Sidelines

Part title

He manages another somewhere around the two-minute mark, and he's so high on it he can hardly breathe, but Coach is quick to remind him that they're only tied when he calls their last allotted time out and he'll be damned if either of them let it go into overtime. He's so fucking in the zone that as the thirty-second mark comes up, he makes a pass to Liam as he and Niall get cornered by three guys, only to see Liam trying to get around his own guy. He swears to himself as he barrels his way through the human line trying to block him in, skating as fast as he can to the puck, his stick already in position to make the winning shot with seconds left to spare. Only, of course, to get knocked on his arse and have his shot taken by his own fucking teammate.

"Fucking what the fuck was fucking that?" Harry calls out through his mask, words muffled by his guard.

The last second is signalled by a loud buzzer, the commentator shouting something about how Louis fucking Tomlinson was the one to do this, that he's the reason they're going to sectionals. Harry barely has enough sense to scramble up off his arse and watch his teammates tackle Louis in a rough hug as he triumphantly skates off the ice. Harry's about to go shove his skate up the short little prick's arse when there are suddenly hands grabbing on to both of his arms.

"Mate, don't," is all Niall says, Liam on Harry's other side giving him a half-apologetic look.

"No, that's bullshit, you know that's bullshit. Fuck, there's probably scouts here, he's gonna get interviewed and shit, I can't- fucking-," Harry stops when he feels a few pathetic tears pricking at his eyes. He should be happy, because their season could've been over but they won.

Instead he's just pissed, and he hates Louis Tomlinson with every fucking bone in his body.

"And they probably saw what an asshole move that was, it's alright, H," Liam soothes, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulder. Harry inhales deeply and nods, but his teeth are still clenched. He watches Cowell pull Louis away from the team, his arms crossed over his chest and a disappointed look on his face.

"Whatever," Harry mutters, tearing his eyes away from the conversation and turning to Niall and Liam. "We going out tonight?"

"Party at the Alpha's tonight if you're up for it," Niall shrugs.

"Dunno. Might be late, I think Grimshaw's coming over," Harry says, fiddling with his helmet. They're on the way to the locker rooms now, the rest of the team whooping and hollering. Niall snickers into his hand.

"Did you hear him call out Tommo's height? 'And the forward all the way from Doncaster UK, a whole two feet and four inches tall, Louis Tomlinson!'" Niall mimics, making Liam laugh into his hand and Harry smirk.

"I thought you liked him," Harry chuckles, ripping the padding off of his arms as soon as he's pushed open the locker room door.

"He's a nice bloke, doesn't mean I can't take the piss out of him to cheer my best mate up," Niall states. Harry smiles, punching Niall lightly on the arm before stripping his jersey and shaking out his sweaty curls.

If he makes the obvious comment in his head that Louis is in fact the least nice person he's ever met, no one has to know.

-

Harry's had two mixed drinks, five shots, and a Snapback placed on his head by Niall when he sees Louis at the party for the first time. He got here earlier than planned (Nick blew him off, which isn't unusual in any context), and that means he's been drinking longer, which means he's bound to do or say something stupid. It doesn't help Louis is being his obnoxiously loud and prick-y self, bragging loudly about making the winning shot. Harry fiddles with a button on his flannel and credits himself for at least trying really, really hard not to open his mouth.