it's just a thing - part three
Things start getting pretty messed up in the New Year: Ryan's pretty annoyed about having to watch games from the press box with his fucked up ankle, because who doesn't want to get out there and play? It’s even shittier when he sees Ebs go down against the Flames since it always feels terrible to watch a teammate get hurt, especially when there isn't anything you can do about it: it turns out Ebs also has a sprained ankle, which sucks for the kid.
The Flames win the game, too, and that's kind of like getting kicked in the face extra hard on top of everything else.
First injuries do something weird to Ebs and Taylor’s already strangely codependent relationship. Taylor spends the next week clucking after a limping Ebs like a super inefficient mother hen, who remembers to do things like stock the fridge with Ebs' favourite juice, but doesn't wake up when Ebs' appendix practically ruptures, so that Ebs has to drive himself to the hospital.
(Ryan is never going to let Taylor live that one down. But neither will Ebs. Nor will the rest of the team.)
Ebs does his best brave smile at the Oilers staff, which gets him exactly what he wants: a week to go back to Calgary where the care taking will actually be competent and he can get babied by both his mom and his girlfriend.
Ryan doesn't say anything when Taylor starts showing up more often at Ryan’s apartment just to hang out while Ebs is gone; he remembers the kid's offhanded comment, once, about how he kind of hates living alone. Plus, with Ryan’s own sprained ankle, he supposes it's not overly terrible to have the company.
Things seem to be regressing into a never-ending spiral of shit for Ryan these days: by the middle of January, the team doctors tell him that his ankle’s fucked up enough to require another surgery, effectively ending his season at a mere thirty-five games. And really, what does Ryan love more in life than season ending surgery, except for, oh, pretty much everything else in the known universe.
Surgery is as unenjoyable as it always is and recovery is slow and painful: he’s still in the midst of it when the All-Star weekend rolls around, which is fucking bullshit because it means that he’s stuck in Edmonton for the break, basking in immobility and snowstorms. The only vague silver-lining to this sack of crap seems to be that Ebs is also stuck in Edmonton since his own ankle is still kind of a mess. Somehow, Ryan ends up getting roped into sitting on the surprisingly comfortable couch in Ebs’ apartment with him and Lauren to watch the weekend’s festivities, while Taylor plays for the Young Stars and rubs shoulders with the league’s best and a bunch of dudes who Ryan’s banged for the explicit reason of winning a bet.
(Ryan thinks he may be feeling something in the pit of his stomach that feels an awful lot like the manifestations of guilt. But that’s just stupid, so he wills it away because it’s not like he’s currently experiencing enough self-loathing already or anything.)
Ebs and Lauren prove to be surprisingly good company though: together, the three of them spend the weekend on the couch, sprawled out with pizza and beer, and make fun of Taylor’s hair, Eric Staal’s face, and the Sedin twins’ general existences, until Ryan feels a bit better about his current lot in life.
--
After the brief respite that is All-Star break, things fall back into a routine: in Ryan’s case, this means mornings of rehab and doctor’s appointments, followed by afternoons and evenings that are either heavy on boredom, or - if the Oilers are at home - spent in the press box, which is even lamer than before, since Ebs has been cleared for action again.
Here’s the other thing: Ryan’s sexual frustration is at an all-time high - he’s still not feeling up to go out with the guys so his opportunities for picking up are kind of limited these days. It’s to the point where he actually kind of wishes he had a steady girlfriend so at least he’d be getting some on the regular. There is one other option, not necessarily a bad one, but Ryan’s sort of leaving it as a last resort because of the nagging guilt that seems to be growing and isn’t really going away. Plus, he’d feel incredibly stupid sending what would essentially be a text message booty call consisting of one word which is also the brand name of a canned pasta.
So no fucking thanks.
Luckily, Taylor shows up pretty regularly to hang out with Ryan anyway, because that seems to be all he does when he’s not playing hockey or hanging out with Ebs. And maybe he’s feeling sympathetic or something, because more often than not, they end up fucking anyway, and not for the first time, Ryan marvels at just how fantastically flexible nineteen year old hockey players can be.
On one of these occasions, Ryan’s phone rings while Taylor’s going down on him, and Ryan finds himself groping blindly for his shrilly ringing Blackberry. “Hey,” he manages out loud before accepting the call. “You mind if I take this?”
Since Taylor’s mouth is currently otherwise occupied, he answers by flipping Ryan off; Ryan takes this as a ‘yeah, sure it’s fine.’
“What would you say if I told you that I boned Jovocop?” is what is blared over the line as soon as Ryan picks up.
Maxime Talbot. Of course.
“I’d say you were a lying sack of shit, you knob,” Ryan says, trying his best to keep his voice steady.
Talbot sighs, loudly and petulantly: “The options are getting fewer and fewer: Kovalchuk and Chris Phillips each have, like, sixteen kids, man. This bet is getting stupid.”
“Getting?” Ryan repeats in disbelief.
“And didn’t your ankle fall off again or something? Doesn’t that get you less laid than usual? We could call this a draw,” Talbot says, and Ryan knows that this is his way of being kind and sending condolences. But Ryan’s also aware that Talbot is clearly telegraphing his desire to spend less time strategizing and more time hooking up with Pennsylvanian women with misguided affections for ridiculous human beings.
Whatever: Ryan just wants this conversation over and done with - “Fine, cool, go away - you’re bugging me.” He hopes he sounds sufficiently annoyed. He has a feeling he didn’t quite manage though, because Taylor definitely didn’t pause the blow job and is currently mouthing at Ryan’s balls.
Talbot’s silent for a moment. And then he starts laughing: “Man, are you getting laid right now? Did you pick up the phone during sex?” he asks, incredulously. “What is wrong with you?”
Ryan takes that as a belated cue to hang up the phone. Then he throws it across the room for good measure and concentrates on not bucking his hips without warning, since Taylor will, on occasion, bite in retaliation. Bastard.
(“It’s rude to take phone calls while getting laid,” Taylor says as he’s leaving, shrugging on his winter coat.
“You could have stopped,” Ryan points out.
“No,” Taylor manages, but just barely, to keep a straight face. “You’re old, injured and rude: you need something to live for.”
“You’re such a hero,” Ryan tells him sarcastically. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best,” Taylor counters smugly, waving and already halfway out the front door.)
--
The next two weeks find Ryan becoming more and more concerned that he might be completely in over his head as he finds himself getting roped into increasingly weird but admittedly great sex with Taylor, which makes it even harder to resolutely speak up and put an end to...whatever this is. Furthermore, Ryan can’t believe he’s let things get so stupidly out of hand.
So he’s not even all that surprised when Taylor shows up at his apartment after the Oilers beat the Thrashers during a Saturday afternoon tilt, practically bounding in when Ryan opens the door. Taylor is beaming at him, his smile infectious, and despite Ryan’s best intentions, he finds himself crowding Taylor up against the closed front door.
“First hat trick, huh, kid?” Ryan says. “Not bad.”
Taylor grins: “Hell fucking yeah.”
And that’s pretty much all that needs to be said before Ryan finds himself getting guided back across the apartment towards the couch, albeit slower than usual as they account for the walking boot that he’s wearing. He shoves a laughing Taylor down on the couch, and he’s about to carefully shift himself on to it as well, when he pauses: “Wait. Why are you here instead of out?”
Taylor shrugs, unconcerned. “Dude, it’s only like seven pm: I’m going out after this. I’m shooting for a hatty tonight to celebrate my hatty.”
Of course he is.
It takes a bit of effort, but Ryan considers it a great victory when he manages to avoid both laughing at him and bringing up Taylor’s continued lack of game - let the kid dream on. And this is why, later, if the following incident were ever to be brought up again, Ryan will blame it on the fact that he expended so much energy on keeping himself from making fun of Taylor that he could not have possibly contained the next ridiculous thing that comes out of his mouth:
“So. Uh, since you got the hat trick and all, it’s kind of a special occasion, right? So I guess, um, you could get on top…if you wanted?”
Taylor stares blankly at him: “On top? Is that okay for your ankle? Can you even bend like that? Can anyone?”
Confused, Ryan raises an eyebrow at him - “What are you talking about? Bend what way? It’s really not that complicated.”
And it’s then that Ryan realizes that Taylor literally has no idea what Ryan’s talking, the same moment that everything apparently clicks in Taylor’s brain, because his cheeks start to redden in a way that creeps all the way down his neck, a bashfulness that Ryan’s never seen before. “Ohhhhh. Um...yeah,” Taylor stutters out. “We could do that. We could totally do that. Uh, if you wanted to?”
“Oh fuck,” Ryan manages not to laugh, but just barely. This situation is getting more and more absurd by the moment, but also - awesome, because while he figures it probably wouldn’t have happened, there was always the vague concern in the back of his mind that bottoming for the kid might result in an endlessly annoying amount of chirping. “Hallsy, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to-”
“-No, I want to, totally,” Taylor interrupts, pretty unconvincingly in Ryan’s opinion. “It’s just that, uh. You know-“
“-so just roll over and take off your pants,” Ryan steamrolls on cheerfully, undeterred and pulling his t-shirt up over his head and tossing it on to the coffee table. “Get ready, because I’m about to rock you like a hurricane.”
That puts a temporary pause into Taylor’s awkward protests: “How old are you?” he says instead, making a face. And then: “But seriously, if you wanted to-”
“-seriously, I was just trying to be nice, kid,” Ryan says, reaching between the couch cushions for his emergency stash of lube and condoms. “It’s cool if you don’t want it like that: for what it’s worth, I prefer it the way we’ve been doing it too, okay?”
There’s a long pause as Taylor looks up at Ryan and doesn’t say anything, a silence long enough for Ryan to almost become uncomfortable. Finally, Taylor nods and says, “Yeah, cool,” and reaches up to tug Ryan down against him on the couch, mindful of Ryan’s ankle, and after a moment, he fits his mouth against Ryan’s, hot and wet and familiar.
Ryan decides that it’s probably best to stop thinking for now.
--
Ryan’s witnessed many unexpected things this season - for example, he wouldn’t have anticipated landing a season-ending injury in December; nor would he have ever imagined actually calling a draw in his bet with Talbot. In March, he leans forward in his spot up in the press box to watch a hotshot rookie try to fight Derek Dorsett, which is yet another thing he would never have been able to predict at the beginning of the season - he watches as Dorsett does a take-down with ease and Taylor lands awkwardly. Ryan winces in sympathy but resolves not to get distracted from watching the rest of the game.
The next time he sees Taylor is after the game when Ryan drops by Taylor and Ebs’ place. Ebs rolls his eyes good-naturedly and lets him in, pointing him in the direction of Taylor’s room, where he’s very obviously sulking and glaring petulantly at his new crutches.
"I think there must be a pandemic," Ryan tells Taylor, sitting down beside him on the bed and patting his arm. "Fucked up ankles for all. Solidarity."
Taylor sighs. "Did you see my fight?" he asks. "Did it at least look badass, kind of?"
"Not even a little bit, kid," Ryan says, shaking his head. "Good try though."
(He does end up giving Taylor a sympathy blowjob, though: Ryan figures it’s the least he can do.)
Their incidental injuries mean that they start spending almost excessive amounts of time together these days: they do fan appearances together and do the stupid required rehabs pool laps together every morning. When Gags end up with a freak injury of his own, Ryan expects him to hang out and commiserate with them as well - he doesn’t though, opting to spend all his time with his girlfriend instead:
“Ahahaha,” he says to Ryan. “You guys suck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get a lot of recuperation laid from my hot and awesome girlfriend.”
Ryan almost indignantly points out that Gags can just shut up his stupid face because Ryan’s probably also going to be getting plenty laid in the next week too, from his not-so-hot not-girlfriend but that’s certainly a moot point - he manages to catch himself just in time though. The sheer fact that this is possibility to be brought up as a counterpoint presents the glaringly obvious fact and an awkward reminder that Ryan has a problem - a blond, nineteen year old problem - that likely needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. The horrific realization hits Ryan when it occurs to him that Taylor’s just talked him into getting a fucking Twitter account. He’s starting to feel an awful lot like his late Aunt Gertrude, who seemed to constantly be having blond, nineteen year old problems, rest her soul.
Fuck Talbot, Ryan thinks morosely. This is probably all his fucking fault.
--
For the most part, Ryan’s been perfectly content to ignore the more problematic aspects of the sheer stupidity of his current predicament, and for the most part, it seems that it’s a fairly reasonable course of action, as long as the situation doesn’t escalate.
And then, one day, after a particularly grueling physio session, Ryan’s waiting around at the rink for Taylor to finish up with his meeting with the therapist because of their carpool, when he realizes that Taylor’s already in the lobby and in the midst of a phone conversation. Taylor seems to be distracted by whoever’s on the line and doesn’t notice Ryan approaching.
Ryan doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the next words out of Taylor’s mouth make him freeze in his tracks:
“Don’t worry, he’ll come around - he wants to make this work too, trust me.”
Fuck.
So Ryan has no choice but to do what any sensible person would do in this situation: he turns around quickly, beelines out of the building, and hails a cab instead.
Then, very rationally, he starts ignoring the source of the problem.
As the week continues, he maintains his very practical mission of staunchly avoiding Taylor, purposely staggering his own physio schedule so that they don’t match up; it’s somewhat convenient that the Oilers are currently on a road trip so they’re not forced into the press box together with Gags sandwiched awkwardly between them. On one hand, this is a great plan for Ryan to be motivated to go out again - it turns out his injury is money in the bank for wheeling sympathy sex: Ryan tries not to be too cranky about all the laid he’s probably missed out on while moping. On the other hand, he almost misses having the kid around. Taylor may have been a part-time fuck-buddy, but he’s also a full-time teammate and friend, so flat-out avoiding him altogether is actually kind of hard. In fact, this is probably the only time in Ryan’s life where he longs for the days of the telegram and rotary phones: modern technology makes it hard to ignore Taylor when he keeps leaving weird messages on Ryan’s phone, and eventually, even weirder messages on Twitter - what the hell is a huge nonbeauty anyway?
And that's not even mentioning the series of weird text messages, courtesy of Ebs that eventually come trickling in -
WHERE R U
and
y u no <3 taytay nomore???
and
ryan. he's your teenage dream come on. LITERALLY
Ryan can’t help but fire back a What the fuck Ebs??? at the last one. A moment later he gets two more texts in rapid succession:
Sorry! Lauren stole my phone
And then followed by,
But srsly trouble in paradise????
Ryan decides that enough is enough. He fires off a quick go fuck yourselves text intended for both Ebs and Lauren, and then steels himself to go make a phone call: the other line clicks on after five rings and Ryan blurts out what he needs to say before he can stop himself - "Hey Hallsy? You should come over. We might need to talk."
--
“What the fuck, Whit,” Taylor grumbles at Ryan after getting let into the apartment. His crutches have been upgraded to a walking boot, identical to Ryan’s, and Ryan takes a moment to marvel at how absolutely fucking ridiculous this entire situation is. “I was napping. You don’t return messages and then you suddenly you need to talk? What gives, man?”
"Okay. Shut up," Ryan says, shaking his head. "This is really important, Hallsy. You want to sit down or something?"
Taylor pauses and tilts his head for a moment, like he's considering how serious Ryan's being right now. He eases himself onto the couch and peers up at him: "Is everything all right?"
Ryan sits down across from him, suddenly nervous and decides that it’s best just to bite the bullet. "Okay, listen up, kid: this? Like this...whatever it is that we're doing?” he gestures to the space between the two of them. “Whatever you might think it is? It's not a relationship. It's just...it's not, okay?"
There’s a long beat of silence as Taylor's brow furrows a little in confusion: "...yeah? And?"
"And..." Ryan takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the next part, deciding that it’s probably for the best just to blurt it all out at once. "You were part of a bet, okay? Uh. Me and Maxime Talbot were just, you know. It was his stupid idea. We were trying to see who could bang more draft picks, and it got kind of out of hand." And then, like an afterthought: "...you can punch me if you want, um. Just like...don't break my nose or anything, okay?"
Taylor just kind of continues staring blankly at Ryan. "Uh, yeah. Well, I thought we were just having sex. And I knew that part about the bet too, man."
Wait. What? "What?"
"Yeah,” Taylor continues, undeterred. “Talbot told me during All-Star weekend."
Now it’s Ryan’s turn to be confused: “What the fuck was Talbot doing at All-Star weekend?”
Taylor shrugs. “I dunno, trying to sleep with number one draft picks? Something about not letting the Americans win.”
“Fuck him! Bastard stole my line!” Ryan blurts out, before he can stop himself.
“You’re American,” Taylor points out.
“No, the opposite of that: not letting the Canadians win; that’s how I got Erik John…you know what, never mind,” Ryan says. This afternoon is definitely not going the way he had thought it would be going. He forces himself to get back on track: “Uh. So...did you sleep with him? Talbot, I mean."
“Nah,” Taylor grins mischievously. “Thought you might like to win your bet."
That startles a laugh out of Ryan. Wow. "So…you're not mad?" he ventures.
Taylor looks at him, genuinely confused: "Why would I be mad? It's kind of awesome that I was part of the bet if I’m being honest - it’s so stupid that it’s fucking hilarious. Plus, no disrespect to you Whit, but a) who says I'd want to date you, b) I don’t even want a girlfriend right now, c) you'd make a terrible boyfriend, and fourth of all, you'd be crushed when I broke up with you and it would fuck up our friendship forever."
"--wait,” Ryan jumps in, the sudden implications making themselves clear. “Why would you be the one breaking up with me? Also fuck you: I'd be a great boyfriend!"
"Well, let's hope I never have to find out," Taylor says cheerfully.
Ryan's still kind of vaguely offended by this entire line of discussion, and then kind of perplexed at this offence that he's taking, but supposes that it's better than the alternative of actually being lampooned into an accidental relationship. It kind of hurts his head when he thinks too hard about it, so it's probably better to just not think about it at all: "So we're cool?"
"Sure," Taylor assures him. And then he arches an eyebrow suggestively in Ryan's direction: "Alphaghetti? Or do I have to spell it out?"
So business as usual, then; Ryan's more than okay with that. He rolls his eyes but leans over unceremoniously to reach into Taylor’s pants: he owes him at least that much.
("This is weird," Ryan notes, staring down at Taylor as their eyes meet - something that they've been subconsciously vigilant about making sure never happens during sex.
Taylor considers him for a moment. "I have an idea," he finally says, almost shy. "But it'll probably only work as a one-time-deal sort of thing."
And then he's pulling Ryan even closer towards him, clinging on tight and arching his back so that he's pushing up against Ryan. He licks up from Ryan's collarbone, tracing his way up Ryan's neck and jawline, messy and wet, stopping only when their mouths meet sloppily, and he moans into Ryan's mouth in encouragement at the meandering pace that Ryan's set.
It’s slower than usual, careful too, to account for both their injuries. Taylor’s got his arms around Ryan, pulling him in languidly; in fact, the sex is downright cuddly.
Ryan feels like this should bother him a lot more than it actually does.)
--
“You know,” Ryan says as they sit together on Ryan’s couch, each of them with one leg propped up while watching the Flames play the Wild. He shifts his hips a little. “I get called a perv for following ‘girlsinyogapants’ on Twitter, but you get a free pass. Why is that?”
Taylor spares him a glance. “It’s because you’re old,” he points out. “And a total perv.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “That really can’t be your answer for everything. I’m not actually old, you know.”
This time, Taylor doesn’t look away from the Flames’ power play, nor does he stop the lazy handjob he’s currently giving Ryan - it’s kind of great that he’s getting jerked off while there’s hockey on, but TSN’s continued close-ups of Ollie Jokenin’s face is kind of harshing his buzz; he can’t decide if this is all kind of the best thing ever, or pretty much the worst thing ever. “It’s worked so far,” Taylor says, without missing a beat.
So everything is status quo, then: Aunt Gertrude would be proud of him, Ryan thinks.
--
The Oilers limp their way toward the end of the season, finishing up again with another number one draft pick. They all part ways for the summer, somewhat disheartened but not beaten down, anticipation for next season already buzzing in the air.
A week before the draft, Taylor calls Ryan, his voice lazy and bright like afternoon sunshine: “How’s Boston?”
“Good,” Ryan answers truthfully. “Bruins shit everywhere, but what can you do?” He pauses. And then: “Hey - that Seguin kid’s pretty good, isn’t he?”
“Aw, fuck right off, Whit,” Taylor says, but Ryan can tell that he’s still smiling.
They chat for a while, about everything and nothing: how Ebs got burned by that girl at the Worlds, but it’s okay because he’s still got Lauren (Taylor off-handily mentions how the two of them almost broke up back in March, and the realization suddenly dawns on Ryan - it’s probably too late to feel embarrassed about it, so he’s not going to bother), and how their respective off-season routines are going, and how fucking awesome the next season’s going to be.
“You healed up yet?” Ryan wants to know.
“Good as new, yeah,” Taylor confirms. “You?”
“Pretty much.” And then, before Ryan can think of better of it, he asks: “Did you think about visiting at all?”
“Boston?” Taylor says. “I have to go to Minnesota for the draft, but maybe after that - can I? Does that work?”
“You probably can,” Ryan agrees. “But may you? ”
Taylor sighs. “Seriously: fuck off - I’ll be there.”
--
True to his word, Taylor does show up in Boston a week after hanging out at the draft where the Oilers brass pick an eighteen year old kid who looks twelve tops - Ryan considers texting Talbot about how relieved he is that they both got bored of their bet - his phone vibrates before he can do it because of course, Talbot’s beat him to it.
Taylor seems genuinely happy to see Ryan, and Ryan supposes there are worst things in life than getting bro-hugged by Taylor Hall in the middle of the arrivals terminal at two in the afternoon.
“So, um,” Taylor says when they’re in Ryan’s car. “I didn’t book a hotel or anything yet, so I was wondering if you had any recommen--”
“--yeah, yeah,” Ryan cuts him off. “You’re staying at my place. You can take the old couch: the springs are shit and will probably break your spine. I kind of hope they do.”
When Ryan finally sneaks a look over at Taylor at the next red light, Taylor’s turned to look out the window, doing little to hide his delighted grin. Ryan pretends not to notice, and starts chirping Taylor about the current state of his hair instead.
They’re almost at Ryan’s place when Taylor suddenly sits up straighter in the passenger seat and announces that he desperately needs food and a shower.
“Jesus,” Ryan groans. “So fucking high-maintenance.”
But Ryan complies anyway: he takes Taylor first to dinner, and then back to his apartment and into the shower, where Taylor blows him for the first time in months and doesn’t even hesitate when Ryan hauls him up afterward to kiss him on the mouth while lazily jerking him off under the almost-lukewarm water.
Afterwards, they end up getting half-dressed and then wandering into Ryan’s bedroom where they fall into the bed and drip water all over the sheets. They watch the Red Sox play the Cardinals on TV and fall asleep before the seventh inning stretch, and this is Taylor’s first day in Boston.
--
Taylor tells Ryan that he's only staying in Boston for a week or so because he's made plans to see Ebs up in Calgary, but they fall into a routine pretty quickly, hitting the gym early in the morning and occasionally following it up with a five mile run at Taylor's insistence, and Ryan kind of hates him a little bit by the end of the week. It's not all bad, though: it's Taylor's first Independence Day in the States and he only half questions it when Ryan insists that he has to watch Independence Day prior to seeing the fireworks in the name of American patriotism.
The days pass pretty quickly after that: Ryan takes Taylor on whirlwind tours of landmarks in Boston, giving him facts about the city that are only half true - but Taylor laughs when Ryan does things like point to the first Starbucks opened in Boston and tell him that's the site of the 1773 tea party, so at least he's showing someone around who actually appreciates the Ryan Whitney experience of Beantown. Unfortunately, their inability to go to Ryan's favourite bars kind of limits the scope of his tour, but they make up for it by eating their way through the city. Besides, Ryan's come to realize that Taylor's kind of an easy guy to please - just sit him down with a large plate of food and he'll beam happily as he scarfs it down, and somehow, Ryan gets laid out of the deal.
(They fuck on Ryan’s couch in the middle of the afternoon, the rituals of proposition and preparation already down to a science; he pulls on his condom and pushes his slicked up fingers into Taylor with ease. Taylor muffles a moan against the coach cushion when Ryan slides out his fingers and pushes most of the way into him and against his better judgement, kind of really wants to hear him, so he reaches over to tug him up by his hair.
“No, wait,” Taylor manages, turning his head to be better heard. “Don’t do that. It…might get embarrassing. Uh. For me.”
Suddenly a light bulb goes on in Ryan’s head: “Oh fuck. You knew, all this time? You were withholding?”
Taylor cranes his head to attempt a glare at Ryan, but right now, like this, with Ryan buried deep inside him, it’s not even a little effective: “Don’t start with me, man.”
“Fine,” Ryan says, letting go of Taylor’s hair and grudgingly conceding to the fact that he’s going to have to use his hands after all.)
At the end of a week of wandering the city, getting laid, and cursing out Taylor for guilting him into running with him, Ryan gets a call from his mom to remind him that they've got family dinner on Friday night - Ryan tries to beg out of it, using the excuse that he's got a friend in town.
"Bring your friend, Ryan," his mother tells him patiently, but Ryan knows he's fucked because she's definitely using her 'won't take no for an answer' voice. "We hardly get to see you as it is."
And there it is: Ryan wonders what it is about talking on the phone with his mom that always makes him feel like he's regressed about twenty years of his life.
--
Dinner ends up going smoothly: neither of his brothers have girlfriends who are actually in Boston right now, so Ryan's not subject to as much of the when are you going to settle down with a nice girl? conversations as usual, which is greatly appreciated. His parents order a couple of bottles of wine for the table, and Ryan has to muffle a laugh when Taylor politely declines and sticks to water instead. To their credit, neither Ryan’s brothers nor his father ask Taylor too many questions about what it's like to play for the Oilers, nor do they brag too much about their hometown team winning the Cup. In return, Taylor listens attentively when Ryan's family tells him about their own lives, and much to Ryan's chagrin, the pre-requisite embarrassing stories of Ryan's childhood, as necessitated by the presence of anyone who's not family but is currently attending a Whitney family dinner.
After the meal, Ryan’s mother pulls him aside while his dad, Colin and Sean, are busy informing Taylor about all the reasons why their beloved Red Sox are going to spank the Blue Jays this year - Taylor mostly looks bemused, nodding in all the right places.
“I understand why you haven't brought a girl home in ages now, honey,” his mother tells him, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of the front of his shirt, and Ryan fights the urge to duck away. “Your boyfriend is very nice. He’s looks awfully young, though, if you ask me.”
Ryan groans: “I'm not gay, Mom. And I don’t have a girlfriend mostly by choice.”
His mother laughs a little: “But he was so attentive at dinner! All his pleases and thank yous, Ryan: he’s such a polite young man. He didn’t even drink the wine.”
Trying to discreetly roll his eyes, Ryan silently counts to five before answering: “That's because he’s nineteen, Mom.”
His mother drops her hands to her sides, looking positively scandalized: “Ryan!”
Suddenly, Ryan feels kind of like that time he got caught for blaming Sean for breaking their mom’s favourite teapot. He pulls her into a hug before she can say anything else though: “So glad I came out to dinner, Mom! You’re so great,” he says in an attempt to both distract and mollify.
Almost reluctantly, she sighs and wraps her arms around him as well: “I hope you know what you’re doing, Ryan. For what it’s worth, I do like him though.” She pauses, and then smiles wryly. "I think your Aunt Gertrude would have liked him too."
“Noted. But he’s just my teammate, Mom,” Ryan tells her patiently, stooping to rest his chin on the top of her head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll settle down one day, just for you. The girl might even be a nice one.”
“Thank you,” she deadpans. “You’re very reassuring.”
“After retirement,” Ryan can’t help but add. But he counts it as a win when his mom lets out a startled laugh and squeezes him tighter.
--
"Ha ha," Taylor says, later that evening, as he works at the buttons of Ryan's shirt in the safety of Ryan’s apartment. "I met your parents."
"So? Why is that funny?"
"Because isn't that what couples and shit do?” Taylor points out. “Gross.”
Ryan considers this, before making a mock-horrified face: "For fuck’s sakes, Hallsy: I need sex without feelings immediately! Quickly: an emotionless, no strings attached blowjob! Activate! Go!"
He's only half-serious, and Taylor's laughing, but he also abandons the buttons of Ryan's shirt in favour of getting down on his knees and turning his attention to undoing Ryan's pants - Ryan's definitely gotten less from doing more, so he's not going to complain, especially when Taylor’s doing that stupidly great thing with his tongue again.
Taylor has pretty comically bad timing though, because he chooses this moment, in the middle of a ridiculously good blowjob while Ryan’s edging towards orgasm, to pull off and consider Ryan thoughtfully.
Ryan makes a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a whimper. “Why did you stop?”
“Do you need to sleep with Nugent-Hopkins now?” Taylor asks him seriously. “For your bet, I mean. Because I don’t know if he’d be into this kind of thing, and I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend. But I can introduce you if you want. So.”
Ryan just stares at him, incredulously. There’s a funny feeling in his chest; he hopes it’s a stroke.
“Fuck my life,” he mutters to himself, because the alternative to a stroke is probably fondness, and just fuck no.
So instead, he puts a firm hand on the back of Taylor’s head and guides it back towards his crotch: “Hallsy, not gonna lie: I like you better when your mouth’s full.”
--
"My mom did ask if you were my boyfriend," Ryan concedes, afterward.
On the far side of the bed, Taylor rolls over so that he’s watching Ryan. He makes a face: "What did you say?"
"Of course I said no."
“Good,” Taylor says, unmistakably relieved; Ryan grins and can’t even remember why he was worried that this was all going to be a problem in the first place. “Even so, I like your mom,” Taylor continues sleepily. “She’s nice. Your dad and brothers, too.”
Ryan shrugs, crawling under the sheets beside him. “Yeah. They’re all right.”
There’s a long pause. And then, just when Ryan thinks that Taylor’s fallen asleep: “So, is this, like. A thing?” Taylor asks around a wide yawn.
Another moment passes as Ryan briefly mulls this over: “I dunno,” he admits. “Do you want this to be a thing?”
Taylor shrugs lazily. “Do you?”
Ryan sighs. “…this could be a thing,” he says finally.
--
It takes Ryan a long time to fall asleep that night, playing the conversation over and over in his head. Finally, Taylor just rolls over sleepily and drapes an arm around him. “You’re not in a fucking relationship. It’s just a thing, okay? Stop thinking so loudly and go to sleep,” he slurs against Ryan’s chest.
And so Ryan does.
time stamp number one: 2016
The Flames win the game, too, and that's kind of like getting kicked in the face extra hard on top of everything else.
First injuries do something weird to Ebs and Taylor’s already strangely codependent relationship. Taylor spends the next week clucking after a limping Ebs like a super inefficient mother hen, who remembers to do things like stock the fridge with Ebs' favourite juice, but doesn't wake up when Ebs' appendix practically ruptures, so that Ebs has to drive himself to the hospital.
(Ryan is never going to let Taylor live that one down. But neither will Ebs. Nor will the rest of the team.)
Ebs does his best brave smile at the Oilers staff, which gets him exactly what he wants: a week to go back to Calgary where the care taking will actually be competent and he can get babied by both his mom and his girlfriend.
Ryan doesn't say anything when Taylor starts showing up more often at Ryan’s apartment just to hang out while Ebs is gone; he remembers the kid's offhanded comment, once, about how he kind of hates living alone. Plus, with Ryan’s own sprained ankle, he supposes it's not overly terrible to have the company.
Things seem to be regressing into a never-ending spiral of shit for Ryan these days: by the middle of January, the team doctors tell him that his ankle’s fucked up enough to require another surgery, effectively ending his season at a mere thirty-five games. And really, what does Ryan love more in life than season ending surgery, except for, oh, pretty much everything else in the known universe.
Surgery is as unenjoyable as it always is and recovery is slow and painful: he’s still in the midst of it when the All-Star weekend rolls around, which is fucking bullshit because it means that he’s stuck in Edmonton for the break, basking in immobility and snowstorms. The only vague silver-lining to this sack of crap seems to be that Ebs is also stuck in Edmonton since his own ankle is still kind of a mess. Somehow, Ryan ends up getting roped into sitting on the surprisingly comfortable couch in Ebs’ apartment with him and Lauren to watch the weekend’s festivities, while Taylor plays for the Young Stars and rubs shoulders with the league’s best and a bunch of dudes who Ryan’s banged for the explicit reason of winning a bet.
(Ryan thinks he may be feeling something in the pit of his stomach that feels an awful lot like the manifestations of guilt. But that’s just stupid, so he wills it away because it’s not like he’s currently experiencing enough self-loathing already or anything.)
Ebs and Lauren prove to be surprisingly good company though: together, the three of them spend the weekend on the couch, sprawled out with pizza and beer, and make fun of Taylor’s hair, Eric Staal’s face, and the Sedin twins’ general existences, until Ryan feels a bit better about his current lot in life.
--
After the brief respite that is All-Star break, things fall back into a routine: in Ryan’s case, this means mornings of rehab and doctor’s appointments, followed by afternoons and evenings that are either heavy on boredom, or - if the Oilers are at home - spent in the press box, which is even lamer than before, since Ebs has been cleared for action again.
Here’s the other thing: Ryan’s sexual frustration is at an all-time high - he’s still not feeling up to go out with the guys so his opportunities for picking up are kind of limited these days. It’s to the point where he actually kind of wishes he had a steady girlfriend so at least he’d be getting some on the regular. There is one other option, not necessarily a bad one, but Ryan’s sort of leaving it as a last resort because of the nagging guilt that seems to be growing and isn’t really going away. Plus, he’d feel incredibly stupid sending what would essentially be a text message booty call consisting of one word which is also the brand name of a canned pasta.
So no fucking thanks.
Luckily, Taylor shows up pretty regularly to hang out with Ryan anyway, because that seems to be all he does when he’s not playing hockey or hanging out with Ebs. And maybe he’s feeling sympathetic or something, because more often than not, they end up fucking anyway, and not for the first time, Ryan marvels at just how fantastically flexible nineteen year old hockey players can be.
On one of these occasions, Ryan’s phone rings while Taylor’s going down on him, and Ryan finds himself groping blindly for his shrilly ringing Blackberry. “Hey,” he manages out loud before accepting the call. “You mind if I take this?”
Since Taylor’s mouth is currently otherwise occupied, he answers by flipping Ryan off; Ryan takes this as a ‘yeah, sure it’s fine.’
“What would you say if I told you that I boned Jovocop?” is what is blared over the line as soon as Ryan picks up.
Maxime Talbot. Of course.
“I’d say you were a lying sack of shit, you knob,” Ryan says, trying his best to keep his voice steady.
Talbot sighs, loudly and petulantly: “The options are getting fewer and fewer: Kovalchuk and Chris Phillips each have, like, sixteen kids, man. This bet is getting stupid.”
“Getting?” Ryan repeats in disbelief.
“And didn’t your ankle fall off again or something? Doesn’t that get you less laid than usual? We could call this a draw,” Talbot says, and Ryan knows that this is his way of being kind and sending condolences. But Ryan’s also aware that Talbot is clearly telegraphing his desire to spend less time strategizing and more time hooking up with Pennsylvanian women with misguided affections for ridiculous human beings.
Whatever: Ryan just wants this conversation over and done with - “Fine, cool, go away - you’re bugging me.” He hopes he sounds sufficiently annoyed. He has a feeling he didn’t quite manage though, because Taylor definitely didn’t pause the blow job and is currently mouthing at Ryan’s balls.
Talbot’s silent for a moment. And then he starts laughing: “Man, are you getting laid right now? Did you pick up the phone during sex?” he asks, incredulously. “What is wrong with you?”
Ryan takes that as a belated cue to hang up the phone. Then he throws it across the room for good measure and concentrates on not bucking his hips without warning, since Taylor will, on occasion, bite in retaliation. Bastard.
(“It’s rude to take phone calls while getting laid,” Taylor says as he’s leaving, shrugging on his winter coat.
“You could have stopped,” Ryan points out.
“No,” Taylor manages, but just barely, to keep a straight face. “You’re old, injured and rude: you need something to live for.”
“You’re such a hero,” Ryan tells him sarcastically. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best,” Taylor counters smugly, waving and already halfway out the front door.)
--
The next two weeks find Ryan becoming more and more concerned that he might be completely in over his head as he finds himself getting roped into increasingly weird but admittedly great sex with Taylor, which makes it even harder to resolutely speak up and put an end to...whatever this is. Furthermore, Ryan can’t believe he’s let things get so stupidly out of hand.
So he’s not even all that surprised when Taylor shows up at his apartment after the Oilers beat the Thrashers during a Saturday afternoon tilt, practically bounding in when Ryan opens the door. Taylor is beaming at him, his smile infectious, and despite Ryan’s best intentions, he finds himself crowding Taylor up against the closed front door.
“First hat trick, huh, kid?” Ryan says. “Not bad.”
Taylor grins: “Hell fucking yeah.”
And that’s pretty much all that needs to be said before Ryan finds himself getting guided back across the apartment towards the couch, albeit slower than usual as they account for the walking boot that he’s wearing. He shoves a laughing Taylor down on the couch, and he’s about to carefully shift himself on to it as well, when he pauses: “Wait. Why are you here instead of out?”
Taylor shrugs, unconcerned. “Dude, it’s only like seven pm: I’m going out after this. I’m shooting for a hatty tonight to celebrate my hatty.”
Of course he is.
It takes a bit of effort, but Ryan considers it a great victory when he manages to avoid both laughing at him and bringing up Taylor’s continued lack of game - let the kid dream on. And this is why, later, if the following incident were ever to be brought up again, Ryan will blame it on the fact that he expended so much energy on keeping himself from making fun of Taylor that he could not have possibly contained the next ridiculous thing that comes out of his mouth:
“So. Uh, since you got the hat trick and all, it’s kind of a special occasion, right? So I guess, um, you could get on top…if you wanted?”
Taylor stares blankly at him: “On top? Is that okay for your ankle? Can you even bend like that? Can anyone?”
Confused, Ryan raises an eyebrow at him - “What are you talking about? Bend what way? It’s really not that complicated.”
And it’s then that Ryan realizes that Taylor literally has no idea what Ryan’s talking, the same moment that everything apparently clicks in Taylor’s brain, because his cheeks start to redden in a way that creeps all the way down his neck, a bashfulness that Ryan’s never seen before. “Ohhhhh. Um...yeah,” Taylor stutters out. “We could do that. We could totally do that. Uh, if you wanted to?”
“Oh fuck,” Ryan manages not to laugh, but just barely. This situation is getting more and more absurd by the moment, but also - awesome, because while he figures it probably wouldn’t have happened, there was always the vague concern in the back of his mind that bottoming for the kid might result in an endlessly annoying amount of chirping. “Hallsy, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to-”
“-No, I want to, totally,” Taylor interrupts, pretty unconvincingly in Ryan’s opinion. “It’s just that, uh. You know-“
“-so just roll over and take off your pants,” Ryan steamrolls on cheerfully, undeterred and pulling his t-shirt up over his head and tossing it on to the coffee table. “Get ready, because I’m about to rock you like a hurricane.”
That puts a temporary pause into Taylor’s awkward protests: “How old are you?” he says instead, making a face. And then: “But seriously, if you wanted to-”
“-seriously, I was just trying to be nice, kid,” Ryan says, reaching between the couch cushions for his emergency stash of lube and condoms. “It’s cool if you don’t want it like that: for what it’s worth, I prefer it the way we’ve been doing it too, okay?”
There’s a long pause as Taylor looks up at Ryan and doesn’t say anything, a silence long enough for Ryan to almost become uncomfortable. Finally, Taylor nods and says, “Yeah, cool,” and reaches up to tug Ryan down against him on the couch, mindful of Ryan’s ankle, and after a moment, he fits his mouth against Ryan’s, hot and wet and familiar.
Ryan decides that it’s probably best to stop thinking for now.
--
Ryan’s witnessed many unexpected things this season - for example, he wouldn’t have anticipated landing a season-ending injury in December; nor would he have ever imagined actually calling a draw in his bet with Talbot. In March, he leans forward in his spot up in the press box to watch a hotshot rookie try to fight Derek Dorsett, which is yet another thing he would never have been able to predict at the beginning of the season - he watches as Dorsett does a take-down with ease and Taylor lands awkwardly. Ryan winces in sympathy but resolves not to get distracted from watching the rest of the game.
The next time he sees Taylor is after the game when Ryan drops by Taylor and Ebs’ place. Ebs rolls his eyes good-naturedly and lets him in, pointing him in the direction of Taylor’s room, where he’s very obviously sulking and glaring petulantly at his new crutches.
"I think there must be a pandemic," Ryan tells Taylor, sitting down beside him on the bed and patting his arm. "Fucked up ankles for all. Solidarity."
Taylor sighs. "Did you see my fight?" he asks. "Did it at least look badass, kind of?"
"Not even a little bit, kid," Ryan says, shaking his head. "Good try though."
(He does end up giving Taylor a sympathy blowjob, though: Ryan figures it’s the least he can do.)
Their incidental injuries mean that they start spending almost excessive amounts of time together these days: they do fan appearances together and do the stupid required rehabs pool laps together every morning. When Gags end up with a freak injury of his own, Ryan expects him to hang out and commiserate with them as well - he doesn’t though, opting to spend all his time with his girlfriend instead:
“Ahahaha,” he says to Ryan. “You guys suck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get a lot of recuperation laid from my hot and awesome girlfriend.”
Ryan almost indignantly points out that Gags can just shut up his stupid face because Ryan’s probably also going to be getting plenty laid in the next week too, from his not-so-hot not-girlfriend but that’s certainly a moot point - he manages to catch himself just in time though. The sheer fact that this is possibility to be brought up as a counterpoint presents the glaringly obvious fact and an awkward reminder that Ryan has a problem - a blond, nineteen year old problem - that likely needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. The horrific realization hits Ryan when it occurs to him that Taylor’s just talked him into getting a fucking Twitter account. He’s starting to feel an awful lot like his late Aunt Gertrude, who seemed to constantly be having blond, nineteen year old problems, rest her soul.
Fuck Talbot, Ryan thinks morosely. This is probably all his fucking fault.
--
For the most part, Ryan’s been perfectly content to ignore the more problematic aspects of the sheer stupidity of his current predicament, and for the most part, it seems that it’s a fairly reasonable course of action, as long as the situation doesn’t escalate.
And then, one day, after a particularly grueling physio session, Ryan’s waiting around at the rink for Taylor to finish up with his meeting with the therapist because of their carpool, when he realizes that Taylor’s already in the lobby and in the midst of a phone conversation. Taylor seems to be distracted by whoever’s on the line and doesn’t notice Ryan approaching.
Ryan doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the next words out of Taylor’s mouth make him freeze in his tracks:
“Don’t worry, he’ll come around - he wants to make this work too, trust me.”
Fuck.
So Ryan has no choice but to do what any sensible person would do in this situation: he turns around quickly, beelines out of the building, and hails a cab instead.
Then, very rationally, he starts ignoring the source of the problem.
As the week continues, he maintains his very practical mission of staunchly avoiding Taylor, purposely staggering his own physio schedule so that they don’t match up; it’s somewhat convenient that the Oilers are currently on a road trip so they’re not forced into the press box together with Gags sandwiched awkwardly between them. On one hand, this is a great plan for Ryan to be motivated to go out again - it turns out his injury is money in the bank for wheeling sympathy sex: Ryan tries not to be too cranky about all the laid he’s probably missed out on while moping. On the other hand, he almost misses having the kid around. Taylor may have been a part-time fuck-buddy, but he’s also a full-time teammate and friend, so flat-out avoiding him altogether is actually kind of hard. In fact, this is probably the only time in Ryan’s life where he longs for the days of the telegram and rotary phones: modern technology makes it hard to ignore Taylor when he keeps leaving weird messages on Ryan’s phone, and eventually, even weirder messages on Twitter - what the hell is a huge nonbeauty anyway?
And that's not even mentioning the series of weird text messages, courtesy of Ebs that eventually come trickling in -
WHERE R U
and
y u no <3 taytay nomore???
and
ryan. he's your teenage dream come on. LITERALLY
Ryan can’t help but fire back a What the fuck Ebs??? at the last one. A moment later he gets two more texts in rapid succession:
Sorry! Lauren stole my phone
And then followed by,
But srsly trouble in paradise????
Ryan decides that enough is enough. He fires off a quick go fuck yourselves text intended for both Ebs and Lauren, and then steels himself to go make a phone call: the other line clicks on after five rings and Ryan blurts out what he needs to say before he can stop himself - "Hey Hallsy? You should come over. We might need to talk."
--
“What the fuck, Whit,” Taylor grumbles at Ryan after getting let into the apartment. His crutches have been upgraded to a walking boot, identical to Ryan’s, and Ryan takes a moment to marvel at how absolutely fucking ridiculous this entire situation is. “I was napping. You don’t return messages and then you suddenly you need to talk? What gives, man?”
"Okay. Shut up," Ryan says, shaking his head. "This is really important, Hallsy. You want to sit down or something?"
Taylor pauses and tilts his head for a moment, like he's considering how serious Ryan's being right now. He eases himself onto the couch and peers up at him: "Is everything all right?"
Ryan sits down across from him, suddenly nervous and decides that it’s best just to bite the bullet. "Okay, listen up, kid: this? Like this...whatever it is that we're doing?” he gestures to the space between the two of them. “Whatever you might think it is? It's not a relationship. It's just...it's not, okay?"
There’s a long beat of silence as Taylor's brow furrows a little in confusion: "...yeah? And?"
"And..." Ryan takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the next part, deciding that it’s probably for the best just to blurt it all out at once. "You were part of a bet, okay? Uh. Me and Maxime Talbot were just, you know. It was his stupid idea. We were trying to see who could bang more draft picks, and it got kind of out of hand." And then, like an afterthought: "...you can punch me if you want, um. Just like...don't break my nose or anything, okay?"
Taylor just kind of continues staring blankly at Ryan. "Uh, yeah. Well, I thought we were just having sex. And I knew that part about the bet too, man."
Wait. What? "What?"
"Yeah,” Taylor continues, undeterred. “Talbot told me during All-Star weekend."
Now it’s Ryan’s turn to be confused: “What the fuck was Talbot doing at All-Star weekend?”
Taylor shrugs. “I dunno, trying to sleep with number one draft picks? Something about not letting the Americans win.”
“Fuck him! Bastard stole my line!” Ryan blurts out, before he can stop himself.
“You’re American,” Taylor points out.
“No, the opposite of that: not letting the Canadians win; that’s how I got Erik John…you know what, never mind,” Ryan says. This afternoon is definitely not going the way he had thought it would be going. He forces himself to get back on track: “Uh. So...did you sleep with him? Talbot, I mean."
“Nah,” Taylor grins mischievously. “Thought you might like to win your bet."
That startles a laugh out of Ryan. Wow. "So…you're not mad?" he ventures.
Taylor looks at him, genuinely confused: "Why would I be mad? It's kind of awesome that I was part of the bet if I’m being honest - it’s so stupid that it’s fucking hilarious. Plus, no disrespect to you Whit, but a) who says I'd want to date you, b) I don’t even want a girlfriend right now, c) you'd make a terrible boyfriend, and fourth of all, you'd be crushed when I broke up with you and it would fuck up our friendship forever."
"--wait,” Ryan jumps in, the sudden implications making themselves clear. “Why would you be the one breaking up with me? Also fuck you: I'd be a great boyfriend!"
"Well, let's hope I never have to find out," Taylor says cheerfully.
Ryan's still kind of vaguely offended by this entire line of discussion, and then kind of perplexed at this offence that he's taking, but supposes that it's better than the alternative of actually being lampooned into an accidental relationship. It kind of hurts his head when he thinks too hard about it, so it's probably better to just not think about it at all: "So we're cool?"
"Sure," Taylor assures him. And then he arches an eyebrow suggestively in Ryan's direction: "Alphaghetti? Or do I have to spell it out?"
So business as usual, then; Ryan's more than okay with that. He rolls his eyes but leans over unceremoniously to reach into Taylor’s pants: he owes him at least that much.
("This is weird," Ryan notes, staring down at Taylor as their eyes meet - something that they've been subconsciously vigilant about making sure never happens during sex.
Taylor considers him for a moment. "I have an idea," he finally says, almost shy. "But it'll probably only work as a one-time-deal sort of thing."
And then he's pulling Ryan even closer towards him, clinging on tight and arching his back so that he's pushing up against Ryan. He licks up from Ryan's collarbone, tracing his way up Ryan's neck and jawline, messy and wet, stopping only when their mouths meet sloppily, and he moans into Ryan's mouth in encouragement at the meandering pace that Ryan's set.
It’s slower than usual, careful too, to account for both their injuries. Taylor’s got his arms around Ryan, pulling him in languidly; in fact, the sex is downright cuddly.
Ryan feels like this should bother him a lot more than it actually does.)
--
“You know,” Ryan says as they sit together on Ryan’s couch, each of them with one leg propped up while watching the Flames play the Wild. He shifts his hips a little. “I get called a perv for following ‘girlsinyogapants’ on Twitter, but you get a free pass. Why is that?”
Taylor spares him a glance. “It’s because you’re old,” he points out. “And a total perv.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “That really can’t be your answer for everything. I’m not actually old, you know.”
This time, Taylor doesn’t look away from the Flames’ power play, nor does he stop the lazy handjob he’s currently giving Ryan - it’s kind of great that he’s getting jerked off while there’s hockey on, but TSN’s continued close-ups of Ollie Jokenin’s face is kind of harshing his buzz; he can’t decide if this is all kind of the best thing ever, or pretty much the worst thing ever. “It’s worked so far,” Taylor says, without missing a beat.
So everything is status quo, then: Aunt Gertrude would be proud of him, Ryan thinks.
--
The Oilers limp their way toward the end of the season, finishing up again with another number one draft pick. They all part ways for the summer, somewhat disheartened but not beaten down, anticipation for next season already buzzing in the air.
A week before the draft, Taylor calls Ryan, his voice lazy and bright like afternoon sunshine: “How’s Boston?”
“Good,” Ryan answers truthfully. “Bruins shit everywhere, but what can you do?” He pauses. And then: “Hey - that Seguin kid’s pretty good, isn’t he?”
“Aw, fuck right off, Whit,” Taylor says, but Ryan can tell that he’s still smiling.
They chat for a while, about everything and nothing: how Ebs got burned by that girl at the Worlds, but it’s okay because he’s still got Lauren (Taylor off-handily mentions how the two of them almost broke up back in March, and the realization suddenly dawns on Ryan - it’s probably too late to feel embarrassed about it, so he’s not going to bother), and how their respective off-season routines are going, and how fucking awesome the next season’s going to be.
“You healed up yet?” Ryan wants to know.
“Good as new, yeah,” Taylor confirms. “You?”
“Pretty much.” And then, before Ryan can think of better of it, he asks: “Did you think about visiting at all?”
“Boston?” Taylor says. “I have to go to Minnesota for the draft, but maybe after that - can I? Does that work?”
“You probably can,” Ryan agrees. “But may you? ”
Taylor sighs. “Seriously: fuck off - I’ll be there.”
--
True to his word, Taylor does show up in Boston a week after hanging out at the draft where the Oilers brass pick an eighteen year old kid who looks twelve tops - Ryan considers texting Talbot about how relieved he is that they both got bored of their bet - his phone vibrates before he can do it because of course, Talbot’s beat him to it.
Taylor seems genuinely happy to see Ryan, and Ryan supposes there are worst things in life than getting bro-hugged by Taylor Hall in the middle of the arrivals terminal at two in the afternoon.
“So, um,” Taylor says when they’re in Ryan’s car. “I didn’t book a hotel or anything yet, so I was wondering if you had any recommen--”
“--yeah, yeah,” Ryan cuts him off. “You’re staying at my place. You can take the old couch: the springs are shit and will probably break your spine. I kind of hope they do.”
When Ryan finally sneaks a look over at Taylor at the next red light, Taylor’s turned to look out the window, doing little to hide his delighted grin. Ryan pretends not to notice, and starts chirping Taylor about the current state of his hair instead.
They’re almost at Ryan’s place when Taylor suddenly sits up straighter in the passenger seat and announces that he desperately needs food and a shower.
“Jesus,” Ryan groans. “So fucking high-maintenance.”
But Ryan complies anyway: he takes Taylor first to dinner, and then back to his apartment and into the shower, where Taylor blows him for the first time in months and doesn’t even hesitate when Ryan hauls him up afterward to kiss him on the mouth while lazily jerking him off under the almost-lukewarm water.
Afterwards, they end up getting half-dressed and then wandering into Ryan’s bedroom where they fall into the bed and drip water all over the sheets. They watch the Red Sox play the Cardinals on TV and fall asleep before the seventh inning stretch, and this is Taylor’s first day in Boston.
--
Taylor tells Ryan that he's only staying in Boston for a week or so because he's made plans to see Ebs up in Calgary, but they fall into a routine pretty quickly, hitting the gym early in the morning and occasionally following it up with a five mile run at Taylor's insistence, and Ryan kind of hates him a little bit by the end of the week. It's not all bad, though: it's Taylor's first Independence Day in the States and he only half questions it when Ryan insists that he has to watch Independence Day prior to seeing the fireworks in the name of American patriotism.
The days pass pretty quickly after that: Ryan takes Taylor on whirlwind tours of landmarks in Boston, giving him facts about the city that are only half true - but Taylor laughs when Ryan does things like point to the first Starbucks opened in Boston and tell him that's the site of the 1773 tea party, so at least he's showing someone around who actually appreciates the Ryan Whitney experience of Beantown. Unfortunately, their inability to go to Ryan's favourite bars kind of limits the scope of his tour, but they make up for it by eating their way through the city. Besides, Ryan's come to realize that Taylor's kind of an easy guy to please - just sit him down with a large plate of food and he'll beam happily as he scarfs it down, and somehow, Ryan gets laid out of the deal.
(They fuck on Ryan’s couch in the middle of the afternoon, the rituals of proposition and preparation already down to a science; he pulls on his condom and pushes his slicked up fingers into Taylor with ease. Taylor muffles a moan against the coach cushion when Ryan slides out his fingers and pushes most of the way into him and against his better judgement, kind of really wants to hear him, so he reaches over to tug him up by his hair.
“No, wait,” Taylor manages, turning his head to be better heard. “Don’t do that. It…might get embarrassing. Uh. For me.”
Suddenly a light bulb goes on in Ryan’s head: “Oh fuck. You knew, all this time? You were withholding?”
Taylor cranes his head to attempt a glare at Ryan, but right now, like this, with Ryan buried deep inside him, it’s not even a little effective: “Don’t start with me, man.”
“Fine,” Ryan says, letting go of Taylor’s hair and grudgingly conceding to the fact that he’s going to have to use his hands after all.)
At the end of a week of wandering the city, getting laid, and cursing out Taylor for guilting him into running with him, Ryan gets a call from his mom to remind him that they've got family dinner on Friday night - Ryan tries to beg out of it, using the excuse that he's got a friend in town.
"Bring your friend, Ryan," his mother tells him patiently, but Ryan knows he's fucked because she's definitely using her 'won't take no for an answer' voice. "We hardly get to see you as it is."
And there it is: Ryan wonders what it is about talking on the phone with his mom that always makes him feel like he's regressed about twenty years of his life.
--
Dinner ends up going smoothly: neither of his brothers have girlfriends who are actually in Boston right now, so Ryan's not subject to as much of the when are you going to settle down with a nice girl? conversations as usual, which is greatly appreciated. His parents order a couple of bottles of wine for the table, and Ryan has to muffle a laugh when Taylor politely declines and sticks to water instead. To their credit, neither Ryan’s brothers nor his father ask Taylor too many questions about what it's like to play for the Oilers, nor do they brag too much about their hometown team winning the Cup. In return, Taylor listens attentively when Ryan's family tells him about their own lives, and much to Ryan's chagrin, the pre-requisite embarrassing stories of Ryan's childhood, as necessitated by the presence of anyone who's not family but is currently attending a Whitney family dinner.
After the meal, Ryan’s mother pulls him aside while his dad, Colin and Sean, are busy informing Taylor about all the reasons why their beloved Red Sox are going to spank the Blue Jays this year - Taylor mostly looks bemused, nodding in all the right places.
“I understand why you haven't brought a girl home in ages now, honey,” his mother tells him, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of the front of his shirt, and Ryan fights the urge to duck away. “Your boyfriend is very nice. He’s looks awfully young, though, if you ask me.”
Ryan groans: “I'm not gay, Mom. And I don’t have a girlfriend mostly by choice.”
His mother laughs a little: “But he was so attentive at dinner! All his pleases and thank yous, Ryan: he’s such a polite young man. He didn’t even drink the wine.”
Trying to discreetly roll his eyes, Ryan silently counts to five before answering: “That's because he’s nineteen, Mom.”
His mother drops her hands to her sides, looking positively scandalized: “Ryan!”
Suddenly, Ryan feels kind of like that time he got caught for blaming Sean for breaking their mom’s favourite teapot. He pulls her into a hug before she can say anything else though: “So glad I came out to dinner, Mom! You’re so great,” he says in an attempt to both distract and mollify.
Almost reluctantly, she sighs and wraps her arms around him as well: “I hope you know what you’re doing, Ryan. For what it’s worth, I do like him though.” She pauses, and then smiles wryly. "I think your Aunt Gertrude would have liked him too."
“Noted. But he’s just my teammate, Mom,” Ryan tells her patiently, stooping to rest his chin on the top of her head. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll settle down one day, just for you. The girl might even be a nice one.”
“Thank you,” she deadpans. “You’re very reassuring.”
“After retirement,” Ryan can’t help but add. But he counts it as a win when his mom lets out a startled laugh and squeezes him tighter.
--
"Ha ha," Taylor says, later that evening, as he works at the buttons of Ryan's shirt in the safety of Ryan’s apartment. "I met your parents."
"So? Why is that funny?"
"Because isn't that what couples and shit do?” Taylor points out. “Gross.”
Ryan considers this, before making a mock-horrified face: "For fuck’s sakes, Hallsy: I need sex without feelings immediately! Quickly: an emotionless, no strings attached blowjob! Activate! Go!"
He's only half-serious, and Taylor's laughing, but he also abandons the buttons of Ryan's shirt in favour of getting down on his knees and turning his attention to undoing Ryan's pants - Ryan's definitely gotten less from doing more, so he's not going to complain, especially when Taylor’s doing that stupidly great thing with his tongue again.
Taylor has pretty comically bad timing though, because he chooses this moment, in the middle of a ridiculously good blowjob while Ryan’s edging towards orgasm, to pull off and consider Ryan thoughtfully.
Ryan makes a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a whimper. “Why did you stop?”
“Do you need to sleep with Nugent-Hopkins now?” Taylor asks him seriously. “For your bet, I mean. Because I don’t know if he’d be into this kind of thing, and I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend. But I can introduce you if you want. So.”
Ryan just stares at him, incredulously. There’s a funny feeling in his chest; he hopes it’s a stroke.
“Fuck my life,” he mutters to himself, because the alternative to a stroke is probably fondness, and just fuck no.
So instead, he puts a firm hand on the back of Taylor’s head and guides it back towards his crotch: “Hallsy, not gonna lie: I like you better when your mouth’s full.”
--
"My mom did ask if you were my boyfriend," Ryan concedes, afterward.
On the far side of the bed, Taylor rolls over so that he’s watching Ryan. He makes a face: "What did you say?"
"Of course I said no."
“Good,” Taylor says, unmistakably relieved; Ryan grins and can’t even remember why he was worried that this was all going to be a problem in the first place. “Even so, I like your mom,” Taylor continues sleepily. “She’s nice. Your dad and brothers, too.”
Ryan shrugs, crawling under the sheets beside him. “Yeah. They’re all right.”
There’s a long pause. And then, just when Ryan thinks that Taylor’s fallen asleep: “So, is this, like. A thing?” Taylor asks around a wide yawn.
Another moment passes as Ryan briefly mulls this over: “I dunno,” he admits. “Do you want this to be a thing?”
Taylor shrugs lazily. “Do you?”
Ryan sighs. “…this could be a thing,” he says finally.
--
It takes Ryan a long time to fall asleep that night, playing the conversation over and over in his head. Finally, Taylor just rolls over sleepily and drapes an arm around him. “You’re not in a fucking relationship. It’s just a thing, okay? Stop thinking so loudly and go to sleep,” he slurs against Ryan’s chest.
And so Ryan does.
time stamp number one: 2016