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The secret to Kaz Brekker’s success is that he’s never really been able to let anything go. 

At twenty-two, he was hired as the youngest general manager in NHL history, a title that came with a constant stream of subtle side-eyes and less-subtle scoffs. He got brushed off, laughed at in meetings: another GM huffed that he was “just a kid,” a coach called him “son.” 

The league might’ve thought he’d quit in the face of it all, but it just made Kaz dig his nails in even harder.

It’s maybe earned him a bit of a reputation, he thinks. Well, not maybe. The whispers aren’t derisive anymore; they’re fearful, a bit awed sometimes. The Bastard of the Barrel, he’s heard once or twice. Ice-cold. 

Kaz prefers it, being thought of as cruel and calculating instead of naive. His first few years as GM, other teams had tried to fuck with him: offering him shit players, trying to weasel him into trading away his first-round pick despite it being widely known the Crows were in a rebuilding phase, offering to help Kaz sort through running his team when what they really wanted was to ruin it.

But nobody fucks with Kaz Brekker now.

He’s rebuilt the Crows from the ground up, slowly but surely; it took a few years, more time than he wanted, after the shitfest Per Haskell left in his ancient, tottering wake. 

“What do you have to say to the critics?” a reporter asked Kaz, two years into his tenure. “To the fans who say you’re taking too much time?”

He raised an eyebrow, jutted out his chin, knowing that the stark angles of his face were only made harsher by his sleek black suit. “I play the long game,” he rasped bluntly.

That had been that.

The next day, it was splashed all over the news.

“Try to be more…delicate sometimes,” Anika, his head of PR, gently chastised.

“No,” Kaz said.

And that had been that, too.

Now, every day, Kaz shows up in a suit, despite the way the fabric drags and catches on the metal leg brace he wears underneath. Every day, Kaz pastes a semi-permanent sneer on his face and lifts his chin up high so that he has a higher chance of looking down on whoever he’s talking to.

It’s what led the Crows to their first Stanley Cup of the millennium. 

It’s what cemented Kaz Brekker as a legend in his own right.

It’s what works.

-—-

Kaz was fifteen.

He was fifteen and out of Poland, fifteen and a damn good right winger, fifteen and too young for the show but old enough that BU, UND, and Brown had already begun to hint at a potential future for him on their NCAA teams. 

It was at Juniors where he was slammed into the boards by a player on the Irish National Team and his leg just—snapped. Cracked, as his knee somehow bent backwards and he saw a flash of white in his lower thigh when the medical team cut away his gear. 

Bone. 

Poland scored twice during the resulting major power play off a mixture of their own boiling fury and Ireland’s hesitant unease. Poland made it to the semifinals for the first time in fifteen years. 

But Kaz Brekker never played ice hockey again.

He was fifteen, and old enough to see his future, until he wasn’t.

-—-

For late June, Ottawa is cold.

At least, that’s what Kaz thinks when he sees the TV; GMs don’t go to the draft anymore, not since the league voted to decentralize it. But he can see the reporters’ breath puffing outside the arena, and more than a few rookies have opted for thick, cabled turtlenecks instead of a dress shirt.

Kaz knows that in twenty minutes, when the draft starts and the rookies begin to sweat with nerves, they’ll regret it.

He’s sweating. His white button-down is probably translucent in parts underneath his suit jacket, and it doesn’t help that Rotty’s cranked up the heat in a vain attempt to make things more comfortable. Because it doesn’t matter how many drafts he’s already been through, doesn’t matter that he’s got a hand-picked, well-trained team under him; secretly, Kaz is always fucking terrified.

He’s got the seventh first-round pick. It’s too high up for their record—the Crows made it to the Conference Finals before the Gulls knocked them out—and there’s been a lot of grumbling, and moaning, and whispers that Kaz is a demon and must’ve blackmailed his way into forcing the Tips to trade for it.

Sure, if by blackmail they meant negotiating. It stung to give up Dryden, but he’s getting old and Kaz was meaning to pull Bollinger up from prospects soon anyway. And, well, maybe Kaz greased the wheel a little, but the way he sees it, if Geels doesn’t want his multiple affairs brought to light, maybe he shouldn’t have them. 

So: the seventh first-round pick in exchange for Dryden, and Kaz’s silence.

Rotty drums a black plastic pen on a yellow chicken-scratched notepad. “Still the left winger first, boss?” Kaz can’t tell if Rotty calls him “boss” as a joke, or because he thinks Kaz likes the title. Either way, Kaz won’t correct him.

Kaz runs a finger along the silver edge of his iPad. Last year Kaz traded for Matthias Helvar; a stocky Swede, big and silent, just the right kind of icy calm to make him a perfect center. But no matter what lines Pim runs, no matter who his wingers are, nothing clicks. There’s no one on the Crows fiery enough to balance Matthias out; nobody quick and unpredictable enough to capitalize off Helvar’s thoughtful, deliberate play.

Kaz told Pim he’d get Helvar a winger. And when Kaz Brekker makes a promise, he damn well keeps it.

“Yes,” he tells Rotty.

Rotty’s scribbling worriedly. “Might want a backup plan.” 

Kaz looks around the conference room. Anika is on her computer and her phone, texting and typing; it’s fine, she’s monitoring press. Pim is fiddling with his iPad. He’s probably watching highlights, Kaz thinks. It’s why he’d hired Pim to coach; he knows his data, knows the players. He, like Kaz, is thorough.

Rotty’s still watching him.

“We don’t need one,” Kaz says.

“He’s still projected fifth,” Pim says neutrally. It’s not a jab; he’s just offering up information, the way he always does.

“He’ll drop.” Kaz is certain.

Rotty worries his lip between his teeth. “I don’t know.”

“He’s a hothead,” Kaz snaps. “Might not play well with others. Stars and Capitals are fifth and sixth. Stars have Benn, Black Tips have Van Daal. They won’t risk it.”

Rotty snorts. “Van Daal’s plenty nice.”

“But used to being the star,” Kaz counters, annoyed. He’s about to launch into a rant about how the Black Tips need a goddamn goalie and not a winger anyway, not that Daan’s advertised it but it’s obvious, before he thinks better of it. Why is he defending himself? This is his goddamn decision. His goddamn team. 

“If you’re sure,” Rotty says cautiously.

Kaz is still sweaty, and terrified. But he’s sure.

Twenty minutes later, Jesper Fahey’s grin lights up the Canadian Tire Center as he pulls a Ketterdam Crows cap over his messy red curls.

-—-

Kaz holds the first day of prospect camp in the Barrel instead of the Crows’ practice facility. Technically, it’s the Memorial Coliseum, but the arena’s old and shitty enough that some of the Crows had started calling it “the bottom of the barrel,” and the nickname shortened itself from there.

He’s well aware of how it feels to be in the arena. Some of the kids come from hockey schools, sure, but Kaz wants to know how they’ll handle it, realizing that they’re finally part of the show. Skating on the same ice as the countless legends before them. Seeing the empty seats, knowing someday they’ll be full of people watching their every move, every play of theirs picked apart on HDTV. 

Some of his prospects balk at playing in the Barrel.

Kaz gets rid of those ones first.

He’s got three players he needs to talk with today: Fahey, obviously; Visser, the goalie he’d drafted in the second round to back up Specht; and Hjall, a center that’s been in the AHL on the Girecht Dregs for a couple years that Kaz might bring up, at the very least shortlist for if there’s an injury on the Crows. He figures it’s fair to let Hjall know what’s on the line.

The Barrel’s nice, too, because Kaz can watch in his suite. He’s got a mic down to Pim, and another line to Roeder, his player development coach. He likes being up high, with a livestream that he can rewind tracking to his iPad and the freedom to stretch out his bad leg. And, most of all, it’s quiet. And he’s alone.

Well, mostly alone.

“Inej,” he says wryly. “You don’t have to sneak up on me.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you.” Inej materializes into the center of his suite.

Kaz makes sure the livestream is recording and his mic is muted before he turns to look at her, deliberately facing away from the ice to give her his full attention, because Inej has never once told him something he hasn’t found important.

Inej is wearing joggers and a sweatshirt. 

“I can dress nicer,” Inej said the first time she came face to face with Kaz and his ever-present sharp suit. Kaz tilted his head. “And what, give sports massages in business casual?” Inej laughed, a bit awkward, like she wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her or not. “Wear whatever you’d like,” Kaz told her, and meant it.

Besides, with everything she’s done for the Crows, she’s earned the right to dress however she wants.

Inej is—interesting. Unconventional. She’s a former acrobat turned the Crows’s lead physical therapist, and when Kaz caught her teaching Pavel asanas in addition to stretching out his left calf, he just raised an eyebrow. Later, he’d cornered the center. “The yoga,” Kaz said. “Does it help?” “Yeah, yeah,” Pavel told him. “Feel ten years younger.”

Now Inej leads the Crows through an acrobatic workout Wednesdays and Sundays. Injuries are down, speed and explosiveness are up.

Sometimes, Kaz thinks that the success of his team is as much on her shoulders as anyone else’s.

“What do you have for me?” Kaz asks.

“Hjall.” Inej digs her knuckles into her left shoulder. “You’re thinking of bringing him up, right?”

“Yes.” Kaz hasn’t told anyone, but somehow Inej always knows these things; he’s given up trying to figure out how. She’s helpful, and she’s discreet. Kaz couldn’t really ask for more.

“He’s got a calf sprain,” Inej tells him. “Left side.”

Kaz swivels in his chair, and flicks through the stack of papers on his desk. “It’s not in the injury updates.”

“No,” Inej says, “because he didn’t report it. And he’s Dregs, so I haven’t seen him play until today.”

Kaz hmms. “How can you tell?”

Inej points down at the rink. “Look at how he pushes off. Always with his right foot. And any time he makes the left weight-bearing, he flinches.”

Kaz pauses, zooms in on his iPad. Rewinds the footage.

Inej is right.

“Damn.” Kaz clicks his tongue against his teeth. “How long?”

Inej’s forehead furrows. “Since he’s playing on it instead of resting? Month and a half, maybe, to make sure it’s set for good.”

So much for bringing him up to the Crows, then. The injury is one thing; omitting it is another. Nobody who keeps secrets from Kaz Brekker deserves a seat on his team.

Kaz presses a button, connects his mic to Roeder’s line. “Send Hjall to the trainers,” he says, and watches guilt, surprise, and despair flash across Hjall’s face in equal measures as he trudges into the tunnel towards the PT office. 

Kaz doesn’t bother thanking Inej. He knows she’s already gone.

-—-

Fahey’s…well. Kaz knows his type. Probably would’ve been his type, if it wasn’t for the Irish National Team. All easy arrogance, confident swagger, like he could say anything and somehow manage to back it up.

Kaz isn’t above making this painful. It’s not his first overconfident rookie.

“Two years at UMich,” Kaz says to Fahey, once Pim has dismissed camp and Fahey’s had time to shower off. His auburn hair is still shining and damp, dripping onto the carpet. They’re in Kaz’s office; he never allows players up to his suite.

Fahey smirks, lazy. “Yep.”

“Cut the crap,” Kaz snaps. 

Fahey’s head tilts. “Pardon?”

Kaz backs off, changes tactics, now that Fahey’s unsettled. “What do you want?” he asks.

Fahey’s brows draw low in confusion. “You asked me to meet.”

“What you want out of hockey,” Kaz clarifies. “Out of the Crows. Out of me.”

“To play?” It lilts out of Fahey like a question.

“You can play two more years at Michigan,” Kaz says cuttingly. “Is it just about the money?”

Fahey looks scandalized by the insinuation that hockey’s merely a financial endeavor for him. “No.”

“Then what?” Kaz presses. “Winning? Improving? Being the best?”

Fahey’s nodding now like he’s relieved Kaz has answered for him. “Yeah. That.”

“Good,” Kaz says. “Then I need you to stop dicking around.”

“I’m not dicking around,” Fahey protests. “I got two goals and three assists in scrims today.”

“And you chirped your future teammates seven times.” Kaz’s voice is flat.

Fahey’s mouth drops open. “I–what, no–seven times?”

It is seven; Kaz has it clipped on his iPad. “It’s worse that you’re unaware,” Kaz says dryly.

Fahey at least has the sense to look chagrined. “Sorry, sir.”

Sir is unexpected, Kaz thinks, but not unwelcome. He keeps his face neutral. “I don’t know how things were in Michigan, but there’s no hierarchy here.”

“Okay,” Fahey says cautiously.

“You win together, you lose together,” Kaz tells him. It’s a tired line, but it’s true. “The Crows are a unit. If you want to act like a diva, you can go do it down in the Dregs.”

“You won’t send me to the Dregs,” Fahey says on reflex.

“Oh?” Kaz asks icily, and meets his gaze. “Won’t I?”

Kaz absolutely will.

Fahey drops his gaze first. “I’m sorry.”

Kaz nods. “I appreciate it.”

“I’ll work on it,” Fahey says, and he definitely looks guilty now.

“Good.” Kaz responds. And because he’s used the stick long enough and it’s time for the carrot, he adds: “Get serious, and we’re going to win the Cup this year.”

Fahey nods, squares his shoulders. “I’ll win, sir.” Then he thinks, rephrases. “We will.”

“Damn straight,” Kaz says, allowing Fahey a rare half-smile, and shoos him out of his office.

Kaz knows it’s not enough to housebreak his rookie, but at least it’s a start.

-—-

Jan Van Eck is one of the most pompous, conceited men Kaz has ever met in his life. Would be, hands down, if it wasn’t for the fuckface that’s Pekka Rollins.

Van Eck’s one of those owners who thinks that because he bankrolls the team, because he’s responsible for over half of Ketterdam’s economy, whoever interacts with him ought to kiss his fucking ass and thank him for the privilege.

Sometimes it really chafes at Kaz, knowing that everything he does benefits Van Eck.

Kaz fought tooth and nail to rebuild. He’d known it would take three years, had told Van Eck straight that if they wanted to be real contenders for the Cup, he needed time. Time to trade, to free up cap space, to scout and haggle for draft picks.

He’d had to put his job on the line to convince Van Eck.

Now all he’s got is one Stanley Cup, one Jim Gregory, and not so much else as a fucking thank you.

“How’s it going, Brekker?” Van Eck booms, storming his way into Kaz’s office, his son Wylan trailing meekly behind him. Van Eck grins, too wide and too toothy. A hand claps onto Kaz’s shoulder and he does his best to control the flinch.

“Fine,” Kaz says. “Great.”

“Going to get me another ring this season?” Van Eck leers.

“I want to.” Kaz picks the words carefully. He’s not about to promise something to Van Eck, casual or not.

 “What’s stopping you?” Van Eck asks, like it should be easy.

“I’d imagine the same factors that are stopping every other team,” Kaz says sharply. He winces; that was stupid, he shouldn’t have let Van Eck get to him like that, but at least he hears a faint snort from Wylan in the room’s corner.

Van Eck eyes him critically. “Do better,” he orders, and Kaz shuts his mouth tight and gives Van Eck a single, curt nod. He can’t be fired unless he underperforms, or does something that “goes against team culture,” but still. It’s not a good idea to give Van Eck any incentives.

Van Eck sweeps out of Kaz’s office, his son right behind him, and as Wylan crosses the doorjamb he swings his head backwards and gives Kaz a quick, apologetic grimace.

-—-

“I don’t think we can roll four,” Pim says to Kaz in his office after the three-day prospect camp.

Kaz digs the tips of his fingertips deep into his temples. “What the fuck do you mean, we can’t roll four?”

“We drafted a round two goalie,” Pim says.

“Which we needed,” Kaz returns pointedly. This isn’t on him; the Crows made out of this year’s draft like thieves.

Pim drums his finger on the table. “I want Helv and Fahey top line together most nights this season. Like, Makar-MacKinnon level.” 

“No shit,” says Kaz. 

“No shit,” Pim echoes mildly, fiddling absent-mindedly with Kaz’s stapler. “But who’s the right wing? We’re short one now that Nestor’s out.”

Kaz thinks for a second. “Bastian?”

“Bas and O’Malley are solid, but we need them to hold down our other lines,” Pim says. “Besides, we need to spread our scoring threats and after Helv and Fahey, Bas is our best bet.”

Kaz huffs out a sharp, annoyed breath. “So try someone else.”

“Kaz,” Pim says, a bit of an edge creeping into his tone, “we don’t have someone else.”

Kaz scrubs a tired hand over his face. He can feel the stubble where he’s neglected to shave. “Pavel?”

“Pavel’s only ever played center,” Pim says, giving Kaz a look like he’s disappointed in him for even suggesting it. “And we need him separate from Helv to keep up faceoff percentages. You know that.”

Kaz sighs. At the end of the day, he does trust Pim to know what the Crows need. 

But sometimes he wishes that the Crows maybe needed a bit less.

“So you want a three-star winger to keep up with Fahey and Helvar. Right after the draft,” Kaz says dryly, because if someone’s going to ask the near-impossible of him, they’d better damn well know it.

“Yeah,” Pim says. He pulls out his iPad; the screen is cracked. “But I found a guy.”

“You found a guy,” Kaz parrots disbelievingly.

If Pim is offended by Kaz’s skepticism, or even notices, he doesn’t show it. “Kuwei Yul-Bo,” he says. “UFA, so we can sign him no problem. Never drafted.”

Kaz’s laptop pings with an AirDrop, and loads to a YouTube video. It’s a European arena; Kaz knows by the Cyrillic writing, and the size of the ice.

Yul-Bo is good. Consistent. A nice medium between Fahey and Helvar. Kaz is calculating the cost-benefit analysis, wondering if he should just tank the early season and option up a Dregs player until Nestor’s back to keep the cushion in his cap space, until he sees it.

Yul-Bo dekes, thunders up the center. He fakes left, goes right. And then makes one of the filthiest, nastiest passes Kaz has ever seen, in between three defenders and going through the legs of at least one. His teammate makes a neat little five-hole, but Kaz is barely watching the goal.

He’s noticing how Yul-Bo isn’t even looking at his teammate when he does it.

Kaz pauses the video; he’s seen enough. “What’s the catch?” he asks. “Temper? Salary?” Either of those, he can figure out, now that he wants Yul-Bo bad enough.

Pim at least has the foresight to grimace. “Extradition.”

“Jesus,” Kaz says. But he’s already got his phone out, not the sleek gray iPhone that the Crows give him, but his small plastic flip phone that he can dismantle in thirty seconds if need be.

“I can call the consulate tomorrow morning and see if they can do anything,” Pim says, looking awkward.

“No need,” Kaz tells him. He’s already punching numbers into the plastic keyboard. “I’ll handle it.”

-—-

Yul-Bo is dropped off on Kaz’s doorstep at three-thirty AM on a Tuesday morning.

Kaz calls Pim.

“What?” Pim asks, voice bleary.

“Your delivery’s here,” Kaz says, staring at Yul-Bo, who’s dead asleep on his living room couch.

“What–oh,” Pim says. “Great. Great news.”

“Quite,” Kaz drawls. “Come get him.”

“Right now?”

Kaz doesn’t bother with a response.

-—-

Two weeks before preseason and the Crows still aren’t so much rolling four as dragging four sadly along.

The D-men don’t have as much depth as Kaz would like, but he knows that it’s the price for picking up Fahey, and something he’s compensated for by shoring up the goal, grabbing Visser. They’ll have to just grit their teeth and bear it on the PKs. He’ll see what he can do trade-wise a week or so before the actual season; that’s when the other teams are the most desperate.

The real problem, though—to his absolute lack of surprise—is still their top three.

Helvar and Fahey are fine. Roeder forced the two of them into a little kumbaya, and he’s taken the two of them aside for sessions together enough times that they know they’re a package deal. The other day Roeder texted Kaz that he caught Helvar showing Fahey pictures of his and Nina’s baby, and Fahey cooed over them, so. Good enough.

Helvar and Yul-Bo are fine, too. They’re both not from the States, and they’ve come to some sort of mutual admiration for their respective journeys. Kaz has seen them talking in the locker room, knows Helvar drives Yul-Bo to practice some days.

No, the problem is Yul-Bo and Fahey. With Helvar as a buffer, things are fine, but when it comes to the two of them? Things are fucking abysmal. 

And Kaz doesn’t know why.

“I’m disappointed that you’re here again so soon,” he says coldly as Fahey sits across from him in Kaz’s office.

Fahey rubs at the nape of his neck. “I haven’t been chirping, I swear!” He leans forward. “Or if I have, I don’t mean to, it’s just that it’s a habit , and I understand it’s a bad one, but you know what they say about habits, it’s–”

“Jesus,” Kaz snaps. “Stop.”

Fahey’s mouth clamps shut.

“Kuwei Yul-Bo,” Kaz begins, and watches as the grimace Fahey can’t quite hide twists its way across his face.

“What about him,” Fahey says, defensively and not at all like a question.

“What’s your problem,” Kaz says back in the same flat tone.

Fahey winces. “He hasn’t done anything wrong…” he trails off.

Kaz fills in the blanks. “You just don’t like him.”

Fahey nods.

“Why?”

Kaz thinks he can read people pretty well, predict situations based on their likely reactions. It’s what makes him such a good GM, knowing how things might work.

But never in a million years would he have predicted this.

Jesper Fahey, Crows rookie, first-round draft pick, potential Calder winner (not that Kaz would ever tell him that), opens his mouth and says: “I’m bisexual.”

-—-

Kaz blinks. Once, then twice. He’s still in his desk chair and Fahey’s still sitting awkwardly across from him.

“Okay,” Kaz says slowly. “And you… have a crush?” Jesus, he thinks, he’s too old for this.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Fahey rushes out, looking more and more panicked, eyes darting around the room like a cornered rabbit. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Fahey.” Kaz stresses the name to try and snap the rookie out of it.

“Jesper,” Fahey says, like it’s important to him.

“Sure.” Kaz keeps his voice steady. He can do a first name. “Jesper.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Jesper says again.

“Not my business,” Kaz says sincerely, then narrows his eyes once he sees that Jesper’s calmed down enough. “Except when it involves shit hockey.”

“I…maybe have a thing for Wylan Van Eck?” Jesper rushes out. What that has to do with Yul-Bo, Kaz has no idea.

“No,” Kaz says.

Jesper drops his eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I know what would happen if people found out about me and it was in, like, Deadspin. I know what that would do to the Crows.”

“Probably not much,” Kaz says mildly. “We’re in Oregon.”

“Oh,” says Jesper, but if anything he looks even more confused.

“No,” Kaz repeats, “because his father owns the team and he’s on the payroll. Players are forbidden from having relationships with anyone in our organization. It’s in everyone’s contract.”

Jesper looks betrayed. “What, you don’t trust me?”

Kaz snorts. “More like we don’t trust ourselves.” He told Van Eck that it was a smart move, to avoid tensions and keep everyone focused, but the truth is that Kaz has seen too much shit in this industry to trust that anyone with power won’t abuse it. After all, he does. Just–in the name of hockey, instead of being creepy.

“How does this involve Yul-Bo?” Kaz asks.

Jesper’s face darkens. “I think he has a thing for Wylan too.”

Kaz buries his head in his hands.

-—-

“English hard for me,” Yul-Bo says when Kaz sits him down.

Kaz rolls his eyes. Great. He’s got himself a prankster. “No, it’s not. You were talking to Specht just fine the other day.” He should’ve seen this coming; anyone who would agree to be smuggled out of their country in the dead of night with only a few days’ notice is probably at least a little insane.

Yul-Bo narrows his eyes at Kaz for a few seconds, then breaks into a wide, easy smile. He’s missing a few teeth. “You got me.”

“I’ll always get you,” says Kaz menacingly. 

“Okay.” Yul-Bo sounds unconcerned.

It’s Kaz’s turn to stare Yul-Bo down. “Tell me why my top line is shit.”

“Am I the coach now?” Yul-Bo’s got a smirk on his face that Kaz…well, Kaz hasn’t had many physical fights since he stopped playing hockey, but goddamn he wants to punch that expression right off.

“No,” Kaz grinds out.

“Oh,” Yul-Bo replies, and nothing more.

Fine. Kaz folds his hands neatly on top of his desk. “What’s your problem with Fahey?” Now he’s pretty sure that Yul-Bo doesn’t actually have a thing for Van Eck’s son, he just enjoys riling Jesper up.

Yul-Bo looks like butter can’t melt in his mouth. “I don’t have one.”

“All right.” Kaz jerks his chin towards his office door.

Yul-Bo tilts his head. “You want me to leave your office?”

“No,” Kaz says pleasantly. “My organization.”

“What the fuck .” Yul-Bo leans forward, knees on his elbows, and good, Kaz thinks, he looks serious now. “You can’t just do that.”

“I can.” Kaz crosses his arms, fights his rising smirk. “You’re not contributing to team culture.”

“That’s bullshit,” Yul-Bo says. “I’ll just sign with another team. Fuck you.”

“Will you?” Kaz knows Yul-Bo’s still staying in a hotel courtesy of the Crows, knows Yul-Bo has few, if any, connections in the States. “How long is that going to take? Where are you going to live?” He lets a sneer crawl over his face. “I hear the waiver process can be a handful.” 

“You’re a bastard,” Yul-Bo hisses.

“Really,” Kaz says calmly. “Because I recall getting you to Oregon and giving you a fair contract. One that stipulates you’ll play your best hockey. I’m holding up my end of the deal.” He pauses, lets his words sink in heavy. “Are you?”

Yul-Bo’s eyes dart off to the side. “No,” he says, finally, pinned under the weight of Kaz’s stare.

“I’m building a dynasty,” Kaz tells him.

“Yeah,” Yul-Bo says.

“Don’t fuck with my team.”

“Yeah,” Yul-Bo repeats.

“But if you want to annoy people?” Kaz leans back in his chair. It might even be helpful, on the ice. “I’ll get you a list.”

-—-

“We’re still finding our feet,” Pim says mid-October, eight games into the regular season, hunched over into the mic.

“Are you implying that it’s a skating issue?” The reporter, Kaz thinks, looks hungry.

“No–” Pim begins, but he’s cut off.

“Then what is it?”

“Claws out of my coach,” Kaz says, icy, and the press laughs at him even though he’s not joking.

Pim shoots Kaz a grateful look; Kaz ignores it. “Our top line’s only been playing together a few weeks,” Pim says. “Yul-Bo’s just started playing on American sized-ice, and it’s Fahey’s first time in the show. There’s still more than seventy games before the playoffs, and I’m confident we’ll be in great shape by then.” 

Anika’s media training has done Pim wonders.

“Brekker?” the reporter asks, and every gaze swings towards Kaz.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he says, and takes a long pull from his water bottle. If they’re looking for a non-united front, they’re not going to get it. Kaz knows how these things work, and Pim’s right. Now that Jesper and Yul-Bo get along—turns out they have the same type of humor, unfortunately, maybe he should never have interfered at all—it really is just a matter of time.

And Kaz knows how to wait.

He sits smug in his suite at the Barrel a month later, Inej silent behind him, when Yul-Bo makes a filthy suicide pass to Jesper, getting slammed hard into the boards. But the pass connects, and Jesper slides the puck to Helvar, who taps it neatly into the two hole like the Stars goalie doesn’t even exist. Goal Helvar, primary assist Fahey, assist Yul-Bo.

The Crows bench goes crazy, banging their sticks against the wall.

“Kiwi, man! That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” Jesper yells loud enough that it’s picked up on the ESPN broadcast, skating towards Yul-Bo so hard that he almost checks the right winger into the boards.

“Nothing like a little patience,” Kaz says in postgame press that night. Maybe it’s a little petty, but sue him. He deserves it.

-—-

The play is still racking up hits on SportsCenter a week later.

Van Eck’s off his ass, the Crows are finally scoring enough to be a legitimate threat to every team (except maybe the Capitals or the Black Tips, but Kaz’ll find a way to get it done in the playoffs if he has to), and his team and staff are all getting along, finally.

And Kaz?

Kaz hates it.

He feels itchy, tense; it feels wrong, somehow, to be doing nothing. Everyone’s self-sufficient. He sees his players on the ice and Inej in her PT room and Roeder doing his player development one-on-ones, and it seems like everyone’s working to make the Crows a better team except for him.

“I went through most of our financial projections,” Kaz says to Rotty one late December day. “Manually.”

“Jesus,” Rotty says back. “You need a hobby. Or a therapist.”

“Maybe you should double-check this too, Rotty,” Kaz says with a mean grin, and Rotty stammers out a hasty “No–no, I’m fine,” before beginning a strategy of leaving Kaz alone as much as he possibly can.

It’s Anika, surprisingly, who finally gives him something to do.

“Kaz,” Anika says, barely looking up from her phone as she strides into his office, “I have a question.”

Kaz tabs away from his eighth Excel sheet of the day—this one’s a what-if; Kaz has calculated how he’ll refinance the Crows if the NHL decides to cut its cap size by 20% on December 8th specifically—and pulls up a blank document on his laptop. “What is it?” he asks, and the usual coolness must be absent from his tone, because Anika gives him a weird look like she knows he’s eager.

“What’s the policy on using team media resources for individuals?” 

“Which player?” Kaz asks, instead of answering. An email pings on his computer but he ignores it.

Anika flicks a finger down her phone screen. “Helv.”

“Helvar,” Kaz corrects automatically. What he wouldn’t give to be rid of the fucking nicknames.

“Sure,” Anika says, kind of like how someone would placate a toddler.

“What’s Helvar want?” If Kaz maybe stresses his player’s real name a bit, well, that’s his prerogative.

“What’s the policy, Kaz,” Anika says exasperatedly.

“Fine as long as a reasonable person would believe it’s relevant to the team, including impacts on a players’ individual hockey performance,” Kaz says automatically. It’s a pretty lax guideline, but he’d rather his team feel supported and it doesn’t shave too much off his bottom line.

Kaz Brekker, player retention specialist.

He steeples his fingers, looking up at Anika. “I’m assuming you’re here because it’s an edge case.”

Anika says, “It’s his wife.”

Kaz Googles Nina Helvar. There’s a lot of recent hits: some stuff about naturopathy, and Wiccan rituals. 

“They’re saying she’s a witch,” Anika says dryly.

“Well?” Kaz looks up from his laptop screen. “Is she?”

“I doubt it,” Anika tells him, and makes finger quotes. “Helv said she’s ‘spiritual.’”

Kaz waves a hand; he’s getting an incoming call from Rotty, who’s been scouting out in Green Bay. “Sure, handle it,” Kaz says to her. “And tell Helvar that she’d better curse the rest of the league for us.” He’s only half-joking. 

“Thanks, boss,” Anika says, already lifting her iPhone to her ear as she pivots on her heel and leaves his office, as quickly as she came.

Kaz waits until she shuts his door behind her to pick up Rotty’s call. “Brekker,” Kaz says into the phone.

“I know who I’m calling,” Rotty tells him.

“That’s good.” Kaz is aiming for scathing but probably falls short at petulant. Whatever. Rotty is his underling anyway.

“Did you see the email?” Rotty asks, tone surprisingly serious.

“Not yet.” Kaz tabs over to his inbox.

His stomach drops. It’s from Rollins.

“Dime Lions want Jes,” Rotty says grimly, and Kaz wishes he’d never, ever, bemoaned not feeling busy enough.

-—-

“Rotty told me to see a therapist,” Kaz tells Inej by way of greeting, when she comes up to watch the Crows play the Panthers in his suite. 

“I’m a physical therapist,” Inej says patiently.

“Maybe that’s what he meant,” Kaz responds dryly.

He isn’t sure exactly what it is about Inej, why he wants her in his suite and in his life—if it’s that she somehow knows everything already, if it’s that she never seems to gossip except with him, if it’s her long, thick hair and the way that when she smiles at him it always looks like she means it.

It could be a combination.

Kaz can’t rule out that it’s a combination.

Either way, whatever it is about her, it leads Kaz to—embarrassingly, he’s embarrassed that he’s doing this—bare his entire black soul about the whole Pekka Rollins thing.

He tells all of it to Inej while they watch the game. How Rollins used to coach the Irish National Team, how Filip Stromme smashed him into the boards and that’s why he sometimes asks Inej to help loosen up his leg around when it rains if she’s not busy, how he thought he saw a triumphant look on Rollins’ face while he was fading in and out of consciousness but that he might’ve imagined it.

How Rollins followed him to the NHL, became GM for the Dime Lions, and wants Jesper Fahey.

He can’t even look Inej in the eyes by the end of it.

Instead, he watches Matthew Tkachuk deke past Bollinger and fire off a shot that’s only saved by a combination of Specht’s quick reflexes and the grace of a benevolent God.

-—-

Kaz isn’t giving up Jesper.

First, he and Helvar are constantly trading for first star—Kaz isn’t going to give up a future franchise player, not without a damn good package in return—second, Kaz doesn’t trust Rollins as far as he can throw him, and third, has Kaz mentioned he doesn’t trust Pekka Rollins? He’s one shady fuck, even to Kaz, who isn’t exactly sterling himself. Kaz can’t prove exactly why that is but he just knows, the same way he can tell if a player’s on the way to their prime or already past it.

So if Rollins wants Fahey, there’s got to be a reason Kaz shouldn’t let it happen. And Rollins is a fool if he thinks there's any trade he could offer for Fahey that Kaz would even consider.

Unless, Kaz thinks, it’s not actually about getting Fahey at all.

-—-

Kaz hasn’t had much of a formal education, what with shuffling around Poland on various triple-A teams and spending nearly every waking hour either playing hockey, thinking about hockey, or doing both at the same time.

And after his injury, well. Traditional school didn’t appeal to him; he felt awkward and clunky, once by his leg and twice by his social skills. He’d taken classes on things he felt he needed to know, and nothing more.

All this is to say; Kaz is no scientist.

But he knows—when you have a theory, you test it.

“Rollins won’t meet with me to discuss trading Jes,” Rotty says. “Only you.”

“Oh?” Kaz says mildly. “Did he say why?”

“Something about efficiency.” Rotty rolls his eyes. It’s obvious he’s just as fed up with the bullshit. “Would be efficient to just tell us the offer.”

Kaz hums in agreement.

“Why the fuck won’t he just email it to you?” Rotty snorts derisively. “Jesus, he’s acting like he’s brokering a fucking peace treaty or something.”

Kaz looks at the latest, still-unreplied email from Rollins sitting heavy in his inbox, inviting him up to Washington State for “dinner and a discussion.” “I know.”

“He really wants to see you in person,” Rotty says, leveling a stern look at Kaz like he knows something Rotty doesn’t, and yeah, that’s probably fair. “What’s he trying to do, blackmail you or something?” 

“Probably,” Kaz tells him seriously; there’s no point in hiding his suspicions. “Good instincts.”

It’s a testament to Kaz’s less-than-sterling managerial style that Rotty accepts this without so much as a blink of an eye. 

“Well,” Rotty says, and pauses. “Do anything he can blackmail you for?” 

Kaz thinks about it. “Maybe.” He thinks about it some more. “Probably.”

Rotty’s looking worried now. “Then what are we going to do?”

“This is good, Rotty,” Kaz says. “You’re loyal.”

-—-

There’s a reason he didn’t answer Rotty’s question straight up, and it’s that Kaz has absolutely no idea what he’s going to do.

First, he doesn’t know what Rollins thinks he can get him for. It’s a bit of an open secret the Crows had worked to get Yul-Bo over to the States and he hasn’t heard a peep from the league, so probably not that. 

It could be the Geels situation, Kaz bullying him into taking the trade, but Kaz doubts it; he’d had the conversation in his office and it was a blindside, so unless Geels was in the habit of carrying spyware with him everywhere he went, that’s a dead end too.

Kaz pulls up the Crows’ schedule on his phone. They don’t host the Dime Lions until early March, so that gives him about four weeks. He can beg off traveling on the grounds of his leg, so he’s just got to make excuses for why Rollins can’t come down to Oregon until then. It’ll be tricky, because they’re only a state away, and Rollins will probably figure out sooner rather than later that Kaz is just stalling. 

But what other choice does he have?

He’s got four weeks to figure out two things. One: what Rollins has on him, or thinks he does.

And two: what Kaz can get on him back.

-—-

“Heard anything about me lately?” Kaz tries to ask Inej casually while they’re getting absolutely routed by the Oilers.

Inej’s look is a little too shrewd for his liking. “Besides the usual?”

Kaz narrows his eyes. “What’s the usual?”

Just then, the stadium erupts. Kaz swivels around in his chair to peer down at the ice. It’s not a good eruption; McDavid just scored on Visser again. Jesper’s fuming on the bench and it’s a fifty-fifty on if it’ll galvanize him into good hockey or shitty mistakes.

Inej is offering him a sympathetic, knowing smile when he tears his gaze angrily away from the rink. “It’s just one game, Kaz.”

“That’s an eighty-second of the whole season,” Kaz says bitterly.

“You have claws for hands,” Inej tells him.

Kaz furrows his eyebrows. “What?” 

“Claws for hands,” Inej repeats patiently.

Kaz looks down at his hands—his pale, fleshy, and distinctly human-like hands. “Is this a physical therapy thing?” He spreads his fingers wide and then makes fists. “Carpal tunnel?”

“Nope!” Inej sounds cheerful enough that Kaz goes on high alert. “Just claw hands.”

“Explain,” Kaz says, and adds, because he’s not standoffish all the time, “Please.”

“Rumors about you,” Inej tells him. “One of the new PT hires has only seen you with gloves on. He buys into the whole Bastard of the Barrel stuff, so. He thinks the reason you wear them is because you have claws.”

“Of course I wear gloves,” Kaz says, a bit petulantly. “My office is in an ice rink.”

Inej just looks at him.

“It’s cold ,” he finishes lamely.

A corner of Inej’s mouth quirks up.

“Is there anything?” Kaz asks, desperate for a change of subject. “About the Crows?”

Inej sizes him up. “Why do you want to know?” 

Damn, Kaz thinks, answering a question with another question is his strategy. He needs copyright protection, or something.

“Rollins,” he says shortly. There must be enough warning in his voice, because Inej doesn’t press further.

“Don’t get mad.” Inej shifts from one foot to another; the fidget is so unlike her that when the crowd roars down below, Kaz doesn’t even spare them a glance.

“What is it?” he asks intently.

“Don’t get mad,” Inej repeats.

“Fine.” Kaz sighs. He probably will get mad, if whatever Inej is about to tell him has her promising him not to, but at least he can hide it. He thinks.

“Your rookie’s banging the owner’s son.” Inej rushes the words, looking out past Kaz into the arena instead of at him directly as she does it.

“What,” Kaz says flatly.

“They’re hooking up,” Inej tells him again, like the issue of all things is that Kaz doesn’t know what the word banging means. 

“You are fucking kidding me,” Kaz says. He turns to look out at the ice like maybe his problems will go away if he just watches the game, only the crowd noise earlier was because McDavid scored a hat trick and the Crows are down by three with thirteen minutes left in the last period.

“Eugh,” Kaz mumbles, and slams his head down onto his wooden desk loud enough that he thinks he can hear Inej jump.

-—-

“Technically I’m not under contract,” Wylan says, looking remarkably unaffected for someone who’s responsible for one of the largest migraines Kaz’s ever had.

“Yes, you are,” Kaz bites, yanking open his desk drawer to find the golden key that opens his filing cabinet where he’s got copies of all the Crows’ contracts from the last ten years. Van Eck put the kid on his payroll like all the owners do, Kaz remembers—

“Whatever’s in there is void,” Wylan says calmly.

“No it’s not,” Kaz hisses. “You still have a year left before we renew. And don’t you dare use the word technically with me ever again.”

“It is,” Wylan stresses, “because my father voided it.”

Kaz rubs furiously at his temples; somehow his head is throbbing even harder. Well, at least if Wylan is telling the truth, a contract hasn’t been breached under Kaz’s watch. “Are you sure ? He didn’t tell me.” 

“He wouldn’t,” Wylan says bitterly.

Kaz opens his laptop and pulls up the what’s technically the masterlist of current Crows employees, which is the one Van Eck can edit and Kaz only has viewing permissions on, so he never uses. Huh. Wylan isn’t on it.

“You can’t be at facilities if you’re not an employee,” Kaz tells him.

Wylan smirks humorlessly, pulling a lanyard out of his pocket. “I have a guest pass.”

Kaz stares at the pass twirling almost tauntingly from Wylan’s hand, and remembers why he wanted to meet with Wylan in the first place. 

Kaz says, “I think you’d better start talking.”

-—-

Kaz can’t fall asleep.

His bed is comfortable, and luxurious, one of the best money can buy, and it’s in a house that’s one of the best, too: a sprawling one-story five-bedroom that, most of the time, feels just a little bit lonely.

He’d bought the house because it was convenient, and expected of him; the same thing with his car, too, a sleek black BMW that’s low enough to the ground for his bad leg but has a surprisingly large trunk space, enough for a hockey bag. 

Not that Kaz’ll ever play again, but. 

There’s a difference between letting a dream fade away and killing it yourself.

He rolls over, groaning; the new position makes his leg twinge, but at least it’s not exactly how he’s been lying the past few hours. The clock blinks 3:22 AM, harsh and red, and Kaz grunts in frustration. Morning skate is at seven sharp, and Kaz likes to be the first one in the practice facilities and the last one out, if only so he can delude himself into thinking he sees everything that’s happening. 

Obviously, Kaz thinks bitterly, that’s not the case. 

At least he’s pretty sure what Rollins has on him now. And that’s Jesper Fahey. If Inej knows, chances are she’s not the only one.

Being bisexual in the NHL is enough of a scandal. Being in a gay relationship with the owner’s son as a rookie? Kaz doubts Deadspin will be able to handle that much web traffic without crashing, or that Jesper’ll ever be known for anything else.

Scandal first, hockey second. Hell, Jesper could win the Calder and the Hart and the Art Ross, and Sidney Crosby could shave Jesper’s face into his pubes and declare him Hockey Jesus, and nobody would give a fuck compared to him and Wylan.

A whole career, reduced to a single moment.

Kaz scrubs a tired hand over his face, and uses the other to lever out of bed and towards his desk. He won’t be sleeping tonight. Maybe he won’t be sleeping for three weeks.

Rollins had to have found this out from someone in the Barrel.

And that means somewhere in the Crows, there’s a fucking rat.

-—-

The next day, Anika comes into his office, and before she can get a word in, Kaz holds out a firm hand to stop her. “Turn off your phone.”

“I–Kaz–what?” Anika looks confused. 

“Turn off your phone,” Kaz repeats calmly, “all the way.”

Anika stares at him a bit like he’s insane, but she holds the power button and then swipes on the screen so it goes black. “It’s off.”

“Good,” Kaz says. “Do you have any other devices?” He knows they’re all company-issued; he doesn’t know how much access Van Eck or anyone else has to them.

“Just my smartwatch.” Anika holds up her wrist.

“That too,” Kaz says.

“You’re scaring me a bit, boss.” Anika laughs nervously, and Kaz winces at the shrill sound. He figures the best way to deal with this is like how he always deals with Anika; direct, and straight-up.

“I need a favor,” Kaz tells her, and adds, “Discreetly.”

“Are you okay, Kaz,” Anika says, only it comes out less like a question and more like a demand.

Kaz sighs; sure, he’s okay, but only as okay as he’s been since he joined the league. As okay as he’s been since he’s had to live behind a shield. But Anika doesn’t need to know any that, so he says: “Yes. It’s just…private.”

Anika looks at him, and Kaz sees so much sudden warmth and care in it that he wonders if she thinks he’s dying or something. But then Anika says, “You can trust me, Kaz,” like she’s proud to have the chance, and well.

He did tell Van Eck he’d walk if she did, once.

“How much access do you have to people’s socials?” Kaz asks.

“Players or employees?” 

“Both,” Kaz says.

“Depends,” Anika says promptly. “We manage posts for a few of the players, but others don’t have us on at all. And we have all employee socials on file, but no access to their accounts. Can’t, without an investigation or other due cause.”

Kaz twirls his pen in his fingertips. “What if I wanted to find if someone…knew someone? If they’d been in contact.”

Anika gives him an alarmed look. “Is someone leaking stuff?”

“Something like that,” Kaz says with a vague hand-wave. “You don’t want to get into it.”

Anika eyes him shrewdly. “I might.”

“You don’t,” Kaz says, icy firm, and waits until she nods slowly.

“Pekka Rollins,” Kaz tells her. “Dime Lions GM. If anyone’s in contact with him, or has a social media connection with his organization, I want to know about it.”

“I can do that,” Anika says, nodding like she’s already thinking it through. “It’ll take me a few days, though, because I’m assuming you don’t want anyone else on this?”

Kaz nods. “Feel free to delegate anything you need in the meantime, even to me.”

Anika gives him a teasing smirk. “Ordering you around, boss? Should’ve started with that.” The smirk drops, quickly as it came. “I won’t add to your plate, and I’ll keep all my research offline.”

“Thanks,” Kaz says awkwardly. Appreciation has never really been his strong suit.

“I do want to know, though, Kaz,” Anika says, oddly gentle. “Is this about the Crows, or about you?”

Kaz thinks about his big, empty house. “Same thing, Anika,” he tells her briskly, and jerks his head pointedly towards his office door.

-—- 

Jesper looks like a kicked puppy when Kaz herds him and Wylan into his office, takes their phones, and locks the office door with a firm click.

“You know why you’re here,” Kaz says, staring at Jesper until his shoulders slump. Wylan’s not even looking at Kaz.

“I’m sorry,” Jesper says, and while it doesn’t technically change anything, it at least sounds like he means it.

“This isn’t UMich,” Kaz tells him. “You fuck around, and people will find out.”

Wylan opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Kaz silences him with a sharp glare. “Don’t even get me started on you, Wylan,” he says scathingly. “You of all people should understand how to keep things private.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Jesper pipes up, confused.

Kaz arches an eyebrow at Wylan, and the kid squirms in his seat.

“I may be…disinherited,” Wylan admits slowly. “And my father might just have me here for appearances.”

Kaz snorts. “No might about it.”

“Hey, what the fuck?” Jesper rounds on Kaz, a fire in his eyes that’s usually reserved for the third period of a close hockey game. “That’s his business.”

“Not really,” Kaz says. “Considering someone’s going to threaten me about exposing the two of you.”

Wylan’s eyes widen. “On the Crows?”

“No,” Kaz says. “But I’m relatively certain it’s someone from our organization who told them.”

Jesper’s uncharacteristically silent, staring at Kaz’s white-painted wall with his eyes bugged wide like it’s the most fascinating piece of art he’s ever seen in his life. 

“At least it’s not a contract violation,” Kaz continues, when neither Jesper nor Wylan speak up. “Which is good.”

“I guess,” Wylan says weakly.

“I’m looking for a way out of it.” Kaz sighs and thumbs at his temple. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“Don’t,” Jesper says. It comes out jagged. Wylan recoils; Kaz barely flinches. 

“Don’t promise,” Jesper continues, more solidly this time. “I–I want to come out.”

Wylan shifts ever so slightly.

“Absolutely not,” Kaz snaps. “Not if that’s all the thought you’ve put into it.”

“But I–” Jesper looks frustrated. “It’s not fair! If Wylan was a girl, or I was a girl, then nobody would bat an eye. It’s just…it’s just not fair,” he finishes, trailing off.

“No, it’s not,” Kaz tells him matter-of-factly. “But it’s the way things are.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Jesper snarls, looking at Kaz like he’s inches away from dropping his gloves and starting a fight.

“It shouldn’t be.” Kaz agrees warily. “But I’m not the league, Jesper. I’m not the players and I’m not the fans.”

“I want to come out,” Jesper repeats stubbornly.

“Why?” It’s not Kaz this time but Wylan, looking small and awkward like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Because it’s not fair,” Jesper says again.

“It’s all you’ll be known for,” Kaz tells him. He’s not going to make Jesper’s decision for him, but he is going to make sure the rookie knows damn well what he’s getting into. “Being a queer hockey player. You’re going to get called a pervert, and people are going to refuse to play with you or change in the locker rooms, and you’ll never be judged on your own merits again.”

Jesper looks warier after Kaz’s speech, but his jaw is still set tight. “You won’t cut me, right?”

“As long as you’re good enough,” Kaz says honestly.

“Then I still want to.”

“I think there’s someone here you’ve failed to consider,” Kaz says, jerking his chin towards Wylan.

“I–oh,” Jesper says, and a myriad of emotions flash across his face: sorrow, guilt, something warmer. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“I’m not out,” Wylan says quietly. “And I–I’ll be disowned.”

“I thought you were already disowned,” Jesper says, and then winces at the harshness of it.

“Disinherited,” Wylan says. “But I still live at his house, and I don’t have any assets of my own–”

“Why not?” Kaz cuts in. It doesn’t make sense; Wylan’s been an employee for almost five goddamn years. Unless Van Eck has been taking his wages, or fired him the second he hired him (which, now that Kaz thinks about it, is likely)–

“He terminated my contract right away,” Wylan says.

Okay. Okay, Kaz can work with that.

“Usual C-suite PA salaries are about 80k a year,” Kaz says back.

“I–yeah, I guess,” Wylan says uncertainly. “But I don’t have that.”

“You should,” Kaz tells him.

“But I don’t,” Wylan bites out, like the words taste hot and sour.

Kaz counts to three in his head. “You will.”

Wylan’s tone goes a little softer. “How?”

“You’ve been working here for almost five years,” Kaz says. If there’s one thing Van Eck will do anything to avoid, it’s a scandal. “You’re here almost every day. You’ll get paid for that.”

“How?” Wylan asks hesitantly. “My father won’t–”

“But I will,” Kaz tells him, and means it.

“Oh,” Wylan says awkwardly, and after a pause, adds: “Thanks.”

“I run a fair organization,” Kaz says, and he means that too.

“My father will try to say you don’t have any proof,” Wylan says quietly, like he’s afraid Van Eck will somehow hear.

Kaz thinks about his multiple file cabinets and thousands of Excel sheets, and grins sharply. “I’ll have plenty.”

-—-

After Kaz sends Jesper and Wylan away, with strict instructions for Jesper to seriously think about coming out, Wylan to open up his own bank account, and the two of them to not say a single fucking word to each other on Crows facilities, he just ends up kind of…drifting.

He’s waiting on Anika; he has a bit more to do, now that it’s creeping into February and the Crows are all-but-certain to make the playoffs. But it all feels inconsequential compared to Rollins, and whoever’s feeding him information, and the heavy, uncomfortable knot in his stomach that pops up whenever he thinks about it too much.

He knows Anika won’t work any faster if he bothers her; slower, probably, if she’s got to manage him as well as his request, and that’s the only reason he’s not barging into her office and standing over her while she works.

He wakes up, drives to the rink, drinks a black coffee, stays at the rink, drinks another black coffee, and watches the game on TV or in his suite, and drives home. Then he falls asleep in his too-big bed in his too-big house thinking about Pekka Rollins, and he wakes up to do the same thing all over again.

One day, the Crows are out in Pittsburgh; there’s barely anyone in the Barrel, just a couple of repairmen and the finance and social teams. Kaz locks his office and limps out to the rink, shining pristine from last night’s Zamboni.

It could’ve been him, Kaz thinks. Out there, skating, with a stick in his hand instead of a cane. Fighting for the Cup on the ice instead of in the front office.

It’s the first time since he was appointed as a GM that he’s really stopped and thought about what he’s become.

-—-

Anika lets herself into Kaz’s office with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows that has him powering every device off and sitting ramrod straight in his chair.

“Do you know a–” Anika flips through a small leather notebook– “Filip Stromme?”

Kaz freezes. “Yes.”

“He was the guy who cross-checked–”

“Yes,” Kaz says again, impatient. “What about him.”

“I couldn’t find any connections to Rollins,” Anika says. “So I tried to figure out how you and Rollins were connected—oh, don’t give me that look, it’s obvious there’s something personal going on—and it turns out he was the coach for the team that knocked you out of hockey for good.”

“I already know this, Anika,” Kaz bites. “I have a working memory.”

“Stromme posted a picture from the Dime Lions’ owner suite two months ago on Twitter,” Anika says, ignoring Kaz’s outburst. “Stromme doesn’t have a LinkedIn, and he’s not on the website, but I think he works for Rollins. Pretty closely, if he’s in the suite.”

“Who’s in contact with Stromme?” If this takes any longer, Kaz is going to explode 

“O’Malley follows his Instagram,” Anika says. “But it’s probably not him.”

“Then what is the fucking point of telling me this?” Kaz grinds out.

“Jesus,” Anika says. “You’re welcome. I did all of this for you. Maybe let me talk?”

Even through his red haze, Kaz can see the truth in her words. “Fine,” he says, blowing out a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Thanks,” Anika says, more warmly than Kaz thinks he deserves. “So O’Malley follows Stromme on Instagram, but they’re both Irish-born and have a lot of other people in common. I also don’t think that if someone’s leaking to Stromme or Rollins they’d follow either of them on their main account.”

“So you’re looking for someone who doesn’t follow them?” Kaz is pretty sure he follows.

“Well,” Anika says, “sort of. Stromme is probably less concerned with getting caught, so I indexed all his followers on Instagram and Twitter and tried to figure out if any of them belonged to private accounts from anyone on the Crows staff or roster.”

“And?” Kaz is trying to be patient, he really is. “What did you find?”

Anika tosses a couple of papers down on Kaz’s desk; he grabs at them, quick enough they wrinkle beneath his eager hands. “I can’t be sure.” 

It’s Stromme’s Twitter, and a private account that follows him. These tweets are protected, it reads, and Kaz almost sighs in disappointment before he sees the username: @BollingBall.

“I see,” Kaz says.

-—-

“We have seats near the ice if you want them,” Kaz tells Inej as they’re playing the Gulls, but he’s hoping she’ll decline. It’s become something of a routine, especially since Kaz’d told her about Rollins; Inej’ll come up to the suite when she’s not needed in PT, sometimes they talk and sometimes they don’t, but they do watch pretty much every home game together.

“No,” Inej says easily, eyes on Bastian and O’Malley sliding the puck back and forth between them just over center ice. “I like this. It’s nice.”

“Is it?” Kaz asks neutrally, wincing when he thinks he sounds desperate.

“It is.” The way Inej is talking sounds like she’s shaping her words around a smile, but Kaz doesn’t dare look. “Usually I always have to be focused, with the players and my staff. Up here I just…don’t.”

“I’m glad,” Kaz says sincerely. And he is—he can’t remember the last time anyone found his presence relaxing. It’s nice to not be setting someone on edge. Not that he’s relaxed, obviously; Bollinger is on the ice and Kaz hasn’t confronted him yet, or decided what he’s going to do, but just the mere sight of his man sends icy chills and hot rage through his blood in equal measure.

“You seem tense,” Inej tells him, haltingly.

“It’s not you.” Kaz is quick to reassure her; he doesn’t want Inej to think that her presence is unwelcome. “It’s just…other stuff.”

“Oh,” Inej says. “Okay.”

A minute goes by as they stare down at the rink.

Finally, Inej gently breaks the silence. “You don’t have to do anything alone, Kaz.”

“I’m not,” Kaz says, quickly and before he can think better of it. “Anika is helping me.”

“Oh,” Inej repeats. An awkward beat, and then: “Are you two…”

Oh Jesus. “No,” Kaz says vehemently. “No.” He thinks about denying it a third time, but decides that it’s overkill. “I just needed her help with something specific.”

“I see,” Inej responds, but it doesn’t sound convincing, and she’s not looking down at the ice anymore but just out into the stadium, like she’s a million miles away.

“I asked you,” Kaz says. “Earlier. To help me. With the thing.” The words are blunt and stilted but he can’t stop once he starts, and he cringes as they fall heavy out of his mouth.

“Kaz,” Inej says, sounding sad, “you have too many secrets.”

Kaz tries at a laugh. “But you somehow know all of them.”

“Not because you tell me,” Inej says heavily. “Never because you just tell me.”

-—-

“Good afternoon, Jan.” 

If Kaz sounds gleeful, it’s because he is; things are shit with Inej, and Pekka Rollins, and Bollinger, so pretty much all he has left to bring him joy is his Wylan-sized outlet to lay into Van Eck with.

“Brekker,” Van Eck greets cautiously. That’s wise of him; a cheery Kaz is rare, and generally accompanied by some massive event that is great for Kaz and awful for everyone else. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just a quick chat,” Kaz says, a little manic and trying to hide it.

“About what?” Van Eck is studying Kaz carefully.

Kaz gives Van Eck a quick, insincere smile. “About your son.”

“Has he been bothering you?” Van Eck’s face doesn’t so much as twitch. Damn, Kaz thinks, he’s good.

“No,” Kaz tells him. “He’s been helpful. So helpful, in fact, that I looked into giving him a raise.”

Here they go; Van Eck goes just a little pale now that he knows Kaz’s got his number. “Wylan’s not on the payroll anymore,” he says.

“I know,” Kaz tells him, biting back a smirk, keeping his face as blank and smooth as the morning ice. “I looked into it and his contract never cleared. I assumed it was an administrative error so I back-paid him the industry rate.” 

Van Eck’s eyebrows draw down heavy with rage; he tries to school his features into confusion, but Kaz sees right through it. “Why would you do that?”

Kaz widens his eyes and does his best to look innocent. “I thought it was a mistake. He’s here every day, and I see you giving him tasks all the time.” Subtle, and definitely barbed, but not enough to accuse Van Eck outright.

It's fifty-fifty now, if Van Eck will roll over to save face or if he’ll push back.

“I took him off on purpose,” Van Eck says.

All right. It’s the latter. Kaz can work with that.

“Why?” Kaz asks, keeping his tone carefully neutral, ready for Van Eck’s next set of lies.

But it seems Van Eck is done pretending. “He’s useless,” Van Eck snarls.

“Not to me,” Kaz says instantly, and it’s true; Wylan has levels of patience that can only be a gift from the divine, and an uncanny ability to recite stats off the top of his head. Since the shit with Jesper, Kaz’s taken to babysitting, which means he sticks Wylan in the corner during player development meetings so that he doesn’t have to look at his notes.

“He can’t read,” Van Eck snaps.

Kaz lifts an eyebrow and gestures at his leg. “I can’t play hockey.” 

Van Eck’s mouth opens and then closes; Kaz realizes, with no small measure of satisfaction, that he’s rendered the man speechless. 

“If you don’t stay out of this I’ll fire you,” Van Eck finally tells him.

“You can’t,” Kaz says calmly; he’d come into this conversation expecting Van Eck would put his job on the line. “Not with how I drafted and how the Crows are playing this year. You don’t have cause.”

Van Eck narrows his eyes. “I’ll come up with something, Brekker.”

“Fine,” Kaz says, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Your loss.”

“It won’t be,” Van Eck says threateningly.

“Are you sure?” Kaz asks. “Can I tell you something about the Crows organization?” The question is rhetorical, and probably a bit dramatic, but he pauses anyway.

Van Eck thins out his lips.

Kaz grins meanly, flashing his canines. At least he left hockey before he could lose any teeth. “It owes me one.” It’s true—he’s collected favor after favor, and never asked for anything in return.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Van Eck snaps, but he seems off-kilter. He’s probably recognizing what Kaz is getting at; that Van Eck’s name might be on the checks, but Kaz is the one at the rink every day, rubbing shoulders with every department, running the whole damn show.

“Well, if you want to bet,” Kaz says easily. He’s got Van Eck in a corner and he knows it. “Making predictions is my career.” He won’t back down on this; if push comes to shove, he can get half the organization to follow him out. 

Van Eck is silent. Kaz knows what they’re both thinking about; the scandal that Kaz’s loud, public firing will cause, and Van Eck’s desire to avoid it.

“Fine,” Van Eck says finally. “Just keep Wylan out of my sight.”

“That’s fine,” Kaz says. And, because he’s actually more than a little pissed at Van Eck’s idea of fatherhood, he adds: “I doubt he’ll want to see much of you either.”

-—-

Two weeks before the Crows are set to host the Dime Lions, it pours.

Kaz can barely drive; sheets of rain slap down on his BMW like slices of deli meat, and he’s scared every time he hits the brakes that the car will fishtail out of control.

And, his leg hurts like a motherfucker.

The weather inflames things, but so does walking through the rain; when it’s slippery outside, Kaz has to rely on his leg more than usual for balance, and that swells up his knee until he can barely fit it into his brace.

The rain’s still pounding hard on the Barrel’s aluminium roof when Kaz limps his way into the trainer’s office.

There’s a blonde girl at the front desk, who’s not Inej and he thinks is new. Kaz peers around the corner, but he can’t see Inej in the big room either.

“Can I help you, Mr. Brekker?” the girl asks.

“Yes,” he says, distracted. “I need to see Inej.”

“She’s out,” the girl says.

Kaz swings towards the girl now that he knows Inej isn’t in the building. Lunch break, probably, although it’s a little late. “When’s she back?”

“Four days.”

“What?” It comes out of Kaz before he fully processes the girl’s response. “Four days? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, just took PTO, Mr. Brekker,” the girl says, gaze straying behind him. Kaz assumes someone just walked in. “I can see who else is available, if you’d like?”

“No,” Kaz says, his mind and his stomach churning in tandem. “No, just an ice pack is fine.”

That night Kaz tells himself the reason can’t sleep is because of the pain in his leg.

-—-

It’s still raining and Inej still hasn’t come back by the day Kaz meets with Pekka Rollins.

Kaz tries to not feel bitter; it’s her time off, she can use it as she pleases, and he was rude to her and he knows that. He’s her boss and she’s his employee. She doesn’t owe him anything beyond that— he hasn’t given her anything beyond that—and it’s foolish of him to want to rely on her in ways they haven’t ever discussed.

But at the same time, she knows what today means to him and she isn’t here.

Now that the moment’s imminent, Kaz wonders, suddenly and unsteadily, if it’s because Inej thinks that he’s the one in the wrong. 

Rollins is requesting a trade, and he wants to meet in person, and if it was anyone else Kaz wouldn’t bat an eye at setting things up. Is it really Kaz’s instincts driving his unease, or is he just…bitter? Wanting some sort of retribution just because Rollins was the one coaching when Kaz was hit? 

He’s never really been able to think of what happened to him as an accident. Accident makes it sound meaningless, and it took the blueprint for his entire life. But somewhere along the line maybe he turned Rollins into a criminal mastermind, and now he’s got Anika putting her professional career on the line for a hunch, and god how did he fuck up with Inej so badly?

Maybe Bollinger just knows Stromme from Juniors, or something. Maybe Inej just wants to distance herself from whatever she thinks Kaz is about to do. 

Maybe the real sabotage is coming from Kaz himself.

It’s in the context of these thoughts, swirling and messy, that Kaz watches Rollins enter the Barrel.

Rage bubbles hot and angry in Kaz’s chest as Rollins walks in like he owns the place. Whether he’s about to blackmail Kaz or not, the man’s still an asshole; Kaz takes cold comfort in the fact, because at least that’s undeniably true.

“Brekker,” Rollins says, affably, accent thick like curdled milk.

Kaz just gives him a curt nod. “Rollins,” he returns shortly.

“You’re a tricky man to get a hold of,” Rollins tells him, and it’s an accusation even though he says it lightly.

“My leg,” Kaz says. “And I’ve been busy.”

“Hmm,” Rollins muses, glancing around the Barrel and making it clear he doesn’t believe Kaz one bit.

Well. Whatever. Kaz knew Rollins would piece it together anyway.

“My office?” Kaz offers. He doesn’t want Rollins snooping around the Barrel, even though thousands of people come through this part every day, and Rollins can see this any time he wants. It just—it feels dirty, the way he’s looking at things. Like he’s envisioning how to take it all away.

Or maybe Kaz is the one imagining. He can’t really—he doesn’t have anyone to talk to about it. It’s just him, alone, at the top.

“Oh, let’s walk and talk,” Rollins says. “I’ve been cooped up on a flight and in the car.”

“Won’t work,” Kaz tells him. “Leg.”

Rollins pauses. “Let’s do a conference room, then.” He smirks. “Don’t want to give you too much of a home-court advantage.”

“Fine,” Kaz says. It doesn’t really matter to him; it’s not like there’s anything he needs beyond his laptop. Some part of him hopes that Rollins doesn’t want to meet in his office because he doesn’t want Kaz to have something bugged; it’ll be worse for the team if Rollins really does blackmail him, but it also means that Kaz will be right .

Rollins goes to the restroom while Kaz gets his computer and a pad of paper, and Kaz has barely set up in the conference room when Rollins reaches forward and slowly, but firmly, tips Kaz’s laptop closed.

“Excuse me?” Kaz asks. He’s feigning confusion but inside his heart is beating so fast he thinks it might burst out of his chest.

“Let’s just chat, Brekker,” Rollins says. “Man-to-man.”

“Okay,” Kaz says slowly. He doesn’t really care what’s showing on his face as long as it’s not fear.

“I don’t think this is your year for the Cup,” Rollins says, idly twirling a signet ring around one meaty finger.

“I’d disagree,” Kaz says honestly, on the off chance that Rollins is still actually angling for a trade. “We’ve already got a lot of synergy on the ice for such a new group, and we have the depth to back things up.”

“No,” Rollins tells him. “This isn’t your year because you’re going to make the Crows lose in first round playoffs.”

Kaz lets his mouth gape open as if shocked, and to some extent he is; even though he’d thought Rollins would blackmail him, it’s another thing for the man to go through with it. 

“I can’t…I can’t do that. I have a contract, and obligations.” Kaz’s voice grows steelier. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t take something like that away from the Crows.”

Maybe that’s meant as a barb at what Rollins took away from Kaz. But even Kaz doesn’t quite know what he intended; he feels like he’s been ejected out of his body and is watching himself speak, powerless to do anything except let the moment carry itself out.

“Fahey is new,” Rollins says. “Under the pressure, it would be believable.”

“I don’t fucking care if it’s believable,” Kaz snarls, and now he’s definitely not acting, and—thankfully—coming down to himself a bit. “No deal. No Fahey, no Crows, not as long as I’m general manager.”

“Are you sure?” Rollins asks, and the cadence is familiar enough that Kaz is thrown back to his conversation with Van Eck, where he’d been the one in Rollins’ place.

“I’m sure,” Kaz tells him firmly. He’s not Van Eck; he won’t budge.

“You may want to reconsider,” Rollins says sharply, “unless you’d like the whole league to know about your gay little rookie and exactly who he’s been fucking.” 

It’s destructive as a rumor; it’s explosive as the truth.

Kaz bristles. He’s right, he’d predicted this, but there was no way to prepare for how he feels in the moment, nearly overcome with fury. “That’s none of your fucking business,” Kaz says, “and what you’re doing is illegal.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Rollins responds easily. “You’d be the only one.”

“This is fucking insane,” Kaz says, as if helpless. He won’t do it, he knows that, but there’s no harm in letting Rollins think he has the upper hand and hoping he might get complacent.

But Rollins doesn’t push. “I’ll be back in a week for your answer,” he says, lightly rapping his knuckles against the wooden table as he makes to stand.

“Wait,” Kaz says.

Rollins lifts his eyebrows and slowly lowers back down.

“Why are you doing this?” Kaz asks. He knows it’s childish to ask, but he needs to know—needs to find out if this is some decade-long vendetta he’s at the center of, why Rollins wants to bring him lower than he already did nine years ago.

But Rollins just smirks. “I want my Cup, Brekker,” he says. His eyes are all greed but no malice, and Kaz is slowly forced to realize that Rollins’ offer hadn’t been about Jesper, but it might not really be about Kaz, either.

-—-

The San Jose Sharks are last in the league for a reason, but it’s always a time and a half to cut Celebrini down to size, especially with Visser in goal instead of Specht.

When Inej slips into his suite for the game, five minutes into the second period, Kaz is genuinely surprised. She didn’t come to the Dime Lions matchup and her PTO got extended for two days after.

So.

He’s spent those past two days thinking she was ready to hand in her resignation.

He’s still not so sure that she’s in his suite for anything else.

“Inej,” he says, staring out at the rink. He tries to sound neutral, like her absence hasn’t had his stomach in knots, but it comes out icy and disaffected, like he can’t be bothered with her at all.

“Kaz,” she responds, cautiously, and it’s the sound of her voice after so long that makes him swing around to face her, almost scrambling; he can’t stand depriving himself of her any longer.

“I’m sorry,” Kaz says quickly. “Although–not that–that shouldn’t change anything.” He’s one step from physically clamping a hand over his mouth to stop the barrage of words spilling out.

“Change what?” Inej asks, head cocked as if she’s got no clue, and okay, maybe she’s not here to resign after all. A tender flame of hope kindles in Kaz’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Kaz tells her honestly. “Anything.”

“Okay,” Inej says, looking at Kaz like he’s gone mental, which isn’t too far off. And then—unthinkingly—Inej says: “I’m sorry too.”

“For what?” Kaz doesn’t try to hide the bewilderment on his face, although he could; Inej deserves his honesty. (And wants it, if the Gulls game was any indication.)

“What I said,” Inej tells him. “It was–it was harsh. And unnecessary.”

“No,” Kaz replies slowly. “No, it really wasn’t.” He sighs heavily. “I rely on you, Inej.”

“Professionally,” Inej says.

Kaz shakes his head. He thinks he might throw up. “Not just professionally.”

The words hang charged and heavy in the air. Kaz feels the tips of his ears go pink and fights the urge to duck his head, to turn back to the game; less secrets , Inej had implied, and he at least owes her this one.

“Oh,” Inej finally says. “Oh, I–I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m sorry,” Kaz repeats, uselessly.

Inej just stares at him, and maybe it’s because she’s the only one standing, but he feels a bit like a mouse might to a hawk.

“Don’t be sorry,” Inej tells him. She sounds a little–awed? Not revolted, at least.

Every muscle in Kaz’s body is tense.

“I was…jealous,” Inej says awkwardly. “Of Anika. Of you two being close. Of her being the one helping you. Of me being on the outside.”

“Is that why you left?” Kaz sounds raw.

Inej winces. “Sort of. I–I wanted to do something for you. To prove myself.”

“Inej,” Kaz says, and it comes out disapproving enough that they both wince. “You don’t have to,” Kaz tells her, more softly. “You’ve proven yourself for years.”

“Not to the organization,” Inej responds. “To you.” 

“Sometimes I think that’s the same thing,” Kaz says, and it cracks a helpless little smile out of Inej even though he’s not joking.

“I just wanted you to think I could fit,” Inej says, the curve to her lips long gone, and Kaz wants nothing more than for it to come back. “Not just with the Crows,” she continues, looking down, cheeks flushed dark. “But with you.”

“My house is massive,” Kaz says nonsensically.

“What?” Inej’s head snaps up and she looks like she’s one second away from putting him through concussion protocol.

“It’s huge,” Kaz continues, and okay, he knows where he’s going with this. “Sometimes I think about moving into the ADU because it’s all so spread out.”

“Okay…?” Inej still looks concerned, but she’s letting him keep talking, so.

“Also my bed.” Kaz is on a roll here. “I think I sleep like a starfish because I want to touch the edges of it.”

“Kaz, what the hell?”

Kaz looks at her, more terrified than he’s been in any draft, any playoff game. Maybe he’s not a hundred percent Crows hockey after all—this, what he’s doing now, this is his life. GM or not.

“Inej,” he says carefully. “Everything is so big.”

“I'm getting that,” Inej responds cautiously.

“There’s no way that you can’t fit.” 

“Oh,” Inej says. She takes a deep breath, then a hesitant step towards him.

“Oh,” Kaz parrots. He stands up from his chair to meet her solidly halfway.

The stadium cheers at something on the ice midway through their kiss—Kaz, for the first time, could not give less of a fuck about a Crows game.

It’s only when Inej pulls away, Kaz staring at her reddened lips, and tells him they need to talk about Filip Stromme, that the world comes crashing back in.

-—-

“I flew to Washington and followed Rollins around,” Inej says.

“What?” Kaz is completely blindsided.

Inej looks embarrassed at his reaction. “You said he was up to something!”

Despite it all, Kaz laughs. “That’s fair,” he tells her. “I did.”

“Sorry if I–” Inej breaks off. “It was a bit much,” she settles on.

“I just want you to be safe,” Kaz says.

Inej gives him a cagey look. “And if you weren’t worried about my safety?”

“Then it’s pretty fucking cool,” Kaz admits.

Inej grins. “I heard Rollins on the phone to Stromme,” she says. “One night, when he was walking to his car.”

“Fuck,” Kaz says, digging his palms into his eye sockets to wake himself up. “Okay.”

Inej shoots him a look. “Do you already know about him?”

“A little,” Kaz says freely. Jesus, Inej was right—it is easier, just telling her everything. It’s been so long since he’s played hockey that he’s forgotten how good it feels, having a team. “Stromme’s tight with Rollins. Bollinger follows him on a private account.” Kaz thinks for a moment, then adds: “He’s also the one who fucked my leg in Juniors.”

“Is that–you had Anika checking social media?” Inej seems a bit placated by that, like she’s recognized that Kaz really was only turning to Anika because it was her actual job.

“Yes,” Kaz says. “And I still haven’t figured out what to do about him. But back to Stromme.” He’s dying to know, but he wants to be on his best behavior; he hasn’t forgotten how Anika snapped at him, and this thing with Inej is still fragile and new.

“They were arguing about you,” Inej tells him. “Rollins said he wouldn’t pay Stromme any extra, and then Stromme said something and said Bollinger’s name, which makes sense now, and then Rollins said that–” Inej makes air quotes– “‘nobody would fucking believe you about Brekker.’”

Kaz’s brain clicks the pieces into place.

“Oh,” he says. He feels nauseous, and his vision is tunneling. He’s gasping for air. “God.”

“What?” Inej asks, and then she must see how pale his face is, because she repeats it, urgent, like an emergency.

“Move,” Kaz says weakly, and then bends over and throws up on the floor.

-—-

Inej, to her credit, doesn’t gag or leave or tell Kaz to man up. Instead, she lays him out on the tawny leather couch in his suite, tells him she’ll be right back, and returns with paper towels and a ginger ale.

“Don’t drink that until you prop your head up,” she says sternly, and this is definitely physical therapist Inej.

Kaz just nods, and watches from the corner of his eye with some shame as she cleans up his vomit.

“My leg was on purpose,” Kaz says, when he feels a bit more in control of everything. “I want to fucking kill both of them.”

“Holy shit,” Inej says, and now she looks a bit green too. “That’s what–that’s what they were talking about?”

“I haven’t even seen Stromme since then,” Kaz responds. “It has to be.”

“Jesus,” Inej says. “Jesus, Kaz.”

“I don’t think Rollins wanted to injure me forever,” Kaz tells her, now that he’s had a chance to turn things over in his mind. “Just take me out of that game.”

“Why you?” Inej asks.

“I was good,” Kaz says, a bit petulantly. “I would’ve wanted me out of it too.”

“But you would never do something like that,” Inej responds, so sure and fiery that Kaz feels warm all over from her certainty.

Bastard of the Barrel moniker or not, there’s some lines he’ll never cross. “No,” Kaz says firmly. “I wouldn’t.”

-—-

Kaz and Inej talked for hours, long after the game ended and Kaz waved off any press obligations. About Stromme; about Rollins; about why Inej left and if Kaz made her leave; about Kaz’s too-big house and how Inej might be able to help with that, somewhere down the line.

And, about Bollinger.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Kaz admitted.

“I’ll handle it,” Inej said.

“I can–” Kaz started, but Inej cut him off.

“Trust me, Kaz,” she said. “Please. If you want this—us—to work, you have to trust me.”

Kaz still feels uneasy about it, but he knows she’s right; if he wants a relationship, he can’t be in control a hundred percent of the time of everything. This feels too big for a test drive, but the only reason he even knows about what Stromme and Rollins did is because of Inej, so. He can put his faith in her. 

And he has, for the past two days; all he’s done is reach out to Stromme, after Anika finagled his number. Just sent a text that says This is Kaz Brekker. I’d like to call sometime soon about what happened at Juniors. I don’t have any ill will.

The last part isn’t strictly true, but nobody needs to know that. Besides, after his initial anger slowly ebbed away, Kaz decided that if Stromme helps him take down Rollins, he’ll consider him forgiven. Hell, he’ll build Stromme a statue in downtown Portland if he wants one.

Stromme’s going to call him early tomorrow morning.

That’s good, because in twenty minutes, Jesper Fahey’s officially coming out.

The players already know, and so do the coaches, and so do people like Anika, who have to wade into the media onslaught immediately after. So it won’t shake up the Crows; it’ll just shake up the rest of the entire fucking NHL.

Kaz winces at the thought of the upcoming shitstorm. It’s not Jesper’s fault—it’d be every other player in the league before it’d be Jesper’s—but still, the headache is already pricking at his temples. And Jesper’s got a bit of a temper, to boot.

So Kaz is pleasantly surprised when it goes smooth as fucking butter.

Jesper gives a nice, bland speech, one that Anika helped him prepare. He’s in a suit, looking serious and pale, in the media room alone at the podium with a gaggle of reporters hanging on to his every word. Wylan’s staying away, because they’ve decided that part should definitely stay under wraps for now. 

It’s not a game day, so nobody else is required to be there, but when Kaz looks out at the crowd, mixed among the reporters and Crows personnel he sees Helvar, and Yul-Bo, and Visser and Specht and Pim and Rotty. They’ve all got their hockey sticks, for some reason. And Kaz still can’t see every person in the room.

If Kaz gets a bit misty-eyed, watching Jesper’s knees knock behind the podium as he tells the reporters he doesn’t want to hide anymore, he’ll say it’s the bright lights until his dying breath. But it’s moments like these, when it really hits him: what he built. What he’s responsible for. Not just a company, not just an organization, but a team.

And the fact that Jesper feels comfortable enough to come out because he knows Kaz’ll have his back, the fact that when Jesper finishes speaking there’s at least six of the Crows out there banging their sticks hard against the ground for him like they do whenever he scores?

Well, it makes the Stanley seem pretty fucking dull.

This—this right here, this is a legacy.

-—-

“The league still doesn’t know just who Fahey’s fucking,” Rollins snarls, storming into Kaz’s office at two PM next day despite his team having just played in Calgary. Evidently he’s taken an early flight. 

How Rollins got past Barrel security, Kaz isn’t sure. He would say Bollinger, but Inej told Kaz yesterday to put the man on waivers, so Bollinger doesn’t have facility access anymore. But it doesn’t matter; hopefully, this is the last time Rollins ever sets foot on Kaz’s fucking turf.

“Who?” Kaz asks innocently.

“What do you mean, who?” Rollins’ accent is thick with rage and his face is beet red. “You know who.”

“I don’t,” Kaz says.

“Van Eck’s son!” There’s spittle flying from Rollins’ mouth; Kaz winces as some of it lands on his desk.

“Van Eck’s son?” Kaz repeats. “That’s ridiculous. No one will believe you.”

“Oh, they will,” Rollins threatens, shaking his fist. “Just you wait. I have a source on the inside.”

“Who, Bollinger?” Kaz can’t quite stop the little smirk crawling its way up the side of his face. “What about him?”

Rollins goes slightly pale. “What the fuck did you do, Brekker?”

Kaz shrugs; there’s a benefit to having a reputation for being cruel, sometimes. “No clue.” He pauses. “I delegated.”

“I’ll fucking ruin you,” Rollins hisses.

Kaz lets the pleasant mask melt from his face. “You won’t.”

“You cocky little shit.”

“I’m not cocky,” Kaz says, truthfully. “I know what you did to me in Juniors, Rollins.”

“Your leg?” Rollins scoffs, but in his eyes there’s an animal sort of fear. “That was an accident.”

“See,” Kaz says affably, “you’d think so, except for a very interesting theory I have.”

Rollins clenches his jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do,” Kaz says.

“You can’t sue me,” Rollins returns. “And it’s your word against mine, and nobody’s going to believe you with your reputation.”

“Close,” Kaz says mockingly. “Turns out it’s Filip Stromme’s word against yours. And also, I’m not suing you.” He snorts. “I’ll just call Deadspin.”

“Fuck you.” Rollins is ashy white, and trembling in anger. “You’re a fucking demon.”

“I wasn’t,” Kaz tells him coldly, “until you made me one.”

Rollins looks at Kaz like he’s never seen him before. 

“Get out of the Barrel,” Kaz says. “And stay the fuck away from Stromme.”

“Stromme will get what’s coming to him,” Rollins snarls.

“Not from you,” Kaz says lightly. “Considering I just hired him to coach the Dregs.”

-—-

In the end, it wraps up neatly.

Stromme turns out to be a decent guy, once he apologizes profusely, and especially once he gives Deadspin an exclusive. 

Except now they’re calling Kaz the Nancy Kerrigan of hockey, and, well.

What he wouldn’t give to be rid of the fucking nicknames.

At least Rollins’ been fired.

And, thanks to Inej, Bollinger’s not a problem; turns out he’d been spreading shitty rumors about Jesper, all sorts of homophobic stuff, some of it about Wylan and some of it not, so he can’t really be believed at all. Kaz isn’t sure how much is true, and he doubts Inej will ever tell him. 

The Crows won’t win the President’s Cup, but they’re going to finish out the season as a strong third seed, and the only thing nicer than Inej comfortably sitting next to Kaz in his suite is the way she’ll sometimes come home with him afterwards. The big trunk space in his BMW is the perfect size for her massage table.

It means he can’t fit a hypothetical hockey bag beside it, but some things are worth it.

Jesper gets some chirps for being bisexual, but not from within the Crows. Turns out Yul-Bo can provoke almost anyone, and Helvar of all people is the quickest to throw off his gloves when someone’s trying to get under Jesper’s skin. Pim plays the three of them top line almost every night now, and it’s fucking electric.

There might be more Fahey jerseys in the stadium now than ever before.

Kaz gleefully pays the fines out of his own pocket every time one of his players gets knocked by the league for bitching about the refs letting homophobic comments slide, and even supplements Helvar’s salary when he gets a two-game suspension for knocking out three of TJ Oshie’s teeth.

“It’s my team,” he says to the reporter who asks him why he always forks up the cash.

Van Eck, too, has largely fucked off; the stadium is packed every night, TV viewing records are shattered left and right the night that the Crows beat the Dime Lions, and Van Eck even gets some positive spins in the media for being so supportive of Jesper.

Not that he is, but. At least he’s only neutral, and doesn’t do anything other than wrinkle his nose when he sees Jesper and Wylan together, heads bent and quietly talking.

Come April, they have home ice for their first playoff game against the Kings. Kaz takes his seat, Inej warm by his side, and watches the Crows snap into action the moment the puck hits center ice.

For once, he’s not stressed; he's got Inej, and Pim and Rotty, and Anika, and everyone down on the ice. He feels...he feels like he has a team.

Inej gives him a little eyebrow raise like she knows what he’s thinking and that it’s concerningly sentimental; Kaz tries to school his face into the usual icy detachment but when she snorts he smirks, and it dissolves from there.

Yul-Bo sauces the puck over to Helvar, and even though Darcy Kuemper blocks the shot the pass is so good Kaz whoops. Jesus, it’s been so long since he’s watched a game and just enjoyed it.

But midway into the first, Bastian takes a puck to the thigh and crumples onto the ice like a ragdoll. Inej shoots Kaz a worried look and runs out of the suite, radio already crackling with static; Kaz watches edgily as Markov gingerly skates Bastian off the rink.

Kaz doesn’t realize how tense he is until his phone buzzes with a text from Inej: He’s ok. Gave him 2 cortisol shots. Should be good to go by the second period. 

Thanks, Kaz texts back, and feels his shoulders drop down about two inches.

A few minutes later, McCauley gets a King for hooking. The Crows go on the power play, and it’s Jesper, Helvar, and Yul-Bo up top for the unit. Somehow, despite being a man down, the Kings get possession and fire off a decent shot against Visser, but It’s still only forty-five seconds into the penalty when Helvar passes up the ice to Jesper, who’s on a breakaway.

It’s just Jesper and the goalie. Jesper fakes like he’s shooting, holds the puck for just a second longer until Kuemper’s left leg starts to sprawl out.

Then Jesper flicks his stick, and the puck slides neatly by Kuemper’s right foot into the back of the net.

It’s the first goal of the series. 

The siren blares loud, and the fans scream louder, and Jesper pumps his fist once but rather than go into a usual ridiculously elaborate celly he points towards Kaz’s suite.

Kaz raises an eyebrow even though he knows that Jesper probably can’t see him.

Can’t cut me, Jesper mouths, face big and beaming on the Jumbotron.

Kaz laughs harder than he has in fucking ages.