” he added, “not much I could’ve done to change it, though. I have some things to talk to you about in the morning, but they can wait. Élodie gave me something that may be connected to the box you gave me, I’d like you to see.”

As he mumbled through the words he began to step inside, brushing Elliot’s hand as he stepped beside him and creating a sparking sensation in his hand that continued to burn. It was an odd feeling, like touching a dangerous chemical. He wondered if Elliot had touched something earlier in the day that had created that reaction, and the sparking sensation was due to his sleep-deprived paranoia or a small electric shock. Regardless, after he’d spoken his mind, he barely said two words to the man before crashing into the unoccupied bed, belongings pulled to his side of the room. Even for Reese, there were days were it was too exhausting to unpack right away, and perhaps that wasn’t the only thing that could make a room feel like home.