The Distance Between Us
Title : The Distance Between Us
Author : Russian Torque
Team/Pairing : Washington Capitals - Semin/Ovechkin ; St.Louis Blues - Oshie/Sobotka ; Canadiens - Halak/Price ; Blackhawks - Toews/Hjalmarsson ; Flyers - Richards/Carter
Overall Rating/Warning : NC-17 | explicit m/m, angst!!!
Note : Written for the hockeykinkmeme. Prompt is here.
Jonathan Toews / Niklas Hjalmarsson
Niklas has been watching silently as Jonathan has slowly retreated further and further into himself for weeks- ever since it became obvious to everyone on the team that getting into the running for the Stanley wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. He’s seen Johnny becoming the ideal Captain, noticed how the tender touches that used to feel like home have turned cold and calculating.
There’s barely anything of Johnny left. At least, not enough to continue with the way they’ve been going for most of the season.
“We can’t do this anymore, Nikki.”
Niklas is astounded that Jonathan actually manages to sound sincere. He’s known this was coming for weeks now and the act itself doesn’t really come as a shock.
He shuffles his weight from one foot to the other, staring Johnny down blankly as if this doesn’t affect him. Neither of them really have time for true commitments, except for the team. This thing between them- it was never supposed to happen to begin with.
“So?” Nikki’s voice comes out a little shakier than he meant it to, but Johnny doesn’t even flinch.
“So I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Only Jonathan can say that to someone standing in his kitchen, wearing his pajama pants with the stupid ‘C’ on one pant leg, and making him breakfast without so much as a flinch. And as much as Niklas doesn’t want to make this a big deal, he can’t stop himself from dropping the frying pan with Johnny’s half cooked eggs into the sink with a loud, jarring clatter.
Nikki’s knuckles turn white as he clutches the counter, arms almost shaking with the frustration that’s been building for the past few weeks. It hurts that Johnny can be so stoic about this. It creates doubts in his mind that this was ever anything more than straight fucking and that thought makes him hate Jonathan in a way he never thought possible.
“It’s that easy?” Niklas asks, keeping his back to Jonathan because he doesn’t trust himself not to break down. “Just goodbye? See you later? No meaning with what we have?”
He can practically feel Johnny bristling behind him, but he doesn’t stop there.
“Is like this with everyone you’re with? Just saying ‘game over, time to go?’”
“It’s not like that,” Johnny responds. There’s almost a hint of sympathy in his voice, but it’s so well hidden under his practiced Captain’s mask that it’s really impossible to hear it by anyone but Nikki, who knows him so well.
Niklas wants to fight for what they have. He wants to tell Johnny he’s wrong, that stopping this, ending them so nonchalantly won’t change anything. Nothing is going to change the months and months of work behind them, all the games they played and lost.
But at the same time, he is completely aware that this is a battle he can’t win.
He’ll hear no apologies from Johnny- no words of remorse or vindication. It’s just going to end and that’s that. When they wake up tomorrow morning, in separate beds, cold and alone, that’s the way it stays.
When Nikki finally moves, it isn’t to go down the hall and gather his things, it’s to plead for what they have just one last time. He’s inches away from Jonathan, fingers tentatively clinging to the Captain’s hips with thumbs drawing small circles on his skin.
“Johnny.” Nikky leans in to brush their lips together and Johnny turns his head. “Jonathan, please. Kiss me. Tell me this doesn’t mean anything to you.”
When Jonathan kisses him, it’s hot and uncontrolled. Johnny’s hands are tangling in his hair and holding him so close he can barely breathe. There are teeth on his lips, biting and sucking and for that moment- when they’re sinking further into the passion Jonathan keeps locked up so deep inside- Nikki actually believes he’s won.
But then Johnny’s pulling away, his eyes darting down to the floor in anguish as he clears his throat. “It shouldn’t mean anything, Niklas. It can’t anymore.”
Nikki waits until he’s alone in the apartment he hasn’t spent a single night in for nearly a year before he lets himself go. He can’t control the tears that stream down his cheeks silently, just like he would never be able to convince Johnny this could ever be worth it.
+ + + +
Jeff Carter / Mike Richards
When the news is delivered to the media, they’ve both known about it for a while. It’s a fact of life that people get traded, it comes with the job. The thing is, as much as they’ll both miss the team, it isn’t leaving Philadelphia that’s causing the most grief.
There’s always been an awkward sort of ignored tension between them. At the bar, Jeff occasionally sits a little close and Mike might brush his knuckles across the back of his hand, always on accident. Before games, Mike may have helped Jeff strap down his jersey occasionally, but it’s only because he was the Captain, not because he just needed a reason to stand close to him.
But starting now, they won’t be in Philadelphia together. They won’t be drinking beer together or crashing at one of the rookie’s apartments after a long night of indulgence. There are no more before game dinners, no charity events, no texting at two in the morning because Mike accidentally left with one of Jeff’s shirts.
Now, Mike wishes he’d kept that shirt because it’s something he can take with him, something that lasts.
They meet up one last time before it’s time to really say goodbye, at a dingy little bar far enough away from the center of the city that no one will recognize them. There’s space between them now and the air is thick and Mike tries to talk like nothing’s wrong and he knows Jeff is doing the same. They’re friends above all and splitting apart is more than just losing a teammate, it’s losing someone to trust.
Mike buys the first round, Jeff gets the second, so on until it’s too late to pretend this is just a goodbye and the bartender starting to close up for the night.
They’re both too drunk to drive, so they stumble their way into the backseat of Jeff’s car and toss the keys into the front seat haphazardly. It’s still so dark outside and for a moment, they can both pretend that night just fell- that the dim light on the horizon is the sunset rather than the sunrise, that they’ve still got just one last night together.
But both their phones have been ringing off the hook for the past hour and there are other people to say goodbye to.
Mike isn’t sure what he’s thinking when he reaches over and runs his fingers through Jeff’s hair, it’s like his arm just moves on it’s own. And Jeff is leaning into the touch, fitting his way into Mike’s arms until they’re pressed together in a relaxed embrace, like this isn’t the last time they’ll be together like this.
Their last memory together is of the sun rising over Philadelphia and for a moment, Mike wishes he could just throw his career aside just for a few more nights like this, but they both know it would never work.
The sun is halfway up the sky when they untangle from each other and Mike fights back the urge to say something stupid and sentimental because that just isn’t who they are. He settles for a hug and if his lips press against Jeff’s neck for a moment, it’s only by coincidence.
He pretends not to feel Jeff’s fingers grasping his shirt, trying to hold him close for just one more second. He pulls away without a second glance and doesn’t look back.
+ + + +
Carey Price / Jaroslav Halak - 10March2011, St. Louis
Carey still has the letter Jaro left on his pillow the day he went to St. Louis. He reads it so often that the creases in the paper have started to fray at the edges. It’s the only thing he has left of Jaro, they never took any pictures together or exchanged gifts because it was just too risky.
He keeps it tucked away in the frame of their last team photo. They’re sitting on opposite sides of the front bench, as far from each other as possible. It’s almost funny, considering how far apart they are now.
It’s a simple enough letter, talking about how the distance will ruin them and their relationship just isn’t strong enough and it’s blaming Carey for them not working out in so many words. It stings ever time he reads it, but it’s true. Carey knows he didn’t try hard enough, he was never there when Jaro needed him.
And he’s okay being the bad guy, if it means Jaro can be happy.
For the first time since going their separate ways, they’re meeting tonight- on the ice, as enemies. A plane ride and one miserable trudge from the hotel to the stadium later, Carey sees Jaro across the ice. He’s wearing blue instead of red and he’s actually laughing with his teammates as they skate by his zone.
Carey isn’t prepared for the pang of jealousy that stabs into his gut and as a result, he chokes. By the end of the third period, he’s lost the game four to one and he doesn’t even care. All he can think about is how much he misses Jaro. He tried so hard to stay away, to forget and just get over the fact that they didn’t work out.
The world is grey, colorless and silent when he skates off the ice and it stays that way as he showers and dresses and it stays that way until he’s back in his hotel room, pulling out his phone and praying to whatever god might be listening that Jaro didn’t get a new number.
But the line rings when he hits send and there’s a stomach-twisting moment when he thinks no one will pick up before he hears Jaro’s sleepy voice on the other end mumble a hello.
Carey’s voice catches in his throat.
“Jaro-” he chokes out, “It’s Carey.”
The other end goes silent and Carey takes a shaky breath. “I want to see you.”
“Why?”
That one word sends Carey spinning and he’s starting to think this is a bad idea. But then he remembers how he felt during the game- almost close enough to touch.
“I can’t answer that, Jaro,” Carey replies, unable to keep the edge from his voice, “I miss you.”
It’s with some reluctance that Jaro hands over his address and then Carey is outside his door in record time, out of breath from having run all the way up the stairs to Jaro’s sixth floor apartment after the elevator took too long.
Jaro opens the door after just a few seconds and Carey can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but just stare. And then he’s closing the distance between them, taking Jaro into his arms and kissing him soundly. He’s vaguely aware of the door slamming shut behind him as he walks Jaro backwards until they’re pressed up against the wall, Jaro’s hands buried in his hair and hips grinding together.
It’s enough to make Carey dizzy with desire.
“Bedroom, now,” Carey manages to mumble between their mouths and if the low groan that vibrates in Jaro’s chest is any indication to his acquiescence, Jaro wants this as much as he does.
They manage to stay connected, pressed from hip to chest, tongues tangled and wandering hands stripping off each other’s shirts and by the time they fall onto Jaro’s bed, their pants are twisted around their feet and Jaro is already fumbling around his bedside table for what Carey presumes is lubricant of some sort.
And then Jaro is flipping them over, pushing Carey to his back and slicking Carey’s length, breath choppy and hands shaking before he lines himself up and slides down until Carey’s thick cock is filling him completely.
All Carey can really do is lay there and take one slow, heavy breath after another because Jaro is so much tighter than he remembers, almost like the first time they were together. And then Jaro flinches on top of him, his muscles tightening, eyes shut in pain as his lip disappears between his teeth to stifle a gasp.
“Jaro,” Carey gets his attention with a somber tone, stilling the smaller goalie’s hips with a gentle grip, “God, Jaro, I’m hurting you.”
Jaro just shakes his head, batting away Carey’s hands and continuing the slow pace he’s set.
“Haven’t been with anyone since you,” he breathes, “Missed you so much. Thought we’d never do this again.”
It’s pure and candid love Carey sees in Jaro’s eyes when their gaze meets, and it makes his heart throb with sheer vulnerability. The heart of their relationship, the very soul even, the love between them remained entirely unmarred by the distance and that realization creates a hope within Carey- that maybe they can make this work after all.
There’s time to think of that later though- right now he can concentrate on little else than Jaro moving on top of him, how his fingers grasp for purchase on his stomach, and the way his legs tremble and flex with exertion.
“I’m close,” Jaro gasps suddenly, the movement of his hips losing its rhythm, “Carey-”
Carey sits up as gently as he can and cuts the smaller goalie off with a kiss, his arms coming to rest around Jaro’s shoulders to ease him down to his back. The sensation of Jaro’s legs wrapping around his waist is one he’s missed for far too long and he reaches down to pull him closer, fingers gripping Jaro’s thigh as his hips roll forward.
His climax builds slowly, an intense heat pooling in his belly until his entire body is burning and he can’t actually hear what Jaro’s mouthing against his jaw, but he thinks it’s something like, “I love you,” because that’s what he’s murmuring into Jaro’s ear over and over as he comes.
Jaro is close to follow, his back arching and a whine leaving his throat when Cary circles his hand around his length, stroking in time with his stuttering hips and for a moment, they’re coming together and Jaro’s eyes are such a beautiful blue when he’s drowning in pleasure.
Carey doesn’t have to ask to know that somehow, everything’s going to be all right between them. As long as this compassion endures, they’ll be together even when they’re miles apart and Carey has a feeling that that might just be forever.
+ + + +
TJ Oshie / Vladimir Sobotka
For such a small looking guy, Vladimir could probably knock out a lesser man than TJ in one hit. Maybe it’s because of his compact nature rather than in spite of it- he’s got speed as well as power to back up his punch.
In any case, TJ isn’t quite sure exactly where he is for the few seconds after taking the blow. His head feels a little bigger than it should and he isn’t sure if he’s actually breathing until he curses loudly from the throbbing pain in his head.
It all started simply enough. The season ended and everyone went home after a few days of putzing around St. Louis. For TJ, that meant going up to Washington state and visiting the family and friends and it maybe turned into a few days of pretty intense clubbing during which he might have slept with a girl or two.
So, while he and Vladimir never really officiated the commitment between them, he still felt like shit when he got back down to St. Louis and found Vladi waiting for him in his apartment with a smile. One thing led to another and the last thing TJ expected was to have his living room made into a war zone of mostly unbreakable objects and a couple of glasses shattered against the wall.
“Fuck! I’m sorry!” TJ shouts across the room, “It’s not like I planned it to go down that way, all right? Can’t we just talk about it?”
Vlad practically snarls at him. “Is not all right-” Thankfully, he reserves himself to spitting out a few choice words in Czech rather than hurling something else. “What you think I do while you’re gone? Fucking other people? Is okay because was accident?”
If circumstances were different, TJ might be chuckling at the rapid deterioration of Vladi’s English skills. But as it is, he knows something about Vlad that only one other person knows, something he’s been holding onto because he thought it, also, might have just been a mistake.
But his lover is pushing him to that edge, driving him just a little more crazy than TJ can handle, especially when his stuff is being thrown across the living room.
“Yeah? What about Matt? You think I don’t know about that?” The shock on Vlad’s face is priceless, but all TJ is thinking about is that time he walked in on them- how angry and betrayed he’d felt. And consequentially, how he’d forgiven Vlad without him ever even asking for it. “I watched you fuck him after we played the Hawks, don’t act like you’re the victim here.”
By the time he’s done, his voice is quite a few decibels higher than when he began and Vlad has gone from being pale faced and shocked to defensive, shoulders hunched and lip curling into a snarl.
“You don’t know,” he shoots back, taking a few steps closer until he’s glaring up at TJ from inches away and even though he’s shorter by an inch, TJ feels like he’s being looked down upon. “You make up lies. I never do that, is you with problem, so don’t-”
“Don’t what? You fucking-”
TJ can’t help it. His hands move on their own to grip Vlad’s upper arm so much harder than he should- forming what’s sure to become deep, purple bruises and certainly causing Vlad a fair amount of pain.
And that’s when it happens- Vlad’s opposite fist flies from no where and nails him straight in the cheekbone, landing with a dull crack and sending TJ reeling almost to the floor.
Neither of them has to say anything to know it’s over.
+ + + +
Alexander Ovechkin / Sasha Semin
“My plane leaves tomorrow.”
Breathing was difficult. A stone lodged itself in Alex’s chest and as he stood in his bedroom, his entire body was numb. Loneliness, pain, anguish. Words couldn’t express the thick emptiness settling upon him.
The rookie came in and looked around the locker room. Every bench was full except for one. Just to the left of the door, the one by the great Ovechkin.
He looked at Boudreau, his gaze questioning.
“You can sit next to Ovie.”
A thrill of rage made it’s way up Alex’s spine and he stood abruptly, his teeth bared in a snarl.
“He can’t sit here.”
The locker room’s eyes were upon him, waiting for the explosion that had been festering for the past two weeks of training.
“This not his seat,” Alex repeated, silent madness building up in his eyes, “He can’t sit here.”
Nicklas swallowed hard and braved a few steps towards the team captain.
“He isn’t coming back, Alex,” he said as gently as he could, “There’s no where else for him to sit.”
The savage roar from the captain was accompanied by a helmet flying across the room. Laich had to dive to the side to keep from suffering injury. The rookie took a few steps back in fear, both from the outburst and from the shock of seeing the tears in the captain’s eyes.
“He can’t sit here.”
Alex’s legs could no longer hold him and he collapsed to the floor, his vision going black.
If even one thing had gone differently, if he had held his tongue just once, if he had listened, if he had done more, if... if...
Boudreau’s brow creased in disappointed surprise at Alex who sank back down into his seat, burying his head in his hands as silent sobs shook his body.
“Maybe you should sit this one out,” he said carefully, “Why don’t you go home and take a break?”
Wild eyes met the coach’s and Alex’s lip curled in a terrifying grimace, “I can play.”
No one in the room could believe that, even if they wanted to. All that was left of their fearless captain was a dead shell, an empty body no longer carrying a soul.
“I can still play...”
The carpet was itchy on Alex’s face, pliable under his fingers as he curled them into fists.
Alex tensed up, like a wounded animal as the team approached him. They wanted to take this from him. They wanted to take the last memory he had, the last memory.
“Alex, you need to calm down,” Semyon’s voice broke through the silence, “You need to let go.”
Minutes melted into hours and Alex stared at the last message in his phone, his eyes glazed.
A fist flew through the air, barely missing the Russian goalie. As Alex looked around the room, all he saw was fear.
Fear and pity.
Alex picked himself up from the floor and walked the few steps to the bedside table.
Their ring was right where Sasha had left it.
“Will I see you again?”
Sasha chewed the side of his lip, unwilling to meet Alex’s gaze.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, “Maybe. I don’t think so.”
The tight sensation in Alex’s throat kept him from saying anything. He watched from a distance as his hand raised itself to Sasha’s face, fingers trailing over his jaw, down to his neck.
Sasha brushed the hand away, holding it in his own for a second before taking a step back.
“I can’t do this without you,” Alex rasped, voice breaking, “I don’t want you to go.”
Their eyes met for the first time, for the last time. Deep blue and light brown. Pain and loss.
“You’re strong, Sanja,” Sasha whispered, “You’ll survive. You always have.”
The ring was heavy in his hand. Alex slid it onto his finger, holding back a choked cry.
The last thing he saw was Sasha’s back as he went through the gate, bag slung over his shoulder. This was impossible, it couldn’t actually be happening.
Long after he disappeared into the crowd, Alex kept watching. Waiting for a change of heart. Waiting for anything.
His phone buzzed.
The bed was cold, pillows unwrinkled and sheets unslept. Alex curled on his side in the middle, his hand running over the empty space. Letting go would never be an option. He wasn’t strong enough, not for this.
“Don’t forget me."
+ + + +
Author : Russian Torque
Team/Pairing : Washington Capitals - Semin/Ovechkin ; St.Louis Blues - Oshie/Sobotka ; Canadiens - Halak/Price ; Blackhawks - Toews/Hjalmarsson ; Flyers - Richards/Carter
Overall Rating/Warning : NC-17 | explicit m/m, angst!!!
Note : Written for the hockeykinkmeme. Prompt is here.
Jonathan Toews / Niklas Hjalmarsson
Niklas has been watching silently as Jonathan has slowly retreated further and further into himself for weeks- ever since it became obvious to everyone on the team that getting into the running for the Stanley wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. He’s seen Johnny becoming the ideal Captain, noticed how the tender touches that used to feel like home have turned cold and calculating.
There’s barely anything of Johnny left. At least, not enough to continue with the way they’ve been going for most of the season.
“We can’t do this anymore, Nikki.”
Niklas is astounded that Jonathan actually manages to sound sincere. He’s known this was coming for weeks now and the act itself doesn’t really come as a shock.
He shuffles his weight from one foot to the other, staring Johnny down blankly as if this doesn’t affect him. Neither of them really have time for true commitments, except for the team. This thing between them- it was never supposed to happen to begin with.
“So?” Nikki’s voice comes out a little shakier than he meant it to, but Johnny doesn’t even flinch.
“So I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Only Jonathan can say that to someone standing in his kitchen, wearing his pajama pants with the stupid ‘C’ on one pant leg, and making him breakfast without so much as a flinch. And as much as Niklas doesn’t want to make this a big deal, he can’t stop himself from dropping the frying pan with Johnny’s half cooked eggs into the sink with a loud, jarring clatter.
Nikki’s knuckles turn white as he clutches the counter, arms almost shaking with the frustration that’s been building for the past few weeks. It hurts that Johnny can be so stoic about this. It creates doubts in his mind that this was ever anything more than straight fucking and that thought makes him hate Jonathan in a way he never thought possible.
“It’s that easy?” Niklas asks, keeping his back to Jonathan because he doesn’t trust himself not to break down. “Just goodbye? See you later? No meaning with what we have?”
He can practically feel Johnny bristling behind him, but he doesn’t stop there.
“Is like this with everyone you’re with? Just saying ‘game over, time to go?’”
“It’s not like that,” Johnny responds. There’s almost a hint of sympathy in his voice, but it’s so well hidden under his practiced Captain’s mask that it’s really impossible to hear it by anyone but Nikki, who knows him so well.
Niklas wants to fight for what they have. He wants to tell Johnny he’s wrong, that stopping this, ending them so nonchalantly won’t change anything. Nothing is going to change the months and months of work behind them, all the games they played and lost.
But at the same time, he is completely aware that this is a battle he can’t win.
He’ll hear no apologies from Johnny- no words of remorse or vindication. It’s just going to end and that’s that. When they wake up tomorrow morning, in separate beds, cold and alone, that’s the way it stays.
When Nikki finally moves, it isn’t to go down the hall and gather his things, it’s to plead for what they have just one last time. He’s inches away from Jonathan, fingers tentatively clinging to the Captain’s hips with thumbs drawing small circles on his skin.
“Johnny.” Nikky leans in to brush their lips together and Johnny turns his head. “Jonathan, please. Kiss me. Tell me this doesn’t mean anything to you.”
When Jonathan kisses him, it’s hot and uncontrolled. Johnny’s hands are tangling in his hair and holding him so close he can barely breathe. There are teeth on his lips, biting and sucking and for that moment- when they’re sinking further into the passion Jonathan keeps locked up so deep inside- Nikki actually believes he’s won.
But then Johnny’s pulling away, his eyes darting down to the floor in anguish as he clears his throat. “It shouldn’t mean anything, Niklas. It can’t anymore.”
Nikki waits until he’s alone in the apartment he hasn’t spent a single night in for nearly a year before he lets himself go. He can’t control the tears that stream down his cheeks silently, just like he would never be able to convince Johnny this could ever be worth it.
+ + + +
Jeff Carter / Mike Richards
When the news is delivered to the media, they’ve both known about it for a while. It’s a fact of life that people get traded, it comes with the job. The thing is, as much as they’ll both miss the team, it isn’t leaving Philadelphia that’s causing the most grief.
There’s always been an awkward sort of ignored tension between them. At the bar, Jeff occasionally sits a little close and Mike might brush his knuckles across the back of his hand, always on accident. Before games, Mike may have helped Jeff strap down his jersey occasionally, but it’s only because he was the Captain, not because he just needed a reason to stand close to him.
But starting now, they won’t be in Philadelphia together. They won’t be drinking beer together or crashing at one of the rookie’s apartments after a long night of indulgence. There are no more before game dinners, no charity events, no texting at two in the morning because Mike accidentally left with one of Jeff’s shirts.
Now, Mike wishes he’d kept that shirt because it’s something he can take with him, something that lasts.
They meet up one last time before it’s time to really say goodbye, at a dingy little bar far enough away from the center of the city that no one will recognize them. There’s space between them now and the air is thick and Mike tries to talk like nothing’s wrong and he knows Jeff is doing the same. They’re friends above all and splitting apart is more than just losing a teammate, it’s losing someone to trust.
Mike buys the first round, Jeff gets the second, so on until it’s too late to pretend this is just a goodbye and the bartender starting to close up for the night.
They’re both too drunk to drive, so they stumble their way into the backseat of Jeff’s car and toss the keys into the front seat haphazardly. It’s still so dark outside and for a moment, they can both pretend that night just fell- that the dim light on the horizon is the sunset rather than the sunrise, that they’ve still got just one last night together.
But both their phones have been ringing off the hook for the past hour and there are other people to say goodbye to.
Mike isn’t sure what he’s thinking when he reaches over and runs his fingers through Jeff’s hair, it’s like his arm just moves on it’s own. And Jeff is leaning into the touch, fitting his way into Mike’s arms until they’re pressed together in a relaxed embrace, like this isn’t the last time they’ll be together like this.
Their last memory together is of the sun rising over Philadelphia and for a moment, Mike wishes he could just throw his career aside just for a few more nights like this, but they both know it would never work.
The sun is halfway up the sky when they untangle from each other and Mike fights back the urge to say something stupid and sentimental because that just isn’t who they are. He settles for a hug and if his lips press against Jeff’s neck for a moment, it’s only by coincidence.
He pretends not to feel Jeff’s fingers grasping his shirt, trying to hold him close for just one more second. He pulls away without a second glance and doesn’t look back.
+ + + +
Carey Price / Jaroslav Halak - 10March2011, St. Louis
Carey still has the letter Jaro left on his pillow the day he went to St. Louis. He reads it so often that the creases in the paper have started to fray at the edges. It’s the only thing he has left of Jaro, they never took any pictures together or exchanged gifts because it was just too risky.
He keeps it tucked away in the frame of their last team photo. They’re sitting on opposite sides of the front bench, as far from each other as possible. It’s almost funny, considering how far apart they are now.
It’s a simple enough letter, talking about how the distance will ruin them and their relationship just isn’t strong enough and it’s blaming Carey for them not working out in so many words. It stings ever time he reads it, but it’s true. Carey knows he didn’t try hard enough, he was never there when Jaro needed him.
And he’s okay being the bad guy, if it means Jaro can be happy.
For the first time since going their separate ways, they’re meeting tonight- on the ice, as enemies. A plane ride and one miserable trudge from the hotel to the stadium later, Carey sees Jaro across the ice. He’s wearing blue instead of red and he’s actually laughing with his teammates as they skate by his zone.
Carey isn’t prepared for the pang of jealousy that stabs into his gut and as a result, he chokes. By the end of the third period, he’s lost the game four to one and he doesn’t even care. All he can think about is how much he misses Jaro. He tried so hard to stay away, to forget and just get over the fact that they didn’t work out.
The world is grey, colorless and silent when he skates off the ice and it stays that way as he showers and dresses and it stays that way until he’s back in his hotel room, pulling out his phone and praying to whatever god might be listening that Jaro didn’t get a new number.
But the line rings when he hits send and there’s a stomach-twisting moment when he thinks no one will pick up before he hears Jaro’s sleepy voice on the other end mumble a hello.
Carey’s voice catches in his throat.
“Jaro-” he chokes out, “It’s Carey.”
The other end goes silent and Carey takes a shaky breath. “I want to see you.”
“Why?”
That one word sends Carey spinning and he’s starting to think this is a bad idea. But then he remembers how he felt during the game- almost close enough to touch.
“I can’t answer that, Jaro,” Carey replies, unable to keep the edge from his voice, “I miss you.”
It’s with some reluctance that Jaro hands over his address and then Carey is outside his door in record time, out of breath from having run all the way up the stairs to Jaro’s sixth floor apartment after the elevator took too long.
Jaro opens the door after just a few seconds and Carey can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but just stare. And then he’s closing the distance between them, taking Jaro into his arms and kissing him soundly. He’s vaguely aware of the door slamming shut behind him as he walks Jaro backwards until they’re pressed up against the wall, Jaro’s hands buried in his hair and hips grinding together.
It’s enough to make Carey dizzy with desire.
“Bedroom, now,” Carey manages to mumble between their mouths and if the low groan that vibrates in Jaro’s chest is any indication to his acquiescence, Jaro wants this as much as he does.
They manage to stay connected, pressed from hip to chest, tongues tangled and wandering hands stripping off each other’s shirts and by the time they fall onto Jaro’s bed, their pants are twisted around their feet and Jaro is already fumbling around his bedside table for what Carey presumes is lubricant of some sort.
And then Jaro is flipping them over, pushing Carey to his back and slicking Carey’s length, breath choppy and hands shaking before he lines himself up and slides down until Carey’s thick cock is filling him completely.
All Carey can really do is lay there and take one slow, heavy breath after another because Jaro is so much tighter than he remembers, almost like the first time they were together. And then Jaro flinches on top of him, his muscles tightening, eyes shut in pain as his lip disappears between his teeth to stifle a gasp.
“Jaro,” Carey gets his attention with a somber tone, stilling the smaller goalie’s hips with a gentle grip, “God, Jaro, I’m hurting you.”
Jaro just shakes his head, batting away Carey’s hands and continuing the slow pace he’s set.
“Haven’t been with anyone since you,” he breathes, “Missed you so much. Thought we’d never do this again.”
It’s pure and candid love Carey sees in Jaro’s eyes when their gaze meets, and it makes his heart throb with sheer vulnerability. The heart of their relationship, the very soul even, the love between them remained entirely unmarred by the distance and that realization creates a hope within Carey- that maybe they can make this work after all.
There’s time to think of that later though- right now he can concentrate on little else than Jaro moving on top of him, how his fingers grasp for purchase on his stomach, and the way his legs tremble and flex with exertion.
“I’m close,” Jaro gasps suddenly, the movement of his hips losing its rhythm, “Carey-”
Carey sits up as gently as he can and cuts the smaller goalie off with a kiss, his arms coming to rest around Jaro’s shoulders to ease him down to his back. The sensation of Jaro’s legs wrapping around his waist is one he’s missed for far too long and he reaches down to pull him closer, fingers gripping Jaro’s thigh as his hips roll forward.
His climax builds slowly, an intense heat pooling in his belly until his entire body is burning and he can’t actually hear what Jaro’s mouthing against his jaw, but he thinks it’s something like, “I love you,” because that’s what he’s murmuring into Jaro’s ear over and over as he comes.
Jaro is close to follow, his back arching and a whine leaving his throat when Cary circles his hand around his length, stroking in time with his stuttering hips and for a moment, they’re coming together and Jaro’s eyes are such a beautiful blue when he’s drowning in pleasure.
Carey doesn’t have to ask to know that somehow, everything’s going to be all right between them. As long as this compassion endures, they’ll be together even when they’re miles apart and Carey has a feeling that that might just be forever.
+ + + +
TJ Oshie / Vladimir Sobotka
For such a small looking guy, Vladimir could probably knock out a lesser man than TJ in one hit. Maybe it’s because of his compact nature rather than in spite of it- he’s got speed as well as power to back up his punch.
In any case, TJ isn’t quite sure exactly where he is for the few seconds after taking the blow. His head feels a little bigger than it should and he isn’t sure if he’s actually breathing until he curses loudly from the throbbing pain in his head.
It all started simply enough. The season ended and everyone went home after a few days of putzing around St. Louis. For TJ, that meant going up to Washington state and visiting the family and friends and it maybe turned into a few days of pretty intense clubbing during which he might have slept with a girl or two.
So, while he and Vladimir never really officiated the commitment between them, he still felt like shit when he got back down to St. Louis and found Vladi waiting for him in his apartment with a smile. One thing led to another and the last thing TJ expected was to have his living room made into a war zone of mostly unbreakable objects and a couple of glasses shattered against the wall.
“Fuck! I’m sorry!” TJ shouts across the room, “It’s not like I planned it to go down that way, all right? Can’t we just talk about it?”
Vlad practically snarls at him. “Is not all right-” Thankfully, he reserves himself to spitting out a few choice words in Czech rather than hurling something else. “What you think I do while you’re gone? Fucking other people? Is okay because was accident?”
If circumstances were different, TJ might be chuckling at the rapid deterioration of Vladi’s English skills. But as it is, he knows something about Vlad that only one other person knows, something he’s been holding onto because he thought it, also, might have just been a mistake.
But his lover is pushing him to that edge, driving him just a little more crazy than TJ can handle, especially when his stuff is being thrown across the living room.
“Yeah? What about Matt? You think I don’t know about that?” The shock on Vlad’s face is priceless, but all TJ is thinking about is that time he walked in on them- how angry and betrayed he’d felt. And consequentially, how he’d forgiven Vlad without him ever even asking for it. “I watched you fuck him after we played the Hawks, don’t act like you’re the victim here.”
By the time he’s done, his voice is quite a few decibels higher than when he began and Vlad has gone from being pale faced and shocked to defensive, shoulders hunched and lip curling into a snarl.
“You don’t know,” he shoots back, taking a few steps closer until he’s glaring up at TJ from inches away and even though he’s shorter by an inch, TJ feels like he’s being looked down upon. “You make up lies. I never do that, is you with problem, so don’t-”
“Don’t what? You fucking-”
TJ can’t help it. His hands move on their own to grip Vlad’s upper arm so much harder than he should- forming what’s sure to become deep, purple bruises and certainly causing Vlad a fair amount of pain.
And that’s when it happens- Vlad’s opposite fist flies from no where and nails him straight in the cheekbone, landing with a dull crack and sending TJ reeling almost to the floor.
Neither of them has to say anything to know it’s over.
+ + + +
Alexander Ovechkin / Sasha Semin
“My plane leaves tomorrow.”
Breathing was difficult. A stone lodged itself in Alex’s chest and as he stood in his bedroom, his entire body was numb. Loneliness, pain, anguish. Words couldn’t express the thick emptiness settling upon him.
The rookie came in and looked around the locker room. Every bench was full except for one. Just to the left of the door, the one by the great Ovechkin.
He looked at Boudreau, his gaze questioning.
“You can sit next to Ovie.”
A thrill of rage made it’s way up Alex’s spine and he stood abruptly, his teeth bared in a snarl.
“He can’t sit here.”
The locker room’s eyes were upon him, waiting for the explosion that had been festering for the past two weeks of training.
“This not his seat,” Alex repeated, silent madness building up in his eyes, “He can’t sit here.”
Nicklas swallowed hard and braved a few steps towards the team captain.
“He isn’t coming back, Alex,” he said as gently as he could, “There’s no where else for him to sit.”
The savage roar from the captain was accompanied by a helmet flying across the room. Laich had to dive to the side to keep from suffering injury. The rookie took a few steps back in fear, both from the outburst and from the shock of seeing the tears in the captain’s eyes.
“He can’t sit here.”
Alex’s legs could no longer hold him and he collapsed to the floor, his vision going black.
If even one thing had gone differently, if he had held his tongue just once, if he had listened, if he had done more, if... if...
Boudreau’s brow creased in disappointed surprise at Alex who sank back down into his seat, burying his head in his hands as silent sobs shook his body.
“Maybe you should sit this one out,” he said carefully, “Why don’t you go home and take a break?”
Wild eyes met the coach’s and Alex’s lip curled in a terrifying grimace, “I can play.”
No one in the room could believe that, even if they wanted to. All that was left of their fearless captain was a dead shell, an empty body no longer carrying a soul.
“I can still play...”
The carpet was itchy on Alex’s face, pliable under his fingers as he curled them into fists.
Alex tensed up, like a wounded animal as the team approached him. They wanted to take this from him. They wanted to take the last memory he had, the last memory.
“Alex, you need to calm down,” Semyon’s voice broke through the silence, “You need to let go.”
Minutes melted into hours and Alex stared at the last message in his phone, his eyes glazed.
A fist flew through the air, barely missing the Russian goalie. As Alex looked around the room, all he saw was fear.
Fear and pity.
Alex picked himself up from the floor and walked the few steps to the bedside table.
Their ring was right where Sasha had left it.
“Will I see you again?”
Sasha chewed the side of his lip, unwilling to meet Alex’s gaze.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, “Maybe. I don’t think so.”
The tight sensation in Alex’s throat kept him from saying anything. He watched from a distance as his hand raised itself to Sasha’s face, fingers trailing over his jaw, down to his neck.
Sasha brushed the hand away, holding it in his own for a second before taking a step back.
“I can’t do this without you,” Alex rasped, voice breaking, “I don’t want you to go.”
Their eyes met for the first time, for the last time. Deep blue and light brown. Pain and loss.
“You’re strong, Sanja,” Sasha whispered, “You’ll survive. You always have.”
The ring was heavy in his hand. Alex slid it onto his finger, holding back a choked cry.
The last thing he saw was Sasha’s back as he went through the gate, bag slung over his shoulder. This was impossible, it couldn’t actually be happening.
Long after he disappeared into the crowd, Alex kept watching. Waiting for a change of heart. Waiting for anything.
His phone buzzed.
The bed was cold, pillows unwrinkled and sheets unslept. Alex curled on his side in the middle, his hand running over the empty space. Letting go would never be an option. He wasn’t strong enough, not for this.
“Don’t forget me."
+ + + +