Chapter Text
Mickey heaved the last of his boxes past the threshold of the apartment and closed the door with the side of his foot. He dramatically threw the box on the ground and let out a monstrous sigh. He hated move-in day with a passion. He couldn’t understand for the life of him why the college made them move all their shit out every summer only to move it all back not four months later. He'd made eight trips up the stairs already and it was about seven trips too many in his humble opinion.
It absolutely did not help that the elevator had miraculously decided to stop working right before Mickey had arrived, leaving him with no other option but to take multiple trips up the stairs with no assistance whatsoever.
In reality, Mickey knew that he sounded dramatic as all fuck. His apartment was only one floor up, and he had caught poor fuckers along the way who were carrying their shit all the way up to the fourth floor. He had it good. But some other fuckers on the ground floor had it better.
Mickey gazed around at his apartment, taking in the familiar sights and sounds and smells. It was exactly how he'd left it -- the same four walls that he'd lived in for the last two years. The kitchen was right by the front door, which led out into the open floored living room. Mickey and his roommate's rooms were on opposing sides.
“Hey, you finally finished?” Ben asked, appearing from the doorway into his room and coming into the entryway where Mickey’s boxes cluttered their way to the kitchen.
Ben Owens was Mickey’s roommate and best friend. Okay, maybe his only friend.
He was a tall, hazel-eyed brunette with a chiseled jaw and hair that quiffed effortlessly without any gel. The pair had spent the past two years playing college hockey together as part of the Michigan Wolverines at the University of Michigan.
Mickey had met Ben at this very apartment on move-in day two years ago, and was immediately bristled by his model-like appearance and never-ending optimism. But it didn't take long for Mickey to realize that Ben was annoyingly lovable and a fierce friend.
Most people were quick to judge Mickey when he first arrived in Michigan, what with his colourful use of language and the FUCK U-UP tattoos on his knuckles. But Ben saw past his hard exterior and opened him up in ways that still shocked him to this day.
He had fully intended on doing the lone wolf thing during college; to keep his head down and just play hockey. He had been all but friendless growing up on the South Side chasing his hockey dreams -- he never needed nor wanted them. But to Mickey’s surprise, the two had bonded quite quickly, and Ben soon become one of the few people that Mickey would trust with his life.
“Yeah. Thanks so much again for the help asshole,” Mickey quipped, rolling his eyes when he saw the smug look on Ben’s face.
“Mick -- why the fuck would I help you when I have my own boxes to carry and unpack?” he asked defensively, “how does that make any sense?”
“Well, you’re all about team spirit Owens, you could have considered it a cute little bonding exercise for us roommates to get chummy again,” Mickey said, leaning down to pick up his heaviest box to carry to his room.
“I don’t know how much more chummy we can get at this point, mate,” Ben snorted.
Mickey chuckled and opened the door to his bedroom and dropped the box on the floor, kicking it to the far end near his bed. This had been his room for the past two years -- this small, kind of narrow space that he filled with Blackhawk posters and not much else. It wasn't much, but it was definitely more than the one he'd grown up in.
The queen bed was sandwiched in the left corner below the window. Mickey nearly fainted when he saw it for the first time. It was so big, and the mattress as feathery soft as a cloud.
The closet was across from the bed, right next to a door that led off into Mickey’s bathroom which had caused Mickey to almost faint a second time.
“Wanna find out?” Mickey asked as he walked out of his room, stopping in front of Ben to raise his eyebrows suggestively.
Ben burst out laughing and shoved at Mickey, who chuckled and went for more of his boxes. He picked one up, made his way over to Ben, and handed it to him, nodding towards his bedroom. Ben rolled his eyes but decided not to fight the inevitable, walking it towards Mickey’s room.
“Sure, but don’t tell Aria,” he called out over his shoulder.
As if on cue, a loud knock rapped at the door, and before either one of them could make a move to open it, it burst open to reveal a short, dark-skinned girl with long brown hair and wide eyes.
Aria was Ben’s beloved girlfriend, and the only other person that Mickey could tolerate for long periods of time at UMich. She was an Australian exchange student -- definitely where Ben picked up the term “mate”, which drove Mickey insane every time he said it -- with a rich as fuck father who paid for her entire education and dorm accommodation. Accommodation that she very rarely used because of how often she was over at Mickey and Ben’s apartment.
She and Ben had been together since the first month of school in their first year. Ben described the whole experience of meeting her as “coming up for air after holding your breath at the bottom of the pool for a long time.” Mickey preferred to describe it as them “both being horny as fuck and serially monogamous.”
Although it took Mickey some time to get used to Aria’s presence all up in his space, electing to first be annoyed and prickly towards her, he inevitably succumbed to her charm. She was incredibly easygoing, witty as fuck, and knew how to handle herself, but she was also kind and charismatic in a way that made it nearly impossible not to like her.
“Are you boys almost done unpacking?” she asked, making her way towards Ben to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.
“What’s it look like to you?” Mickey asked, nodding towards his still very packed boxes.
“Well hurry the fuck up. There's a Junior party up at the dorms tonight and I think we all should go,” said Aria excitably, looking over at Ben and shaking his arm with a hopeful smile. She glanced back over at Mickey, and she could immediately tell she had her work cut out for her. Convincing Mickey to socialize was no easy feat.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, Aria c’mon, I hate those stupid fucking welcome back parties. And all those people who are always wanting to talk to us and take selfies?” he pointed to himself and Ben. “No fucking thank you. Do I look like I’m in the mood for that shit right now?” He shook his head harder and looked to Ben for backup. The coward put his hands up in surrender as if declaring Switzerland. Mickey glared at him before turning around, heading back to his room.
Aria, apparently, remained unconvinced.
“C’mon Mick. Everyone is probably already hammered anyway. No one will even recognize you. And who knows, maybe we could try and find you a hot guy to go home with.”
Mickey spun around to face them again and gave her a look that would probably terrify ordinary people, but that Aria took as a sign to probe further.
“You can’t tell me you don’t want what Ben and I have one day,” she reached up and planted yet another kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek and they smiled at each other lovingly. Disgusting.
“Please, you two are repulsive,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes as he went to retrieve some more boxes.
Aria had to know she was pushing Mickey's buttons. And she wasn’t even right. Not technically.
Mickey was gay, but not out. But he also wasn’t not out.
He was fine with who he was, but he didn’t go around announcing it. Not only did he think it wasn't anybody's business, but why the fuck did it matter who he liked to have sex with? Nobody needed to know that shit.
So he kept it to himself, only ever telling a handful of people, Ben and Aria included.
He also wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship. Like ever, probably. Between his hectic hockey schedule and staying afloat in school, he had zero time for any of that lovey-dovey, "let's talk about our feelings", date night bullshit.
Not that he would want it, even if he did have the time. Aria knew that. But it never stopped her from getting on his ass about it. She clearly very much enjoyed tormenting him for sport.
He walked back into the living room to see them both glaring at him.
Mickey let out a heavy sigh.
“No. Thank you. You guys go ahead. I’m gonna stay here and unpack, get to bed early. I’ve got an early class tomorrow, plus practice and shit.”
“You sure, man?” Ben asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’m tired as fuck anyway from getting no help with these boxes, so. I’ll probably fall asleep soon.”
Ben rolled his eyes and shook his head, common actions when Mickey was in one of his dramatic moods.
They said their goodbyes, Aria flinging her arms around Mickey’s neck and giving his cheek a smacking kiss.
“ARGH! Christ Aria. Gross!” Mickey had exclaimed, wiping his cheek off with both hands and giving her a look of pure disgust. Aria giggled and smacked Mickey in the arm, muttering something about him being, “the most dramatic fucker in the world.”
The couple finally disappeared out the door, leaving Mickey alone in the quiet apartment.
He headed into his room and began sifting through his boxes to find the one that had his sheets and duvet. Once located, he made short work of making his bed -- not really tucking the corners in or bothering to find his top sheet.
This was by far Mickey’s favourite part of move-in day; getting to sprawl on his bed for the first time.
He backed up a couple of paces and took a running start, leaping onto the bed and starfishing out on his stomach. The duvet was soft against his cheek, and Mickey immediately felt at ease now that he was back at school after a long summer back home in Chicago. The thought of home instantly made his muscles tense and his breath hitch. He hated that it still had that effect on him.
He shifted uncomfortably as he directed his thoughts back to the present -- remembering where he was now and that tomorrow was his first practice with the team. His heart nearly soared in the most embarrassing way when he thought about playing hockey with his team again after a long summer off.
He had, of course, attempted to practice while in Chicago, but the ice was absolute shit with the amount of heat the state had received.
He was just happy to be getting back into doing what he loved. And hockey was just about one of the only things he truly loved.
Mickey was about to start his third year on the team as a top-scoring centerman. He led the team last season in both goals and points, and the organization had rewarded him with MVP at the end of the season. He thought for sure that last year would be the year he’d get drafted to the NHL. That was the ultimate dream. The one thing that he wanted more than anything else, and the one thing that he had been working towards his entire life. Nothing had ever meant more to him than hockey.
He had done everything he could to prove himself to be the type of player that would be useful to any team last year, and that included putting his academics on the back burner so that he could get in extra training time. But his coach decided he wasn't ready. It just didn’t work out for him. Or for his team for that matter.
Despite their best efforts, Michigan was knocked out of the championships in the first round of the tournament; a tournament that the organization hadn’t won since 1998. Coach had yelled at them for nearly thirty minutes after they skated off the ice. Mickey remembered laughing at the fact that a little yelling was all it took to make a grown man cry. Technically, the guy in question was a seventeen year old rookie, but it was amusing nonetheless.
Mickey smiled at the memory as he felt his eyes begin to droop. He should be unpacking, but he was so boneless and exhausted that he couldn’t bring himself to pull himself out of bed to lug and sort through all his shit. He decided to take a short nap prior to getting to work, but before he could reach for his phone to set an alarm, he was out like a light.
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Mickey awoke after what felt like mere minutes to clattering and laughter coming from the living room. He groaned and squinted his eyes open halfway, his palms finding their way up to rub the sleep away. His heart was pounding, bizarrely, as if he'd just run a marathon in all his hockey gear.
Raucous laughter and the bashing together of pots and pans followed as Mickey blinked his eyes trying to remember where and who he was. He sighed when he finally placed himself, shaking his head at the ruckus coming from the kitchen. Ben and Aria were no doubt making dinner, and apparently attempting to make a new EP with their fucking kitchenware.
Between Ben’s clumsiness and Aria’s booming laugh, the two made it nearly impossible for Mickey to slip back into this blissful nap.
He sighed and rolled onto his side as his heart beat began to slow, tucking his elbow under his head and reaching for his phone on his nightstand. All it took was one look at the time for Mickey’s heart to begin to race all over again. He jumped out of bed so fast he was surprised that he didn’t roll an ankle.
“Shit, fuck” he muttered. It was 8:15am. Mickey had class in fifteen minutes.
Mickey scrambled around the room and threw on a pair of black joggers and the first shirt that he could find -- a white UMich hockey t-shirt from last year’s championship series. He lost at least a minute and a half hastily trying to find his missing left shoe, silently cursing last night’s version of himself for being so goddamn lazy. He hopped on one foot around the maze of unpacked boxes on his floor, trying to put on his shoes while simultaneously attempting to locate his backpack and books.
The whole charade took around five minutes before he was bursting through his bedroom door, and running past Ben and Aria who were now sitting at the kitchen island, a decadent breakfast laid out in front of them. He beelined it for the front door.
“Thanks for letting me sleep in assholes!” he yelled over his shoulder.
“What are we? Your fucking parents?” he heard Ben say from behind him. “Why is it our job to wake you up for school?!”
“Hey! I’m making dinner tonight after practice so don’t be late!” Aria shouted before Mickey could slam the door.
He glanced at his phone once he'd made it outside into the warm, end-of-summer breeze. 8:20am. He began to sprint to the Starbucks on campus, because God forbid he had to attend an 8:30am lecture without some sort of caffeine in his system.
Mickey was not a Starbucks person. In fact, the mere insinuation that Mickey was a Starbucks person was enough to make him double over and combust into laughter on a normal day.
Their coffee was average and overpriced at best, and he much preferred the kind that came out of the Keurig machine back at his apartment. He also didn’t have to sell his left kidney to pay for it. Not to mention he knew people from back home who would quite literally disown his ass if they heard he was anywhere near a Starbucks. Something about a beloved mom-and-pop convenience store being replaced with one. What the Starbucks Cooperation wanted with a location on the South Side of Chicago, Mickey would never understand. All he knew was that these were desperate times, and he was willing to forgive himself just this once if it meant getting through his first class of the semester without necking himself.
His and Ben’s apartment was about a seven minute walk to campus, and a ten minute walk to the rink. The university had all of the athletes living close enough to the school so they could easily get to games and practices without having to own cars. That shit wasn’t cheap. Not that Mickey would know. He was given a full-ride scholarship to come and play hockey at Michigan straight out of high school. It covered everything from his tuition to room and board. He was beyond grateful for it, because he sure as fuck wouldn’t be there without it. He probably had his coach to thank for that.
He made it to Starbucks in what he considered record time. He mentally patted himself on the back, entered the coffee shop, and audibly groaned upon seeing the scene in front of him. There were ten -- ten -- other people in line, no doubt looking for the same Monday morning caffeine fix that Mickey was chasing. In hindsight, he understood the struggle, but he had absolutely no time to be empathetic.
Mickey glanced at the time on his phone. 8:22am. Fuck. He looked back up at the line and observed its patrons. No one seemed to be in a rush. They all seemed relatively calm -- some on their phones, others chatting. There was no way any of them had a class in just eight minutes.
He darted towards the front of the line and tapped the shoulder of the girl who was currently ordering. She turned around, her eyes widening when she realized who Mickey was.
“Hey, you mind?” he asked the girl who was now blushing furiously, “kind of in a rush.”
The girl nodded and stammered out a “ye-yeah, yes, of course,” and moved a couple of steps back.
“Thanks.” He gave her a smile, landing another pat on her shoulder, at which point the girl giggled loudly and mumbled a reply that Mickey couldn’t quite make out.
He had long since gotten used to people, particularly women, acting that way around him. One of the ‘benefits' of being a well-known athlete on campus that he found annoying for the most part, but was clearly working in his favour this morning.
Mickey turned to face the counter so he could order and was stunned by the man that greeted him. The barista was a tall redhead, hair short and curled tightly at the top. His face was pale, a light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, and he had a jawline that had Mickey staring a beat too long. He looked up and was met with piercing green eyes, wide and staring at him in disbelief, brows furrowed, a look that immediately pulled Mickey out of his daze.
“Um, hi,” Mickey said, putting his wallet down on the counter and staring at the menu so he didn’t have to look at the man in front of him, “can I just get a plain black coffee?”
The redhead just continued to stare at him, blinking way more often than what was considered humanly acceptable. Mickey realized that this poor guy was probably starstruck, which could have been endearing if he wasn't seriously decaffeinated and seriously late. That idea was quickly put to bed once he began looking around the coffee shop as if looking for someone. He seemed to examine the customers, getting on his tippy toes, eyes quickly scanning the top corners of each wall before fixing his gaze back on Mickey.
“I’m sorry, am I being punked?” he asked, sarcasm clear in his voice, “or are you actually expecting me to let you cut in line like that?” The guy continued to appear baffled, looking at Mickey as if he had just kicked a small child.
“Uh,” Mickey mumbled, straightening his back, momentarily taken aback by the redhead’s forwardness, “I mean, considering that I’m standing here and have already ordered means I think it’s kind of obvious that was the expectation. I’m not just here for my good looks.”
The redhead snorted and gave Mickey a quick once over, making Mickey’s eyes widen for a brief moment before he caught himself. He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, electing to appear unfazed.
“Well, be that as it may, I can’t serve you unless you move to the back of the line and wait your turn,” the redhead said, with a challenging look on his face.
Mickey scratched the back of his head and checked his phone before peering back at the barista.
“C’mon man,” he said, trying not to sound impatient but not finding much success, “I have class in five minutes. Just pour the damn coffee and I’ll be out of your hair in like twenty seconds.”
The barista raised his eyebrows, a small hint of a smirk on his lips. He crossed his arms to his chest stubbornly.
“Sorry sir, I can’t help you. It’s coffee shop etiquette.”
Coffee shop what? Sir?
People like this were exactly why Mickey didn’t come to these types of places to begin with. Who had the mental capacity to take coffee, of all things, so seriously? They acted like it was some sort of religious cult and it maddened Mickey to his core.
He honestly should have left right then. He could have flipped the redhead off and found another source for his coffee. But something about the way the guy was looking at him infuriated Mickey so hard he could feel it in his toes.
He was being challenged, and Mickey wasn’t one to stand down from a challenge. So instead, Mickey stayed put and persevered.
“Look…” he said, quickly peering down at the guy's name tag. He immediately had to do a double-take when he saw the name. Curtis. He was pretty sure his brows found their vertical limit with how high they went at this tidbit of information because, Curtis? Surely, he was the one being punked because there was no way on God’s Green Earth that a guy who looked like this was named Curtis. Mickey looked back up at the redhead, shaking his head slightly.
“Look man,” he continued, trying to play off the snort that was threatening to escape his lips, “you must be new around here, if you don’t know who I am. But if you just went into the back and got your supervisor or something, I’m sure we could sort this right out.”
Curtis looked nonplussed by the request. His eyes narrowed in concern and for a split second, Mickey felt a little bad before he remembered the urgency of the situation. The barista just kept looking at him, seemingly unsure of what to say.
“Sure, sir,” he finally said, taking a deep, wavering breath, “I’ll just go get him.”
“Thanks so much,” Mickey replied with a faux sweetness to his voice. A feeling of relief washed over him as he mentally claimed victory. He looked at his phone again. 8:26am. He glanced back up at Curtis, who still hadn’t made a move to the back of the shop. “Uh, while I’m still young maybe?” Mickey quipped.
The redhead smiled sweetly, took a couple of steps back from the counter and, to Mickey’s horror, made a show of spinning around in a circle and taking his place back at the computer.
“Hello,” he said, clearly very amused by his own theatrics, “I’m the supervisor on shift right now. What seems to be the problem?”
Mickey wasn’t sure when his life had become a soap opera, but he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to get renewed for another season. He could only stare at the man in front of him, mouth slightly agape and utterly bewildered.
He could feel his throat drying up -- he swallowed so that he could actually speak whenever the words decided to come to him. Across from him, the barista’s once concerned look had morphed into an amused smirk and he was on the verge of looking like he had just won the lottery. Mickey scratched his nose with his thumb and took a deep breath in frustration.
“You’re joking,” is what came out.
“Unfortunately, I am not,” said Curtis in faux disappointment, putting his lips together in a thin line and shaking his head as if he were trying to sympathize with Mickey’s frustration. The nerve. “Now, I know this may come as a shock considering your clear disregard for other human beings besides yourself, but there’s about fifteen people in this line now and I really need to do my job, so you can either line up like everyone else, or you can get out of my store.” He tilted his head to the side slightly and raised one of his brows as if waiting for Mickey, who was now stunned beyond belief, to make a decision.
They continued to stare each other down -- Mickey outright glaring, and the redhead still smirking. Mickey was glaring so intensely that he could have sworn he saw Curtis' eyes flicker to his lips for a split second before focusing back on Mickey’s eyes. As far as Mickey was concerned, the flip in his stomach was not prompted by the redhead’s slip.
In fact, it didn't happen at all.
He needed to leave.
Mickey picked up his wallet from the counter, gave the redhead one final, scathingly dirty look, and turned to leave the coffee shop.
“Hey, have a great day!” he heard Curtis say loudly from behind him, the timbre of his voice smug and proud.
Mickey stomped his way to class. He had two minutes to get to the North building, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about being late after that bullshit confrontation first thing in the goddamn morning. And on a Monday of all days! No one had ever spoken to Mickey like that. Not while he'd been a top-scoring Michigan Wolverine, anyway. Back home was another story, but even then he sure as fuck didn’t go down without a fight.
It wasn’t like he expected to be treated like royalty -- especially not after how he grew up. The hockey team was just kind of a big deal at UMich. The team had a lot of supporters and essentially everyone on campus knew who they were, and after his success last season, they sure as shit knew who Mickey was.
That guy was dead wrong. Mickey didn’t consider himself above everyone else. But he did think that he deserved some respect for fucks sake. And if on the one occasion where he attempted to use his status to get special treatment, he at least expected some compliance.
He reached the entrance of the North building and began his short walk to the row of lecture halls at the end of the wing. His mind was still fixed on that tall, freckled alien. Honestly, fuck him and his weird-ass name. Curtis. Please. Was his family a part of the Mormon Church? It was a shame that his attractiveness was completely overridden by his cocky and intolerable personality. He shook his head at the complete waste and continued to trek his way to the classroom.
Mickey got to the lecture hall, pulled open the door and, unsurprisingly, saw that the class had already started. The hall had about thirty rows of seats ascending upwards. The professor bore no mind to the interruption and continued to drone on about some kind of psychology brain shit. Mickey climbed the stairs to the left of the door to the last available row. He slumped into his seat, dropping his backpack on the ground beside him.
As he began taking out his laptop, he could already tell his whole day was completely ruined. And all because he went to stupid, yuppie Starbucks.
It was at that moment that Mickey decided two things; that nothing good could ever come out of a trip to Starbucks, and that whether he made it into the NHL or not, he would consider his college career a success if he never ran into Curtis again.
