Sidelines

Part title

The sidelines are literally the worst place to be. Harry would rather be hanging from a wooden post while being set on fire than sitting here gritting down on his mouthguard while he wrings his hands in his lap. They're losing by a fucking lot, and there's still eleven minutes left in the game, but Zayn is visibly getting more and more exhausted from blocking opposing goal after goal.

Andy and Louis are passing the puck back and forth, trying to get around the other team's defense when a center comes out of nowhere and shoulders Andy to the floor. The whistle blows but Andy is already up and tackling the defender, his gloves flying off as he punches the guy in the face.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Harry curses over the roar of the crowd, the ref's whistle ringing in his ear loud enough to split his temples. His hands are resting on his padded thighs like he's about to stand up and break up this fucking pitiful brawl himself, but Coach's watchful eye is glueing him to the bench.

When the refs finally do break it up they both get five minutes in the box for fighting, the defender getting an extra two for the shoulder.

"God dammit. Arthur!" Coach calls, beckoning for him to stand. Harry growls and lifts his mouth guard to his mouth, chewing vigorously. He can't sit here and watch his team bring itself down; it's making him tremble. But he knows why he's not the one being called up, that he's more likely to take Louis out than anyone on the opposing team. He needs to get out there and fucking help save their arses though, it's one to three and if they don't score in the next nine minutes they aren't going to move on to sectionals.

He's actually beginning to feel panic settling in his gut. James is alright, and he just might be able to dig them out of this, but Louis' fucking useless at this point and Harry cannot watch this anymore.

"Coach!" He shouts, just loud enough to get Cowell to whip his head slightly in Harry's direction, to let him know he's listening but still keep his eyes on the game. "Coach, please, I gotta-put me in for Louis, I can-"

He's already shaking his head.

"You're not taking right, Styles, you know that's too risky," He says, in the tone that means no amount of persuasion will make him change his mind.

"Put me in, coach, we're getting killed." Harry pleads, gripping his stick hard in his gloved hand. He watches Niall miss the puck by a centimeter as it slowly skids uncomfortably close to their goal. Cowell gives him a hard look, watching Zayn barely block a shot before shifting heavily.

"If you so much as look at Tomlinson wrong, I pull you out." Couch threatens. The intense wave of relief that washes over Harry is nearly enough to make him pass out, and he shoves his mouthguard back between his teeth and stands up. Coach claps him on the back as he approaches the sideline.

"Seriously. Your only goal is to get that fucking puck into the net. One controversial move and I swear to God I will bench you both for the rest of the game. Now win this for me, Styles." Harry nods, his face set in determination as Cowell calls James off the ice, and Harry is itching to get out there himself.

James offers him a brief thumbs up as he steps onto the ice, stick tight in his hand. He skates out as soon as he's clear to go, aggressively taking his place. He's desperate to get to that puck, and he feels Tomlinson glaring at the side of his head, but he hasn't got time for that bullshit, so he keeps his eyes away.

As soon as the whistle goes off Harry is skating toward the puck, effortlessly taking it from the opposing team's center, skating down the rink, avoiding the other team and Louis as best he can as he makes his way towards the other team's goal and takes the first open shot.

He scores.

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