FIC: The First Bet - 1/1, NC17, BR/MH, NFL RPS

[fadedink]

Title: The First Bet
Authors: Brenda (azewewish) & Jo (idiosyncratic)
Series: The Bet Series (Part Twenty-Seven)
Pairing: Ben Roethlisberger/Matt Hasselbeck (Tom Brady, Troy Polamalu)
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Ben was Offensive Rookie of the Year for 2004. The Patriots won Super Bowl XXXIX. Those are the only true things about this story.
Summary: Matt & Ben meet. The rest is history.
Notes: Thanks, as ever, to the_stowaway for her excellent beta.


July 2005 (Post Super Bowl XXXIX)

All Ben's life, he's had a vision about what his pro-NFL career would be like. Plenty of hard work and the accolades to go with, a few Super Bowl rings to adorn his fingers, smokin' hot women hanging off his jock, and being the leader of an elite team that would rival the dynasties of old. He thinks he's well on his way with the Steelers, even if they hadn't made it to the Promised Land this year. He knows he still has a lot to learn, despite his awesome start, and he's cool with that. He's never minded paying his dues.

But goddamn, did paying one's dues have to include such butt-numbingly boring events?

Ben wanders around the spacious main room, hands stuffed in his pants pockets, choking on his tie, and feeling like his suit jacket is cutting off the circulation in his shoulders. Normally he's totally up for a few cold ones with his fellow brothers-in-arms, but charity functions aren't normal. The guys that are invited to these things are expected to behave, play up to the press, smile pretty and make small talk with total strangers. Fuck, man, if Ben had been any good at small talk, he would have chosen a different career. He wonders how long he'll have to stick this out, eating bland finger food and drinking watered down drinks, before he's allowed to escape.

"Jesus, Ben, try to relax, would you?" Tom Brady, reigning Super Bowl champion, all-around great guy, and Ben's self-appointed chaperon for the evening, hands him a glass. "Drink this, it'll help."

Ben eyes the glass with wary disdain. "Bartenders at this shindig can't pour for shit."

Tom flashes a dimpled, sunny grin. "Who says the bartender poured it?"

Which, fair enough. Tom has a way of getting people to do things for him. Ben thinks it's a combination of Tom's boy-next-door good looks and tenacious charm. Either way, saying no's not exactly an option, so Ben downs the drink in one swallow. And promptly coughs as fire erupts down his throat. "Jesus!"

Tom claps him on the back. "We having fun yet?"

Ben lets out a gruff moan. "Man, it's bad enough your team beat ours in the playoffs, do you have to haunt me in the off-season?"

"Someone's got to look out for you and keep you out of trouble."

"Which just means you expect me to get into trouble," Ben complains.

"You're young," Tom says, by way of explanation, and Ben has to concede that point. Yeah, he is young. But he's not dumb, and he's managed not to screw anything up so far.

He knows, though, that if he points that out to Tom, Tom will just blithely inform him that the night is far from over. And then urge some more alcohol on him. Which, really, just raises Ben's suspicions that Mr. All American really is trying to get him drunk and into some scrape or another. Probably just so he can sit back with Tedy Bruschi and laugh about it.

Tom may be a great guy and all, but he's still sort of a bastard.

"Alright, so." Tom rubs his hands together like a mad scientist before an experiment. "Anyone here you haven't met? Anyone you want to meet?"

"Uh..." Ben looks around, then back at Tom. "You do realize we're hanging with a bunch of old rich people, most of whom are women that are dying to win the auction for a dinner with you, right?"

"Not any of the guests, you dummy," Tom sighs, like maybe Ben's a little slow upstairs. "Any of the other players."

"Oh, um..." Once more, Ben looks around and sees nothing but familiar faces. He's met them all, most of them more than once. Then he grins. "Brett."

Tom blinks, and Ben has to fight to hide the glee at being able to catch the other man off guard. "Brett? Favre?"

"Yeah, didn't get to do much more than say good game when we played against each other in the season, y'know," Ben says, reaching out to snag two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He hands one to Tom and gestures. "Lay on, Macduff."

"Brett," Tom says again, shaking his head as he starts across the room, and Ben gets the distinct impression that maybe there was a quiz that he didn't know about and he just failed it.

"Dude, he's a legend, why wouldn't I want to..." Ben trails off as Tom steps into another room. A pool table takes up most of the space, with several players and guests engaged in what looks to be a pretty lopsided game, stripes winning. He sees Brett holding court at one of the corner tables, sitting next to a familiar-looking bald guy, both of them also decked out in very nice suits.

"Brett," Tom says, when they get to the table. "Matt, how's it goin'?"

"Tommy, my boy, how you doin'?" Brett exclaims, good-ole-boy twang in full effect as he gets to his feet and envelops Tom in a bear hug. Ben spends the time trying to place the man next to him - Matt, Brett had said. Ben has a feeling he really should know who this dude is.

"How's the shoulder?" Tom asks when they break, and Brett just grins.

"It's good." Brett settles back into his seat, gives them a speculative look. "So what brings you in here with the masses?"

Tom jerks his head in Ben's direction as they both sit, but Ben doesn't pay it any attention. He's still studying the other guy, trying to remember where he's seen him. "Ben wanted to meet the legend."

Matt - his name is Matt - has just raised his glass of beer to his lips when he snorts in disbelief. "Legend? Don't you think his ego's big enough already, Tom?"

Tom holds a hand to his chest. "Hey, man, I didn't say it, Ben did."

Matt just fixes Ben with an assessing, blue-eyed stare that has all the warmth of a glacier. "Jesus, boy, don't you know better than to suck up to the old-timers? I'd heard you were better than that."

Boy? Ben straightens up, gives this Matt dude his own hard look. "I don't think wanting to meet a man that inspired me to play football is playing suck up." He leaves the 'fuck you' left unspoken.

"Don't pay Matt here no mind," Brett says, reaching out to clap Matt on the shoulder. "He won't admit it, but he learned a lot at my knee before Seattle stole him away."

Seattle...ah, right. Hasselbeck. The dude's Matt Hasselbeck, starting QB for the Seahawks. Christ, Ben thinks he'll probably need a chart to keep all the NFL players straight. "Well, I personally woulda been honored to learn from you, Brett. Not that I needed it this past year," he grins, feeling pretty proud of himself that he's able to joke around with Brett Favre.

"Nah, you did pretty good on your own," Brett says. "Keep it up, and Tommy'll have someone to worry about besides Peyton."

Tom laughs. "He holds on to the ball too long for me to worry about him."

"Says the man who holds it longer than anyone in the league," Ben points out with a wicked grin.

There's a short pause as a waitress stops at the table and they all order. Then Ben starts to add to his comment when Matt tilts his head and drawls, "So you're the AFC's new golden boy." The way he says it isn't a compliment.

There's that word again - boy. Ben narrows his eyes. "You gotta problem with me or something?"

"Not at all," Matt replies, with a breezy, dimpled grin that manages to be both friendly and hellaciously insulting. "Just wondering if the rumors I've heard are true."

"What rumors?"

"That you're all brawn and cocky attitude, but no brain," Matt replies, tilting his head to study Ben like he would a fascinating insect. "You had a great o-line protecting you last season."

"Meaning what?" Ben shrugs off Tom's restraining hand on his arm. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Some no-name middle of the road QB for a forgettable team in a crap division that's never done shit in the post, that's who. "I earned my award. My team's in an elite league in an elite division. I'll take your Pop Warner team on any day of the week with a hand tied behind my back and still win."

"Easy enough to say with guys like Hampton and Faneca between you and the d-line. Not to mention guys like Bus, Hines, and Antwaan," Matt says, and Brett's low whistle cuts through the crowd noise around them.

"So you're saying that we made it all the way to the conference championship just because of them?"

"Nope," Matt says, slow and lazy, "just saying that with the team you've got, any hotshot new wet behind the ears kid could look good."

"Fuck you, man." Ben can practically feel his blood boiling. "And if you call me a goddamn kid again, I will shove my boot so far up your old, tired ass you'll need a colostomy bag for the rest of your life."

"Ooookay, guys, I think that's quite enough jawing at each other," Tom announces, cutting through Matt's abbreviated retort. "Brett, Matt, good to see you both. Ben, come on. Now," he hisses, practically yanking Ben out of his chair.

Ben gives Matt another glare before allowing himself to be led out of the room. The second they're alone, he shrugs out of Tom's hold. "What the fuck was that all about in there?"

"You taking your damn self too seriously is what it's about," Tom retorts, giving an exasperated sigh. "Guys're gonna talk shit in this league. Everyone does it. You laugh it off and save it for the field. What you don't do is cause a scene in front of civilians and the press and fellow players. Got it?"

"Wait a damn second," Ben snaps in disbelief. "How is it my fault that he's an asshole who starts talking smack before we've even been introduced?"

Tom shakes his head and looks at the ceiling, and Ben is pretty sure he's counting silently. "Matt is Matt, and when you've been around a bit more, you'll know that," he finally says, and Ben starts to tell him that that's a piss poor excuse, but Tom holds up one hand. "Seriously. Matt's got a PhD in smartass, and he knows just what to say and when to say it. It's your fault that you let him get to you. Though, I gotta admit, he's not usually that quick to needle someone."

"Fuck you," Ben mutters, rolling his shoulders and tugging at his tie. "Not gonna stand there and let him run his mouth like that. My stats speak for me."

"Exactly," Tom replies, quietly, and his eyes gleam in a way that has Ben suddenly wary again. "Now how about you get us another drink and we find out what else is going on in here?"

"What the hell do you mean, what else is going on?"

"Find a waiter, finagle a bottle, and meet me outside," is all Tom says. "The last place I want to have this conversation is somewhere with ears."

"What the...?" Ben trails off as Tom just heads for the secluded patio area that leads out to the lakefront. Or what passes for a lake in this neck of the woods. Ben half thinks about just grabbing his car and getting the hell out of Dodge, but curiosity - one of his failings and he'll be the first to admit it - gets the better of him.

Before he can change his mind, he snags the arm of a passing waiter and has a quick word. It only takes a minute for the guy to come back with a fresh bottle of Patron and two shot glasses. Armed with alcohol and questions - such as what conversation? and why so secretive? - Ben steps outside and sets the glasses on the railing beside Tom. There's silence between them, Tom leaning against the rail and looking out over the water, Ben working at the bottle until it's open and he can pour the shots.

Then there's a soft click of glasses, a faint smile from Tom, and they down the shots. Ben pours again, then fixes Tom with a steady look. "Alright, man, just you and me. What's up?"

"You know...I like you," Tom says, his voice the sort of soft and serious that Ben knows means something heavy's about to go down. "You're a stand up guy, good head on your shoulders, and you're cool under pressure on the field."

"Uh, thanks, but, um..."

"And what I'm about to say never leaves this space," Tom interrupts, and holds up his glass. "We clear?"

"Yeah," Ben replies, still confused as all hell. He holds up his glass, touches it to Tom's. "Yeah, okay, sure. What's up?"

"Me and Cassel."

"You and...I don't..." Ben trails off, wondering why the hell Tom's talking about his newly acquired backup quarterback, fresh from USC. He frowns, then his eyes go wide as something about the way Tom isn't looking at him clicks with the words. Holy shit. There's no way in hell that Tom means what Ben thinks he means. No way. "You mean, you and..."

Tom just nods, and Ben lets out a low whistle. Jesus Christ. To give himself a few seconds to sort his thoughts (not that he really thinks he'll be able to), he pours them another shot. "So, um," he says, as Tom just holds the glass and contemplates the liquid in it. "You and, uh, him, huh? You mean like, y'know -"

"Yeah. Exactly like that," Tom says, with a sidelong look before he tosses back his shot and gestures for another.

"Wow." There's so much Ben wants to say, so much he wants to ask, but he bites his tongue. For one, even though he's curious as hell, he's not entirely sure he wants the answers Tom is likely to give (and he's pretty sure the answers would be explicit, and while he's not homophobic...and holy shit, Tom fucking Brady...), and for another, it's pretty rude to just blurt out some of the things going through his head. "Wow. So, um, you and...wow. Why?"

Tom just gives him an amused look. "Why am I sleeping with him or why am I telling you this?"

"Uh..." Ben's brain completely stutters on the 'sleeping with' part. He'd, like, known what Tom had been saying, but to hear it out loud like that? "Both?" he finally ventures, wondering if he's gonna need another bottle.

"Well, the first part's simple," Tom replies, letting out a slow breath as he resumes looking across the lake. "I'm sleeping with him because I'm attracted to him. I mean, I still really love women, don't mistake me, but...there's something about him. Us. Has been since we were introduced."

"Okay." Not that Ben precisely gets it (he doesn't think he ever will), but he understands being attracted to someone who's not your normal type.

"And the reason I'm telling you this is that I see the same thing going on between you and Matt Hasselbeck."

The alcohol Ben had just swallowed lodges in his throat, and he chokes, coughing as he gives Tom a dirty look. "Me and that bald-headed asshole? Bullshit! Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"I know chemistry when I see it," Tom replies, "and I saw plenty in there."

"Yeah, right." Ben looks around in an effort to see if any of the other players are hiding in the shadows. Then he turns to study Tom through narrowed eyes. "This is a practical joke on the new guy, isn't it? Who put you up to it?"

"No joke," Tom says, still looking a little too amused for Ben's comfort. "Everything I just told you is the truth."

"Uh huh. So I'm supposed to believe you're," and Ben can not believe he's saying this, "banging your back-up and that you think me and the bald prick in there -"

"I am," Tom interrupts, quietly, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He holds it out to Ben and nods. "Call Matt and ask. He's 16 on speed dial."

"Of course he is," Ben automatically replies, staring at the phone, then at Tom. "For real?"

"Call him."

"He could be in on it, too." Then Ben tosses the phone back to Tom. This is too bizarre to be a joke. Even for someone as diabolical as Tom. "It's cool. I mean, I believe you. That you two're, um...y'know. But you're all wrong about, uh, me and Matt. I don't swing that way, and even if I did, I like to think I'd have better taste."

"Ten large says I'm right."

"Wait, wait, hold on." Ben stares at Tom in what he hopes reflects his horror. "Did you just try to bet me that I want to...well, I don't even know what, y'know, that sort of thing entails and I don't want to know...with Matt fucking Hasselbeck?!"

"Yep," Tom replies cheerfully. "There's something between you two. I'm just offering to back my words up, that's all."

"You'd probably put him up to it and split the money."

"Word of honor," Tom says, grinning as he puts a hand over his heart. "It stays between me and you, and I won't do a thing to try to influence it either way."

"Uh huh," Ben murmurs, skeptical as he studies Tom. Sure, he looks sincere, but it's Tom fucking Brady. Ben's been in the league long enough to know that Mr. Golden Boy has a devious and dirty streak a mile wide. "So what makes you think that, if I take the bet -- and I don't want to, y'know, bang him -- I'd be honest and tell you."

"Tell me if anything happened?" Tom shrugs when Ben nods. "You wouldn't have to."

"I wouldn't?"

"Nope," Tom says, and the cheerfulness is back. "Off the field, man, you're easier to read than a children's book."

"Screw you."

"I'm just sayin'."

"So am I," Ben says, and points a finger at Tom. "I ain't interested in him. Not in any dude at all, and especially not in him."

"So you've got nothing to worry about, then," Tom says, and claps Ben on the back. "But if something goes down, I expect a ten grand donation to the Boys & Girls Club of New England in your name."

"Sucker bet," Ben says, and holds out his hand. "You can donate your money to the United Fund for the Mentally Challenged."

"Done," Tom says, and shakes Ben's hand, making it official. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go drag Brett away from Matt for a game of darts or something, and maybe that'll give you two lovebirds a chance to get to know each other."

"Fuck off," Ben laughs, following Tom back inside the main room. "And don't think I'm not gonna call your boy and find out the truth."

"Go ahead," Tom says, over his shoulder, flashing a bright smile and a sly wink. "Tell him I said to tell you about our trip to Miami."

"Uh..." Ben stares at Tom's back as he disappears into the crowd and tries to decide if he really wants to know about that trip. He shakes his head, still a little convinced that Tom's pulling his leg, and looks around for someone he knows. Oddly enough, the first person he sees is Troy Polamalu, who, if Ben remembers right, used to room with Matt Cassel at USC.

"Hey, Troy!" he calls, and beckons him over with a wave. "Come grab a drink with me."

"Free alcohol'll get you an audience every time," Troy grins. "Wassup?"

"Not here and not while I'm still somewhat sober," Ben says. "Let's grab a drink first."

"Oooh, mystery. I'm intrigued and possibly turned on." Troy, it should be noted, is possibly the biggest flirt Ben's ever met in his life, male, female or other.

"Dude," Ben says, making a face as he pushes his way to the bar, Troy in his wake. "TMI."

"Yeah, well. You love it."

They collect their drinks and head outside, and Ben has a brief moment of amusement as he thinks he might spend more time on the patio than inside the actual event. For a short while, they just stand there, sipping their drinks, looking out over the lake, and making small talk. Then Troy cocks his head and pins Ben with a gaze that's far too knowing. "Spill, man."

"Nothing to spill," Ben replies, trying not to hunch his shoulders because, damn, he feels like a little kid caught doing something he shouldn't be. "Just, uh, you used to room with Matt Cassel, right?"

Troy nods. "Back at USC, why?"

"You, uh, still talk to him much?"

"Here and there." There's a pause while Troy tosses back the last of his drink, and Ben can practically see the wheels turning beneath all that hair. "Think the last time was the championship game."

"How's he doing?"

"Good, but then he's learning from Brady, y'know? And he's seeing someone new, or he was at the game. Didn't tell me much about her, just that it sorta came out of nowhere and took him by surprise." Toying with his glass, Troy shifts, then looks up at Ben. "Why the sudden interest, man? If you're looking to score an introduction, Tommy's your best bet."

"Nah, man, it's not that." Fuck, this is harder than he'd thought. Frantically, he wracks his brain, trying to figure out a way to broach the subject without breaking his promise. He's got to give Troy just enough room to make his own conclusions without confirming anything. Except he sort of sucks at deception unless it's faking a pass or something. "But, uh, what if I was to tell you that, um, Matt's new girl isn't really a girl?"

Troy's brows furrow. "I don't follow."

Ben just arches his own eyebrow. "Funny, no one told me you were dumb."

"Hey now, wait a...oh, oh fuck." Troy's jaw drops. "No way, man. No freakin' way. He's..." His voice drops to a loud whisper. "A dude?"

"That's the rumor," Ben shrugs, staring emphatically at his glass and not Troy. He's skating so close to the line, man. "Dunno that I put much stock in it, though. I mean, you know Matt. He seem the type to swing?" Because no way Tom's telling the truth. No way in hell. Because if he is, it also means that maybe Tom really also thinks that him and Hasselbeck...and hell no. Just no.

"No, he, well..." Troy trails off, still looking like he's just been hit in the head with something heavy. It would be comical if Ben's stomach wasn't doing flip-flops. "I dunno."

"You don't know?" Ben can feel his eyes bugging out as he stares at Troy. "You roomed with the guy!"

"I know, I know," Troy says, flapping one hand in Ben's direction. "And he had girlfriends, man. He didn't bring 'em around much, and he wasn't the pussy hound the rest of us were, but, well...a dude?"

"So, uh, you're saying it's possible?" Ben studies his empty glass as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Well..." There's such a long pause that Ben's eyes lift to meet Troy's. "Maybe, dude, I dunno. I mean...Jesus, now you got the idea in my head!"

"Yeah, well, join the club."

Troy shakes his head vigorously, causing his tied-back hair to flop around his shoulders. "Cassel and a guy, man, damn," he says, voice hushed again. "Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who's the guy, genius," Troy replied, cuffing Ben lightly across the back of the head. "And you call me dumb."

"Don't make me kick your ass."

"Whatever, like you've got a chance. So?"

Fuck, so much for stalling. Ben wishes mightily for another drink. "That wasn't confirmed." Which isn't strictly a lie, as Ben hasn't actually talked to Cassel yet to see if Tom's yanking his chain. Besides, if he doesn't say it, he's not really breaking confidences.

"But you've got a guess," Troy says, shrewdly. "Is it anyone in this room?"

"Maybe?"

"Anyone I know?"

"Maybe?"

"Anyone he...?" Then Troy's eyes bug again. "TOM?!"

Ben clamps a hand over Troy's mouth. "Jesus fucking Christ, keep your voice down! You're talking about the MVP of the league!" he hisses.

Troy stares at him, eyes wide, then something warm and wet touches Ben's palm. With a muttered oath, he jerks his hand back and glares at Troy.

"You licked me!"

"What you get for putting your big paws in my face," Troy snaps. "You're telling me that Cassel is banging Belichick's meal ticket? The golden child of the NFL? Who dates models and actresses? That Tom Brady?? No fucking way!"

"I didn't say anything," Ben says, voice low, tugging Troy farther from the doors. "And don't shout it, man!"

"You didn't have to say it. Jesus!" Troy sags against the railing. "Wow. I mean, not that I blame Matt or anything, but wow."

There's no way Ben heard that right. "What do you mean, not that you blame him?"

"He's Tom Brady," Troy replies, like that explains anything. "Three rings in five years, man. Half the NFL would go to their knees for him."

"I really don't need that image in my head." Just the idea of someone like Casey Hampton or Albert Haynesworth kneeling... Ben shudders. "That's just wrong."

"Not if it's Tom," Troy points out. "Anyway, why are we talking about this?"

"N-no reason," Ben stammers, cursing his inability to lie. "Just, y'know, heard the rumor, wanted to know if you thought there was any truth to it."

Troy gives him a level look and doesn't say anything. It drags on for long enough that Ben starts to fidget. Troy shakes his head. "You're a horrible liar. Take some lessons from Hines. And for crying out loud, tell me why the fuck we're talking about this!"

"Like I said," Ben mutters, eyes darting to the doors and the swirl of the crowd inside, "heard a rumor and figured since you know Matt and all..."

"Uh huh, sure. Why do you care? I mean, it's not like you're...no!" Troy's eyes get wide again, and he stands up straight, making an odd choking sound.

"I'm...no!" Ben shakes his head so fast he thinks it might snap clean off. "Get that idea outta your fluffy little head right now."

Troy eyes him suspiciously. "You sure you're not..."

"Jesus, Troy, no!"

"Because Tom is awfully pretty..."

Ben just grits his teeth. "I am not interested in Tom Brady. First off, that's just weird. Second, he's like an annoying older brother."

"Yeah, well, there is that," Troy concedes, then flashes that blinding white smile. "It's just that you've never shown that much interest in who anyone's banging."

He is murdering Tom at the very first available opportunity. "Well, no one I know is banging another dude."

"Good point." Troy thinks that over for a moment, then shrugs. "I can ask Matt if it's true next time I talk to him if you want."

"No," Ben says, a little too quickly, knowing he'll probably be seeing Matt before Troy if Tom's telling the truth, "I'm not that curious."

"Pussy." Troy's smile is just this side of wicked as he moves out of Ben's reach. "So tell me. You think this is a casual sex thing or you think they're, y'know, involved?"

Involved is Ben's first response, based on things Tom said, but he keeps it to himself. "Why's it matter?"

"Well, casual sex is just that. Casual and sex," Troy replies, stepping closer to the door and keeping an eye on Ben. "Involved is a relationship, dude, and that means kissing. And regular blowjobs."

Instantly, Ben has a rather graphic thought of Tom on his knees, naked, with his mouth around... "I fucking hate you," he groans, wondering if there's any way he can scrub his brain out with bleach.

"You know you love me," he hears Troy reply, just before Troy leaves him all alone on the patio. Alone, with no one to distract him from thoughts of Tom fucking MVP Brady sucking another guy's cock. He wonders if anyone's got anything stronger than alcohol. Screw the regs, man, he'll chance getting suspended for a banned substance if it means not thinking about...things.

"Tom said you wanted to talk to me."

Oh no...No. C'mon, hasn't his night been fucked up enough without having to go another round with Asshole Hasselbeck? Ben glances up, and sure enough, Matt's standing right next to him, tie loosened, drink in hand, looking all casually cool and relaxed. Unlike Ben, who's feeling anything but cool and relaxed and casual.

"Not in this lifetime," Ben mutters under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Ben says, easing his shoulders back, doing his best to not think about anything Tom had said about the stupid chemistry or whatever it was between them or about how there's supposedly something there, but it's like being told to not think about a pink elephant. He scrambles for something to say that won't make him look like an idiot or a complete dick (though, it is Hasselbeck he's talking to, so maybe it's okay to be a dick). He thinks maybe if he can get Matt to agree that they started off on the wrong foot, Matt'll agree and leave.

"Just, y'know, lost my cool in there for a sec, and, uh, y'know, no hard feelings."

Matt's grin crinkles the corners of his eyes. "That mean we're kissing and making up?"

Jesus Christ. Ben's gaze involuntarily drops to Matt's lips. Matt's admittedly full lips. Fucking fucking...he is not thinking about this. He's just not. He doesn't think that way about dudes. "Something like that," he manages, after loudly clearing his throat.

"You sure you're okay? You're looking a little pale."

Ben wonders how pissed Coach Belichick will be at him if he kills the coach's bread and butter? At this point, he'd be willing to chance it. Fuck Tom, anyway, and his insidious talk about...stuff. "I'm fine," he lies. "Just, y'know, really hot inside. Stuffy, I mean. Really stuffy. Not hot."

He does not need to be thinking about hot and Matt in the same sentence.

"Thought it was getting pretty damn hot myself," Matt says, glancing back inside before taking a long swallow of his drink. "All those bodies pressed together, telling the same bullshit stories."

A groan wells up in Ben's throat, and he has to fight to swallow it. He does not want to think about bodies pressing together and getting hot and...damn it! He spins, the movement sharp and abrupt, to stare out over the lake, and tries his best to ignore Matt beside him. "Yeah, I guess," he manages, voice a little gruff. "Not enough alcohol at these things."

Matt's answering laugh is a soft huff of air that zings along Ben's spine, and he leans against the railing, so close that Ben can practically feel the heat radiating from his body. "You sure that's all you wanted to talk about?"

"Why?" Ben asks, immediately suspicious. He does his best not to move.

"No reason," Matt shrugs, the motion pressing him closer to Ben. "Tom made it sound like it was important that I find you, that's all."

"I'm killing him," Ben groans, banging his head against the railing, voice muffled. "Fucking killing him."

"Yeah, Tom does have that effect on people," Matt chuckles, and hip-checks Ben in what Ben is sure is supposed to be a friendly gesture. Instead, it just sort of scrambles what's left of his brain.

Without thinking, Ben reaches out. He watches in vague horror as his hand curls around Matt's forearm. "Don't," Ben says, voice sounding strained to his own ears, and straightens, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. "Don't touch me, alright."

Cool blue eyes regard him for a moment, then Matt arches an eyebrow as he looks down at his arm. "Seems to me," he murmurs, and the amusement is so heavy Ben can feel it, "that you're the one doing the touching here."

Later on - after he's had plenty of time to think about it - Ben'll wonder what in God's name had possessed him to do what he does next. Desire to shut Matt up once and for all or maybe it's the fucking alcohol or Tom's stupid voice in his head or the heat sizzling between them or hell, he has no idea. But, before he's even aware he's moved, his lips are on Matt's, pushing hard enough to snap Matt's head back. There's a split second of pure, unadulterated shock that punches through him, and gives him just enough time to wonder what in sweet fuck he's doing, then Matt's tongue is there, pushing between his teeth with an insistence that borders on savage. And yeah, fuck coherent thought or second thoughts or any thought at all.

He angles his head, tongue dueling with Matt's, and the rough feel of the kiss is like a bolt of lightning to his system. This is absolutely nothing like kissing a girl - this is a war, waged with insistent lips, the voracious, unrelenting slide of Matt's tongue, and the hard press of a muscled body against his. And Ben responds to the challenge the way he does everything else in life, full-on and hardcore. With a soft growl, he shoves a knee between Matt's thighs, pressing up as Matt slants his head and pushes against Ben's mouth. Ben's never thought of a guy having soft lips - well, he's never thought of a guy's lips at all, to be honest - but Matt's are nice and full.

They part, both of them panting with exertion like they've been doing wind sprints. Matt looks eighteen shades of debauched, skin all flushed, eyes all wide, mouth all bruised. When he speaks, his voice is a low slither that skitters along Ben's spine. "What the fuck was that?"

A thousand thoughts flit through Ben's head, and not a single one is acceptable. So he bites his tongue and lets go of Matt, the move so abrupt that they both stumble. "Fuck," Ben breathes, looking everywhere but at Matt, and finally he bends forward and places his hands on his thighs. "I've gotta be drunk."

Even though he doesn't feel drunk, it's got to be the only explanation.

There's a flicker of movement, and then Matt's in front of him, firm hand cupping Ben's chin and forcing him back upright. "Bullshit," Matt growls, cold and hard, fingers tight on Ben's jaw. "Is this your way of getting back at me for calling you a cocky kid earlier? Brady put you up to this?"

"Fuck you," Ben snarls, reaching up to knock Matt's hand away. Before he can connect, Matt's lips are on his again, and heat slams into him once more.

He pushes at Matt's shoulders, driving him deeper into the shadows, fisting his hands with the lapels of Matt's jacket. They're plastered against each other so tightly that Ben can't be sure which heartbeat is his and which is Matt's. He groans his pleasure as Matt's tongue does something (possibly illegal) along the roof of his mouth, and drops his hands to start fumbling with Matt's zipper.

The hand holding his chin eases, then slides to curl around the back of his neck, holding Ben in place. Ben doesn't care. He's more concerned with getting Matt to do that tongue thing again. When Matt obliges, Ben's knees threaten to buckle. Matt's zipper gives way, even as Ben feels a light touch slip along his inseam, followed by a brief kiss of cool air before warm fingers wrap snugly around his cock. The shock of pleasure is almost indescribable.

It should feel weird doing this. It should feel disgusting or wrong or something to have another man's dick in his hand, to know that he's getting expertly jerked off at the same time by a guy. He should push Matt away, straighten his clothing, make a hasty exit and drink enough to black out and forget this ever happened. Instead, he wraps snug fingers around Matt's cock, mimics Matt's steady, hard rhythm, and loses himself in the explosive combustion of Matt's kiss.

Waves of pleasure spread through Ben's body, spiking along his nerves, and it's all he can do to remain standing. His control frays, stretching thinner and thinner, and Matt's no better, not if the way he's trembling is any indication. It feels like forever, but Ben knows it's only minutes, before they're leaning into each other, foreheads pressed together, hands moving in perfect synchronicity. There are murmurs of "fuck" and "God" and "c'mon, please, now" and Ben's not sure who says what or which one turns into the next kiss first as his orgasm slams into him, Matt following only seconds later.

He's still shaking in the aftermath, heart pounding, taking in huge gulps of air, when unwelcome reality hits him. He's just given - and received, Jesus - a handjob. With another dude. Of the male persuasion. He'd just had a guy's tongue down his throat and hand on his dick.

"Fuck..." he groans, praying for the earth to swallow him whole. Or for this all to have been a really vivid, really tactile sort of dream. Hallucination. Something. He pulls away, looking everywhere in the world but at Matt. He desperately needs a wad of Kleenex, a shot of Jack, and some sort of memory-erasing drug.

Matt steps back, puts some room between them. For all that Ben's really relieved that Matt's no longer in his space and short-circuiting thought, he can't help the sharp zing of disappointment that rockets through him. He shakes his head, looks around for something, anything, to wipe his hand on, trying to focus his thoughts. All he can think of is how good it had felt to have Matt's hands on him, and...

Fuck!

Tom is going to be the most insufferable bastard that's ever lived.

"Should clean yourself up," Matt says, and damned if he doesn't sound more in control than he should.

"I should clean myself up?" Ben repeats, hating that his voice cracks a little at the end. Here Ben is, sticky and dazed and ashamed and more than a little confused and a helluva lot of freaked out, and all Matt can think to say after participating in a mutual handjob with another guy at a goddamn party is 'you should clean yourself up'?? "That's seriously all you can think to say?" he asks, certain he's got to look as flummoxed as he feels.

Matt shrugs, the motion part insouciance, part elegance. He's already managed to straighten his clothing and pull himself together. Ben hates him a little bit for that. "Can't rightly go back inside with your dick hanging out and spooge on your hand. That's just asking for trouble."

Ben stares. There's no way Matt's seriously just standing there giving him advice on how to deal with the aftermath of jerking a guy off. This can not be a normal thing for him, no matter how much he obviously got off on it. "Fuck you," he says, convinced that Matt has ice in his veins. "I wouldn't be in this position if it wasn't for you!"

"Excuse me?" Matt's voice drops and his eyes narrow as he holds himself rigid. "This is my fault? You were the one who kissed me."

He hates that Matt has a point. And that he's still slightly stupid from the orgasm. And that this really appears to be really happening and isn't some bad dream. But mostly he hates that Matt is clearly not as freaked out by all of this as Ben is, which makes Ben wonder who else Matt's given handjobs to, and if this is some sort of typical occurrence for him. The thought shouldn't piss him off as much as it does. "Yeah, well, it's a mistake I won't be repeating," he bites out, finally deciding to wipe the worst of the mess on his hand off on the railing (which is sort of gross, but he doesn't have many options) and to zip himself back up. "Let's just say there was a bet involved, and it wasn't supposed to go as far as it did."

"You bet someone on kissing me?" Now Matt's voice is a dangerous low growl. Not that Ben cares if he's pissed, because he's too busy being pissed off himself.

"Actually, that I wouldn't kiss you. Unlike you, apparently, this isn't exactly a common incident for me," Ben replies, giving Matt his best serious stare. "But I guess jerking random guys off at parties is more your thing."

"It's a first for me," Matt snaps. "Clearly, though, you thought otherwise, or you wouldn't be making bets on whether or not you could. Which, by the way, is far worse to do to someone you just met than me calling you a cocky, punk kid."

"I said I didn't bet that I could," Ben says, fists clenched at his sides as he takes a step towards Matt. "I said...you know what, nevermind. I didn't plan this, I didn't want this, and I sure as hell don't plan on repeating it."

"Damn good thing," Matt replies. He looks Ben up and down, taking his time, then locks eyes with him. "I like my women more on the feminine side."

For the second time in the space of fifteen minutes, Ben's control snaps. "Cocksucking dickmonkey," he growls, then plows into Matt, shoulder-first like he's some sort of linebacker or something, sending them both thudding to the ground in a flurry of flying fists and kicks. In the very dim part of his brain that's actually still running on logic, he knows he needs to get the fuck up before either of them get injured in some sort of stupid fashion that'll make the blogs or ESPN or wherever and get them into hot water with their respective coaches. But logic is easy to ignore over the more satisfying emotions coursing through him when his fist makes contact with vulnerable flesh.

Ben may have had the initial edge and a longer reach, but Matt's no slouch when it comes to close combat, and he's got some serious muscle behind each of his punches. After one particular blow, Ben's pretty sure he sees stars. It just redoubles his effort. He's not getting up until he puts Matt down.

"Oh, for... Troy, Mike, get the fuck out here now!" Ben's barely aware of someone shouting nearby, but when hands grab him and pull, he fights. A stray fist catches the interloper, resulting in muffled cursing, and Ben loses all of his breath when Matt's fist crashes into his stomach.

"What the hell?"

"Just grab Matt," Tom says, pinning one of Ben's arms and pulling him back. Dark hair fills Ben's vision as Troy joins in the efforts, helping to separate them, and he can see Mike Vrabel with his meaty arms locked around Matt's waist.

"Leggo," Matt snarls, struggling, eyes promising murder as he glares at Ben.

"Not until Tom gives the okay," Mike replies, not moving.

"Which I'm not," Tom says, then bends to mutter in Ben's ear. "I leave you alone for five minutes and this is what happens? Moron."

"Fuck you, this is your fault," Ben fires back, trying to wrench his way out of Troy and Tom's hold. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mike dragging Matt inside and safely out of reach. Fucking pussy.

"You're an idiot." Tom steps back, and motions to Troy. "It's cool, just make sure Mike gets Matt squared away." Troy takes his time, looking at Ben like Ben's some unhinged crazy person or something, but does as ordered.

"Don't fucking call me an idiot," Ben says, just as soon as he and Tom are alone. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he can feel each one of Matt's punches and kicks. Feels like he's been beaten with a hammer. He only hopes Matt feels worse.

"Why not? You are one." Tom replies, standing his ground when Ben levels a filthy look on him. "I send him out, thinking the two of you could be mature and, I dunno, talk like normal human beings, and I look out and see the two of you rolling around like eight year olds on the playground. That's not what I meant when I said there was something between you."

"Yeah, about that," Ben says, debating how much better he'd feel if he took a swing at Tom and rearranged that pretty face. "What the fuck makes you think that, even if I were the type to go for guys, which I'm not, I'd be at all interested in that condescending, smart-mouthed prick?"

"Maybe you've got a thing for condescending, smart-mouthed pricks," Tom shrugs. "I think you like people that challenge you and don't put up with your shit."

"He's an arrogant ice princess."

"That's an awful lot of animosity against someone you barely know," Tom replies, still looking at Ben like he thinks Ben's short-bus material. "Why do you think that?"

"I dunno," Ben said, still debating throwing that punch, "maybe it's because he started on me, calling me a cocky kid and shit before I even knew who the hell he was?"

Tom looks at him for a moment longer, then rubs his eyes. "Fuck me," he mutters, taking a deep breath before he looks at Ben again. "You better toughen up some if you plan on being in this league long. What Matt said -- and I explained that, but you apparently didn't listen -- what he said is nothing compared to the shit you'll have to put up with from guys like Jason Taylor, Housh, and Shockey."

"Other guys haven't been all up in my face about it."

"All up your face?? Are you even listening to yourself? Or me?"

"Not really," Ben admits, cupping his cheek. He swears one of his teeth got knocked loose. "I'm too busy being pissed off and not drunk enough and I still have to get cleaned up, goddammit."

"Cleaned up?" Tom looks him over, then frowns. "You're not bleeding. You don't even look all that dirty or scuffed up."

"Yeah, well, I just...y'know what, fuck you," Ben states, as eloquently as possible. He starts towards the door, determined to get the hell out of there and somewhere he can get out of his damn suit. "I'm going to find some more alcohol. In some place that doesn't water down their drinks."

"Wait, wait, hold up," Tom says, catching Ben's arm two steps from the door. "What the hell is going on, man?"

Ben stops, and sighs, head bowed. He should have guessed that Tom wouldn't let it go. "Not here."

"Alright. Got plenty of booze at my suite at the hotel. And it's plenty private," Tom adds.

Ben just nods. "Sure, sounds good." He's too tired to argue, and he supposes he owes Tom something, other than the ten large he's going to be giving to Tom's charity. "Just let me stop by the bathroom really quick." He may as well scrub off all of the evidence of what he and Matt had been doing and check his tooth before they head out. He has a feeling it's going to be a very long night.

***

Tom opens the door to the suite, gesturing Ben inside, and Ben looks around. Looks pretty much like every other hotel suite he's ever been in, and his gaze only pauses for a second over the two distinctly different suitcases against a wall. "So where's the booze?"

"Through there." Tom nods towards the other door, already stripping off his jacket and tie. "Help yourself."

Help himself, indeed. It's not like he needs Tom's permission to get rip-roaring drunk. "You want anything?"

"Whatever you're having's fine."

Ben just gives him a thumbs up and takes the opportunity to throw off his jacket and get rid of his tie. He also unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt before breaking out the tiny bottles of Black Label and pouring them over ice. He holds up a glass when Tom walks in the room. "Cheers."

He downs three-fourths of it in one noisy sip.

Tom slides onto a bar stool. "Feel like talking yet?"

Ben pours another bottle into his glass. "Maybe? No? If I tell you that you won the bet, do you think that'd be enough?"

Tom pauses with the glass halfway to his mouth. The look he gives Ben is thoughtful and it's long enough that Ben looks away. "Is that why you were fighting?" Tom finally asks.

"No," Ben says, and grimaces. "Yes. Fuck, I don't know. I just, y'know, it happened. And I was in shock, I guess, and he treated it like nothing, and..."

"And you lost your temper," Tom finishes after swallowing a mouthful of his drink. He studies Ben again, then gestures towards the nearby chairs. "Bring the booze, sit down, and tell me what the hell happened after I sent Matt out to talk to you."

"Wait, uh, you're not expecting, um, details, are you?" Belatedly, Ben realizes he hasn't grabbed the bottles, so he turns back to the bar and stuffs an even half-dozen into his pockets before heading to the chairs.

"Well, I'm not asking how big Matt's dick is or anything, but I'll leave the rest up to you to share or not."

Dear God, Matt's dick... Ben lets out a whining groan and drops into his chair, head thumping on the back cushions. "I really don't want to talk about Matt's dick right now."

"Alright, so leaving Matt's dick out of this..." Tom pauses to flash a wicked, knowing grin at Ben that has Ben burying his face in his half-empty drink, "I take it you acted on it."

"Acted on what?" Best thing to do is play innocent. Not that Tom's going to believe it, but at least it'll let Ben put off answering questions for a few more minutes. And if he could just get Tom distracted...

A hand shoots out and cuffs the back of his head before Ben's aware of the movement. "What happened?"

"Ow, what the fuck?" Ben rubs his head, glaring at Tom, who just calmly stares back. "Alright, fine. I don't really know what happened, I mean, he comes out and he's being his usual jerkweed self and he was all up in my personal space, and I dunno, the next thing I know, we're kissing. And, uh, then, y'know, things got a little sticky."

"Sticky?"

"Yeah, sticky." He really, really hopes Tom's not sadistic enough to make him spell it out.

"Sticky." Tom says as if he's tasting it, and Ben shies hard from that thought. The last thing he wants in his head is the image of Tom tasting anything. "Man, I gotta tell you, when you act on something, you don't do it half-assed. Guess you got a reason for not wanting to talk about his dick."

Ben winces and quickly swallows the rest of his drink. "Damn it," he says, wincing again at the pleading note in his voice, "it's your fault."

"I just sent him out there to force you to talk to him," Tom points out, a grin forming as he shakes his head. "I didn't expect you to jerk him off at a party...uh, it was a handjob, right, and not..."

"Oh God..." Ben can just feel all of the blood draining from his face. He truly, honestly does not want to think about what he's pretty sure Tom's talking about. "Jesus..."

"However, judging from your reaction, I'm going with handjob," Tom grins. "Although if you had gone to your knees for him -"

"Oh God..."

"- I'd have to give you massive points for jumping right into the deep end off the bat," Tom finishes, and salutes Ben with his glass.

Ben's pretty sure there's not enough alcohol in the suite for this conversation. He sets the bottles on the coffee table, wondering if it's too early to call up for more. "Nobody went to their knees." Of course, now he can't stop thinking about Matt's full lips stretched around his cock, and he is honest to God going to become an alcoholic, fuck his career.

Tom mumbles something into his drink that sounds like "you will," then looks up, gives him an all too innocent smile, and Ben drops his head to his knees. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's officially official. Tom Brady is a world-class sadist.

"So you freaked out," Tom says, reaching for another of the bottles, "and he was all cool about it, like it was no big deal? Not that I know Matt that well, but that seems...odd."

Ben snorts. Odd isn't the word for it. Then he remembers how Matt sounded afterward, before Ben's brain had started working again. "Uh..."

"Uh?"

"I, uh, wouldn't say that. Exactly."

"So what, exactly, would you say it was like?"

"Like, I dunno, he was...why are we talking about this?" Ben asks, wishing, with everything in him, that he'd never accepted the invite to this event.

"Because you, my friend, need to talk about it or you'll explode," Tom answers, with a sort of pragmatic calm that Ben simultaneously envies and hates.

"Fine," he grumbles, hating that Tom's right. "He seemed...I dunno, really, I don't know the guy. But he was...fine during, y'know, what we were doing to each other...and then, after, he was all practical and shit and talking about me cleaning myself up like this was something he did all the time." Which still pisses Ben off when he thinks about it.

"Okay, so," Tom says, giving him a shrewd look. "He enjoyed himself during the, ah, proceedings and then acted like it was no big deal after you got off?"

"Yeah," Ben says, forcing down his anger over the idea that it might not have been a big deal to Matt. Fucker.

"It ever occur to you that maybe he was completely freaked and didn't know what else to say?"

"I...what?"

"Well, unless I'm completely wrong, that was a first for him, too. With a guy, I mean," Tom adds. "And I don't care how old or mature or experienced or whatever you are, that's enough to make anyone freak."

"He wasn't acting like it," Ben mumbles, slouching deeper into his chair.

"Some people handle stress differently than others," Tom replies. "The trick is recognizing and responding. Works on the field, too."

"Whatever," Ben says, unwilling to concede that Tom might possibly - just possibly, mind you - be right about this. "Not like it matters. With any luck, I'll never have to speak to Matt again."

However, he's honest enough to admit (but only to himself, because he's not a complete idiot) some part of him is a little disappointed at the idea that he might not ever get near Matt's lips again. A very small part of him.

"You will," Tom says, with a small smile. "You'll play him at some point."

There's a weird moment, like time stands still, and Tom's words ring in Ben's ears. The hair on the back of his neck stands up. Then he gives himself a mental shake and tries to remember how much alcohol is left in the mini-bar. "Not for a long time. We're not scheduled to play the NFC West for another two years." Which might just be enough time.

"Might be sooner than you think," Tom argues, patting Ben's knee as he stands. "C'mon, we're gonna need more booze to get you as drunk as you think you need to be."

"Best idea you've had all night," Ben states, and stands. "I hope you don't mind that I'm probably gonna pass out on the sofa."

"There's an extra bedroom," Tom replies. "Ostensibly for Matt - my Matt, I mean."

Tom's Matt...and, yeah, okay. Okay, Ben so doesn't need to think about Tom referring to Matt Cassel in the possessive. Or about why Matt's not going to be using that extra bedroom or why he's sharing a suite with Tom or any of it. "Thanks," he mumbles, instead, and follows Tom to the bar.

With any luck, he'll get so drunk he'll black out and forget this night ever happened. With any luck, he'll forget what Matt's mouth had tasted like or what his hands had felt like or what his moans had sounded like.

With any luck, he'll forget Matt Hasselbeck even exists.

***