Chapter Text
Coach Gillis pulls Gilbert aside after practice and gives him an ultimatum: play better or die.
. . . Gilbert’s paraphrasing, of course. Coach’s exact words were: “Blythe, I don’t know what’s going on in your life or where your head’s been at these past few weeks, but I’m starting to wonder if the best move for the team would be to designate you for assignment to make room for another player.”
Which might as well be a death sentence for Gilbert, seeing as how they’re essentially relegating him to minor league hell. There’s no hesitation or empathy in Coach’s voice either, just an uncompromising competitive streak that does nothing to warm the already dead-cold office.
“I - what?” Gilbert splutters, rising out of his chair and onto his feet. He is on the taller side of average compared to other players in the league, but still feels pint-sized under the weight of Coach Gillis’ gaze.
“You had to know this conversation was coming,” the older gentleman dead-pans, folding tough, leathered hands atop his wooden desk. They are the same hands that captained his team to two Stanley Cups wins in ‘86 and ‘87, and ones that are hoping to threepeat this year as head coach.
The Charlottetown Crowns have all the makings of a championship team; three strong lines and a rock in Moody McPherson behind net. Years of tanking and #1 overall draft picks enabled the Crowns to train up future cornerstones, taking in young guns while shaping them into the bedrock for a dynasty in the making. Gilbert, being last year’s Calder winner and a top five goal scorer in the league, is poised to be at the center of it all.
But Gilbert is also being blind-sided by this startling confrontation.
“So I’ve had a couple of sub-par games,” he downplays, taking a seat in what is decidedly not a moment of shame. He’s just tired from running drills, is all. “It’s not the end of the world and definitely shouldn’t be the thing that sends me back to the minors.” There is a plea in there, somewhere at the end.
Coach Gillis fixes him in a stare. “Your plus/minus differential is -10. You broke double digits and we’re not even a quarter of a way through the season.”
Gilbert’s superior defense is that “plus/minus is a bullshit stat anyways” while knowing he’s in the wrong. It’s no secret that he has become somewhat of a black hole on ice, where all pucks go to die or (worse) get stolen away. Given his skills (or lack thereof), Gilbert’s not sure he could even make a goal on a breakaway if the posts were ten miles apart. The Crowns have been eeking out wins in spite of him, instead of because. A total reversal of luck from last year’s breakout season.
The media is referring to this as Gilbert’s 'Pauper Season', which may very well stick if he continues to play at the level he’s playing.
“You’re a good kid, Blythe. And I know there’s a lot of pressure riding on you to be the next Gretsky or what have you. But there comes a point in every player’s career where he either rises up to the challenge, or plays mediocre fourth line hockey until he can’t keep up with the younger models and retires.” It is, perhaps, the bleakest sentence Gilbert has ever heard in his life.
Unceremoniously, he is kicked from the office to fully absorb the meaning of Coach’s words. Or take them seriously enough to kick whatever bad habits he’s developed to result in such a change. The ultimatum is supposed to light a fire under his ass, to motivate him to play better as if Gilbert isn’t already intensely aware of how much he sucks at all things hockey. But try as he might, the slump persists.
The locker room is empty, save for Moody and Charlie who wait patiently for Gilbert to finish packing up his things. They have brunch plans after practice and won’t allow Gilbert’s piss-poor attitude to back out on their friend date.
“Stop calling it a friend date,” Charlie laments while running a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat because the left winger is a brute who doesn’t believe in showering before a game. This has been a ritual of his since peewee, but with maturity has not come the knowledge that dousing himself in Axe body spray is not a suitable substitute for hygiene. “It sounds so lame.”
Moody doubles down and disregards Charlie’s advice. “Friend date! Friend date! Friend date!” he chants, clearly excited for Meatloaf Mondays. The three of them head toward the back parking lot and pile into Moody’s car, a fancy Escalade he bought with his sizable signing bonus last year. Charlie calls shotgun, which leaves Gilbert to brood by himself in the back.
Neither Moody or Charlie have what anyone would qualify as “good” taste in music so the 20 minute drive downtown to Arquette’s is backtracked by unbearably slow folk ballads and EDM beats that nearly blow out Moody’s subwoofers. They argue back and forth over the AUX cord, trying to pull Gilbert in as a mediator to determine who has next song despite the obvious answer being “just switch on and off whose turn it is, you overgrown babies.” Gilbert normally has more patience than this, but he's on the verge of being DFA'd so now everyone else has to suffer.
His snappy mood does not deter his two teammates from bickering all the way to the restaurant, pausing only to greet their waiter who shows them to their usual booth in the back. This spot was strategically chosen given its approximation to the bar and the row of TV monitors broadcasting all manner of sports. By now, it is second nature to tap the table counter twice before allowing themselves to sit, Moody and Gilbert on one side and Charlie on his own or up to two guests on the other.
From an outsider’s perspective, they probably look insane.
Arquette’s is just another one of their pre-game rituals on an already long list of customs, frequenting the establishment before home games despite being sick to death of eating fish sticks and poutine. The only bright side is that they've discovered just ordering the dishes is enough to appease the Hockey Gods, a risk they took before a throwaway game in April after already clinching a wildcard.
Hockey players are, after all, a notoriously superstitious lot.
“You should consider seeing a psychic,” Moody suggests, apropos to nothing after the food has arrived. Gilbert takes a crouton from the complimentary Caesar salad, popping the morsel into his mouth while raising an eyebrow in question. Charlie snorts in astonishment.
“I’m serious, Gil. I heard about this guy in Alberta who randomly met a psychic at the grocery mart and went on like an insane 10-game tear before getting called up by the Bruins.”
“Are you talking about Burnsey?” Charlie asks, upper lip curling with skepticism. “Dude’s a total whackjob. Pretty sure he’s just spreading those rumors to psyche players out on ice.”
“No way anyone’s copping to seeing a psychic on the off-chance it works to get in someone’s head. Also, I heard it from Karlsson who heard it from Magnussen so it must be legit. Swedes never lie,” Moody intones, somber as a funeral.
The only meaningful contribution Gilbert has comes in the form of a question, half a joke but taken seriously by the table. “I thought psychics read the future?”
Charlie shakes his head, suddenly an expert on the topic. “Nah dude, those are fortune tellers. Psychics commune with alternative planes of existence. They probably enlisted the spirit world to pull strings for Burnsey or some shit. Like Angels in the Outfield!”
“You dumbass,” Moody mocks, “those are mediums.”
The pair continue squabbling from there. Gilbert can barely keep up with conversation, devolving quickly by the second. It all sounds ridiculous to Gilbert, who is a creature of Fact and Science. Rarely does he believe in anything his eyes do not perceive.
Delly once tells him over coloring that Gilbert lacks imagination, all because he points out that giraffes are not pink and purple in real life. Delphine stares at him with equal parts sympathy and exasperation, an expression he knows she’s picked up entirely from her mother. The phrase, though, is borrowed from her beloved kindergarten teacher and one Gilbert has heard quite often from Delly since.
As if summoned, Bash texts him a reminder to pick up Delphine after school, as per his agreement on the Mondays and Thursdays that Gilbert is not out of town.
“Either way, Moody’s right. You need something to jump start your season. A good luck charm or seance? Maybe an exorcism to get rid of whatever demons are causing you to blow chunks every game?”
Gilbert rolls his eyes, choking down the last of the poutine. He’d do just about anything to curry some favor from the Hockey Gods, but where would one even procure those services on such short notice? “Beautifully put, Sloane. I’ll pencil one down for tomorrow.”
He’s only mostly joking.
-
Bash gives him very specific instructions to park and grab Delphine “and not like some punk who honks from the driveway” since Gilbert is picking her for the first time and should familiarize himself with her teacher, Miss Anne.
“She’s got red hair and freckles and talks a lot with her hands - there’s no way you’ll miss her!” He says before hanging up the phone.
Gilbert begs to differ, staring around at the unbridled chaos of an elementary school during afternoon dismissals. There is a line of cars wrapped around the kiss and ride area, buses parked in no particular order out front, and about a million kids zooming back and forth with their exasperated parent in tow. He figures the front entrance is as good a place as any to start looking for Delphine and begins the trek through the absolute anarchy.
He gets a few open-mouthed stares from some of the older kids who recognize him and head nods from parents who aren’t operating completely on autopilot. All in all, it is a much nicer experience than the drunken expletives that get yelled at him during games and at whichever bars Moody and Charlie manage to drag him out to. His fall from hockey stardom to Charlottetown pariah is well-documented and tragic. Gilbert spends most of his nights and weekends at home, entertaining Delly until even she gets tired of him and opts for watching Paw Patrol quietly.
Surprisingly, Bash turns out to be right (for once) when Gilbert’s eyes catch a glimpse of amber in the afternoon sunlight. He can only see her from behind, locks of auburn hair piled haphazardly in a bun and held in place with what appears to be a paintbrush. Even from a distance, he can make out a sprig of a flower tattoo peeking out from beneath the collar of her sundress, perfectly placed in the spot where the base of her neck meets her spine. She is addressing a group of students sitting criss-cross on the grass, one of which being Delphine who appears deeply invested in what’s being said.
Gilbert approaches, waving to catch Delly’s undivided attention, when the little boy next to her suddenly looks up and gasps.
“Miss Anne! Miss Anne! There’s a wasp in your hair!”
“What?”
Whack! The sound reverberates throughout the parking lot, loud enough to catch the attention of almost everybody in earshot. It must take Gilbert at least a minute to register what happened as he just stands there, stunned, with a phantom pain radiating from his left lobe and cheek.
In her panic, Delly’s teacher had swung the slate she uses to keep track of the bus order behind her. Gilbert, in her cross hairs, unfortunately bears the brunt of the violence.
She casts wide, blue eyes in his direction. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up? Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?” Her single-minded panic is entirely dramatic, but cute.
Gilbert finds that he likes the way Miss Anne looks from the front as much as he did from behind. Soft and freckled in a way that reminds him of summer.
He notes the crack he’s left on the surface of the slate. Impressive.
“No worries, I’m fine. I’ve dealt with much worse before.” Gilbert laughs in an attempt to lighten the mood, but his nervous tick in rubbing his neck backfires when it appears as though he is massaging the pain instead.
“Oh God, I’ve broken you, haven’t I? You don’t have to lie.”
Delly races up to his side and grabs him by the hand. He finds it adorable the way all five of her fingers can barely wrap around the length of his thumb. “Uncle Gil, are you alright?”
“Delphine, you know this man?”
His niece nods enthusiastically, knocking loose a few curls. “He’s my Uncle Gil! He plays hockey and is supposed to pick me up on Mondays and Thursdays now.” Delphine says it like these are his only two personality traits. Which they very well may be.
“Gilbert Blythe,” he offers his hand, the one not being currently held by Delly.
There is a flash of recognition in her eyes, as if finally connecting the dots. Her grip is surprisingly firm despite her impossibly supple skin. “Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. I’m Delly’s teacher and also very embarrassed right now.” As if to prove a point, her blush grows even deeper, stretching down her neck and dusting the very tops of her collarbones. Alluring.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. If I can’t handle being whacked upside the head every now and again, I should probably quit playing hockey while I’m ahead.” Even if Gilbert is not technically ‘ahead’. Statistically, he’s played worse in his last six games than the entirety of his professional career combined. Gilbert pushes the thought aside; neither here nor there, and something he doesn’t want to dwell on in the face of a cute girl.
Anne’s only response to that is “What a strong chin you have!” which gives him pause. Gilbert can’t tell if it’s a genuine compliment or a terrible attempt at flirting, but either way he’s amused.
“Do you say that to every strange man you smack with a slate, or do I just have a particularly good one?”
As if on cue, because his hockey game sucks so it follows that his pull game must too, a car honks from the curb to remind them of their surroundings. Anne flinches, turning around to greet a Mrs. Johnson who is here to pick up Leslie while Gilbert is, again, met with the sight of her floral tattoo.
Privately, he wonders just how far down it extends . . .
“Anyways,” Anne says, interrupting his train of thought.
“Anyways,” Gilbert echoes, hoping to God his pupils aren’t blown when he looks at her.
“I’ll see you on Thursday, Mr. Blythe.” She grins and it’s warmth seeps deep into the marrow of his bones. She bends over slightly to meet Delly in the eye. “Goodbye, Delphine. Don’t forget you need to have your permission slip in by Friday.”
Delly pinky promises and waves before she goes. “Bye Miss Anne!” his niece begins walking toward Gilbert’s car.
Anne catches his eye one last time before they go, just as he is sliding his key into the ignition. “Good luck with your game tonight!” she calls, hands cupped to her face so her voice carries across the parking lot. She waves vigorously, hair escaping the confines of the paint brush that binds it. She looks luminous and bright, backlit with sunshine.
Gilbert laughs and salutes her before driving away.
-
The air horns blow to indicate an end to the second period. The Crowns are up 3-1 over Toronto, a bitter division rival, and Gilbert has drawn the two penalties leading to the power plays that get them there.
“What’s gotten into you Blythe?” Billy Andrews claps him loudly on the shoulder as they pile into the locker room. “Have you finally learned how to play hockey again?”
Billy is annoying and reeks of sweat and damp hockey gloves, but the words are enough to strike a chord in Gilbert’s gut. He doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything tremendously different on ice, but somehow the puck bounces seem to be going his way. He skates a bit faster and his perception is that much sharper. Gilbert may not be great, probably bordering more on mediocre, but it’s a positive sign that he’s at least a step above rock bottom.
Coach Gillis doesn’t say anything, but the gruff nod he extends Gilbert’s way before stepping into his office speaks volumes.
He doesn’t have time to dwell upon his fortune before the third period starts. Racks up an assist to put a cap on the night. But somehow, Gilbert knows that something fundamentally has changed.