Chapter Text
Tim loved to overthink.
He planned for every possible scenario, no matter how unlikely it seemed.
But even in his wildest, anxiety-fueled contingency plans, he never prepared for this.
It all started when Bruce announced over breakfast that he bought the Gotham Bats hockey team.
“Holy shit,” said Jason, “You’re finally putting your money to good use.”
“Hm,” Bruce hummed disapprovingly, as he often did to Jason.
“This is amazing,” Jason continued, looking off into the distance as if he could see the owner’s box seats, “This is the best day of my life.”
“Wow, Bruce, this is great. Have you already thought about the new roster?” Dick asked, his thoughts spinning a mile a minute.
“Of course he has,” Damian said, insulted on Bruce’s behalf. “Father, this was a wise decision. I’m relieved that finally, I will not have to root for a team of incompetent idiots.”
“Shut up,” Jason said, but it was undermined by his wide smile. He and Damian got into terrible arguments over the Bats, which was next level stupid because they were both fans. Jason was loyal to a fault and refused to shit talk the team he’d loved since he was a kid. Everything Damian said was either a complaint or critique so really, Tim didn’t know what Jason expected him to say.
“People are talking about Conner Kent,” Dick said, because out of all of them, he was the one who followed college hockey the closest. He loved the sport but he also loved pure strategy. Every year he and Kori battled for first place in their fantasy hockey league.
“Hell no,” Jason argued. “What we need is a highly skilled transitional D who makes plays off the rush and quarterbacks the power play, like Artemis Crock.”
“Her performance at playoffs was pathetic,” Damian sneered, “She averaged well under a point per game.”
Jason argued, and Damian argued back. Bruce sipped his coffee.
Tim pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate and tuned them out. He didn’t care about the Bats, he didn’t care about hockey, and he certainly didn’t care about his brother’s opinions.
“We’ll finally get you a jersey, Timbo,” said Dick, smiling at him while Damian and Jason stood from the table so they could argue in each other’s faces.
“Maybe,” said Tim.
Bruce frowned. By now he knew maybe was Tim for hell no.
“Give it a chance. If you just put your mind to it, you’d pick up the rules quickly,” Bruce said. That finally got Jason and Damian to shut up, because the only thing they had in common was the fact they’d never miss an opportunity to make fun of Tim.
“He’s a lost cause, Father. Some people don’t have the mind for strategy,” said Damian, with a sneer.
“Chess takes strategy,” Tim glared. It was an argument they’d had a million times, but hearing his family bond yet again over a topic he was utterly excluded from made him too angry to care.
“Don’t be mad because you don’t understand the—” Jason started.
“I understand hockey. I just don’t see the appeal of watching a bunch of braindead jocks throw their sticks around,” said Tim.
“Throwing sticks. Father, ban him from the stadium.”
“It’s just a game— Everyone gets so worked up, even though it has absolutely no real world consequences, except deciding which stupid body builders get paid more. There are real issues that could use that money and attention, but people would rather spend hours freezing in the stands, screaming their heads off for guys in jockstraps.”
Bruce took another sip of coffee. Jason rolled his eyes, even Dick did a little, and Damian folded his arms.
“We get it,” Jason bitched, “You don’t care about sports. You’re deep and intelligent and not like other boys.”
“And obviously deeply insecure about your small stature,” Damian added.
“I picked up on that too,” said Jason.
“The bottom line is,” Tim glared, “I don’t care about hockey, I’ll never care about hockey, and if you could all just accept that and let me live, we’d all be happier.”
Jason and Damian looked unconvinced. Bruce had a carefully blank expression.
“I’ll never accept that,” said Dick, cheerfully. “Eventually, I’ll wear you down. Before next season, you’ll be screaming at a hockey game, in the stands with the rest of us.”
“I’ll take that bet,” said Jason.
Dick grinned, “Our usual stakes?”
“Done,” Jason agreed and they shook on it.
Tim rolled his eyes, “Congrats, Dick, you just lost a bunch of money.”
“Our stakes are way higher than money,” Dick said, somberly.
For Kon’s entire life, all he’d ever wanted was to play for the NHL. Sometimes it felt like his childhood passed by in a blur, overshadowed by his teenaged years which had been jam packed with training. Those years of stress and sacrifice paid off. His first year out of college and he was signed with the Bats.
Gotham had never been his first choice, but hockey was hockey was hockey.
At least he liked his teammates. Bart was his favorite. After the first week of training, it already felt like they’d been best friends for years. The other guys were cool too.
A couple of guys were in the locker room, changing into their practice gear. Garfield, who’s already gotten the nickname Beast Boy, was the fastest changer on the team. Nonetheless, he was usually the last on the ice, because he got distracted easily and loved to talk. He started a game of Fuck Marry Kill while Kon was still pulling on an undershirt.
“I got one,” said Beast Boy, “Dick Wayne, Jason Wayne, Tim Wayne.”
Everyone laughed. It was a joke, obviously, it was a joke. It was the first time anyone brought guys into the game, and no one answered. They just laughed.
Those were the three oldest children of Bruce Wayne, the new owner of the Bats. The whole family was always in the news, partially because Bruce Wayne was one of the richest men in America, and partially because damn that family photographed well. Victor, nicknamed Cyborg, rolled his eyes with a smile.
“I’m not trying to get Brucie as an in-law,” Cyborg said.
“Oh, yeah, good point— except then you’d basically be a billionaire.”
“Whatever, bro. How would you break it to your puck bunnies?”
His eyes went wide.
“Shit, don’t tell Rae Rae.”
Everyone laughed again, even though that time Beast Boy was being serious.
Conner thought about how he’d answer the Wayne question, like, if he really had to.
All three were about his age. He knew the most about Dick and Jason, Dick with his playboy reputation, and Jason the black sheep of the family who’d infamously run away as a teenager and the media declared dead every few months. Tim was interesting. His personal life was never used for clickbait like everyone else in his family, but there were a lot of photos of him at fancy fundraisers and other rich people events. It made him seem a little boring, but there was something about his smile that always made Kon stare a bit too long. He had an amused but arrogant smile, like he was knew something that the photographers didn’t. It made him look powerful. The sharp edges of his suit helped, especially with his perfect jawline. His hair had a 90s flow that looked really cool. Kon had never seen it pulled up but he’d imagined it, and it looked really, really good.
He’d kill Jason, fuck Tim, and marry Dick.
Hypothetically. Obviously.
He shut his locker with more force than necessary.
Tim had worn ice skates twice in his life.
Once, at Dick’s birthday party, after he spent weeks claiming it was the only gift he wanted. And once, privately, just to see if maybe he could finally understand the hype.
He couldn’t.
It was boring. It just was. And he felt like an idiot, sliding around in the cold of the rink Bruce built in their backyard, at 2 AM so no one would accidentally catch him in the act and make fun of him forever. Sliding across ice wasn’t fun. Chess, video games, sitting in on board meetings— that was fun.
Tim didn’t want to go to a hockey game, much less a practice, but his friends eventually wore him down. The main perpetrator was Stephanie, who blew up the group chat with increasingly desperate texts begging him to take them, but Duke and Cass weren’t innocent. They hearted every message.
The Bats had a game tonight which meant they had a morning practice at 8:30 AM. Tim was not a morning person but he met Stephanie, Duke, and Cass outside of the stupid rink at the ungodly hour of 8:15 anyway. Duke brought everyone coffee in to-go cups, which Tim accepted with his eyes half closed and his breath fogging up in front of him. He’d bundled up in a grey sweatshirt with a red flannel over it, jeans, and thick boots, but he was still freezing his ass off and they weren’t even by the ice yet. This was going to be awful. Sure, his best friends in the world were happy, but they were about to talk circles around him about the most boring sport in the world, while making him watch a practice, so was it really worth it? He glanced between their smiling faces and reluctantly decided that yes, sacrificing an hour of his life was a worthy trade off.
He braced himself and together, they walked inside.
A few players were already on the ice as they found four seats near the top.
“I can’t believe your Dad got Impulse,” Duke said eyeing the player skating across the rink like something was chasing him. Tim watched over the lid of his coffee, letting the steam hit his face, already bored.
“He’s faster than Wally West,” Duke said, as if that would mean something to him.
“Please, Bart is so green. And Bruce is an idiot for passing on Artemis,” Stephanie critiqued.
“But Impulse and Superboy?” Duke pointed out, “We might actually make playoffs this year.”
“She’s worth four Superboys,” Stephanie said.
Tim sipped his coffee and Stephanie and Duke argued back and forth like a game of tennis (which was something Tim would rather be watching right now, along with paint drying).
Then he skated onto the ice.
He had black hair, curly but messy like he just rolled out of bed. He was tall and strong but all the athletes were. This guy was different. Special. Tim couldn’t stop staring at him. He skated like he was flying, like his blades weren’t even touching the ice. He smiled at another player and Tim felt hot all over. Normally, he never felt attracted like this to strangers, but this guy was like, like he was pulled straight out of Tim’s wet dream and into a pair of skates. Tim wanted to talk to him, but also, he wanted to run out of the rink until he found a pillow he could scream into. Or suffocate himself with.
“Who’s 93?” Tim asked, trying to sound really normal.
He failed.
Cass tilted her head and studied him, with her level-headed gaze.
“Do you think he’s cute?” She asked.
Duke turned a laugh into a cough and Stephanie leaned over so she could shove her obnoxious grin in Tim’s face.
“No,” Tim said flatly, but he could feel his cheeks heating up.
“So you’re suddenly interested in our defensive line?”
“I was trying to humor you puck-heads, but forget it.”
“You should ask about number 66,” Duke sounded like he was trying to be helpful and for a moment, Tim believed he was.
“John Constantine. He’s from England. And I know you’re usually into blondes,” Duke said, before laughing at Tim’s offended expression.
“Why would I be attracted to a hockey player?” Tim asked, incredulous, “I’m into smart people. And anyway, I bet all these guys are as straight as their hockey sticks.”
“Technically, the sticks curve at the end,” Cass said. Tim shot her an annoyed look.
Stephanie rolled her eyes.
“Can you take a breath, T? We’re just having some fun.”
Tim folded his arms. He knew he was acting defensive, but he couldn’t help it. It was like his mouth was acting on its own. He wanted to blame it on being tired, but as his eyes followed number 93, he felt so amazingly wide awake.
After practice, his friends wanted to go down and meet the players.
Tim took very little convincing.
At first, he wanted to look up number 93, Conner Kent aka Superboy as Cass later quietly told him, before making any attempt to talk to him. But he soon decided that was stupid. Conner may be the single most attractive human being Tim had ever seen, like he was designed in a lab to satisfy Tim’s exact taste, but he was a professional hockey player.
He was straight.
And Tim did not get crushes on straight boys. That was so cliche and stupid. Stupid people allowed themselves to fall for straight people, and Tim was not stupid. So he would simply choose to not. And that was that.
The four made their way down, closer to the ice.
“Hey! You’re Tim Drake!” Beast Boy said, and skated toward the group. “Are you gonna tell your Dad how much ass I kicked today?”
“Dude, don’t cuss in front of the boss,” Cyborg said, tapping him lightly with his stick.
“He’s the boss’s kid,” Beast Boy said confidently, “He can’t do shit to me.” Then he paused, thought for a moment, and shrunk in on himself, “can you do shit to me? Uh- sir?”
“You have nothing to worry about. Tim is completely powerless,” Stephanie said, loudly.
The gathered players turned to him and he shrugged.
“She’s not wrong.”
“And who exactly is she?” Beast Boy skated toward Steph and leaned against the side of the rink, suggestively.
Stephanie excitedly introduced herself, followed by Duke and Cass, but Tim tuned them out. He searched for Conner Kent, but it looked like he’d already disappeared into the locker rooms. And that mental image was quickly moved past, because Conner Kent was straight, and Tim wasn’t stupid. He repeated it like a mantra three more times.
That night, lying in bed, in the dark, alone, staring at his ceiling, one hand reached into his pajama pants and started stroking himself. His head tilted back into his pillow and he took a shaky inhale.
The mantra was forgotten.