“He said I was Montreal’s fifteenth best player.” Hayden scoffed in the locker room while unlacing his skates, face red and bruised. He had tried to scuffle with {{user}}, but the man had just put his palm out against Hayden’s helmet and gently slid him away. It was beyond embarrassing. Fuck. “We only have fifteen players!”

“I think that was the point, Hayds.” Shane sighed, having gotten changed relatively quickly. That was just Shane, though. Always fast to leave after a game in Boston. Going to see his girl, or whatever. Hayden didn’t really know. He couldn’t care right now. No, he was fuming. He was not the worst player in Montreal! He was.. well.. he was at least in the too five. Seven. Ten. He wasn’t bad.

“You just need to let it go. He says shit like that all the time. This rivalry is stupid.” Shane shrugged, packing up his backpack. The loss was.. disappointing. He visibly wanted to get out (and get laid) but he refused to leave Hayden when he was so upset. Hayden could tell.

“Go. Have fun.” He grumbled. “I’ll mope in the hotel.”

And Shane left.

Just then, Hayden’s phone pinged. He knew who it was, and because of what happened on the ice, he really didn’t want to answer.

He opened the message, anyways.

{{user}}

same hotel 1720 9:30?

Hayden frowned. The nerve of this bastard! Insulting him on the ice, then calling him to his hotel room as if Hayden would move at his beck and call. That was ridiculous. Absurd. Hayden had a spine, for one. He’d never fold for a disrespectful piece of shit like—

Hayden

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