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Ransom is pretty sure he just ascended. He has left his body behind and moved on to a better place and he must now be in heaven, receiving his eternal rewards for the week Holster spoke only in Michael Scott quotes, because Alexei Mashkov is standing in the doorway of the Haus holding a tray of deluxe nachos from Jerry’s. Ransom has had dreams that started this way.
Alexei Mashkov, number 7 on the Providence Falconers, top defenseman, is currently hobnobbing with Ransom’s very own teammates in his very own Haus. Alexei “Tater” Mashkov, professional hockey superstar, is handing the nachos over to a passing sophomore with a slap on the back. Alexei Mashkov, whose highlights Ransom was watching at team breakfast this very morning, is waving at him and saying, “And you are Ransom, yeah? Captain? Zimmboni and B tell me lots about you!”
When Ransom was in 10th grade, he saw Drake in a random Timmies in Toronto, and no offense to Aubrey but Ransom has never been so excited in his goddamn life.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Ransom says. He shakes Mashkov’s hand, doing what he’s pretty sure is a solid impression of a very cool grown adult who is very chill about meeting his idol. He’s met Kent Parson, he reminds himself. Bad Bob Zimmermann has seen him play multiple times. One of his best friends is an NHL rookie who has baby pictures of Wayne Gretzky wiping cake off his face at his first birthday party. Ransom can handle this.
Then Mashkov pulls him into a hug and all that composure flies out the goddamn window. Mashkov’s hands are fucking huge.
“Is great to meet you! My name Alexei, you call me Tater.” He’s really tall. Ransom knows all his stats by heart, so he knows that Mashkov only has two inches on him. But damn. He is tall, and he smells a little bit like expensive cologne and a little bit like Old Spice.
“Good to meet you too, brah. Our esteemed ex-captain over there didn't tell us you'd be here tonight.” Jack, who came in the door right behind Tater, is industriously wiping his shoes on the grungy welcome mat while also wrangling a pile of coats into the hall closet. If he were just a little bit more of a shithead, he'd probably be innocently whistling a fucking tune.
“I thought it would be a fun surprise. Plus Tater wanted to experience a kegster,” Jack says in his best ‘who-me-I-am-but-a-simple-hockey-robot’ monotone.
Ransom grabs Jack around the shoulders under the guise of a really violently loving bro-hug and hisses, “A fun surprise? You’re killing me, Zimmermann.”
Jack pats him on the back consolingly. “Blame Bits, honestly. He’s much closer to Tater than I am, and he sent the invite. I’m just Tater’s ride tonight.”
“Shut the fuck up, you’re complicit here, buddy, we have a group chat for a reason--”
Tater, who is standing at the base of the stairs watching Ransom and Jack mutter at each other, interrupts. “Speak of Bitty, where is he? Need to say hello, get pie.”
“He’s usually in the kitchen during these things. Also, like, generally,” says Ransom. “I’ll show you where it is.” The kitchen is maybe ten feet away. Tater really does not need to be shown, but he follows Ransom anyway.
As predicted, Bitty’s holding court in front of the oven. When Tater and Ransom walk in, he perks up and immediately whirls around to dig through the fridge. In under a minute, Tater is situated with a beer and a plate of maple apple pie with Bitty next to him pointing out members of the team as they pass through the kitchen.
“--that’s Tango, I don’t know where Whiskey got to, I swear to God sometimes that boy just vanishes, and you’ve met Ransom already--Rans, where’s Holster?”
Ransom looks up from his plate of pie, which he had to serve himself because Bitty has picked clear favorites tonight, and shrugs.
Like he was summoned, Holster sticks his head into the kitchen and waves a cheerful hello to Bitty and Tater.
“And here’s Holster!” Bitty exclaims. “Holster, come say hi to Alexei.”
Holster, who was deputized to handle the tub juice for the night and who is definitely already the drunkest person in the room, plasters himself to Ransom’s back and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Alexei, heyyy,” he drawls.
Ransom applies himself to his pie so he won’t stare at Tater. Holster slaps at his hand, and he holds the fork up over his shoulder so Holtzy can get a bite.
Distantly, he hears Bitty telling Tater, “No, they’re always like that.”
Chowder, face flushed and wearing a Samwell women’s volleyball shirt that is obviously not his, sidles into the kitchen and taps Ransom on the shoulder. “Um, I don’t mean to interrupt, but somebody spilled the tub juice? It’s making kind of a mess in the living room.”
Holster groans and peels himself off of Ransom. “Bro, I made the tub juice, I’m not gonna clean it up too. It’s your turn.”
At some point while Ransom’s picking Chowder’s sopping wet Sharks hoodie out of the puddle of tub juice next to the couch and tossing paper towels into the spill, Tater leaves. When Ransom asks Bitty about it, he just shrugs.
Ransom can’t help but feel a little disappointed. He didn’t even get to ask Tater about how it feels to punch Kent Parson. Also, he would not have turned down a goodbye hug, because the hug hello was a fucking revelation.
+
Ransom has three exams in the next week, so he's curled up under a table in Founder’s making a nest out of biochem flash cards and contemplating the inevitability of death when he gets a text from an unknown number.
hello !! :)))))))
As is the protocol in these situations, Ransom just kind of swats his phone in the direction of Holster’s feet until he leans down in his chair to pick it up. He hears the phone vibrate a couple more times on the surface of the table before Holster swings his giant body underneath to look Ransom in the eyes.
“Alexei Mashkov has your number?” Holster shouts at him, because Holster can’t fucking modulate his voice when he's excited, or ever. “When did Alexei fucking Mashkov get your number?”
Ransom ignores the bouquet of dirty looks their table is getting from other library patrons and slaps his phone out of Holster’s hand to look at the conversation.
hello !! :)))))))
yo ransoms busy w exams rn sorry
Ok I try again better time!!! Who is this??
holster who r u
This tater! Tell ransom I say hi :))))))))
“He says hi,” Holster hisses. Ransom just moans and retreats back into his pile of flashcards. Just then, his phone lights up again. According to the notifications, realmashkov7 has just followed him on Instagram and liked every picture he's ever posted.
When Ransom fails this exam and dies in a maelstrom of shame and defeat, he’ll at least have the comfort of knowing that Alexei Mashkov saw that one really hot picture that of him shirtless and glittery at Spring C last year and liked it.
+
Ransom takes his exams, emerges from his spiral, and embarks on his traditional Restorative Post Midterms Hockey Movie Night With Holster. They have Ransom’s laptop balanced on the slats of the bottom bunk, and they're twenty minutes into Goon when Ransom’s phone buzzes. He fishes it out of the sheets to see a new message from alexei FUCKING mashkov.
Hi ransom!!! Done with tests yet?
If Ransom stares at that text for a good five minutes without responding, that’s totally understandable in these circumstances. Holster tears himself away from Jay Baruchel long enough to see Ransom gaping at his messages.
He leans over to look at the screen. “Dude, you just left an NHL player on read. I’m impressed.”
Ransom just left an NHL player on read. He’s horrified. “What do I say?” he whispers.
The look on his face must be genuinely upsetting, because Holster actually looks concerned when he says, “He asked you a question? So, maybe answer it?”
Ya just finished up this afternoon
Tater’s little typing bubble pops up immediately, and Ransom can taste his heartbeat.
Good job congrats !! You celebrate?:)))
Thanks dude! Not really celebrating right now just relaxin
“An exclamation point, huh? Wow, dude, get it,” says Holster, still looking over his shoulder.
Should have party!! Get good reward for study!
Next time at samwell I help you celebrate :)))))))
I mean movie night with holster isnt a bad reward but hmu next time ur around the haus for sure
“I don’t even wanna make fun of you for this, I’m mesmerized,” Holster says, pausing the movie so he can focus on Ransom’s phone better.
There’s a pause, which feels about a thousand times worse than the threat of an immediate response, then Tater comes back with I will do!!
Ransom sends back two thumbs up emojis, slams his phone down on the mattress, and unpauses the movie before he hyperventilates. Holster just silently pats him on the head.
+
To be honest, Ransom kind of forgets about Tater’s promise. It’s always kind of there in the back of his head--he can’t watch a Falconers game without thinking I texted him every single time he sees number 7. But realistically, he was never expecting Tater to ever follow through with his idea to hang out with a random college student.
So he’s sort of shocked when he answers a knock on the door of the Haus on a random Thursday afternoon three weeks after that conversation and there’s Alexei Mashkov standing on the porch. He’s wearing a Falcs hoodie and really ugly sunglasses, and Ransom is a little bit convinced that he’s a mirage.
He waves and says, “Hi Ransom! Just guy I’m hoping to see,” and this is definitely real and happening. Sweaty intermission interviews and those goofy Falcs TV promos really don’t convey how soft his hair looks in real life.
Ransom just woke up from his Thursday afternoon nap, so he ends up just blearily staring up at Tater for an uncomfortable length of time before he says hello and waves him in off the porch.
The Haus is usually pretty quiet at this time of day, and there’s nobody else on the first floor when Tater walks in. Ransom tries to wake himself up by rubbing his eyes, but mostly he just gently punches himself in the face while tripping over an abandoned roll of tape in the front hall.
Tater pushes his sunglasses back on his head and looks around. “Looks very different in here without party, yeah? Bigger.” He’s literally rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Yep,” says Ransom. He slept with his contacts in, and he’s having a little bit of trouble focusing his eyes enough for normal conversation.
“Okay,” Tater grimaces. He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step towards the door. “Maybe not a good time today, maybe I come back later--”
Fuck. “No, sorry, wait, dude. I’m just really tired--let me get some caffeine or something and we can hang out.” Ransom pauses, remembers where he lives, and revises. “I mean, Nurse knocked the coffee machine off the counter last week and somebody let Tango have a Monster during finals and now Bitty doesn’t let us keep energy drinks in the Haus anymore. So do you mind going to a coffee shop?”
Tater shakes his head, so Ransom shoves his feet into shoes and grabs his Annie’s punch card.
When they get to Annie’s, Ransom shuffles up to the counter and orders a large latte with two extra shots, ignoring the worried looks he’s getting from the freshman working the cash register. He pulls out his wallet to pay but before he can Tater swoops in, orders himself something with three separate syrups, and whips out a credit card to pay for both of their drinks.
Ransom nods his thanks and takes his sensibly caffeinated drink over to a table by the window while Tater follows with his terrible caramel-amaretto-raspberry smoothie.
Tater politely waits until the latte has had a few minutes to enter his bloodstream before leaning over the table and asking, “So, you like being co-captain? Having good year, yeah?”
“I love it, of course. It's hard work, but the team’s all good guys. And Holster helps a lot.”
Tater takes a pointed slurp of his smoothie, and Ransom tries really, really hard not to stare at his mouth on the straw. “You are biology major? B tell me you want to be doctor after school.”
“Oof, dude, going straight for the career stuff,” Ransom says. “Yeah, Bitty’s right. There’s about a million steps between me and an MD right now, but that’s the plan.”
Tater smiles and says, “Tell me more about doctor plans.”
So Ransom does, which turns into Tater telling him about his childhood dreams of driving an ambulance, which turns into Ransom asking about his current career, which of course turns into an in-depth hockey discussion. They bicker about the Leafs’ defense until the dregs of Ransom’s latte are cold and Ransom is smiling so hard he thinks his mouth might fall off of his face. When he looks at the wall clock behind the counter, they’ve been there for an hour and a half and April is on shift at the bar.
He watches Tater absentmindedly lick the last smears of whipped cream off the inside of his cup with an appropriate and discreet amount of interest before interrupting Tater’s tangent about the relative merits of various arena vending machines. “Do you want another drink before we go? I’ll buy this time.”
Tater jumps halfway out of his chair and starts guiltily scooping up their cups. “We go? Shit, sorry, you have place to be, I’m so rude--”
“No, dude, don’t worry about it. I don’t have any plans until, like, Tuesday, but I didn’t want to trap you in Samwell too much longer,” says Ransom.
“Should have said!” says Tater, sinking back into his seat and eyeing his watch with surprise. “I come down to spend time with you, not gonna be mad about spend lots of time. Should go soon, maybe, but one more drink--not a problem.”
Ransom makes his way up to the counter and waves hello to April while he orders their drinks and slides over his punchcard.
“Hey Justin. Where’s your better half today?” she asks.
“Right now, he’s in econometrics,” Ransom responds. “Also, I’m definitely the better half in this scenario, you’ve seen us both shirtless. You can compare.”
Tater comes up to the counter while April is making the drinks and points at the wall clock. “Should head back to Providence soon. But I will walk back to Haus with you!”
It’s a pretty nice day for March in Massachusetts, but still chilly enough that Ransom doesn’t feel at all guilty about using Tater as a wind shield on the way back to the Haus. They walk back mostly in comfortable silence, which Tater breaks every now and then to draw attention to a cool bird like he’s never seen a crow before. Every time he lifts his arm to point, his hand brushes Ransom’s. It’s a nice walk.
+
For a professional athlete, Tater certainly seems to have a lot of spare time and a lot of reasons to visit a random college campus nearly an hour away from where he lives and works. Ransom’s on the dean’s list, okay, when Tater just happens to be passing by the sciences building right when his neurobiology lecture gets out he realizes something’s up. He knows the Falcs’ schedule almost as well as Samwell’s, and Tater has literally no team-sanctioned reason to be in Massachusetts.
“Ransom, hello! Funny I see you here, big coincidence!” Tater says with a blinding grin.
“Hey, what are the odds,” Ransom says, falling into step with Tater. Walking alongside him is something of a challenge, because Ransom may be tall but Tater is not only taller but also about ninety percent leg.
“You up for Annie’s?” Ransom asks. “I only need one more punch before I get a free drink, I’ll buy you a smoothie.”
It’s not like Ransom minds entertaining Tater. He’s not gonna turn down the chance to chill at Annie’s for an hour with the very attractive professional athlete who he personally believes he has a lot of chemistry with.
Ransom’s phone buzzes, and he twists around to pull it out of the back pocket of his shorts. It’s a string of messages from Holster:
PAPER BAD
ECONOMETRICS PROJECT BAD
EVERYTHING BAD
CINNAMON ROLL EMERGENCY
“Actually,” he asks Tater, “Do you mind if we meet up with Holster? He’s having a rough day and he thinks that Annie’s cinnamon rolls have restorative powers.”
For a second, it looks like Tater’s smile dims. But before Ransom can get a good look at his face, he nods and sets off in the direction of Annie’s.
They settle in at their window table from last time. It’s a two-top, so Ransom drags over another chair for Holtzy. He waves off Tater’s efforts to go up to the counter, and orders for all three of them--latte for him, monster smoothie for Tater, three cinnamon rolls and bottled water for Holster. While he’s waiting at the end of the counter, Holster arrives. He hurls himself through the front door with an incredibly loud, impressively tortured wordless groan and makes a beeline for Ransom. He grabs Holster by the elbows and gently redirects him to their table.
When he gets to the table with drinks and a plate stacked with cinnamon rolls, Holster is slumped face down on the table and Tater is staring on in worried silence. “This thing--normal thing?” he whispers to Ransom.
Ransom pats Holster’s sweaty cheek and says, “Only when he’s really overloaded with work. Usually he doesn’t need to go into a vegetative state and eat a bunch of pastries. Don’t worry about it, dude.”
At “pastries”, Holster groans and makes vague grabby-hands in the direction of the cinnamon rolls. Ransom obliges, tearing off a piece of the top roll and feeding it to him. They get through most of a cinnamon roll that way before Holster can get his shit together enough to sit up and eat them under his own power.
Tater clears his throat. “Okay, maybe I go. You two busy, I just get in the way.”
Holster, who is now sitting up, drinking water, and focusing his eyes, says, “Nah, buddy, I’m good now. Just pretend I’m not even here.”
“Sorry,” Tater says, shaking his head. “Don’t want to, uh, third wheel?”
Something clicks in Ransom’s brain.
“Holy shit, was this a date? Was last week a date? ” Ransom feels a touch appalled at himself. He’s usually a little more with it when it comes to these things.
“Um, yes? I like you very much, Ransom. Could maybe be more clear about the dates,” Tater says. “I just think, I do not want to break up good relationship. And you two are clearly couple for long time, very close.”
Ransom would like to be able to say that he’s never seen a person do a spit take in real life, but he has lived with Adam Birkholtz for three years.
“Dude, nonono! We’re just friends! No romance whatsoever!”
“You two--you two are not--”
“No, tragically, we are both heterosexual,” says Holster. Then he visibly suppresses whatever horrible instinct forces him to constantly quote sitcoms and says, “Except not Ransom, Ransom’s bi.” Tater looks confused. Ransom wants to die.
Holster leans over the table and slings a friendly arm around Tater’s shoulders. “It’s a totally reasonable assumption, though, dude. You are definitely not the first person to think that we’re an item. There was this one time at a kegster sophomore year where this girl, I think she was a Theta--”
Ransom lovingly and gently tackles his best friend away from the guy he wants to date and slaps a hand over Holster’s mouth. “Yep, anyway, I’m not dating Holster, I’m not dating anyone, I’m entirely single, do what you want with this info.”
Holster wrestles himself out of Ransom’s expert headlock to say, “Brah, he’s a catch! He can do, like, advanced math and shit. Plus, look at these arms!”
“Yeah, I know,” says Tater. “I see the arms.”
There’s a very flattering look of interest in Tater’s eyes. There’s a different but equally interested look coming from the kid working the counter, who has definitely been live-snapping the whole interaction from behind the pastry case.
“Okay, I’m obviously super glad that we’re all on the same page now, but fuck you both for making this happen in public,” says Ransom.
“Well, I’m good right here for a while,” says Holster, pointing at his remaining cinnamon roll and a half. “So if you want to be not in public, our room’s gonna be free for at least the next hour.”
“Walk you back to Haus?” Tater asks with a grin.
This time, they hold hands on the way back.