Chapter Text
Prologue
The business offices for Colorado Spring’s NHL team, The Stargates, was a nondescript building. Its walls were beige and green and the people bustled about with their heads down and their hands full of files, trade deals and merchandise purchases and publicity deals being exchanged as regularly and easily as breathing.
The central conference room brimmed with sports paraphernalia and history--posters, worn jerseys, and signed balls and golden pucks hung on the walls and. On one end of the table, another relic of sports history sat: Coach “General” George Hammond.
Hammond double checked the stipulations outlined in the document, nodding to himself, purposefully ignoring the impatient huff of the man in the crisp business suit at the other end of the table. The contents of the contract guaranteed him control of the roster and salary allocation—the only thing he truly cared about.
He frowned at the contract length but there was nothing to be done about it. That was the deal. Grabbing the nearby fountain pen, he signed the document with a perfunctory flourish and pushed it down the length of the table towards the businessman at the other end.
He couldn’t help but let out a derisive laugh as the contract was promptly filed into a leather briefcase, as if the other man was terrified that Hammond would change him mind and take it back.
“Give the ink a chance to dry at least, Maybourne.”
Maybourne, the owner of The Stargates, flashed him a shark’s smile and his fingers steepled menacingly beneath his chin. “You’re our last chance, George.”
“That’s General to you.”
“Yes, of course, General. As I was saying, you’re The Stargates’ last hope; we don’t want you changing your mind.”
Hammond shook his head and leaned back in his chair, surveying Maybourne. “You don’t give a damn about The Stargates. This team means everything to Colorado Spri—“
“This team,” Maybourne interrupted, voice icy and eyes narrowed, “is a drain on this city. Your star is retired, your reserves are depleted. Ticket sales are down and we barely have enough in the bank to cover your stadium fees.”
Hammond scoffed. “So, it’s less of a drain on the city and more of a drain on you.”
Maybourne grinned and shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Well, either way, General, you’ve got a decent sized salary cap and one season to turn The Stargates around. Otherwise…”
He trailed off, eyebrows raised and eyes drilling a hole into Hammond’s. But Hammond didn’t need Maybourne to fill in the blanks. Without a championship, without increased ticket sales, without a winning season, The Stargates would be sold off to Washington. And Maybourne would get a huge paycheck and a controlling interest in the futures of the current Stargates players.
If George Hammond wanted to save the future of The Stargates he was going to need to work outside the box. Luckily for him, that was exactly his style.
He pushed himself back from the table and stood to his full height.
“Consider it done, Harry.”
“We’ll see about that, George,” Maybourne muttered softly, watching the esteemed coach barrel out the door, his famous red phone already out and pressed to his ear. “We’ll see.”
______________________________
Miles away, Jack O’Neill sat at a dingy sports bar, fingers picking at the label around his beer bottle, the condensation rolling down into the label and making it soft and pliable. On the televisions above the bar, ESPN classic was playing the 1977 NHL finals. He watched with half-hearted interest as Jacob Carter heroically flipped up the puck and slapped a shot at the opposing goalie—the winning shot—bouncing off the post and rattling into the net.
He remembered watching the game with his dad as a kid, back when his shoulder pads drooped off his adolescent shoulders and hockey felt like the only way out of a small town.
His thoughts turned sour as he remembered that hockey could never make him feel that way again—free and exhilarating and like he was flying across the surface of the ice. Now, hockey felt like a curse. Hockey gave him everything and then, just as quickly, it took everything away.
Jack wrapped his lips around the longneck and tilted his head back, taking a long, deep swallow of his beer. The alcohol was slightly warm and more than a little bitter. He liked the discomfort. He didn’t feel like he deserved to enjoy things like ice cold, refreshing beer anymore.
“Dad! C’mon, Dad! Let me come to practice with you! Please?”
Jack ruffled his son’s hair, grinning down at him and playfully swatting his backside with his hockey stick. “You’re not quite ready for the pros, Charlieboy.”
His son pouted up at him, eyes wide and adoring. “But when will I be ready?”
Jack’s phone chirped with the notice that he received a text message from his teammate, Kawalsky. The message read: Practice now! General’s on the rampage.
Tucking his phone into his pocket, mind already on the ice and locker room and the rampaging General waiting for him and his teammates, Jack began gathering up his duffel bag, skates, and water.
“Dadddd.” Charlie’s voice dragged his name out, impatient at being ignored. “When will I be ready?”
Jack sighed and searched for an answer. “I don’t know, Charlie. When, when—“ His eyes caught sight of the manmade ice rink out on the lake that he and his own father had built together when he was a boy. He tilted his head at the rink and grinned at his son.
“Skate a couple thousand laps around that rink and work on that shot like I showed you and then we’ll talk.”
Charlie yipped and grabbed his own skates and jacket and hockey stick. Jack and Charlie had stayed up last night taping up the handle with fresh tape, heads bent low and solemnly pouring their love and attention into the task.
Hockey was another family member of the O’Neill family and both Jack and Charlie showed it the proper respect it deserved.
Outside, Jack tossed his gear into the bed of his truck and turned to his son, ruffling his hair again, smiling. “Don’t give your mom too much trouble, okay?”
Charlie shrugged off Jack’s hand and grinned. “You’re going to help me with my backhand tonight, right?”
Jack’s phone chirped in his pocket again and he looked down and saw Kawalsky’s message: Seriously. Rampage. Get your ass in here.
Jack groaned and tried not to think about the suicide skates and extra laps waiting for him for being late. He hauled himself into his truck and nodded at his son. “Backshot. Tonight. Yeah, sure, you betcha.”
The last thing he saw as he pulled out of the driveway and headed for practice was his son’s smiling face, waving at him and running off towards the ice rink on the lake.
Jack was pulled from the past by the hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed the man—his mentor, his friend—join him at the bar.
“General,” he acknowledged.
“Jack.”
Jack tried not to think about the last time George Hammond sat with him like this; tried not to think about the gentle, soothing rumble as he said, “Son…I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”
The General sat next to him and gestured to the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Jack snorted at the thought of the great General drinking anything less top-shelf Scotch.
He leaned back in his barstool and rolled his beer bottle between his hands, eyeing his former coach. “What do you want with me, General? In case you missed the memo—I know how those memos slip through the cracks—or maybe you missed the last issue of ESPN? Or the Colorado Springs Gazette? I’m retired. Tainted goods and fallen star and all that.”
He hated that he sounded bitter; he was aiming for careful irreverence.
George sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I need you back, Jack.”
Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “No way, George. I can’t. I’m retired. I told you. I—“
George cut him off, beer bottle slamming onto the wooden surface of the bar. “Dammit, Jack. Maybourne’s coming for the team and if we don’t show up this year, if we don’t go all the way—it’s gone. We’re losing the team; shipped off and sold off to Washington. And then he’s knocking down the stadium and selling the land, Jack.”
Jack stared at the man, mouth agape. The Stargates had been part of the city for as long as he could remember. His father had taken him to games; he’d grown up with posters of George Hammond and Jacob Carter, the heroes of The Stargates and purveyors of the coveted Stanley Cup. He’d aspired to join the team and lead his own group to victory.
He turned his attention to the bottle in his hands and clenched his jaw, thinking of the games he’d taken Charlie to; thinking of Charlie swathed in an oversized hockey jersey with O’Neill imprinted on the back, eagerly telling anyone in the stand that his dad was the team captain of The Stargates. He thought about birthday parties held on the stadium’s rink and Charlie’s first words in the locker room, surrounded by a pack of rowdy hockey players.
“Why do you need me?” he asked quietly, eyes darting over to the General.
He leaned close, lowering his voice. “We’ve got one season, son. One season to prove to Maybourne and the stakeholders that the team is worth saving. We need to sell tickets and win games. And, Jack, I need you to do that.”
Jack shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face and through his hair in agitation. “Dammit, General. You don’t need me. The league’s full of young schmucks to get you a winning season.”
“I don’t need a young schmuck, Jack. I need a seasoned, veteran leader. A Captain. That’s you. This town knows you, son. The fans know you—and,” he hesitated for a moment and before he continued Jack knew what he was going to say, could already feel his stomach rolling with nausea at the though of his son’s death being used as a marketing tool. “And the world knows your story, son. It’s—it’s—“
“It’s good publicity,” Jack said bitterly, eyes flashing with anger and pain.
George nodded and clasped his shoulder, “I don’t want you for publicity, Jack. I want you because you’re a damned fine hockey player and a damned fine leader—a good man. And that’s what I need.”
Jack didn’t say anything, just stared studiously at the bottle in his hands, taking deep breaths to calm the violent roll of his stomach—anger and pain and alcohol mixing together.
Hammond continued. “We’ve got a good team together. Kawalsky and Jackson are on board this season. One of our scouts picked up some new hotshot goalie, Teal’c something or other. Best damned eyes in the rink and has more focus than anyone I’ve seen in a long while. And, and we got Carter.”
Jack’s eyes widened and his head swung sharply at the other man’s words, beer and nausea and unease temporarily forgotten. “Carter? You got Carter?”
His eyes flicked to the television screen behind the bar where a young Jacob Carter held up the Stanley Cup in the center of the ring and skated triumphantly. Hammond followed his line of sight and hesitated for a second before nodding. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We got Carter.”
Jack slumped back into his seat, overwhelmed. He had wanted to leave hockey behind him—it was too closely tied to the loss of his son. He needed space.
But he thought about working with Carter—the Carter, a man who he had idolized almost as much as George Hammond himself.
He thought of what the Stargates meant to him, personally. He thought about his father’s stern voice and laughter as he helped Jack learn how to pass and maneuver the puck. He thought about the brotherhood and family he found on the ice—the success and challenges of navigating a professional hockey team.
And then, then he thought about Charlie. Charlie, proudly telling everyone that his dad was the captain of The Stargates and how that sounded like that was the most important thing in the world.
In the end, it wasn’t hard at all to pull him out of his alcohol- and grief-induced slump and back into the world of professional hockey at all. He clinked his bottle against Hammond’s and chugged the remainder of his beer.
“When do we start?”
George squeezed his shoulder and left a handful of bills on the bar top, enough to cover both his and Jack’s tab.
“See you Monday morning, Captain.”