Chapter Text
Seth’s breathing had finally steadied, the remnants of his breakdown leaving him shaky but strangely lightened. The captain, Jordan, had managed to herd most of the squad out of the lounge, clearing the suffocating air and giving Seth a necessary reprieve. Only Turbo, KK, and Rosa remained, their presence a quiet, anchoring comfort. Andrei and PK had retreated to the corner, their heads together in whispered conversation, a picture of intertwined intimacy that still managed to twist the knife in Seth’s gut.
The admission that he didn't like yelling—the confession of his vulnerability—had opened a tiny, terrifying door in the wall he'd built. Now, the overwhelming desire to retreat back behind that wall warred with the knowledge that his friends were genuinely worried.
“Look, Jarvy,” Turbo started, his voice low and devoid of judgment, “We’re not going to push. But maybe talk to Jordan, or even the team doc? Seriously, man. This is bigger than just 'personal stuff,' right?”
Seth managed a weak nod. It was bigger. It was a secret wrapped in self-loathing, anchored by the aching, impossible truth: he was desperately in love with Andrei Svechnikov, the man who currently had his arm draped casually, possessively, around Pyotr Kochetkov.
He risked a glance towards them. PK was looking back, his expression now completely devoid of the previous panic, replaced by that cool, impenetrable gaze Seth found so unsettling. It felt like Pyotr knew. Not about the self-harm, but about the deeper, far more dangerous secret. That Seth’s feelings for Andrei weren't just the easy camaraderie of teammates, but a hungry, jealous ache.
When Andrei laughed—a bright, unrestrained sound directed solely at something PK whispered—Seth felt that familiar, hot surge of insufficiency. He was the chaotic one, the one breaking down in the lounge, the one who carried shadows. Andrei was sunshine and skill, and Pyotr was the cool, stable counterpoint who perfectly complemented him. Seth was just... the mess.
The next day’s practice was a blur of hyper-awareness. Every drill felt scrutinized. Every pass felt judged. He noticed that PK, usually focused solely on his net, seemed to be watching Seth more than usual. There was a cold dismissal in the goalie’s eyes whenever their paths crossed, especially if Andrei was nearby.
Later that afternoon, a rumor rippled through the dressing room—whispered first by a rookie, then louder by a skeptical veteran.
“Did you guys hear what happened in the lounge yesterday? Jarvy had a total meltdown. Something about the sleeves…”
The whispers were vague, distorted by retelling, but the core was true: Seth had cracked. He heard his name dropped in conjunction with "unstable," and "needs a mental day."
Jordan, true to form, shut it down immediately, but the damage was done. The rumor had opened the door for speculation, and the pressure ratcheted up again.
Seth escaped to the relative solitude of the equipment room, supposedly to check his skates. He pulled out his phone, staring numbly at the latest posts on a team fan account. There was a side-by-side photo: Andrei and PK laughing off-ice, captioned simply #CoupleGoals, next to a grainy picture of Seth looking lost on the bench, captioned #TroubledStar.
It was irrational, agonizing. The comparison felt like an accusation.
He sank down onto a trunk, the anxiety turning into a dull, inescapable throb. He wasn't thinking about the consequences, or the risk of being caught, only the immediate, desperate need to silence the noise in his head. The sight of his own pain—a physical release—was the only thing that seemed real in that moment.
When he finally emerged, hiding his hands deep in the pockets of a fresh, clean hoodie, he walked straight into Andrei.
Andrei paused, his expression softening instantly. “Hey, Jarvy. You okay? Heard some stupid chatter. Don’t listen to it, alright? People are just bored.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m fine, Svech,” Seth mumbled, trying to pivot past.
Andrei caught his arm, not firmly, but gently, stopping him. “Look, I know you’re a private person, but if you need to talk about what happened yesterday, or just… anything. My door’s open.” The sincerity in Andrei's large, kind eyes was unbearable. It was the concern of a friend, not the love of a partner.
“I appreciate it,” Seth whispered, pulling his arm away quickly, terrified Andrei might feel the faint, damp stickiness beneath the fabric. He fled, leaving Andrei standing there, looking genuinely concerned.
But he didn't escape unseen.
As he rounded the corner toward the exit, he saw PK leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the entire exchange. PK didn't move or speak, but the look he gave Seth was a silent, lethal strike. It wasn't pity or anger—it was cold, knowing judgment, laced with a clear territorial warning.
The message was clear: I see your weakness, I see your want, and I don't approve of either.
Seth stumbled out the door, the fresh cut stinging beneath his sleeve, the pain a grim reminder of his failure. The rumors were bad, the team was worried, and he was sinking. But the worst part was the sharp, undeniable certainty that Pyotr Kochetkov knew exactly who the storm inside Seth was really about, and he was quietly preparing for battle. The anxiety about his secret relationship with his own destructive coping mechanism was now compounded by the agonizing truth that his secret, impossible love for Andrei, and the silent opposition of his teammate Pyotr, had just been added to the treacherous weight he carried.
The air in the locker room the next morning was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that vibrates just below the surface noise of tape ripping and skates clicking. Seth felt the scrutiny—a combination of pity, speculation, and the sharp, focused disapproval of one particular goalie.
He kept his head down, meticulously checking the blades of his skates, thankful for the privacy afforded by his stall. He’d barely slept, the sting of the self-inflicted wound a constant, physical reminder of the night before, and the emotional wound of Andrei’s simple, friendly concern feeling infinitely worse.
When Pyotr Kochetkov slid onto the bench just outside Seth's stall, the noise around them seemed to dim. PK didn't look at him directly; he was busy strapping on his massive leg pads, but his presence was a heavy anchor.
"The team's worried, Jarvy," PK finally said, his Russian accent clipped, his voice low enough that only Seth could hear it clearly over the background din.
"I heard the rumors," Seth muttered, avoiding eye contact. "It'll blow over."
PK paused, his hands resting on his knee pads. "No. Not the rumors. Jordan's worried. Turbo. They think you're having a hard time. They think you're hurting yourself."
Seth's head snapped up. His heart hammered against his ribs. "What? Who told you that?"
"No one had to tell me," PK said, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually bright with competitive fire or playful mischief around Andrei, were cold and flat. "You left blood on the sink. You flinched when Andrei raised his voice. And now you’re wearing that thick hoodie inside, when it's thirty degrees outside. I'm a goalie, Seth. I notice things."
The cold, surgical observation felt like an assault. "It's my business, Kochetkov."
PK leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous hush. "Andrei's business is my business. And your mess is distracting him. He's been texting Turbo all night, asking if you're okay. He looks at you, and he worries. That's my boyfriend's energy you're taking."
The sheer audacity, the naked jealousy, struck Seth harder than the concern ever had. The anger from the day before, which had crumbled into shame, now flared into genuine resentment.
"God, you think everything is about you and Svech, don't you?" Seth hissed, his voice trembling with years of suppressed feeling. "I'm the one who's actually struggling here, not just making a scene!"
PK's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. "I know you're struggling, Seth. I just know what you want. And you need to decide if you're going to use your pain as a way to get attention, or if you're going to actually deal with it." He paused, delivering the final blow with chilling precision. "Andrei loves to save people, Jarvy. Don't play the victim just because you want him to save you instead of me."
The accusation felt like a physical blow. Seth, a Dom who prided himself on control and strength, was being called manipulative and weak by the one person who saw his impossible crush clearly.
Seth scrambled to stand, towering over the seated goalie, his face flushed. "You have no idea what you're talking about! Stay out of my head, PK!"
"Jarvy! Kochetkov! What is going on?"
Jordan Staal's voice, booming and laced with a fresh wave of command, cut through the tension. Jordan was standing by the door to the coaches' office, his face set in a look of extreme frustration. The team, now fully dressed, turned to watch the confrontation between the volatile winger and the intensely private goalie.
"Nothing, Captain," Seth bit out, trying to retreat, but he was too late.
PK, calm and steady as ever, simply finished buckling his pad. "We were discussing locker room discipline, Captain. Some people are letting personal issues leak onto the ice." He looked pointedly at Seth’s covered wrists.
That was the last straw. Fuelled by panic, jealousy, and the cutting truth of PK's words, Seth lost control.
"Shut up! Just shut your mouth!" Seth screamed, the intensity of his voice echoing the breakdown from the day before. He hated the noise, hated the shouting, but he felt utterly trapped. He lifted his hand in a desperate, frustrated gesture—not a threat, but a wild movement of helplessness—and slammed it hard against the metal locker door beside his head.
The resounding CRACK of metal against bone silenced the entire room.
Seth froze, his hand throbbing instantly with blinding pain, the rush of adrenaline fading to icy shock.
Andrei, who had been laughing across the room, was suddenly on his feet, his laughter cut short. He didn't rush to PK; he rushed directly to Seth, his eyes wide with horror as he took in Seth's trembling, white-knuckled hand clutching the locker.
"What did you do, Seth? Let me see that!" Andrei demanded, gently trying to pry his hand away.
PK, seeing Andrei's immediate, frantic attention focused on Seth, slowly stood up, a terrifyingly neutral expression on his face. He watched as Andrei carefully peeled back the sleeve of Seth's hoodie to examine the knuckles.
But as Andrei pulled the fabric back, the cuff caught on the damp, poorly clotted wound beneath. The fresh cut tore open just enough to paint a vivid crimson stripe across the back of Seth's wrist, the color stark against his skin.
Andrei froze, his hand hovering over Seth’s arm, his eyes locked on the fresh blood that had nothing to do with the locker impact. The realization of what he was seeing—the self-inflicted injuries beneath the sleeve—washed over him in a sickening wave.
"Oh my God, Jarvy," Andrei breathed out, his voice thick with raw, heartbroken anguish.
The whole room was silent, witnessing the horrific reveal. The rumors had just found their proof, and the secret was out.
PK, standing a few feet away, finally spoke, his voice low and devoid of emotion, but carrying the weight of finality.
"See, Captain?" PK said, looking only at Jordan. "I told you he was a mess."
The silence that followed PK’s chilling declaration was absolute, shattered only by the faint, rushing sound in Seth's own ears. The pain in his hand—yes, definitely broken, judging by the sickening throb—was secondary to the blinding shame of being exposed.
Andrei was still hovering, his face a mask of shock, his hand gingerly holding Seth’s forearm, careful not to press on the marred wrist. The look he gave Seth was a devastating mixture of pity and terror—the kind of look Seth had dreaded receiving from the man he loved.
"The team doctor, now," Jordan commanded, his voice tight with controlled fury. He didn't look at Seth, or at the exposed wrist; he was staring hard at PK, his disappointment palpable. "Kochetkov, you go back to the net. Svechnikov, take him to get that hand looked at. And then, we talk. All of us."
Andrei, galvanized by the immediate need for action, gently urged Seth toward the door. "Come on, Jarvy. We need to get this x-rayed."
Seth felt like a ragdoll, allowing Andrei to guide him. He didn’t resist, partly because of the throbbing agony in his hand, and partly because he was too emotionally shattered to fight. As they moved past the tense bodies of their teammates—Turbo and KK looking heartbroken, Rosa openly crying, and Alex staring blankly—Seth’s eyes met PK’s one last time.
Pyotr Kochetkov stood like a statue, watching Andrei lead his distressed teammate away. There was no victory in PK’s eyes, only a cold, stark confirmation: I told you so. This is the chaos he brings.
The X-ray confirmed it: a fractured metacarpal. Seth had indeed broken his hand—his shooting hand, no less—ensuring he was out of the lineup for at least six weeks. The physical consequence of his emotional breakdown was now visible, undeniable, and detrimental to the entire team.
Later that evening, after the wrist was splinted and the cuts were professionally cleaned and bandaged, the mandatory meeting took place in the coaches' office: Jordan, the Head Coach, the GM, Andrei, and Seth. PK had been explicitly told to stay away until the dust settled.
"This," the GM started, gesturing at Seth's heavily bandaged hand, "is unacceptable. Not just the injury, which is a massive liability, but the... the context."
Jordan stepped in, his voice firm but carrying genuine concern. "Seth, you know we're family here. But what happened today—the outburst, the fighting, and what Svechnikov saw—we need to know you're getting help. We cannot have a player in this state, especially one we rely on."
Seth felt the weight of his Captain’s sincerity, but the pressure to control the narrative—to appear strong, to deny the depth of his feelings—was crushing him.
"It was just stress, Jordo," Seth said, his voice flat. "The rumors got to me. The hand was an accident. I lost my temper because PK was getting in my face. It won't happen again. I'll see the team therapist, I promise."
The lie felt hollow, but necessary. He couldn't admit he self-harmed because he was desperately in love with the teammate sitting two feet away, whose steady presence was both his greatest comfort and his biggest source of pain.
Andrei, who had been quiet, finally spoke, his voice low and strained. "Jarvy, you need more than the team therapist. I saw… I saw the cuts. That's serious. You have to be honest."
The raw appeal in Andrei's voice nearly broke Seth. He cares. He actually cares. But this level of intimacy, this kind of emotional reliance, was exactly what PK had warned him about, and what Seth knew he couldn't afford. It blurred the lines of friendship and dangerously validated his impossible desires.
"Andrei, stop," Seth snapped, pushing back against the concern. "It's fine. It's old. It was a stupid, momentary thing. I'm embarrassed that you saw it, but it's handled. I'm a big boy. I don't need saving."
The denial was harsh, meant to create distance. Andrei visibly recoiled, the light dimming in his eyes.
"Alright," the Head Coach interrupted, stepping in to diffuse the mounting emotional tension. "Here's the plan. Seth, you are benched indefinitely. You will report to the team therapist daily, starting tomorrow. And until you are cleared by the medical staff—both physically and mentally—you are barred from all practice sessions. You will participate in team events, but keep a low profile. This is about recovery, but also about stability for the rest of the locker room."
The word "barred" hung in the air, heavy and isolating. Seth felt stripped of his identity, of his purpose.
"And Svechnikov," the coach continued, "We understand this is difficult. We need you focused. You and Kochetkov need to set a professional boundary with Jarvy while he recovers. Encourage his professional recovery, but keep your distance from his personal struggles for now."
Seth watched Andrei simply nod, a tired acceptance in his posture. Distance. That was the consequence. The breakdown had not led to comfort or confession, but to enforced separation from the one person he truly craved. PK had won the cold war without even being in the room.
Later that night, Seth returned to his solitary apartment, the pain medication dulling the ache in his hand but doing nothing for the hollow feeling in his chest. His phone vibrated. It was a text from an unfamiliar number.
PK: I did not enjoy seeing Svech that upset. Focus on your recovery, Jarvy. And remember what I said. Don't touch what isn't yours.
Seth read the message three times, hes talking about andrei... It wasn't a question, or a statement of concern. It was a definitive, cutting command. A Dom—a dominant personality—who had lost all control was now being told what to do by the very person he resented.
He squeezed his splinted hand, the fresh pain a momentary distraction from the deeper, festering wound. PK saw him as a threat, a liability, and a mess. And the worst part? He was right. Seth was weak, exposed, and now, completely alone.
He curled up on the couch, watching the late-night sports highlights. The segment immediately focused on the team's victory, then pivoted to a quick note on the captain's post-game interview. Jordan Staal looked weary, but resolute.
The final image, however, was a slow-motion clip: Andrei Svechnikov celebrating the winning goal, embracing Pyotr Kochetkov through the glass, their faces alight with shared triumph and easy, uncomplicated love.
Seth turned the TV off, the darkness immediate and suffocating. He was sidelined, broken, and banished from the orbit of the one person who could either heal or destroy him. The knowledge that PK was the gatekeeper to Andrei’s world felt like the cruelest joke of all.