"Not bad, for a mutt," Brandon tells him, grinning wolfishly and ruffling Andrew's hair.
"Not bad?" echoes Andrew, licking his lips. "First game, first shot, first goal, bitch."
"First fight," adds Brandon, but he doesn't look mad or slightly conflicted about it, the way Tazer had when he'd congratulated him. It's why Andrew likes him better, even though Tazer is cool and all. He doesn't want in Tazer's pants though. He definitely wants in Brandon's.
"Yeah," he says, tilting his head to throw the cut into the light. "You like that?"
Brandon laughs, fake-punching the side of his face, knuckles glancing gently off his jaw. "Don't get too smug, kid, I'll beat you down any day," he says.
Fuck, Andrew likes the sound of that. He looks at Brandon through his lashes and says, "Promise?"
Brandon shakes his head, still laughing, and moves off to his stall. "Get dressed," he says.
Andrew bares his teeth in a grin and shrugs his shirt on over his shoulders. They still lost, which sucks, and he feels breathless, banged-up and bruised, and fucking invincible.
There's a morning flight home to Chicago and a next-day game, which means he can't get as drunk as he wants to, with this weird fizzing mix of a loss and a first NHL goal, nevermind the leftover adrenaline from the fight. Most of the guys clap him on the back but beg off going out, but Brandon is among those who shepherd him into a kind of shitty Philly bar, so Andrew doesn't really mind. He buys the three shots Andrew allows himself to have, watching Andrew tip them back with a satisfied gleam in his eyes, following the line of his throat.
It's easy, because of that, for Andrew to step up close to him, enough to feel the solid warmth of his chest and his damp breath against Andrew's hairline, and whisper, "You're gonna help me celebrate, right? Make it worth my while?"
"I thought that's what I was doing here," says Brandon amusedly. He's nursing a beer, and he bumps the mouth of the bottle against the underside of Andrew's chin.
Andrew looks up at him, brave and reckless, and says, "No."
"No?" Brandon raises an eyebrow.
"No," repeats Andrew. He licks his lips, chasing the taste of alcohol, and says, "Gotta make this worth my while. It's just foreplay, right? You gotta get what you paid for."
"Didn't know I was paying for that," says Brandon.
"You do now," says Andrew. "Still in?"
Brandon looks at him, still slightly amused, considering, and says, "Yeah, mutt. I'm still in."
"Not bad, for a mutt," Brandon tells him, grinning wolfishly and ruffling Andrew's hair.
"Not bad?" echoes Andrew, licking his lips. "First game, first shot, first goal, bitch."
"First fight," adds Brandon, but he doesn't look mad or slightly conflicted about it, the way Tazer had when he'd congratulated him. It's why Andrew likes him better, even though Tazer is cool and all. He doesn't want in Tazer's pants though. He definitely wants in Brandon's.
"Yeah," he says, tilting his head to throw the cut into the light. "You like that?"
Brandon laughs, fake-punching the side of his face, knuckles glancing gently off his jaw. "Don't get too smug, kid, I'll beat you down any day," he says.
Fuck, Andrew likes the sound of that. He looks at Brandon through his lashes and says, "Promise?"
Brandon shakes his head, still laughing, and moves off to his stall. "Get dressed," he says.
Andrew bares his teeth in a grin and shrugs his shirt on over his shoulders. They still lost, which sucks, and he feels breathless, banged-up and bruised, and fucking invincible.
There's a morning flight home to Chicago and a next-day game, which means he can't get as drunk as he wants to, with this weird fizzing mix of a loss and a first NHL goal, nevermind the leftover adrenaline from the fight. Most of the guys clap him on the back but beg off going out, but Brandon is among those who shepherd him into a kind of shitty Philly bar, so Andrew doesn't really mind. He buys the three shots Andrew allows himself to have, watching Andrew tip them back with a satisfied gleam in his eyes, following the line of his throat.
It's easy, because of that, for Andrew to step up close to him, enough to feel the solid warmth of his chest and his damp breath against Andrew's hairline, and whisper, "You're gonna help me celebrate, right? Make it worth my while?"
"I thought that's what I was doing here," says Brandon amusedly. He's nursing a beer, and he bumps the mouth of the bottle against the underside of Andrew's chin.
Andrew looks up at him, brave and reckless, and says, "No."
"No?" Brandon raises an eyebrow.
"No," repeats Andrew. He licks his lips, chasing the taste of alcohol, and says, "Gotta make this worth my while. It's just foreplay, right? You gotta get what you paid for."
"Didn't know I was paying for that," says Brandon.
"You do now," says Andrew. "Still in?"
Brandon looks at him, still slightly amused, considering, and says, "Yeah, mutt. I'm still in."
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