Chapter Text
If you asked Kim Seungmin at age nine why he wanted to be a goalie, he would have told you it was because the ice looked cleanest from the crease.
Perhaps he would have told whomever asked that it was actually his dad’s idea to even get him on the ice instead of in the choir room like he originally wanted.
If you asked him today however, sitting in the suffocating silence of the Vipers’ locker room with various fresh and fading bruises under his collarbone, he wasn’t sure he’d have an answer at all. Not one that wasn’t riddled with regret at least.
“Unbelieveable,” a voice spat from across the room. It was their 19-year-old captain, a starting defenseman who had already been drafted to the majors and acted like the world owed him ice time. He didn't have as much of a glance at Seungmin as he ripped the tape off of his stick, far too aggressively. “Five fucking goals and we lost by one point in the third period because our netminder decided to go to sleep on a backdoor pass.”
Seungmin didn’t blink. He sat on the wooden bench, his heavy leg pads still strapped tight around his legs, suffocating in his own sweat. He felt so weighed down, both by his equipment and recently, his mind.
He didn’t point out that the backdoor pass only happened because the defense had completely collapsed on a literal 3-on-1 breakaway. He didn’t mention the other forty-two saves he had made tonight while his team skated around like they were at a backyard game of field hockey.
In this locker room, blame only flowed one way which ironically was the one way his team just couldn’t seem to get the puck: into the net.
Slowly, Seungmin reached up and unlatched his mask. The cool, stale arena air drifting from the open door of the locker room hit his face, but it never brought any relief. Not anymore at least, instead it just felt suffocating and heavy. He stared down at the scuffed, painted fiberglass of his helmet, tracing the sharp yet fading lines of the cage with a taped finger.
He closed his eyes, the stomach-churning murmurs of his teammates fading into the background, and let his mind drift back to the day the ice had actually felt welcoming.
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He had been nine years old, clutching a folder of pristine sheet music to his chest when his dad had steered him away from the warmth of the elementary school choir room and straight to the local community rink. The whole car ride there was a mess of harsh words and scoffs from his father.
“Singing isn’t a real hobby for a boy Seungmin,” his dad had muttered, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he drove away from the school and towards Seungmin's doom. “It’s too soft. Too girly. The only boys who make it in those stupid art things are gay Seungmin. Is that what you are? Is that what you want for yourself? No? I didn’t think so. So, you listen here kid,” His dad turned his head to stare dead into the young boy's eyes as they stopped at a red light. “You’re going to get out there on the ice and learn what real competition looks like. Maybe this will finally toughen you up.”
Seungmin had just looked down at his sheet music, his small fingers crinkling the edges of the paper. He hadn’t understood why the songs that made him feel so light was something to be ashamed of. To him, the choir room was where he could be free and himself. He felt safe there with Miss Maley and his friends. But to his dad, the choir room was a weakness; the rink was where you went to prove you were tough. To prove you're a man.
When the car finally idled in the slush-filled parking lot of the community rink, the now heavy silence inside the vehicle was louder than any of his dad’s words.
Seungmin shoved his sheet music deep into his backpack, zipping it up tightly as if he could protect the songs from the freezing cold air waiting for him outside. He didn’t say a word as he climbed out, his small sneakers crunching against the salt and gravel as he walked after his dad, who was smiling as he held a helmet and hockey stick in hand, which was a stark contrast to young Seungmin's own scared and nervous face.
To a quiet kid who thrived on structure and harmony, the arena was an absolute nightmare. It was a sensory assault of screeching metal on ice, the scent of damp fabric and sweat, and the deafening clatter of sticks and people hitting the boards. He’d wanted nothing more but to go home and practice his scales with his mom, to lose himself in a melody where every note had a designated place and every voice worked together to create something beautiful.
Instead, his dad sat him down on the bench and brought him a pair of stinky stiff skates and told him it would “build character”
For the first few weeks of youth hockey, Seungmin felt like a ghost on the ice. He was an average skater at best, (he’s very grateful his mom was an enthusiast of going ice skating and roller skating various times a year) completely overwhelmed by the chaotic swarm of nine-year-olds chasing the puck like a pack of untamed puppies who smell a treat. There was absolutely no harmony out there. It was just aimless running, tripping, and shouting. Needless to say, Seungmin hated it. And Seungmin didn’t hate many things.
At least until the day the team’s regular goalie threw a tantrum after getting hit in the shoulder and marched right off the ice in tears. Screaming to his mom about how he was never returning.
The coach had stood by the bench, rubbing his temples, (whether it was in pain from the sharp cries or annoyance, one would never one) as he looked at the pile of oversized and heavy loaner gear left behind. “Anyone want to fill in?” he asked, his voice echoing off the plexiglass. “Anyone at all?”
The other kids had shrunken back, some terrified at being in the goal with rogue pucks flying at them, others not wanting to miss being the one to actually be able to score a goal and feel the ‘overwhelming’ feeling of pride (something Seungmin honestly doesn't understand. He’s scored a few times and he simply felt…well bored and annoyed mostly at being forced to be there. He supposed the clap on the back by his dad at the end of the day and the overwhelming amount of pride in his dads voice as he told his mom what he did that day at practice made it tolerable at least). But Seungmin had stared at the heavy chest protector, the massive leg pads, and the painted fiberglass mask. To him it didn’t look like a punishment. No, it looked like a shield and his saving grace. It looked like a way to stay out of the chaotic running and to just watch.
“I’ll do it.”
If only Seungmin had known those three words would change the course of his entire life.
The moment the coach had strapped the heavy helmet over his head and snapped the chin strap into place, the entire world changed. The cage was dropped before his eyes, and suddenly, the suffocating noise of the arena was blissfully and perfectly muffled. The frantic shouting of the various parents in the bleachers faded into a dull hum. Inside the mask, it was just the steady, rhythmic sound of his own breathing.
He skated around - very clumsily, weighed down by twenty something pounds of extra padding- into the blue crease. And as he turned around, and looked out over the rink, he realized something profound.
The ice was the cleanest from here. Pristine, white, and untouched.
During the first scrimmage, a kid from the opposing line broke away from the pack. He skated hard and fast towards the net, the black puck rattling against his stick in a way Seungmin had never seen before - at least not on his team- however Seungmin didn’t panic. In the choir room, he had learned how to read a conductor's hands to predict the next note; on the ice, his eyes naturally did the same thing. He tracked the angle of the boy's blade, the tilt in his shoulder, and followed the gaze of his eyes, as after all, people say eyes tell everything you need to know.
The boy slapped the puck. It lifted off the ice, flying straight towards the top corner of the net.
Time seemed to slow down inside Seungmin’s helmet. He didn’t think, he just reacted. He reached out his left hand, the heavy leather webbing of his catch glove snapping shut with a sharp and definitive thwack.
The puck stopped dead. The referee blew his shrill whistle, killing the play. The entire chaotic game came to a grinding halt, frozen in place, all because of him. From his little blue square of ice, Seungmin set the rhythm of the conductor's hands. He didn’t need to chase the game or the melody; the game had come to him.
The silence was broken with clapping, first from his dad, and then a shrill yell from his mom.
“THATS MY SON!”
Seungmin never understood the feeling of making his parents proud. He never craved it like he’d seen some of the boys on his team did. Yet in the moment, he knew he could get addicted to the sight of the brightest smile on his fathers proud face. He understood why people liked being on stage, the addicting and exhilarating feeling he got as the crowd (of mainly just middle aged parents who all looked rather tired from work) came to life and clapped. For him. For Seungmin.
This was the exact moment the cage had closed, trapping his heart inside the net forever.
SLAM.
A locker door banged shut, shattering the memory and jerking Seungmin violently back to the present.
The heavy, suffocating silence of the Vipers’ locker room rushed right back over him once more. The floor was littered with disregarded tape and empty sport drink bottles. One by one, his teammates slammed their gear into their bags, casting bitter, resentful glances in his direction before making their way out the heavy metal doors.
Soon, the room was entirely empty.
Seungmin sat alone on the wooden bench, staring at the floorboards. He used to put on that mask because it made him feel safe from the world. Just another tool to silence his own mind, as well as others. Now, as he looked at the scuffed fiberglass in his hands, it just felt like a cage he couldn’t escape. His love for the game was freezing over, dying in a slow, quiet death in a locker room that didn’t want him.
Slowly and painfully, he began to unstrap his pads. Once showered and packed, he put the scratched helmet into the top of his small locker with an indignant sigh. He walked towards the court to turn off the lights. As he glanced over the court, he couldn’t help but think the ice was starting to look a bit dirty.
Without a noise, he flipped off the light switch and made his way out the metal doors.