Two short stories. Niether of which are anywhere near true by the way.
Title: Number
Pairings: Tie Domi/Teemu Selanne because they are all kinds of adorable and Teemu Selanne/Paul Kariya because you can't get around them.
Teams: Anahiem Ducks/ retired Toronto Maple Leafs
Rating: PG
A/N: So, yeah. Did anyone else notice that Kariya gets paired left and right while Selanne(for the most part) remains faithful to him? We're going to have to change that. Teemu's POV
The number isn't difficult; I know it by heart in fact. Sometimes I catch myself repeating the digits in my mind. Sometimes I find that I've written it down. Sometimes I even find myself typing it on my phone. I know the number by heart, but I have never called it.
Tie Domi was my guardian, the guy I always knew wold have my back. He looked out for me from day one. I knew plenty about hockey, but I knew nothing about the NHL. I didn't get the purpose of locker room banter. I couldn't truly understand the utter frustration of the opposing teams. I hadn't heard of what happens to rookies that walk a little too proudly or stand a little too tall. Domi shot back insults for me. He fought over me on the ice. He made sure he walked with me after particularly good games. I never thanked him; I didn't realize what he was doing.
Years later I held my team together while jokingly breaking down individual egos to strengthen the group as I dressed and realized Tie had taught me how. Years later I watched a tape of the goal I broke the rookie record with and for the first time noticed the dropped gloves he ignored for me. Years later I saw some kid who got too cocky get in over his head with some veterans. Only then did I realize how much he helped me, and I missed him.
Even later I realized how quickly certain persons would disappear after games with certain teams, always feeling ashamed at myself for not seeing the obvious before. Even later I noticed the almost hidden, affectionate gestures of the few couples who dared to date on their team, always feeling ashamed at myself for intruding on something so secret. Even later I held the sleeping Paul Kariya whenever I had a chance, always feeling ashamed at myself every time I had thought of Domi during our ecstasy.
Paul was wonderful of course. He was passionate, talented, and eager; he was my other half almost. In private, he was a warm, loving, unconditional person, and with time he soon became a little more open with his affection in public but usually only after particularly good goals. He could joke about my hair and the words I couldn't pronounce without being malicious. I could laugh at the rumors about him and his utter lack of car knowledge without offending him. He was wonderful. We were wonderful, but we weren't perfect.
Paul couldn't understand the pressure of raising three, and later four, kids while maintaining my career. Paul couldn't understand the extreme loyalty I felt for places, people even if I couldn't stay in certain places on certain teams for certain people. Mainly, Paul couldn't understand how I could honestly love my wife and Paul with all my heart just in different ways. It would have been different with Domi.
Tie never offered anything, never even remotely hinted that he'd ever want something like what I later had with Paul. However, in my mind, we would have been perfect. He was also a family man and loving. He was full of emotion and life everywhere. He could sign the rest of his career to one team without remorse. We would have been perfect.
It would be easy compared to what I was used to. We would see each other whenever our teams played, easily making excuses for not coming home at most once or twice a month. We would establish good times for calling, and we'd stay in touch. There wouldn't be any desperate “please, stay with me” whispers when I had to leave as opposed to staying out all night again that week as there was with Paul. No “Do you think about her when you're kissing me?” questioning because Tie would just know I didn't. It would be so easy.
When I was traded to San Jose, I looked up the number. By the start of the regular season, I had it memorized. I had imagined the conversation so many times. I would call; he would answer. I would say who I am. He would be excited to hear from me. We would talk for hours about everything. Then, the next time we played, we'd leave together, and somewhere between pleasant, after-game drinks with an acquaintance and going home we'd end up together in a hotel far enough away from the rest of our teams that we wouldn't worry about anyone recognizing our cars.
I never called though, and I found myself back in the familiar arms of Paul whenever they were near by. Then I was on the Colorado team, and they were never far. I still knew Tie's number, and I still found it typed into my phone every so often.
It turned out there was a lot of things I didn't understand about Paul as well. The necessity of giving off some image of the typical bachelor frustrated me whenever I saw him with someone I could tell he had no interest in, leading her on, wasting our time. The coldness he used to keep rumors from cropping up hurt every time he dismissed questions about our relationship off the ice. The stress caused by having a boyfriend with a family and having to listen to “I love you” spoken to someone else never truly crossed my mind until he was breaking. At the end of the season, we agreed to keep in touch but not to touch each other again. So far we've only broken the agreement twice.
I thought more and more about Domi then, how perfect it would be, how easy it would be. I decided that my illusion couldn't be achieved, that it would be unfair to hold him to standards that I had made up especially considering I hadn't seen him in years outside of games and news stories about him punching flyer's fans in the penalty box. I knew nothing about his life. I barely knew him at all. I didn't even know if he ever engaged in the types of activities I fantasized about us engaging in. I decided I wouldn't call him, but that didn't keep me from thinking about it.
Now life is too complicated. He has drama from his divorce and girlfriends. I'm fresh off the injury list. I've got four beautiful children who are growing up fast. He's got his own kids to worry for. I'm under the last minute before playoff crunch. He's retired.
It can't work now, but that doesn't keep me from thinking about him when the leafs are in town. That doesn't keep me from thinking about his number when I have a bit of down time. That doesn't stop me from typing in the number without thinking about it. That doesn't prevent me from tapping the green send button for the first time.
My heart thunders in my chest and my stomach sinks as I old the phone to my ear. My breath hitches when a confused “Hello?” greets me from the line.
“Hi, Domi.”
“Selanne?”
I smile. He must recognize my accent.
“Hi, Tie.”
It's impossible now. It was probably impossible from the beginning, but he is my guardian, the guy who will always have my back. It is about time I let him know that he has me as a friend. Even if it isn't what I thought it would be, it'll be perfect.
Title: Trance
Pairing: Shea Weber/Jordin Tootoo
Team: Nashville Predators
Rating: PG-13...closer to borderline R really...
A/N:Weber's POV Flashback text looks like this!
I languidly stretch out. My muscles are comfortably sore, and my lower back stings with delicious pain. Content, pleased even, and thoroughly shagged, I rest back down against the bed, lying close to him. This is how nights always are between us.
Tootoo comes from a “do or die” environment and had a “go hard or go home” upbringing. He charges full force into all aspects of life. When he checks, someone's crushed. When he fights, someone will bleed. When he dresses up, it's a full suit. When he goes casual, you're lucky if the jeans aren't ripped. It's double or nothing. It's right here, right now especially it seems when it comes to relationships.
”Interested,” Jordin said. Not a question, not a statement, it was an offer. His first offer of may caught me off guard, and I could only respond with a blank stare then a hasty, almost overeager nod. His mouth was on mine then. He didn't seem to care that we were in public, in a bar, surrounded by people who could turn and see our half dark, half concealed booth. After he deepened the kiss-hard, fast, quintessentially Jordin-I really didn't care either. Only when I noticed kissing had become devouring my mouth and our light embrace had switched to him griding against me did I decide that we needed to leave.
I turn on my side to face him, asleep, quietly snoring, resting his head against his arms, gripping the pillow tightly between his fingers. We have come a long way since that first night. He wasn't my first lay, not even my first man. In fact, he wasn't even the frst guy I've slept with that I cared about. However, he is the only one I wanted to last. I was all for afriends with benefits deal until the end of the season or the end of the roadtrip or the end of the night before I had him. After the first taste on that night even before we'd managed to stumble out of the bar and back to his car, I knew I wanted this to last. After the second time when he had let me claim him, I knew I needed this to last.
He flopped back on the bed dragging me down on top of him as he bit my neck. I braced myself for him to roll us over, nothing short of extremely shocked when he didn't. We had only done this once, but he had made it very clear very fast that he was in charge. For a moment, I paused afraid that he wanted me to ride him which was a position I wasn't entirely comfortable with yet. Instead he wrapped his legs around my waist. I paused and looked down at him, but, before I could ask if he was okay with this, he growled “are you going to do this or not.” Not a question, not a statement, it was an offer.
I gently run my fingers through his hair as he sleeps. There's never a doubt anymore. If he wants something, I know, and it seems, when I need something, he knows. I can tell if he's angry or just being rough. He can tell if I'm feeling playful. I can recognize the distant look he gets in his eyes when he's thinking about his brother. He can recognize when he's crossed a line I've drawn. We're mastering each other.
It had been a tough game and an even tougher after game meeting. Nothing would suit me more than a bath, a beer, and a bed in that order and preferably alone. I was showered, dressed, and out of that arena as quickly as I could manage but not quick enough to avoid him. I never assumed it would be. Jordin walked with me to my car, and I hoped the uncomfortable silence would illustrate that I didn't need or want his company that night. He followed me to the driver's side, and I knew he knew. I expected a “good-bye” or a “see you at practice”. What I wasn't expecting was the hug he yanked me into. Bone crushingly hard and over before I had time to really acknowledge it was happening, the embrace still conveyed to me a few things I hadn't known before. Jordin stood looking almost sheepish afterwards, and I knew that he was trying to be tender. I knew he cared for me. I knew he wanted whatever we had to last. He just wasn't sure how to convey it properly, and he didn't know I had realized it.
I trail my fingers down his face and stroke his cheek with my thumb. We still have a long way to go, but I know we'll go that distance.. All or nothing, go hard or go home, just like Tootoo always is. Even before we had understood each other I knew we could make it.
His chest heaved with suppressed anger. My teeth were grinding together as I clenched my jaw in rage. I didn't remember who had started it or even what we were fighting about. All I knew was I was done fighting but couldn't appear weak by giving up after all the yelling I'd already done. Jordin wanted to hit me;I could tell. It took a lot less than this to get him going on the ice, and he was so ready to let loose. I wouldn't mind smacking him around either. Yet we didn't. He tightened his hands into fists as we continued our argument silently. However, his hands stayed down. This fight was over. We had both said our parts. It was time to end it with bruises or words, and it was becoming obvious that neither of us was going to throw a punch. I looked back and forth between him and the door. It would be so easy to walk out, but I got the feeling that by this point that action would mean walking out on a lot more than this argument.
I trace his tattoo as always entranced by the contrast of black ink and tan skin. Permanent markings run across the perfection that is his shoulder blades. Flawed, nearly meaningless lines that break true beauty without making it less beautiful just like our fights do to our time together. We don't fight often, and he doesn't have that many lines. Yet, they are there. They will always be there as we are stubborn people, but the beauty will never be marred by them.
I glide my hand to his lower back and massage around the small, feeling the muscle beneath the taut flesh, stroking the strength with my fingers and palm. It's an amazing; he's amazing. I know he's called a cheapshot and a coward who picks his fights by those who don't know him. I know some of his hits aren't exactly the cleanest and some of his plays dance the line of legality. I know he isn't perfect or invincible. Yet, I've seen him throw taller, bigger, supposedly stronger men to the ice. I know that win or lose he fights his battles hard, and no one walks away with an easy victory. I know he does more than fight. I know how he place himself at just the right place to disrupt a play or to start one. I know what secrets his small body holds.
I lined the pucks up and slapped them one by one towards the empty net. I skated a few laps and worked on quickly changing direction. I puckhandled pass imaginary defensemen and deftly passed to my fantasized offensemen. As always, extra practice was proving to be a good idea on paper but ultimately useless as nothing I could imagine could ever be as intense, as random, or as focused as a real game or even practice. I was just about to call it a disappointing night when he skated onto the ice. A few meaningful glances were shared. A few gestures were made. Then we were off in a mock one-on-one battle with no set time or even purpose. We maneuvered passed one another. We slammed each other into the boards. We barely paid attention to nets in our attempt to beat one another face to face, to keep possession of the puck was more important than getting it to where it was actually supposed to be going. It was the best practice I had had in a while. For months, he bragged that he beat me, and for months I countered that I was already tired when we had started even though I didn't remember the score or if we had even had one.
I skim over but refuse to linger on his ass slipping lower to hold his thighs. It would not do well for me to get myself too excited. It's easier this way. That's how I always am. It's easier to not get too aroused;so, I won't. It is easier to get on a NHL rooster as a defensemen; so, that's my label even though I'm an accomplished forward too. “Get a plan; stick to it” is my way even if that plan boils down to “it's easier to kick this guy's ass and take a penalty now that want to all game”. I only ever break that rule for him.
I start my journey back up his body, once again keeping my contact with his round butt decidedly brief and moving straight to rubbing his sides. It would have been so easy to turn down his first offer and continue life like nothing had happened. It would have been so easy to use him for sex alone avoiding awkward embraces, clumsy attempts at tenderness, and my own doubt. It would have been so easy to walk out during that first fight, break it all off, never date a teammate again, never date anyone in the NHL again, get a plan, and stick to it like I usually would.
The end of the season came faster than usual it seemed, and it was time for the conversation I had been avoiding. I knew what had to happen; we had to stop this. Yet, every time I started to bring it up at dinner, he had a question about the food or tried to get the waiter's attention for a refill. Then during the drive when I tried to broach the subject, it seemed road rage took over, and he had to complain loudly about someone else's driving. He lead me up to the bedroom, and I let him since I never thought it had to end that night, just before the off season really got underway. We were having what I assumed was our last fling when he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, holding our chests together while he moved. I could feel the desire for this in his grip, the want for more than this night, the need for hope that this can last. My arms reached up to encircle his waist, and he shuttered and let out a breath of what could only be described as a mix of a moan and unfiltered relief. So, I abandoned the idea of the end and held him to me with equal need.
I stroke his arm and notice that his eyes are slightly open. He reaches and quickly pulls me to him. I move my arms to hold him as he sleepily snuggles into me.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask quietly. Jordin yawns and lazily runs his hands down my back. I feel the bite of nails as he brings them back to shoulder blades.
“Ever since you were messing with my tattoo,” he says softly. I let my fingers move along the fluid pattern again. He presses his face to my shoulder, and a smile curls against my skin.
“You want to take me,” he says louder, more awake, and more like himself. It is nether a question nor a statement; it is an offer. I kiss him. I hadn't planned on doing this a second time tonight. We have practice tomorrow, and we need rest. I don't mind. His tongue enters my mouth, and I roll on top of him. He's dominating by nature. He loves control, and I'm owning him. He doesn't mind.
Tootoo is power an getting the upper hand. I'm strategy and doing what I plan. I'm stripping him of power, and he's changing my plans. It's so wrong and backwards.
Fuck it. That's love, right?
Pairings: Tie Domi/Teemu Selanne because they are all kinds of adorable and Teemu Selanne/Paul Kariya because you can't get around them.
Teams: Anahiem Ducks/ retired Toronto Maple Leafs
Rating: PG
A/N: So, yeah. Did anyone else notice that Kariya gets paired left and right while Selanne(for the most part) remains faithful to him? We're going to have to change that. Teemu's POV
The number isn't difficult; I know it by heart in fact. Sometimes I catch myself repeating the digits in my mind. Sometimes I find that I've written it down. Sometimes I even find myself typing it on my phone. I know the number by heart, but I have never called it.
Tie Domi was my guardian, the guy I always knew wold have my back. He looked out for me from day one. I knew plenty about hockey, but I knew nothing about the NHL. I didn't get the purpose of locker room banter. I couldn't truly understand the utter frustration of the opposing teams. I hadn't heard of what happens to rookies that walk a little too proudly or stand a little too tall. Domi shot back insults for me. He fought over me on the ice. He made sure he walked with me after particularly good games. I never thanked him; I didn't realize what he was doing.
Years later I held my team together while jokingly breaking down individual egos to strengthen the group as I dressed and realized Tie had taught me how. Years later I watched a tape of the goal I broke the rookie record with and for the first time noticed the dropped gloves he ignored for me. Years later I saw some kid who got too cocky get in over his head with some veterans. Only then did I realize how much he helped me, and I missed him.
Even later I realized how quickly certain persons would disappear after games with certain teams, always feeling ashamed at myself for not seeing the obvious before. Even later I noticed the almost hidden, affectionate gestures of the few couples who dared to date on their team, always feeling ashamed at myself for intruding on something so secret. Even later I held the sleeping Paul Kariya whenever I had a chance, always feeling ashamed at myself every time I had thought of Domi during our ecstasy.
Paul was wonderful of course. He was passionate, talented, and eager; he was my other half almost. In private, he was a warm, loving, unconditional person, and with time he soon became a little more open with his affection in public but usually only after particularly good goals. He could joke about my hair and the words I couldn't pronounce without being malicious. I could laugh at the rumors about him and his utter lack of car knowledge without offending him. He was wonderful. We were wonderful, but we weren't perfect.
Paul couldn't understand the pressure of raising three, and later four, kids while maintaining my career. Paul couldn't understand the extreme loyalty I felt for places, people even if I couldn't stay in certain places on certain teams for certain people. Mainly, Paul couldn't understand how I could honestly love my wife and Paul with all my heart just in different ways. It would have been different with Domi.
Tie never offered anything, never even remotely hinted that he'd ever want something like what I later had with Paul. However, in my mind, we would have been perfect. He was also a family man and loving. He was full of emotion and life everywhere. He could sign the rest of his career to one team without remorse. We would have been perfect.
It would be easy compared to what I was used to. We would see each other whenever our teams played, easily making excuses for not coming home at most once or twice a month. We would establish good times for calling, and we'd stay in touch. There wouldn't be any desperate “please, stay with me” whispers when I had to leave as opposed to staying out all night again that week as there was with Paul. No “Do you think about her when you're kissing me?” questioning because Tie would just know I didn't. It would be so easy.
When I was traded to San Jose, I looked up the number. By the start of the regular season, I had it memorized. I had imagined the conversation so many times. I would call; he would answer. I would say who I am. He would be excited to hear from me. We would talk for hours about everything. Then, the next time we played, we'd leave together, and somewhere between pleasant, after-game drinks with an acquaintance and going home we'd end up together in a hotel far enough away from the rest of our teams that we wouldn't worry about anyone recognizing our cars.
I never called though, and I found myself back in the familiar arms of Paul whenever they were near by. Then I was on the Colorado team, and they were never far. I still knew Tie's number, and I still found it typed into my phone every so often.
It turned out there was a lot of things I didn't understand about Paul as well. The necessity of giving off some image of the typical bachelor frustrated me whenever I saw him with someone I could tell he had no interest in, leading her on, wasting our time. The coldness he used to keep rumors from cropping up hurt every time he dismissed questions about our relationship off the ice. The stress caused by having a boyfriend with a family and having to listen to “I love you” spoken to someone else never truly crossed my mind until he was breaking. At the end of the season, we agreed to keep in touch but not to touch each other again. So far we've only broken the agreement twice.
I thought more and more about Domi then, how perfect it would be, how easy it would be. I decided that my illusion couldn't be achieved, that it would be unfair to hold him to standards that I had made up especially considering I hadn't seen him in years outside of games and news stories about him punching flyer's fans in the penalty box. I knew nothing about his life. I barely knew him at all. I didn't even know if he ever engaged in the types of activities I fantasized about us engaging in. I decided I wouldn't call him, but that didn't keep me from thinking about it.
Now life is too complicated. He has drama from his divorce and girlfriends. I'm fresh off the injury list. I've got four beautiful children who are growing up fast. He's got his own kids to worry for. I'm under the last minute before playoff crunch. He's retired.
It can't work now, but that doesn't keep me from thinking about him when the leafs are in town. That doesn't keep me from thinking about his number when I have a bit of down time. That doesn't stop me from typing in the number without thinking about it. That doesn't prevent me from tapping the green send button for the first time.
My heart thunders in my chest and my stomach sinks as I old the phone to my ear. My breath hitches when a confused “Hello?” greets me from the line.
“Hi, Domi.”
“Selanne?”
I smile. He must recognize my accent.
“Hi, Tie.”
It's impossible now. It was probably impossible from the beginning, but he is my guardian, the guy who will always have my back. It is about time I let him know that he has me as a friend. Even if it isn't what I thought it would be, it'll be perfect.
Title: Trance
Pairing: Shea Weber/Jordin Tootoo
Team: Nashville Predators
Rating: PG-13...closer to borderline R really...
A/N:Weber's POV Flashback text looks like this!
I languidly stretch out. My muscles are comfortably sore, and my lower back stings with delicious pain. Content, pleased even, and thoroughly shagged, I rest back down against the bed, lying close to him. This is how nights always are between us.
Tootoo comes from a “do or die” environment and had a “go hard or go home” upbringing. He charges full force into all aspects of life. When he checks, someone's crushed. When he fights, someone will bleed. When he dresses up, it's a full suit. When he goes casual, you're lucky if the jeans aren't ripped. It's double or nothing. It's right here, right now especially it seems when it comes to relationships.
”Interested,” Jordin said. Not a question, not a statement, it was an offer. His first offer of may caught me off guard, and I could only respond with a blank stare then a hasty, almost overeager nod. His mouth was on mine then. He didn't seem to care that we were in public, in a bar, surrounded by people who could turn and see our half dark, half concealed booth. After he deepened the kiss-hard, fast, quintessentially Jordin-I really didn't care either. Only when I noticed kissing had become devouring my mouth and our light embrace had switched to him griding against me did I decide that we needed to leave.
I turn on my side to face him, asleep, quietly snoring, resting his head against his arms, gripping the pillow tightly between his fingers. We have come a long way since that first night. He wasn't my first lay, not even my first man. In fact, he wasn't even the frst guy I've slept with that I cared about. However, he is the only one I wanted to last. I was all for afriends with benefits deal until the end of the season or the end of the roadtrip or the end of the night before I had him. After the first taste on that night even before we'd managed to stumble out of the bar and back to his car, I knew I wanted this to last. After the second time when he had let me claim him, I knew I needed this to last.
He flopped back on the bed dragging me down on top of him as he bit my neck. I braced myself for him to roll us over, nothing short of extremely shocked when he didn't. We had only done this once, but he had made it very clear very fast that he was in charge. For a moment, I paused afraid that he wanted me to ride him which was a position I wasn't entirely comfortable with yet. Instead he wrapped his legs around my waist. I paused and looked down at him, but, before I could ask if he was okay with this, he growled “are you going to do this or not.” Not a question, not a statement, it was an offer.
I gently run my fingers through his hair as he sleeps. There's never a doubt anymore. If he wants something, I know, and it seems, when I need something, he knows. I can tell if he's angry or just being rough. He can tell if I'm feeling playful. I can recognize the distant look he gets in his eyes when he's thinking about his brother. He can recognize when he's crossed a line I've drawn. We're mastering each other.
It had been a tough game and an even tougher after game meeting. Nothing would suit me more than a bath, a beer, and a bed in that order and preferably alone. I was showered, dressed, and out of that arena as quickly as I could manage but not quick enough to avoid him. I never assumed it would be. Jordin walked with me to my car, and I hoped the uncomfortable silence would illustrate that I didn't need or want his company that night. He followed me to the driver's side, and I knew he knew. I expected a “good-bye” or a “see you at practice”. What I wasn't expecting was the hug he yanked me into. Bone crushingly hard and over before I had time to really acknowledge it was happening, the embrace still conveyed to me a few things I hadn't known before. Jordin stood looking almost sheepish afterwards, and I knew that he was trying to be tender. I knew he cared for me. I knew he wanted whatever we had to last. He just wasn't sure how to convey it properly, and he didn't know I had realized it.
I trail my fingers down his face and stroke his cheek with my thumb. We still have a long way to go, but I know we'll go that distance.. All or nothing, go hard or go home, just like Tootoo always is. Even before we had understood each other I knew we could make it.
His chest heaved with suppressed anger. My teeth were grinding together as I clenched my jaw in rage. I didn't remember who had started it or even what we were fighting about. All I knew was I was done fighting but couldn't appear weak by giving up after all the yelling I'd already done. Jordin wanted to hit me;I could tell. It took a lot less than this to get him going on the ice, and he was so ready to let loose. I wouldn't mind smacking him around either. Yet we didn't. He tightened his hands into fists as we continued our argument silently. However, his hands stayed down. This fight was over. We had both said our parts. It was time to end it with bruises or words, and it was becoming obvious that neither of us was going to throw a punch. I looked back and forth between him and the door. It would be so easy to walk out, but I got the feeling that by this point that action would mean walking out on a lot more than this argument.
I trace his tattoo as always entranced by the contrast of black ink and tan skin. Permanent markings run across the perfection that is his shoulder blades. Flawed, nearly meaningless lines that break true beauty without making it less beautiful just like our fights do to our time together. We don't fight often, and he doesn't have that many lines. Yet, they are there. They will always be there as we are stubborn people, but the beauty will never be marred by them.
I glide my hand to his lower back and massage around the small, feeling the muscle beneath the taut flesh, stroking the strength with my fingers and palm. It's an amazing; he's amazing. I know he's called a cheapshot and a coward who picks his fights by those who don't know him. I know some of his hits aren't exactly the cleanest and some of his plays dance the line of legality. I know he isn't perfect or invincible. Yet, I've seen him throw taller, bigger, supposedly stronger men to the ice. I know that win or lose he fights his battles hard, and no one walks away with an easy victory. I know he does more than fight. I know how he place himself at just the right place to disrupt a play or to start one. I know what secrets his small body holds.
I lined the pucks up and slapped them one by one towards the empty net. I skated a few laps and worked on quickly changing direction. I puckhandled pass imaginary defensemen and deftly passed to my fantasized offensemen. As always, extra practice was proving to be a good idea on paper but ultimately useless as nothing I could imagine could ever be as intense, as random, or as focused as a real game or even practice. I was just about to call it a disappointing night when he skated onto the ice. A few meaningful glances were shared. A few gestures were made. Then we were off in a mock one-on-one battle with no set time or even purpose. We maneuvered passed one another. We slammed each other into the boards. We barely paid attention to nets in our attempt to beat one another face to face, to keep possession of the puck was more important than getting it to where it was actually supposed to be going. It was the best practice I had had in a while. For months, he bragged that he beat me, and for months I countered that I was already tired when we had started even though I didn't remember the score or if we had even had one.
I skim over but refuse to linger on his ass slipping lower to hold his thighs. It would not do well for me to get myself too excited. It's easier this way. That's how I always am. It's easier to not get too aroused;so, I won't. It is easier to get on a NHL rooster as a defensemen; so, that's my label even though I'm an accomplished forward too. “Get a plan; stick to it” is my way even if that plan boils down to “it's easier to kick this guy's ass and take a penalty now that want to all game”. I only ever break that rule for him.
I start my journey back up his body, once again keeping my contact with his round butt decidedly brief and moving straight to rubbing his sides. It would have been so easy to turn down his first offer and continue life like nothing had happened. It would have been so easy to use him for sex alone avoiding awkward embraces, clumsy attempts at tenderness, and my own doubt. It would have been so easy to walk out during that first fight, break it all off, never date a teammate again, never date anyone in the NHL again, get a plan, and stick to it like I usually would.
The end of the season came faster than usual it seemed, and it was time for the conversation I had been avoiding. I knew what had to happen; we had to stop this. Yet, every time I started to bring it up at dinner, he had a question about the food or tried to get the waiter's attention for a refill. Then during the drive when I tried to broach the subject, it seemed road rage took over, and he had to complain loudly about someone else's driving. He lead me up to the bedroom, and I let him since I never thought it had to end that night, just before the off season really got underway. We were having what I assumed was our last fling when he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, holding our chests together while he moved. I could feel the desire for this in his grip, the want for more than this night, the need for hope that this can last. My arms reached up to encircle his waist, and he shuttered and let out a breath of what could only be described as a mix of a moan and unfiltered relief. So, I abandoned the idea of the end and held him to me with equal need.
I stroke his arm and notice that his eyes are slightly open. He reaches and quickly pulls me to him. I move my arms to hold him as he sleepily snuggles into me.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask quietly. Jordin yawns and lazily runs his hands down my back. I feel the bite of nails as he brings them back to shoulder blades.
“Ever since you were messing with my tattoo,” he says softly. I let my fingers move along the fluid pattern again. He presses his face to my shoulder, and a smile curls against my skin.
“You want to take me,” he says louder, more awake, and more like himself. It is nether a question nor a statement; it is an offer. I kiss him. I hadn't planned on doing this a second time tonight. We have practice tomorrow, and we need rest. I don't mind. His tongue enters my mouth, and I roll on top of him. He's dominating by nature. He loves control, and I'm owning him. He doesn't mind.
Tootoo is power an getting the upper hand. I'm strategy and doing what I plan. I'm stripping him of power, and he's changing my plans. It's so wrong and backwards.
Fuck it. That's love, right?