Chapter Text
They’d heard about each other. Of course they had. It would have been hard to avoid, with how small the competitive youth hockey world was.
Tim Drake and Conner Kent: the two best hockey players under the age of 18 in the country. Best in the world, probably, if their competition was honest with themselves. Anyone that knew anything about the sport knew that they were the two to beat.
As players of a shared caliber, they were often thought to be one in the same. Two sides of the same coin. Their names were strung together in sentences, tied up double-knotted with ribbon that was too hard to undo. They were equals; natural-born enemies.
Tim hated every second of it.
Not the “best in the world” part — he would never get tired of that. Rather, the countless stupid comparisons painted of him and Conner fucking Kent.
It was as if Tim couldn’t live as his own person. He existed merely as a counter; yeah, maybe Kent was good, but Drake has him beat any day of the week. It wasn’t enough for Tim to just be good at hockey — which he was, extremely — he had to be better than Kent.
It was so fucking stupid.
And the worst part? Tim wasn’t even sure he was better. He’d seen Kent play, begrudgingly, at a few of the national tournaments he’d attended. The boy was a killer on the ice. Out for blood, out for vengeance. The one thing Tim did have over him, however, was technique; Conner had the passion, sure, but he was sloppy. His large frame scraped along the ice, barrelling down anyone in his way. He had nothing on Tim’s sleek turns, or his careful, precise glides.
These, at least, were the thoughts in Tim’s head as the Gotham City Giants’ bus cruised along the paved streets of Central City.
They were on their way to a game. A tournament, actually, but the Giants had qualified to skip through the first round of the bracket based on their season record, so they only needed to win one game to qualify for the second day of play. Which was good, probably, because any time spent in the arena besides what was absolutely necessary would be another minute that drove Tim closer to insanity.
And, look, Tim was grateful for his team. He knew how privileged he was to play at such a high level, and how many would kill for his spot on the team. It’s just that USHL tournaments meant Conner Kent, which meant everyone would be talking about Tim — not about his skills, about him.
But this was also one of Tim’s last chances to stand out against the others in his draft class. His birthday was coming up in July, meaning he would be eighteen before the September deadline. Tim was eligible for this year’s selection (and so was Conner Kent), so every second on the ice counted. There was no room for error, no leeway in terms of his playing. One mistake could cost him a spot in the majors.
Not that he was too worried. He knew the hockey world was practically wrapped around his finger. But potential draftees faced immense public scrutiny; better safe than sorry. He needed to prove that he deserved his spot in the league.
Or, at least, that he deserved it more than Conner Kent.
The bus slowed to a halt outside the arena. The paved walkways leading to the front doors were swarming with fans — parents, mostly, in their children' s jerseys, but some others in more formal attire. Scouts.
Tim’s teammates filed out of the bus, grabbing their gear from the storage compartments beneath. The air outside was crisp, still holding onto the bite of winter that hadn’t yet quite shifted to spring. Probably a similar temperature to how it would feel inside the rink.
Another bus pulled up behind their own, and Tim knew what team inhabited it before the coach even stepped off. The looming energy couldn’t be matched. Fucking Metropolis
The bus driver stepped off to unlatch the luggage compartment, followed closely by exactly who Tim did not want to see.
Conner Kent, looking smug as always. Asshole.
His steps down from the charter bus had been more of a gallop than anything. Tim scoffed. Even the way he walked was sloppy. This was the man everyone kept comparing him to? Honestly, Tim should be offended. Maybe Kent was brute force, but Tim had the brains to back his game up.
The mature part of Tim’s brain chided him for being so childish about the situation. Kent had never done anything to Tim. They’d never even properly interacted. All the boy’s opinions were based on what he’d heard from others, and the petty grudge that had formed from the constant pressure to out-perform the man.
The other section of Tim’s brain screamed something incoherent about pummeling Kent’s ass into the ground. This side was much, much louder.
Warmups passed quickly. It was routine. He was used to this by now. Sixteen years of playing the sport practically daily was enough to establish some sort of muscle memory.
Gotham’s first game of the tournament was against Keystone City. A good team, but not strong enough to break through the defensive barrier of the Giants. Few teams were.
By the end of the first period, Gotham was up 2-0. It was fun to be winning, maybe, but this wasn’t the part Tim truly enjoyed.
No, that came later. That came after the fourth goal horn of the game had sounded, the game was tied, and each team was hanging on by a thread. It was a battle of stamina. It was a competition of the mind, more than that; whichever team could stay with it the longest. Whoever had the stronger will. Whoever wanted it more. That was the part that Tim enjoyed.
Hockey was a mind game; one that Tim had mastered long ago.
It came as a shock to no one when Gotham won 4-1.
Tim was able to get a few good hits in. He scored only one of the goals, but got an assist on another, and managed to narrowly avoid a fistfight with one of the opposing players. Successful, if you asked him.
Successful also, apparently, according to—
According to Conner fucking Kent.
Metropolis was playing directly after Gotham’s game had ended, and of course they hadn’t spared the decency to not file into the bench before the Giants had cleared out. Tim had tried not to pay much attention, but even standing with full gear and helmet on, Conner Kent was recognizable.
He was tall. That’s the first thing Tim noticed. He was tall, and his brows were knit together as if he were actually confused, which Tim knew wasn’t the case. His eyes were trained on Tim, almost studying.
“Hey. Drake, right?” As if he didn’t already fucking know.
“Hm,” Tim grunted in lieu of a response.
“Cool. You had a nice shot out there, man,” Kent grinned, but there was an edge to it. “Two points, huh? Think I can double that in this next game?” Screw him and his stupid smirk. Smug asshole.
Tim gave him a blank stare. Dammit, this guy just kept talking, didn’t he?
“Sure. Whatever,” Tim dismissed.
He was about to sling on his bag and squeeze around when Kent stepped to the side blocking his path. His eyes narrowed in on Tim, bringing his voice lower. “Either way, I’ll see you in June. You’ll make an awesome second draft pick, Drake.”
“Fuck off, Kent,” Tim muttered as he finally pushed past the other man.
Okay, screw giving him a chance to prove himself. Ever. This was not a petty grudge because of some random stats that fans loved to compare. Conner fucking Kent was an asshole, and Tim wanted nothing to do with it.
And maybe it would have been fine. It wouldn’t have mattered, except for the fact that, true to his word, Kent went out there and put up four points. Two goals, two assists.
Metropolis won the final game of the tournament against Gotham, too. 4-3. Two of those goals had been Kent’s.