rain ✧ lrh

4. don't think she's your type

Michael Clifford didn't think he was necessarily a bad friend. All things considered, he actually thought of himself as a rather good one.

But being friends with Luke Hemmings was a full time job, and Michael found it to be a quite tasking one.

So when he went home early from the bar on Sunday night - he thought the entire 'hockey players partying on a Sunday' construct was entirely too stupid, it wasn't with a girl, it wasn't with alcohol poisoning or with a killer high, it was simply to take a break from Luke.

Calum and he usually switched off who had to babysit their friend, and that night was theoretically Michael's night to follow Luke around the bar and hope to God he didn't start a fight with anyone while he was there. But Calum let him off the hook, being all too understanding of the situation and how Michael's antisocial nature was hard to combat in such settings as a crowded bar with too many drunks.

When he wasn't playing hockey or hanging out with his two best friends, Michael liked to keep to himself. He played video games and excelled at ignoring his ever-growing to-do list so much so that he had to get a tutor his junior year of college.

It just so happened that he eventually fell in love with her and now he really had no interest in getting anything done.

He lived with Crystal now, as she was a year older than him and had graduated a year earlier. Lucky for him, she chose to stay in the area and accept a formal job at the firm that she had been interning at for years beforehand.

She was successful, and he was on his way.

The three boys had collectively agreed to continue through their final year of college before being drafted. Luke had refused many seemingly undeniable offers from popular teams and Calum and Michael had their fair share of disappointed recruiters, but they couldn't leave their team without giving them another winning season; which was exactly what they were doing.

Calum, Luke, and Michael made up the most successful line on the team. They spent the most time on the ice, they carried the team in assists and goals, and there seemed to be some sense of telepathy between the trio. It seemed like they were constantly communicating without words, without looks, without movements, and everyone that watched them saw the magic that they brought to the rink.

But today, Michael simply wasn't feeling it.

It was morning skate, arguably the worst time of day for Luke, Calum, and him. It was usually pretty hard for them to wake up at five in the morning, and it was even harder to get them to lace up their skates, put on their gear, and get their asses onto the ice.

Luke and Calum were impatiently standing in the doorway to the locker room and Michael sat in his stall, his head leaned against the wood and his eyes closed.

"Mike, we have to get on the ice," Calum said to his friend, checking the clock on the wall, "We were literally supposed to be out there like five fucking minutes ago. I'm not in the mood for Coach to make us do more laps today."

Michael stayed silent.

Luke clicked his tongue impatiently and stared at the ceiling, "I'm giving you like, two seconds before I come over there and rip that black hair off of your fucking head, mate."

"We play USC today," Michael whispered quietly, his eyes still closed and his head still tilted back.

After a moment of silence, Calum stilled and a frown overtook his face. Luke, still lost in the conversation, furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"Yeah, and?" Luke spoke, "We fucking shredded those losers last time we played them."

"Luke," Calum warned, "You don't remember what happened to Mike that game, do you?"