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Thomas thought it would get better with Connors because he’s an optimist, can’t help being one. And it does seem to, for a bit. Once they get home from their road trip the glaring has dropped to just kind of hostile looks, and the fact that the only game Thomas plays is the second of a back to back seems to smooth things over a little. They’re never going to be best friends or even like each other much, and that’s fine. Thomas knows the relationship he had with Fourns was probably one of a kind, and Fourns has the same reaction as Anton when he tells him about Connors, minus the insults about Connors’ goaltending, because they’re clearly untrue.
“Guess the talk about Colorado being willing to let him go because he’s a prima donna had some merit,” Fournier says.
“Where do you even hear this stuff?” Thomas asks.
“I know everything, Vinny,” Fourns says. “Be amazed by my knowledge.”
Thomas rolls his eyes, but can’t help but laugh.
He’s not laughing when, three days later, he’s put in for a game against Toronto that goes wrong within minutes. By the end of the second he’s let in four, but they aren’t pulling him, because Connors is in tomorrow against a surging Nordiques, and they’re not going to risk tiring him out before that game. “Wow,” Connors says, after the second, low enough that only Thomas can hear him, and Thomas bites his lip so hard he thinks it might bleed.
He goes into the third shaken, and despite defence’s best efforts not to let anything squeak past them, offence’s efforts to make up for him, he lets in practically every shot he faces, it feels like, and the final score is 7-3. He doesn’t look at anyone when he gets into the room, just goes to his corner and starts stripping out of his gear, head down. He can hear Connors sit down beside him, and he just wants to be left alone right now, but it’s not like he can go strip in a bathroom stall or something. All he can hope is that Connors ignores him like he so frequently does.
“If you could stop undoing all my work every time you get on the ice, that’d be good,” Connors says almost mildly, and Thomas is mortified to feel his eyes fill. He strips the rest of his gear as fast as he can, goes to the showers, trying to regain his composure, because there are reporters around, and the last thing he needs is someone catching him being a crybaby after a loss that was completely his fault.
It’s a home game, thankfully, but tonight he really wishes he didn’t live with Anton, because he needs to be alone, and Anton’s been more into the moral support thing lately, to the point where he offers before Thomas can even ask for it. The last thing Thomas needs is a hug right now, because he’ll probably start bawling and telling him everything, and he’s pretty sure Anton would lose his shit if Thomas told him what Connors said. You don’t pile on goalies after a loss. That’s basically the first rule of the locker room, and one goalies are better at following than anyone. Supposed to be, at least.
Anton’s driving, but he’s busy with the media, which is good, since it distracts both him and the media from Thomas, so Thomas gets dressed as quickly as he can, tells Grayson to let Anton know he went ahead, and then gets the hell out of the Bell Centre. It’s soon enough after the game that it’s going to be impossible to cab it, so he walks the half hour to their place in Westmount. Anton’s car is already in the garage, and Thomas considers, for a brief moment, just getting in his car and driving for awhile, maybe even getting a room for the night, but Anton would worry, even if he pretended not to, and they have a game tomorrow. One that Thomas obviously won’t be playing in, but Anton will be, half the game, practically, so he needs rest, not to worry about Thomas just because he can’t handle a bad loss.
He lets himself in quietly, hopes Anton’s at least gone up to his room so he can go to his own, pull the covers over his head and lie in the dark, but Anton’s on the couch. He looks up when Thomas comes in.
“Where’d you go?” he asks. “Grayson said you left.”
Thomas opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. “Vinny?” Anton asks, quiet, and Thomas just shakes his head.
“Bud,” Anton says, getting up, and Thomas puts his hands out.
“Don’t,” he manages.
“Okay,” Anton says. “Want something to eat? I think we still have leftovers.”
Thomas shakes his head. “I’m just going to bed,” he mumbles, and goes upstairs, stripping to his boxers and crawling under the covers.
That was a pretty clear no to the moral support, but ten minutes later Anton comes in, sits on the edge of Thomas’ bed. His hand lands on Thomas’ shoulder over the covers.
“Hey blanket monster,” Anton says. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” Thomas says. Obviously not. He wishes Anton was still sticking to the informal ‘don’t ask if Vinny isn’t telling’ thing they’ve had going on their entire friendship.
“Kay,” Anton says. “Then I’m going to guess. Did Connors say something to you?”
Thomas doesn’t say anything. He’s a bad liar, after all.
“What’d he say, Vinny?” Anton asks.
Thomas bites his lip, and Anton tugs the covers down, doesn’t let him tug them back up. “Stop,” Thomas says. “I don’t want to.”
“Too bad, last time your parents were here I promised your dad I was going to take care of you,” Anton says. That’s the first Thomas has heard of it. “What’d Connors say to you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas says.
“I ask him, he going to tell me?” Anton asks.
“Don’t,” Thomas says. “This is bad enough without you guys all making it worse.”
Anton looks him in the eye, and Thomas turns onto his side so he doesn’t have to look back.
“The whole room is on your side,” Anton says. “Okay?”
Even if the whole room’s behind him, if that makes the room awkward, hard to be in, what kind of sane management would pick a decent back up over a super star that could take them all the way to the Cup? This isn’t high school, and you don’t get points for popularity. You get points for winning. Connors wins games, and Vinny doesn’t, and it’s as simple as that. It’s business.
“I’m not your fucking pet,” Thomas says, and his voice gets choked all over again. He hates it. “Or some mascot. Stop babying me.”
“Is that what you think this is?” Anton asks, and then his weight leaves the bed. Thomas thinks maybe he managed to drive him away, and he’s a little relieved, but mostly hurt. Then the bed shifts again, the covers pulled away from Thomas, and Anton’s crawling in beside him.
“Anton, go away,” Thomas mumbles.
“Nope,” Anton says. He tucks himself in behind Thomas, and Thomas can feel his belt digging into his spine. His arm’s heavy over Thomas’ side.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asks, briefly distracted.
“I’m moral supporting,” Anton tells him.
“That’s not actually words,” Thomas says.
“How would you know, you’re French,” Anton says.
Thomas pulls away. “Go away,” he repeats.
“Nope,” Anton says again, closing the gap Thomas made, the whole moment sort of deja vu. “I’m staying here until you tell me what that asshole said to you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas says. “It’s not like he’s wrong.”
He’d managed to hold it all back, but when Anton’s arm tightens around him, he loses his air in a rush, can’t get it back. Anton was already up with the Habs when things with Stanton got bad. Thomas handled that just fine, and if Anton had still been around, he probably would have made things worse, forced it out in the open instead of just being something between Thomas and Stanton. Thomas doesn’t want this out in the open.
“Tommy,” Anton says, soft.
Thomas doesn’t bother asking him to promise not to tell, because he knows the second the words exit his mouth Anton will be preparing to rat to Depardieu. He gets it — if he saw something he thought wasn’t okay, he’d probably tell Fourns. They may be adults, but the knee-jerk instinct is to go tell someone more adult, in the hopes they’ll fix it. Anton tells Depardieu, Bovard will know within hours, and then probably do the exact same thing, confront Connors, trying to fix it, but Thomas didn’t snitch to Bovard last time, whatever Connors said. He’s not a tattletale.
“Can we not talk about it?” Thomas asks desperately. “Please, Tony.”
Anton’s quiet for a minute. “Okay,” he says, finally. “You sure you don’t want any leftovers?”
Thomas shakes his head.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?” Anton asks.
Thomas considers it, but now that the danger’s passed, the danger of bursting into tears or telling Anton, he doesn’t really want to be alone. He shakes his head again.
“Okay,” Anton repeats, patting his stomach, and stays there. It’s warm under the covers, Anton bleeding heat through his clothes, and Thomas has been worked up for hours, so now he’s just tired.
“Your belt is digging into my spine,” he tells Anton drowsily.
“Sorry,” Anton whispers, and pulls away. Thomas’ back is cold now. He expects Anton to leave, or at least keep his distance, but instead he hears the clink of his belt, and Anton crawls back in after a minute, down to a t-shirt and underwear. “Better?” he asks.
This is, Thomas is pretty sure, kind of gay. The kind of gay that Carmen makes jokes about, that Lapointe keeps giving him meaningful looks over. It’s at least a weird thing for friends to do, especially because Anton’s not usually a touchy person. But Anton’s even warmer without his dress shirt, bare arm slung over Thomas, and if Anton doesn’t think it’s weird, Thomas doesn’t think he should either. And right now he’s too tired to push Anton away just because some of the guys would think it was gay. He’s tired, and hurt, and he wants his parents, and Fourns, who would have given him a hug instead of making him feel even shittier, and maybe what he said to Anton wasn’t true, maybe he is a baby, maybe that’s why all the guys baby him.
“Tired?” Anton asks.
“Yeah,” Thomas mumbles. Play him one game and he’s exhausted. No wonder they all say he’s never going to be a starter.
“Go to sleep,” Anton says, and Thomas doesn’t think he’ll be able to, his stomach still in knots, the humiliation hanging over him, but somehow he manages to anyway.