Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s someone pacing outside of Chowder’s door. They’ve been there for about seven minutes, just walking back and forth, hitting the creaky floorboard three steps down the hallway every time. He can ignore it, sure, but that would mean doing his Java homework, which is super boring. So, he doesn’t ignore it. 

“Oh, hi Chowder! Funny seeing you here!” Tango’s blue eyes are startlingly wide and Chowder is mildly concerned they’re going to pop out of his head. “In the Haus! Where you… live…” Tango laughs awkwardly, his fingers twisting together like a puzzle. 

“Hey, Tango! What’s up?” Tango glances up and down the hall, like he’s expecting someone to walk in on them- like they’re even doing anything to walk in on . Chowder’s never seen him so twitchy and he was there when Tango had four shots of espresso because he accidentally drank Whiskey’s coffee instead of his own. 

“I really need your help, Chowder.” Tango’s eyes are very blue, and look very scared, so Chowder doesn’t hesitate to usher the younger boy into his room. Tango doesn’t speak again until he’s shut the door, his hands twisting the hem of his shirt. “I’ve got a problem.” 

Chowder sits them down on the end of his bed, shoving a shark plush at Tango. Tango gives up the hem of his shirt easily enough to start worrying at the little pectoral fins. Tango glances at the door two more times, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Chowder doesn’t know if he’s actually equipped to help Tango.

“What’s wro-”

“How did you know you loved Farmer?” Tango gets the question out like it was a hot coal in his mouth, and it lands, burning, on the bedspread between them. “When did you realize it wasn’t just a crush?” Chowder stares for a moment, his jaw dropped.

“Uh…”

“‘Cause I haven’t said I love you yet, but my partner- uh- has and I don’t know if it was just like an in-the-moment type deal, or if he- uh, they- really, um, meant it? And I didn’t say it back but I don’t know because how am I supposed to know, I mean, this is my longest relationship to date and I really, really like them- uh, him- but do I-”

“Breathe, Tango.” Chowder holds a hand up to Tango’s mouth, effectively stopping the word-vomit disaster that is happening. “Uh, wow. Big question!” Chowder wracks his brain. And then removes his hand from Tango’s mouth, because it’s humid and kind of gross. “And I guess I realized I loved Farmer when I wanted her with me, because I knew that everything would be better if I could share it with her!” Tango is still staring at him, his head slightly cocked. “Like, things that are fine if I do them alone- grocery shopping and homework and meals and stuff like that- it’s good by myself! But I know Cait would make it better, just by being there. If I was having a bad day, she’d make it better just by sitting next to me. And I want to be the same for her.” Chowder smiles just thinking about his girlfriend.

“That feels so simple.” Tango sounds mystified. Which he usually does, so Chowder doesn’t think it’s a big deal. He tries a new angle anyway.

“Your partner!” Chowder thinks he knows who it is, but Tango hasn’t said a name so Chowder won’t, either. “How does he make you feel?” The dreamy look that completely takes over Tango’s face answers one of Chowder’s questions at least. He’s definitely in love.

“Oh, you know. He makes me feel safe. Never makes me feel stupid, you know, and I know a lot of the people here don’t like all the questions, but he always answers me. Even when he’s tired or upset or mad.” Tango’s answer makes Chowder feel a little bad, because he knows that Tango is smart, but he’s also been a little short with the underclassman when he’s got five too many questions after a bad game or test or day. “And Connor gives really good hugs and doesn’t let go until I want him to.” Which is less of what Chowder’s expecting. Whiskey doesn’t strike him as a cuddler. “And they make me laugh a lot.” There’s a smile, stretching wide and unburdened across Tango’s face. “They’re so funny. Especially Ford, she’s hilarious, and- oh. Shit. Uh…”

Every ounce of joy drains almost instantly out of Tango’s voice, his eyes, his everything. He’s starting to shake, even, and Chowder reaches out for his hands but Tango recoils, pulling himself out of reach. There’s a silence so heavy between them it feels physical.

“Tango,” Chowder says, voice quiet, like the silence is pressing the name back into his chest. “It’s okay.” The tears come back to Tango’s eyes and spill over almost immediately. He’s quiet, all hitched breathing and hands pressed against his face. Chowder crosses the distance. “It’s okay.” Tango collapses into his arms when Chowder pulls him in for a hug.

“Don’t tell anyone. Please, you can’t tell.” Tango sounds so desperate, and Chowder shushes him.

“I won’t. But. You know we just want you guys to be happy, right? That we’re your teammates and we’ve got your backs no matter what?” Tango is shaking his head, like believing Chowder is nigh impossible. “Tango, c’mon, no one on the team would ever ever hurt you guys.” He hugs Tango tighter, like he can squeeze the fear out of him like toothpaste from a tube.

“You’re the first person I’ve told. Literally. My mom doesn’t even know.” Tango’s voice sounds so small, shaking and breaking, and so unlike himself that Chowder doesn’t really know what to do with it. He remembers Tango’s mom from parent’s weekend- a short little woman with warm brown eyes who pinched his cheeks and told him he was a great goalie but that he should really eat more. He remembers how she’d looked at her son- like he was her greatest joy and the only thing that mattered was the smile on his face and his laugh echoing in the locker room.

Chowder doesn’t understand, really, having a secret like that. One that might make him think his parents would stop loving him if they knew. There’s not a lot that he wouldn’t tell his mom, and that’s less to do with secrets and more to do with the fact that there are some things a boy in college does not tell his mother. He knows that this- Tango’s relationship, how there’s three of them, how one of them is a boy- is probably something he’d have trouble telling his own mom about, too. And that’s without going to church every Sunday like Tango and Whiskey do. 

“The first time I told Cait I loved her, I cried.” Chowder is trying desperately to bring the train back on the rails. He pulls his phone from his pocket, his other arm still holding Tango tight to him. “It just slipped out, y’know? I’d known for a bit, but was waiting for the right time.” Texting one handed is something he’s only gotten good at recently. “But there really isn’t a right time, Tango. I told her I loved her while we were studying and then I freaked out about it. But she just laughed and told me she loved me, too.” Chowder is getting a little misty-eyed just thinking about it, but Tango has stopped his crying. 

“I’m just so scared. I love them so much, but…” Tango sniffles and pulls away from Chowder. “Some people are definitely not ‘swawesome about it, you know?” Tango’s eyes are so big and so blue and so red and Chowder knows, intellectually, that he would do most anything to protect his teammates, but in practice, with a hurting teammate in front of him, Chowder knows, tangibly, that he will do most anything to protect his teammates. Up to and including facing down New Jersey Italian mothers.

“Chowder?” Ford pokes her head around the door frame. “You texted me?” Her eyes fall on Tango and immediately she bustles inside to cup his face. “Hey, T, what’s wrong?” Tango’s eyes well back up.

“I didn’t tell Connor I loved him. But I do, I really do, so much.” Ford smiles at him, soft and understanding.

“We know, baby.” She looks at Chowder for a second, and he just smiles back at her. “You wanna go tell him yourself?” Tango nods, and lets Ford tug him towards the door. “Thanks, Chowder!”

“Thanks, Chowder. You’re a really good friend.” Tango is smiling, and that’s all Chowder really wanted.

“You two take care! Tell Connor I said hi!” They’ll be okay, Chowder knows. There’s a whole team ready to back them up, and Chowder is first in line.

Chapter Text

Holster doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on Whiskey, is the thing. He’s napping in the reading room, totally minding his own business, when the screen door to the Haus slams shut and Whiskey starts almost-shouting on the Haus lawn in Spanish. It’s kind of hard to sleep after that.

And Holster would totally go back inside, but the reading room floor (roof?) creaks something awful and Whiskey hasn’t looked up and seen Holster yet. So maybe if he doesn’t move, he can kind of pretend that this isn’t happening. For both their sakes. Mostly because Holster doesn’t think he’s ever seen Whiskey get actually angry. At anyone or anything.

Not like this.

His free hand is flying back and forth in front of him, and he’s loud . Holster doesn’t speak Spanish, so he can really only grab the really simple words, like abuela, por favor, and lo siento. He knows those, at least. Which lets him grab maybe 5% of the conversation. Holster can see Whiskey at the far end of his pacing, so he can see the exact moment Whiskey drops into a deep squat to rest on his heels and pull at his hair.

“Abuela, we’ve been over this.” Holster can’t see Whiskey’s face from how high up he is, but he sounds almost desperate. “You just don’t remember, right now. But you’ve met Tony and Denice. You made alfajores together. We-” Whiskey’s voice cuts off, most likely because his abuela has started yelling at him again.

Holster should go.

“Please don’t say that.” Whiskey presses the back of his hand to one of his eyes. “Please don’t say that.” There’s more silence, and Holster tries to start inching himself backwards to escape back into the Haus, but the roof (floor?) creaks ominously and he stills. He cannot let Whiskey know he has an audience for whatever is going on right now.

“When I came out to you the first time you told me that love could never be a bad thing. Do you remember that?” Whiskey’s voice is much softer now, but it still carries up to the reading room. Holster can only hope that the windows on the first floor are closed. For Whiskey’s sake. “You told me that and it meant so much to me.” There’s another long patch of silence that Holster uses to inch another half foot closer to the window.

“Love is not a bad thing. More love is not a bad thing- you don’t get to go back on that now just because I love two people.” Whiskey stands up and starts pacing again, and Holster scoots toward the window, now close enough to open it back up. He’s so close to freedom he can taste it. He doesn’t know how he’ll look Whiskey in the eye for the next six months, but he’ll manage. Somehow.

“¡Abuela! ” Whiskey draws up short like he’s been slapped. Holster has a better angle now, to look down at him, and he can see the tear tracks on the right side of his face. They shine in the late afternoon sunshine, and Holster hopes this ends soon. Mostly so Whiskey can go back to being the semi-robotic hockey player he’s known since the kid first crossed the locker room threshold. 

After a moment, Whiskey pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a moment, before chucking it full force across the lawn. It hits the tire swing on the fair side of the walkway with a solid thud before it bounces to the ground. Whiskey lets out a low, inarticulate yell. Holster turns tail and scrambles through the window.

He hits the floor way too fast and jams his shoulder against the floorboards. Holster stands and shakes himself off, fixing his glasses where they’ve tilted. Part of him wants to retreat up to the attic and pretend he’s been studying this whole time. That he didn’t hear a shred of Whiskey’s very emotional conversation. But then he thinks of the way that Whiskey holds himself apart from the rest of the team, still. 

How he looked on the Haus lawn, with tear tracks on his face. Holster can’t leave him alone after that. He walks down the stairs.

Whiskey is sitting on the floor, leaned back against the couch, his books spread out on the coffee table. Chowder is snoring on the couch behind him. No one else is around.

“Hey, Whiskey.” Holster can see, from his vantage point at the bottom of the stairs, how Whiskey’s shoulders pull up and tighten by his ears. Like he’s on the ice, expecting a check. It leaves something sour in Holster’s mouth, that his teammate - one of the tadpoles he’s the captain of- is scared of him, even just a bit. “You have a minute?” His shoulders don’t relax.

“Sure.” Whiskey stands and walks out the front door again. Holster follows, and he’s the first to sit down on the top step of the porch. He pats the wood next to him.

“C’mon, man, take a seat.” Whiskey stays standing.

“How much did you hear?” His arms are crossed in front of him, and he’s glaring down at Holster. 

“Well, I heard most of it,” Holster admits. “But I didn’t understand a lot of it. ‘Cause, you know, language barrier and all.” Whiskey stays standing and continues glaring. It’s getting a little uncomfortable, if only because Holster’s teeth are in perfect kicking range. And Whiskey, while he doesn’t drop his gloves all that often, is definitely one of their more ruthless players. “Your business is your business, dude, but it also sounds like maybe you should talk about it?”

“No.” Whiskey starts to turn away, but Holster reaches out a quick hand and snags his ankle. Whiskey pulls a bit, but can’t be forceful at risk of over balancing. Whiskey puts his foot back down on the ground.

“Sit down, bro. We’re talking about it.” Holster puts on his captain voice. Whiskey sits down and tugs his foot back so hard Holster jerks sideways when he doesn't let go fast enough.

“I’d really rather we didn’t. You can say you tried your best and everyone will still think you’re a good captain.” If there’s an Olympic event for avoiding eye contact, Whiskey would be going for a gold medal right now. Holster thinks it’s an admirable attempt. “Like you said. It’s not any of your business.”

“Look, bro, I get that you don’t like us all that much, but we’re still a team. Which means I care about you, and I want you to be okay.” At Holster’s words, Whiskey looks at him sharply.

“Who said I didn’t like you guys?” Holster blinks at him.

“Uh.” Abort, abort, abort. “No one? You just- uh- never hang out with the team outside of practice and you tend to keep to yourself even at practice.” Another thought occurs, and it’s out of his mouth before Holster realizes that going on the attack will not make the tadpole any more likely to open up to him. “And you’re always hanging out with the lacrosse team. And they suck.” 

“Do you even know them?” Whiskey’s question is totally reasonable, except for how it isn’t.

“Dude, they’re LAX bros. Five of them are named Chad. Also it’s in the bylaws. ‘Fuck the LAX team’ and all that.” Whiskey just looks at him like Holster hasn’t made some excellent points. “I mean,” Holster backpedals, “If they’re your friends, that’s cool and all, but we’d like to be your friends, too, get it?” 

Whiskey looks away and out over the Haus lawn. He’s silent for long enough that Holster has half a mind to open his mouth again and tell Whiskey that hockey is a team sport, and that there are, like, 23 guys that would love to know him if he ever feels like cutting loose. But Whiskey opens his mouth, so Holster stays quiet.

“I just love them so much. And my abuela - my grandmother- she forgets, sometimes, that she loves them, too.” Whiskey inhales, and it’s a little shaky. “And she means so much to me that I don’t know what to do, when she forgets like that. What I’m supposed to do if she doesn’t remember them, eventually, or if she forgets me and-” Whiskey’s voice cracks in half and cuts out. He breathes, shakily, and Holster dares to slide a little closer and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. I don’t have any good answers.” Holster keeps looking out over the lawn, blinking rapidly against the growing moisture in his eyes. “But she loves you, no matter what. And she’s happy that you’re happy, even if she forgets that, sometimes.” Whiskey actually sobs, all loud and uncoordinated and so unlike him that Holster wonders how long he’s been keeping it bottled up. He rubs at Whiskey’s back and prays no one decides to come to the Haus for any reason. 

There’s a moment in between Whiskey’s breaths that Holster picks up on a man singing. It sounds like an old recording- and not one in English.

“What the… ?” Holster looks around, trying to see what could possibly be playing music. Whiskey inhales once, twice, and rubs at his eyes.

“That’s- that’s mine. Uh, one sec.” And Whiskey stands, shrugging off Holster’s arm. He roots around in the weeds at the base of the tire swing before standing back up, phone held to his ear. Holster can just hear the low, “Hola, mama,” before he lies back on the porch and starts humming to himself to give Whiskey privacy.

Holster wants to ask so many more questions- mostly about Whiskey and Tango and Ford. Mostly, about how the fines situation is going to work. But, he supposes, he can wait.

Chapter Text

It has taken River three months to find the Samwell LGBT+ Community Center, affectionately dubbed “The Clubhouse”. Not for lack of trying and not for lack of signage, but because he didn’t even realize this side of campus even existed . His life has basically been his lecture halls, his dorm room, the Haus, Founders, and Faber. Which is fine, River kind of expected it, but it is nice to find this place.

He walks through the glass paneled door to a large room with tables in the center and a few couches to one side. There are desks and workspaces along the other wall, and all the walls are a rich purple. The windows are open, and River can hear people playing on the East Quad just behind the center.

A few of the tables are occupied, and a few people wave at River when he enters, even though he’s certain he’s never seen any of them before. River nods back at them and makes his way to the back wall, snagging a seat at an unoccupied couch below a window. The breeze is nice, and the light is perfect. He pulls his book out and settles in to read in a space where he isn’t the new freshman on the hockey team or the first indigenous kid most people have met before. He can just be River.

People come and go from the room the whole time River is there, but about an hour and a half after he first sits down, he actually recognizes someone who walks in. It’s Ford, the hockey team manager a year older than River. She calls out hellos to some of the people at the tables, but she doesn’t stop there. She collapses onto a couch a few down from him, also positioned under a window. Face down, she doesn’t seem to have noticed him, and he curls up a little tighter on the couch cushion, too comfortable to think about moving even though he’s mildly uncomfortable being here with someone he knows.

Not that he thinks Ford would be weird about it- he’s pretty sure Tango is gay and he’s one of Ford’s best friends so she’s probably cool with gay people. Hell, if she’s here, she could be gay. And there’s Bitty, and she’s not weird around him either. He just wasn’t… expecting to have to deal with it today. So he’s not really ready for any questions or looks she may have for him.

It doesn’t take long to lose himself in the book again and it's probably another half an hour before anyone else comes into the room that he recognizes. It’s Whiskey, and River may not have even noticed him except for how Ford lets out a groan when he picks her up off the couch. He positions her a little further down so that when he sits down, her head fits perfectly in his lap and he can pet over her hair in an even measure.

River looks back at his book, even though he is decidedly not reading from it anymore. The people at the center seem to know them, and they’re keeping to themselves, even though River can hear the soft murmur of their voices back and forth from across the carpet. He’s too focused on them to pay attention to the protagonist wrestling with the choice between killing his sister and letting his sister kill their best friend. 

He’ll have to pass right in front of them if he leaves. Which, normally, wouldn’t be a problem. At Faber, or the Haus, or literally anywhere else but the Clubhouse. Being in this building has a whole lot of implications that aren’t untrue, for River, but again. He isn’t ready to come out today. He kind of doesn’t want to. He just wants to sit here and read about a teenaged medium getting possessed. He closes the book.

Ford’s eyes are closed, a small smile on her face. She’s speaking, talking with her hands, though River can only catch maybe every fifth word. Something about the play she’s helping put on. Whatever it is, Whiskey seems enraptured. He’s looking down at her in his lap, and he isn’t frowning. Which might be the only time River has seen him not-frown when he’s not on the ice. And even then, he frowns a lot on the ice, too. It’s a weird look on him, but not a bad one.

River reopens his book, but he keeps staring at the two of them. He’s being a hypocrite- he knows that- but for some reason he can’t look away. Which is why he’s looking when Ford abruptly stops talking, one hand fisting in the collar of Whiskey’s polo and pulling him to her. They’re kissing, right there on the couch under the window. They break apart after a moment, and are much quieter when they resume talking. River turns back to his book, though he can’t say he actually reads any of the words on the page.

He didn’t know they were dating. Honestly, River thought that Tango had a crush on Whiskey, though Whiskey and Ford dating doesn’t necessarily negate that. River tries to think, to remember if there had been any signs or announcements he’d missed about his teammates, but he can’t remember. And it doesn’t feel right to text Louis or Hops to ask. Either way, it’s not really his business. 

River checks his watch for the time, because Bitty said there was gonna be pasta at the Haus for anyone who didn’t want dining hall food, but dinner isn’t for another two hours. He goes for his bag instead, because there’s a granola bar in there that will hold him over until then, when the small bell over the door chimes again. River looks up absentmindedly, still rooting in his bag for the energy bar, not expecting to see yet another face he knows. 

It’s Tango.

He beelines for Ford and Whiskey, dropping his bag at the foot of the couch and collapsing on the two of them, absolutely blanketing Ford, his head tucked on Whiskey’s lap right next to hers. Ford is giggling, so Tango can’t be crushing her too badly, and Whiskey moves his hand from running across Ford’s head to card through Tango’s hair. Tango’s groan is loud enough for the whole room to hear. A few people laugh at the three of them, though River doesn’t join in.

“Doing okay, sweetie?” Ford asks, and Tango groans again, seemingly answering her question. Tango lifts himself up, raising his chest up like an easier version of a push up. From the stomach down he’s still lying on Ford, though it looks like she’s adjusted her legs so Tango is laying more between them than on them. “Oh, be good to him, Connor.” And River is more shocked than maybe he should be when Whiskey pulls Tango to him and kisses him, right there on the couch. 

“Good enough for you?” River has never heard Whiskey sound like this, all smug and deep and hot - which, River does not need to develop a crush on his very good looking, very taken upperclassman.

Tango takes a moment to answer, and when he does, it’s just to kiss Whiskey again. River averts his eyes because he’s about to have a moment and maybe he really should have just left before all of this happened. He can go now, while they’re all paying more attention to each other than to their surroundings. Bitty won’t mind if he comes to the Haus early, after all, and it’s a nice enough day to make it a leisurely walk.

Decision made, River packs up his bag and makes for the door, messing with his hair as he passes to hopefully hide his face from the throuple on the couch. He’s almost to the door when he hears Ford’s voice.

“Oh, it’s River.” A pause. “How long has he been here?” River doesn’t stick around to hear if they figure it out.

Chapter Text

Lardo likes not having to share a room with a sweaty hockey boy during away games. Granted, she does miss her sweaty hockey boy, but in general, it’s nicer to room with Ford. She’s neat, a quiet sleeper, and generally pretty nice. She spends maybe a little too much time on her phone, but Lardo can tell she’s texting someone, and can’t be too mad about it when there’s usually not much else to do at the places they stay. It’s only after Ford laughs out loud for the fourth time in ten minutes that Lardo feels like being nosy.

“Who’re you texting?” Ford immediately brings her phone to her chest, hiding the screen. The smile on her face gives her away, even though she’s trying to tone it down to talk to Lardo. Whoever it is that she’s texting- she’s got it bad.

“Oh, sorry. It’s just, uh, Tango. He’s bored.” Her phone vibrates and she looks at it again. “Oh, uh, excuse me.” Ford gets up, and Lardo sits up, too. She slips out of the door, flipping the bar guard to keep the door slightly propped open. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Lardo isn’t one to eavesdrop, but there’s not much else to do, and her headphones are in her backpack across the room. Getting up to get them would draw more attention from the couple outside. Especially because that is definitely not Tango’s voice out there in the hallway. 

“I thought you were asleep.” 

Lardo pulls out her phone to shoot off a quick bro u need to save me from these tadpoles text to Shitty. He’s probably not even awake anymore, but he’ll support her when he wakes up. She’s getting too old for this shit.

“Not yet. Was grabbing some ice for Tony. His ankle’s acting up.” It’s Whiskey, that’s who Ford’s talking to. He’s rooming with Tango, like he does every roadie. It’s one of the easy pairings she can rely on- like Ransom and Holster and Ollie and Wicky.

“Ouch. Well, tell him I hope he feels better. And not to play tomorrow if he doesn’t feel up to it. There’s other games.” Ford’s voice gets quiet, but Lardo can still hear her. It’s the manager's ears: a blessing and a curse to be attuned to everything her teammates say. “I love you. Have a good night. Try to get some sleep soon, okay?” 

“Love you, too. And stop texting Tony- you’re both going to be up until 2 if you keep each other going.” Ford laughs and there is the unmistakable sound of kissing. Lardo has to hold back a groan. Ford just kissed someone who is definitely not the boy she was texting ten minutes earlier with a glow like puppy love in her eyes. And Lardo is normally all for people doing whatever the hell they want, but if Ford’s in love with Tango- who is probably also in love with Ford back - and Whiskey finds out during the season… It won’t end well. Whiskey has some anger, and the last thing the team needs is for that to make two of the tadpoles come to blows over the team manager.

Lardo shoots off a last text (rans and holtzy owe me so much for this) as Ford comes back through the door, her mind made up about the talking to she has to give her protege. “Sorry, about all that.” Lardo shakes her head. 

“So, you and Whiskey are together then?” Ford flushes, though it’s hard to see in the dim lighting against her skin. 

“Uh, yeah,” Ford laughs awkwardly. “Going on a few months, now.” Lardo turns in her bed to look at Ford. 

“Wow, never would have guessed. You guys don’t really act like a couple, you know? He against PDA or something?” Lardo knows this is kind of a hypocritical line of questioning, given her and Shitty’s history, but what Ford doesn’t know won’t hurt her. 

“I mean, Connor’s pretty private in general. I’m sure you’ve noticed. Our relationship is for us. People don’t need to know about it.” There’s something about how Ford says it- like it’s something she’s repeating, like they aren’t her words, that rubs Lardo the wrong way. 

“Hey.” Lardo sits up. This is potentially much more serious than she’d thought initially. “Whiskey isn’t…” There is literally no delicate way to say this, but Lardo has a duty to her friend. “He isn’t like- hurting you, right?” There’s a moment of tense silence as Ford’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline and her jaw drops open with a small, hysterical laugh. 

“No!” Ford pitches forward on her knees, her hands gripping the bedspread. “No, no, he would never hurt me. It- it’s not like that, at all. I swear.” Ford looks very serious, and Lardo believes her. But just in case.

“Good. Just know that we’d kick ass for you, against anybody, okay? No one gets to mess with you.” Ford smiles, and her shoulders lose all their tension. Lardo relaxes, too. 

“I really appreciate that.” Ford smiles and moves to sit back against her head board, pulling her phone out once more. 

“Last question.” Ford hums her acknowledgement, though she finishes her text before looking over the divide between their beds. “Does he know you have a crush on Tango?” Ford’s eyebrows shoot right back up to meet her silk cap, though she looks much more caught out than she did earlier. Like there’s some truth to Lardo’s concerns. 

“Wha- how do you know I have a crush on Tango?” Ford’s phone is once more forgotten on her comforter, and Lardo just nods towards it. 

“You don’t react like that just texting a friend.” Ford looks down at her phone and drops her head into her hands. She says something, but it’s muffled by her palms. “What?”

“I said you can’t tell anyone!” Lardo raises an eyebrow of her own. 

“That could lead to some real problems on the ice, if he figures it out before you get over it.” God, she was so close to being done with all this drama. Lardo loves the team, she really, really does. But it’s also like herding cats. Very large, very horny cats.

“Oh, screw it,” Ford says to herself before looking Lardo in the eye. “You cannot tell anyone. But we’re all dating. Whiskey, Tango, and me.” Lardo’s jaw almost drops. Definitely not what she’d been expecting when the night started. She’s apparently silent in her shock for a little too long, because Ford speaks again. 

“You said you’d go to bat for me, right? What about them? Do they count, too?” Ford’s got a point, which means Lardo can get herself back on track fairly quickly. This is her team. If they’re happy, that’s all that matters. 

“You all count. But you’re telling me all the deets later.” Ford looks away, finally seeming to settle. “I bet it’s a hell of a story.”

“That sounds nice. Tango started it all, actually.” She looks down at her phone. “But you’re right: another time for that. It’s late.”

They finish up their bedtime routines before turning out the lights. There’s a moment where Lardo turns over in her bed, trying to find the most comfortable position, where she stops ruffling the sheets long enough to hear Ford inhale. 

“Hey, Lardo?” Lardo grunts, still focused on finding the best spot on her bed. “Thank you. You’re a really good friend.” Lardo is glad for the dark, because it hides the blush, and the smile she can’t stop. She has a reputation to uphold, after all. 

“Anytime, Ford.” There’s a beat of silence. “Still gonna fine all three of you, though.”

Chapter Text

Dex doesn’t know what to think of Ford, most days. And it’s not because of any of the weird bigoted shit that most people would think a cis white guy would be confused about. She’s just… small. 

Shorter than Lardo and thinner in the shoulders, Dex feels like if he looked at her wrong, she’d be liable to snap in half. And yeah, Lardo is also small, but Lardo was also here first . Lardo was already one of the guys, with the best record in beer pong since the team was founded. 

And then: Ford. All cardigans and skirts and a whistle that rivals Nursey hailing a cab. Dex still feels a bit too big for his skin most days, but that’s the hockey muscle talking, and the other guys love roughhousing. Ford loves it too, if the way she messes around with Tango and Whiskey means anything. She’s always shoving them around, and they don’t hold back when they retaliate.

She doesn’t even come up to Dex’s shoulder . A rogue elbow could break the glasses on her face. He could probably break her foot if he stepped on her toes. He could knock her to the floor without even trying. The feeling of awareness reminds Dex of when their old house cat had a litter a few years ago and Dex had to be extremely careful about where he stepped, and how tight he held the new kittens and how far off the ground he held them lest they wriggled around and fell from his hands.

It’s not an all the time thing, this fear of hurting the team manager. It’s something he remembers and then forgets and then remembers and forgets in a vicious cycle. The trigger to remember isn’t always the same- sometimes it’s after Dex bloodies his fist against some opponent’s teeth, and sometimes he’s just standing next to her. There’s no rhyme or reason, but it makes him start acting differently when everyone else keeps treating her the same.

The real problem is that Ford is starting to notice.

She doesn’t treat him any differently, because she’s a good manager, but she doesn’t horse around by him anymore. Which makes it all the more noticeable when someone wearing a Samwell men’s hockey team hoodie absolutely blindsides Dex as he’s coming out of Faber and nearly knocks him to the ground. As it is, he drops everything in his hands from the impact. The guy who knocked into him is the one who actually ends up on the ground- Whiskey, by the back of the hoodie- and Dex holds out his hand to help him up.

“Sorry, Connor, didn’t see you there.” Dex has just enough time to register that the hand reaching up to his is smaller and softer and darker than his teammate’s before he hears-

“Oh, sorry, Dex!” 

-in what is absolutely not Whiskey’s voice. He starts for a moment before hoisting Ford to her feet. He bends again to collect the things he dropped- his bag and his phone- which has a new scuff on the back of the case but is no worse for wear. He slips it into his pocket as he watches Ford pick up her own things: a scattering of papers that get pinned back onto her clipboard, and a few pens.

“Sorry- saw the hoodie and assumed. You know how it goes.” Even though that is definitely Whiskey’s actual hoodie she’s tucking her phone into, and not one Ford got as a fan or a friend because there’s a rip on the right shoulder and an old bloodstain on the collar. Dex still remembers the sympathetic pain of watching Whiskey sneeze with a broken nose.

“Oh, ha, yeah!” The sweatshirt is almost comically large on her- the shoulders hang off of her and the sleeves are pushed up and still hit her at the mid-forearm. The bottom hem covers most of the purple skirt she wears, and near meets the top of her stockings. “You didn’t happen to see Tango in there, did you?” Dex looks back at the door to Faber, like the younger boy will  magically appear.

“Uh. No? Did he tell you he was here?” Ford shakes her head. 

“No, but he’s late and he’s not answering his phone. Whiskey is supposed to be checking Founders, but I really thought he would have been here.” Dex shakes his head. “Ugh, thanks anyway, Dex. Sorry for running into you!” Ford turns and takes off across North Quad, head scarf blowing in the breeze.

Dex takes his own sweet time walking back to the Haus, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. There’s a frozen pizza in the freezer with his name on it, and he’s already got plans to knock out his DS&A coursework tonight. Absolutely nothing can ruin his good mood.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Dex pulls it out and looks at the incoming text from… Tango? Why is Tango texting him? More importantly, why is Tango calling him baby? Dex is confused for another second before more texts come in, and there is a little picture icon that is too small to see clearly, but looks suspiciously like a piece of Tango’s anatomy that Dex does his best to ignore when they’re all in the locker rooms together.

Dex is just about to unlock his phone to tell Tango he’s texting the wrong person before he realizes that the background photo is not of the Maine coastline. No, the background of the phone, behind the time and the text messages, is mostly of Whiskey’s face. Whiskey’s smiling face, one cheek being cupped by a small, soft, dark hand, his other cheek getting a kiss from Tango, who is also smiling. 

This is not Dex’s phone.

He looks at it again; the phone has a sleek black case, just like his own, though his actually has a few more dings on it than the one he’s currently holding. It occurs to him, then, that this must be Ford’s phone. He closes his eyes and sighs, long and pained. He has no idea where she went. But, if he goes to the Haus, someone there can text his phone, so Ford will know she has the wrong one, too. Dex pinches the bridge of his nose and keeps walking.

He’s just turning the corner onto Jason St. when he sees Whiskey’s hoodie again.

“Ford!” Dex is not above yelling. He wants this phone out of his possession. Mostly, because it vibrates every minute or two, and Dex forgets it’s not his and he looks at it and is treated to more words he’d rather not see being passed between Tango and Whiskey directed at Ford.

There are things a man should never know about his teammates. 

“Oh, Dex!” Ford jogs over to him, her shoes clacking on the sidewalk. “I think I have your phone!” Dex stops walking as she gets closer, pulling her phone from his pocket. “Oh,” Ford pants. “Thank you!” Dex takes his own phone back. He sees the moment Ford read the texts waiting on her lock screen. “Oh, lord. How much did you see?”

“Way more than I ever wanted to.” Ford winces.

“I am so sorry! But, uh, if you could just keep all that to yourself? I would really appreciate it!” Ford’s eyes are big and Dex is overcome with the need to give her a noogie.

“No problem,” he says, getting her in a headlock. “Just don’t let this happen again.” He rubs the palm of his hand over her hair roughly, dislodging her scarf.

“Dex!” Her hands, small and soft and dark, hurt like hell when she claws at his ear. He lets her go, and she pushes at his chest. “Asshole!” She’s laughing, even as her hands go to fix her hair. 

“Have fun on your date.” Dex waves her off and waits until she is a few houses down to call out, like a true older brother: “Don’t forget to use protection!”

Chapter Text

Jack misses Samwell. Not that he doesn’t love being on the Falcs, because obviously, he does, but Samwell was different. The level of hockey they were playing, for one, but he doesn’t miss that so much as the team. The new freshmen every year that he got to captain and teach and help grow. Bitty kept him updated, but then he graduated, and Jack never kept in super close touch with the Frogs. Mostly just team group chats and the like. But that doesn’t mean he’s totally out of the loop about his old team.

Jack knows what it’s like to be in love. He knows what it’s like to have to hide being in love, and he knows how much of a relief it is to stop hiding.

Jack knows what it looks like when people are in love. He knows it from watching his parents, from watching Shitty and Lardo, from watching Marty and Thirdy with their wives. He remembers watching tape and seeing his love for Parse reflected in the way they played together. Remembers wondering if it was as obvious to everyone else, what they were doing. It felt like they were always announcing it in red block lettering when they were on the ice together.

It’s part of the reason he’s glad he never played with Bitty while they were together. That love would definitely have shone through on the ice, and it would have affected them both. But now, Jack has a solid team to have his back, and an even more solid PR crew that relishes in showing discriminatory reporters the door.

All said, Jack knows what it looks like to play hockey with people you kiss, sometimes. It’s why he’s not surprised when the end of game buzzer blares and Tango immediately wrenches his helmet off and kisses Whiskey, right there on the ice. There’s a few members of the SMH team that don’t seem surprised, like Dex and River, but more that do, like Nursey, Ransom, and Hops. Next to him, Bitty’s jaw drops, too, and seems to fall more when Ford squeezes in between the two boys, shaky on the ice, and they each kiss one of her cheeks, too.

“You didn’t know about that, eh?” Jack teases as Bitty tries to recover. There’s a slight delay on the Jumbotron, so Jack can look between his fiance and the three kids on the ice, the two boys hugging each other with Ford’s hair bow just poking out from between them. They’re cute, and Jack is viscerally reminded of what it was like to kiss Bitty at center ice after winning the Cup.

Whiskey is already signed with the Aces, and Tango with the Devils, and Jack is pretty positive this little stunt won’t affect either of their professional ventures. Parse is already pretty fond of Whiskey, which will help, though Jack isn’t looking forward to playing them in the upcoming season. That’ll be a forward line to make Snowy work for it.

The SMH team is passing the trophy around, and Whiskey and Tango make sure Ford is able to get a hand on it, too. Jack looks around at his teammates sitting around him, both old and new. Tater is crowing with Lardo and Shitty, and Ransom and Holster are trying to make their way to the locker room to celebrate with the team there. Jack laces his fingers with Bitty’s, and tugs him in the direction of the ice. 

“Wait, Jack, you’re saying you knew? How ? You don’t even check the group chat half the time!” 

“It’s all in the hockey, Bittle.” Jack can’t help the smile growing on his face. His alma mater just won the Frozen Four and he’s in love, and his teammates are in love, and he won’t let anyone hurt them. There are opposing fans that are starting to yell less than savory things towards the ice, but it also looks like Chowder is wrangling them off the ice, his Sharks hoodie clearly visible in a sea of maroon and white. Jack just holds Bitty’s hand tighter as they finally clear the stands.

Coach Murray is waiting near the door to the rest of Faber- he pulls them past the ropes to go celebrate in the back with the team. Jack thinks there may be tears in his eyes, though he isn’t sure. There’s family back here, too, but none Jack recognizes, because he was graduated when this class were freshmen. Bitty really wanted to come to the game, because they were his tadpoles, and they’ll probably come back for the waffles, too. 

“Jack!”

“And Bitty!” Ransom and Holster have beaten everybody else to the locker room, unsurprisingly. The trophy is still being passed around, reflecting the lights overhead. It catches Jack’s eye, over and over again, and his free hand drifts to the camera slung around his neck. This is be a great time for some candids, while the music is way too loud and everyone is still walking on air. Jack remembers how quickly the music soreness sets in, and how you stop being able to lift the cup after a few hours. 

“Go on, honey.” Bitty’s voice brings him back to his surroundings, though not in an abrupt way. More like the sun breaking over the horizon. Warm and light. “Go take some photos. They’re all gonna want to have them to remember this.” Jack lets go of his fiancé’s hand and kisses him on the cheek. 

“Don’t get into too much trouble, Bits.”

“Jack Zimmermann, you get out there with your camera and leave me alone.” Bitty is laughing, and his eyes close for one moment, so Jack takes the opportunity to drop one more kiss on his nose and then makes his escape. 

There’s plenty to capture: the current freshmen all working together to hoist the trophy overhead; Nursey almost knocking over the goalie-Jammer is his name?- while trying to get out of Ransom’s way; Bitty, golden and laughing under a cloud of confetti; Whiskey and Tango and Foxtrot all together, laughing, trying to fit the team manager in the bowl of the cup; Hops and River helping Louis do a handstand with the trophy balanced on his feet; a hundred different moments in a chaotic locker room that Jack finds the right angles and the best lighting to frame. 

“Now, wait a damn second!” Ransom’s voice isn’t all that loud, but it’s one of the only ones Jack recognizes, and thus stands out. “You guys have been dating since frosh year? How did we not know this?” Jack turns to see where Ransom, Holster, Nursey, and a few unknown faces are clustered around Tango, Foxtrot, and Whiskey. Tango is the one who shrugs.

“I mean, some of you guys found out!” He’s smiling, as is Ford, though Whiskey looks minorly uncomfortable with all of the attention. 

“I don’t think you can call it finding out if you guys just ended up telling us, though,” Holster argues. “Why’d you decide to stop keeping it a secret?” Tango just shrugs again.

“I mean, it was kind of a heat of the moment thing! You know, I was just so happy, and I wanted to share that with them!” Tango’s smile is so big and so bright, and Jack understands completely. He’d kissed Bitty at center ice after his cup win, not because he wanted the publicity, or he thought that everything would be okay afterward. He’d wanted to, and Bitty wanted to, so he did. It was that easy.

“Oh, Zimboni, you have team full of lovers! All syrups!” Tater’s arm crashes down onto Jack’s shoulders, jostling his whole body. Jack keeps the camera in one careful hand, the other pushing at Tater’s chest. “Is why you are good boyfriend, hm?” Jack laughs as all eyes turn to him.

“Oh my god, Tango pulled a Jack.”

“Come on, it’s pretty romantic!”

“Shit, I can’t believe I forgot they did that. How did I forget he did that?”

“There, there, Rans, you got schwasted about 30 minutes after that. Cup haze, and all that.”

Whiskey’s face is bright red, and he’s hiding behind Tango, who still has all of his padding on. Jack knows the team is just interested, and nosy, and supportive in their own way. It’s just another part of why he loves them so much. But he knows from first hand experience that they can be a lot.

“So, who’s in charge of the party? Better get started on that, eh?” Almost everyone turns away from the trio at the reminder of the celebration necessary for the ‘swawesomeness of the win they just achieved. The music gets louder, somehow, and Jack takes one more look at the way Tango turns to hold Whiskey’s face, the way Ford comes up behind him and loops her arms around his shoulders, her hands clasping together over the middle of his chest, her chin resting at his temple. Jack lifts his camera and makes eye contact with Ford. She nods, just the slightest dip and rise of her chin, and smiles.

Jack puts the viewfinder to his eye and captures the moment. He knows that this one, for sure, they’re going to want later.