Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bar is loud and the people around him boisterous, but Tommy is sitting by himself.

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Game-Winning-Goal himself. What’re you doing sitting all by yourself?” Someone calls out from behind him as they sidle up to take the empty seat next to Tommy.

The voice is a familiar one, as is the person it’s attached to. Even the bright grin being directed at Tommy was one he’s seen at least a few thousand times over the last few years. Despite not being one of the players on the team himself, Evan Buckley was around the team enough he was basically an honorary member.

Except, Buck actually elects to call himself a puck bunny.

It’s certainly not a title Tommy would dispute with him over, because he’s seen for himself just how much of a puck bunny Buck was. And a highly successful one at that. If Buck was there and there were hockey players around, it’s almost guaranteed the man would not be going home alone. That’s been true since the first time Eddie had invited his best friend to a post-game outing. The two were practically joined at the hips—just “not in the fun way, because ew that’s practically my brother” as Buck would always say—and Buck was always around.

Tommy has gotten more than used to the man’s presence. They were even almost friends. At least good enough acquaintances to be able to chirp each other without any hurt feelings getting in the way.

“No willing victims tonight, Buckley?” He grins back.

There’s just something about Buck that makes it easy for people to relax around him. Some strange power to get people to lower their defenses and just want to pay attention. Tommy is not an outlier in this situation, but at least he knows that Buck is a good guy. A bit of a manwhore—Buck’s own words—but a nice guy all around.

And it is a little weird that they’re already over an hour into this particular game-winning celebratory outing and Buck was sitting here with him and not attached to one of the other Kings players hanging around the club’s VIP area.

“How many times have I told you to call me Buck?” The blond leans in a little closer, arm brushing against Tommy’s and a drop of condensation from the beer he’s holding drips onto the back of Tommy’s hand. It’s cold, jolting him awake enough to raise his awareness. “I’ll even let you call me Evan.”

Throwing his head back with a laugh, Tommy knocks the neck of his own beer against Buck’s with a clang.

“You’re not my type, Buckley.” Which is a lie, but Tommy is also the captain of the LA Kings, not just any other player. He’s not going to fuck the best friend of one of his guys, unlike some of the others on the team. Even though Buck has stayed friendly with everyone he has taken to his bed, it’s not a risk Tommy was willing to take. It just sucks that Buck’s crystal blue eyes, dark blond hair, and long ass legs were a constant temptation.

But it’s one that Tommy can easily ignore.

“I’m everyone’s type, Kinard.”

“Then you should go and prove that instead of wasting your time here.”

“Aye aye captain.” Buck even goes as far as to salute him, fingers flicking off his temple as he starts walking backwards away, mouth tucked up in a lopsided smirk.

He doesn’t go far; Tommy’s eyes track him to the bar where some of the other guys in the team were gathered around. His eyes track the blond as he slides into the space—not nearly big enough for a guy of his height and figure—between two people. Space becomes less of a problem when the guys happily pull Buck into their circle. Tommy shakes his head, not at all surprised by how well received the younger man is. Has been ever since he had tagged along with Eddie to a team hang, and just never really left.

Turning away, Tommy relaxes into this seat, sipping slowly at his beer.

Unconsciously, his eyes drift back to the corner where Buck is at. It’s just to make sure that everyone on the team, puck bunny extraordinaire included, is being safe and not about to stir up trouble; captain’s responsibility and all that.

So of course he catches Buck and his newest conquest.

From where he’s sitting, Tommy watches as Adrian throws an arm around Buck’s shoulders; continues to watch as that arm gradually dips lower and lower until Juice is fitting his hand around Buck’s waist, pulling the younger man closer in a move that’s hard to misinterpret. Buck has clearly found his target tonight.

Tommy rolls his eyes when he catches the blond’s eye from across the room, winking at him through the dim lights of the bar. Ridiculous, that’s what Buck is.

But still, Tommy does hum the justice of tipping his beer in the other’s direction, a silent congratulations of sorts. He turns back to nurse his own drink before searching the area for the rest of his team, all in various states of drunkenness and lustful endeavors. Luckily most of the veteran players have either headed home already or are at least aware enough to not act like complete fools; unfortunately, that means the younger players are well on their way to getting shitfaced like they’ve never won an NHL game before—even though they were already a month into the season and they’ve been on a win streak.

“Where’s—where’s Buckaroo?” A heavy weight falls across his right shoulder, pulling at the sore muscles a bit more than Tommy would prefer, and hot beer breath hits him fully in the face. Eddie is already three sheets to the wind; Tommy grimaces and shoulders him off, though not enough to not have them still leaning against him. “He’s abandoned me, cap.”

“You’re drunk.”

“…hmm?” Eddie tilts forward once more, his whole upper body plastered to Tommy’s arm once more. He looks confused, going cross-eyed in an attempt to look at himself somehow. “I am?”

Tommy shakes his head and tries to avoid being in the line of fire of the winger's tequila breath.

A second later, Eddie jolts up and looks around the area wildly, moving fast enough that Tommy has to put an arm out to make sure he doesn’t actually fall face first onto the ground. “Where’s Buck?”

He looks up towards where he last saw the other man, but neither Buck nor Adrian were still there. The guys who remain have closed their ranks, a clear sign that they don't expect the two to come back, not any time soon. In Tommy’s opinion, he’s certain he won’t be catching sight of Adrian until practice in two days’ time. Good for Buck.

“Getting juiced up, probably.” Tommy snorts inelegantly.

“Wha—?”

“Don’t worry about it. Come on, Mr. Second-Star.” Reaching out, he heaves Eddie up by his armpits and tries to maneuver them to their feet; he’d beat take the younger man home before he embarrasses himself more—or get even drunker. But he’s barely on his feet for more than a few seconds, still trying to balance Eddie’s added weight when another body knocks into him. He has a nanosecond to recognize it’s Chimney before he’s dropping down to his ass once more into the booth seat.

“Shit!”

Eddie slips from his grip and ends up sprawled half on the floor, half leaning against the seat.

Tommy seriously hopes no one has managed to sneak into the VIP area tonight, or brought in by some of the other guys. It wouldn’t be a good look for pictures of Eddie, drunk and fallen haphazardly on the floor while Tommy (his captain) and Chimney (his A) look on stupidly.

Well, Chimney seems to barely register that one of his teammates is on the floor, instead turning his attention on poking at Tommy in the stomach with one finger. “Guys, guys, guys! Guess what?”

“What?” Exhaustion is just starting to crawl up his spine. He really must be getting old when the thought of his bed waiting for him at home—even as empty as it has been for the last…too long—feels more enticing than the prospect of getting more drunk in a bar in downtown LA somewhere.

“I just saw Juice trying to eat Buckaroo’s face off.” Chim’s brown eyes are filled with too much glee, made all the more manic looking in combination with the red gash slicing through his left eyebrow, a high stick to the face from the game earlier—it earned him a few stitches he made sure to brag about. He also looks hazy-eyes with the abundance of alcohol consumed over the course of the night.

There’s a chance he won’t even remember this conversation come morning, but that’s more Maddie’s problem than Tommy’s.

“Yeah.”

“You knew!?” A too-sharp slap hits him in the shoulder as Chim rockets back in dramatic form, all shock and betrayal written on his features.

“You’re letting J-Juicy eat Buck-Buck!?” Eddie’s voice is too loud; several pairs of eyes turn towards them and a few of them more than a little judgmental of their positions, Eddie still on the floor with his head tilted back to gaze up at Tommy and Chimney. If this was anywhere but just surrounded by team guys, Tommy would have balked at the state of themselves. Now though, he just sticks out a hand and drags Eddie up, practically into his lap, before standing up himself.

“Time to go home, bud.”

“For more tequila!” Eddie claps right by his ear and Tommy winces at the sound.

“Sure, man. It’s a new brand called H2O. You’ll love it.”

“Yes, Captain, sir!”

Thankfully, despite his lack of coordination and less than 50% control over his limbs, Eddie still manages to half-way his own way out of the club and into the Uber Tommy had booked. They make good time, only needing to pull over twice for Eddie to throw up by the side of the road—Tommy promises the driver a 500% tip for his patience—before they’re pulling up to Eddie’s condo.

Tommy ends up spending the night passed out on Eddie’s couch and waking up to a cute little boy (no older than six or so) with red colored classes poking him in the face. It feels like forever since he’s seen Chris; he looks so much bigger than just a few months ago towards the start of the last playoffs.

Pretending to sleep for a few more moments, Tommy lets Chris poke him a few more times before springing up, “boo!”

“Uncle Tommy! You’re here!”

“All the easier to eat little boys who wake up the big bad wolf!” Picking up the practically weightless boy, Tommy gently tosses him onto the couch and starts to tickle him, peals of laughter bouncing around the open concept living-dining-kitchen area. All the jostling doesn’t really help his shoulder feel better and he knows a trip to the trainers after practice is on his list of things to do.

“Nooooooo! No!” Chris giggles and laughs and twists around. “Bad wolf! Bad.”

That’s how Eddie finds them, pillow crease bisecting his face from left temple down to the right side of his jaw, mid-tickle fight. The man has certainly seen better days, looking particularly hung over. He’s scratching his chest as he shuffles closer to the kitchen, a homing missile aiming directly for the coffee machine. It takes a few minutes and about half a cup of coffee before Eddie turns to face Tommy with a confused frown.

“Did someone..? Did I say Juice ate Buck…?”

“I’m sure he did.” Tommy couldn’t help himself.

Chris has stilled in his arms, head leaning against his arm as the boy sits next to him on the couch, little fingers playing with Tommy’s much bigger ones.

“Hey! Children around here.” Eddie hisses then full-body winces as his head is jostled by his sudden jerking motion. “So I didn’t dream up Buck leaving with Adrian?”

“It’d be weird if that’s what your dreams are usually about.”

“Shut up.” A towel is tossed—or attempted to—at his head.

“Best stick with hockey, Edmundo.” Tommy laughs (and so does Chris who likely has less of an idea of what they’re saying) as he stares at where the towel ended up in a sad pile on the ground between living room and kitchen, still several feet away from Tommy.

As expected, the next time they have practice, a little under 48 hours since their game winning celebration at the bar, Adrian presents the locker room with a particularly dark hickey smack dab over his collarbone, too big and dark and obvious to miss. And there are smaller, less prominent ones spread across his chest. Everyone wolf whistles at him, jesting and laughing even as Doughty calls out a fine for the display of love bites. But by the time they’re stepping out onto the ice, it’s mostly forgotten.

If Tommy accidentally boards Adrian once towards a 3-on-3 drill, he’s simply playing the game as it should be. The hit was clean and Adrian bounced right back, saucing one in past Copley in the next minute.

And Tommy doesn’t hear about or see Buck again until a week or two later.

The last person Tommy expected to come face-to-face with as the team walks into the locker room, already starting to unbutton their game day suits before they’ve even set a single foot inside, is Buck. Yet, there he was, all 6’2” and dark blond curls, next to Darren. If it wasn’t for the giant LA Kings logo hanging above his head, Tommy would have thought he walked into the wrong room.

“What are you doing here?” It came out maybe a bit more hostile than he meant. But Buck is laughing, so it was obviously not taken badly.

Not that it precludes him from calling Tommy out apparently, “that’s a little rude, dude.”

“Don’t try to distract me.”

“Oh? You find me distracting, eh?”

Rolling his eyes, Tommy walks further into their room, listening as the rest of his team greets Buck with enthusiasm. He moves to his own stall and starts changing. They’re playing the Ducks tonight and despite his surety that they’ll win, every game was important; every game required Tommy’s utmost concentration. And Buck’s sudden presence was a distraction—as was his inability to answer the question asked—because it was a shift in the usual. Tommy was no Sidney Crosby, but he appreciated a good ‘norm’ when it came to game days.

Still, he can’t find himself mad at Buck though. “Eh? Hanging around too many hockey players, Buck.” Shaking his head, he gives the younger man a look of faux disappointment. “But you’re still dodging my question.”

“I’m here because Dana is out with some family emergency for the next few weeks and my own work is currently in the information gathering stage.” Buck shrugs, like it’s so normal to just be called to sub in for someone in the org. “And hockey players are my favorite people, you know that Thomas.”

Tommy doesn’t deign to acknowledge the last part.

“So you were bored.” He deadpans.

“I’m volunteering! Helping out the team.”

“Definitely bored.” Chimney pipes up from where he’s pulling on his tights two stalls away.

“Let us give you some entertainment, Bucky!” Doughty whistles, laughing along with some of the other guys when Buck flips them off, not even bothering to look their way.

There’s a beat of silence and then Buck is sighing, shoulders dropping as he sways just a hair closer to Tommy (who has since removed most of his clothes and is standing there practically naked). “Okay, fine. Yeah, I was also bored as fuck,” the words are accompanied by a pout that Tommy turns away from; he still has his personal routine to go through.

“So you decided running yourself ragged with a bunch of hockey players is a better choice?” He doesn’t mean to ask out loud, to further engage, but his mouth seems to have not gotten the message.

And when Buck laughs, Tommy can’t help but peek up, just in time to catch the other with his head thrown back, blue eyes filled with mirth, and adam’s apple bouncing enticingly. Throat weirdly dry all of a sudden, Tommy forces his attention back on pulling on his pants instead.

“Hot guys in hockey gear pushing each other—and a small puck—around the ice? Definitely a better choice.”

“And he gets to spend more time with his best friend!” Eddie calls out from across the room.

Because of course their conversation is less-than-private, something Tommy is a little too used to, having spent more than half his life in locker rooms. Not to mention hockey players are the nosiest bastards ever.

He still laughs when Buck bounces over to where Eddie is putting on his own gear, lending his best friend a helping hand, but not without giving the man a high five.

“That too!”

For his part, Tommy nearly forgets the blond was even there—though he’s still able to catch snippets of conversations from all around the room, Buck’s voice clear as day—until he reappears. In his hand was Tommy’s elbow pads, and on his face a blinding grin. His head is tilted in such a way that begs to be praised.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, oh Captain my Captain.”

“Go away.”

He does, though not without calling over his shoulder to get in the last word, “I’m only leaving because I’m a busy busy assistant equipment manager—”

“Temporary.”

“—not because you told me so.”

Even if he wants to be annoyed, he can’t bring himself to be. Chuckling, he goes about pulling on the rest of his gear, sitting down to put on his skates—left foot first, tightening the laces one side at a time, before switching to the right foot. No one talks to him until he’s got both skates fixed to his exact preference. Then he turns to his right and talks to Kuemper, as per his usual game day routine (goalie first), until Nash walks in to read the lineup.

Then it’s game time and everything falls to the back of Tommy's mind the second his skates hit the ice.

Somehow Tommy forgot that Buck’s temporary position as one of the assistant equipment managers means he’s also obligated to travel with them on roadies, until the blond steps onto the plane behind the rest of the team.

What’s not a surprise to anyone is Buck settling into a seat right next to Eddie, everyone else rearranging themselves into other configurations until all heads are resting back against the head rests and the pilot makes his usual take off announcement. The flight to Long Island would be a little over five hours and they were leaving late in the evening and expected to arrive at the crack of dawn in New York. Tommy’s initial plans were to sleep, as were most of the older guys on the team, while the younger guys would likely stay up playing poker or Mario Kart.

They’re in the air long enough to even out at cruising altitude when the boys start to get a little rowdier.

“I got ‘Chel, too! Hughies version!” One of the rookies yelled out before he was roughly—a pillow to the face style—by Dewey.

Tommy sighs and attempts to close his eyes, only for something in the distance, nearly directly opposite him, to catch his attention. It was Buck, leaning fully across a mildly aggrieved Eddie, to talk animatedly with Juice.

“You’re staring.”

Fuck.

Chimney drops into the empty seat next to him with no preamble. He’s looking at Tommy like if he squinted hard enough he might be able to see directly into his skull. He probably can, something Tommy hates (and loves occasionally when the power is used for good—like in the middle of a game) because knows it’s because they’ve known each other since their rookie year, too long ago.

He wants to tell the other man to go away, but instead he drags his gaze away from what—who—he had been looking at to lob Chimney an unimpressed frown. “You’re staring, too. At me. If you know that I’ve been staring.”

The man has the audacity to shrug.

“You’re just too pretty to not look at, Tomcat.”

“Ugh, I fucking hate that nickname.” Tommy shudders. Although it’s also a nickname he knows his fans have taken to using when referencing him, so it’s hardly the worst nickname ever, but it’s certainly not a favorite. Something about the connotation of the word rubs Tommy the wrong way.

“But it’s so fitting.” Chimney laughs, thumping him on the leg a little too hard. “Anyway, what are you staring at? Hmm? What’s caught our distinguished captain’s attention?”

Scowling, Tommy pokes the D-man in the ribs, hard, making him squawk loud enough that Buck has turned to look directly at them. “Go the fuck to sleep, Howie.”

“It’s barely 9pm pacific time.”

“That means it’s nearly midnight eastern time.”

Chim ignores him and keeps looking around the confined space of the place when he suddenly crows, “oh ho, Buckaroo?” There’s a lot of waggling eyebrows, “our resident puck bunny, huh?”

“Just don’t get the appeal I guess.”

“…sure. That’s it.”

Tommy lets the skepticism slide right off of him. He looks around and most of the guys were asleep, save for the small gaggle over on the other end of the plane.

“Go away, Howard. Unlike you, some of us do want to sleep.”

“Your age is showing, Thomas.”

He shoos him away, or tries to. Howie, predictably, is just as stubborn as he’s always been. “I’m literally younger than you.” Tommy huffs.

“Eh, semantics.”

A hand slaps him in the chest and Tommy’s subsequent oof has familiar blue eyes turning to look at him. It’s followed by a bright grin before Eddie obviously says something and Buck’s attention is turned back to the card game he’d apparently been pulled into. There’s a look of intense concentration on the blond’s face, and even from where Tommy is seated most of the way across the length of the plane, he can see the tip of a pink tongue peeking out the corner of Buck’s mouth.

Howie pokes him in the ribs and Tommy turns his annoyed gaze back on his friend. He glares before shifting in his seat and closing his eyes, arms crossed over his chest.

“Go away.”

“Fine, fine. Be a boring old captain.”

He doesn’t actually know if Howie leaves or if the man simply remained quiet for long enough that Tommy does end up falling asleep. What he does know is that the seat next to him is empty by the time he blinks awake. However, the seat in front of him is not and there’s someone staring at him over the headrest; it’s Buck, Tommy would recognize those eyes anywhere.

“What?” His voice sounds gruff, still heavy with sleep.

“You snore, did you know that?”

He stares at the blond for a long stretch before crossing his arms and turning on his side, eyes closing again as he tries to go back to sleep, “lies.”

Delighted laughter reaches his ears as a finger pokes him in the cheek. Tommy bats at it halfheartedly, not really actually doing anything to stop more poking from happening. It’s mildly annoying, but it’s also Buck.

“You’re old, snoring it’s normal.”

Well, now that’s even more insulting. Cracking one eye open, he glares at a grinning Buck.

“That’s slander. You’re slandering my good name.” He gives a cursory look around and doesn’t spot either Eddie or Ravi around, so it’s just Buck deciding to bother Tommy all on his own. He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. “Don’t you have gloves to count or something?”

Buck looks around and points in a circle, as if he’s reminding Tommy that they’re on a plane right now.

“Grouchy, too. That must have also come with the advanced age.”

“You know…” Tommy sits up and leans forward, closing the distance between his face and Buck’s, stopping only when they’re basically sharing air, only a few short inches away from each other. Maybe they’re a little too close, but Tommy wasn’t going to back down now that they’re here. Especially not when he gets to watch as Buck’s eyes widen and his pupils dilate; not when Buck’s gaze drags down to Tommy’s lips before darting back up again. He finds himself doing the same, too; tracing the same path on the younger man’s face, from the pink blotch of his birthmark marring his left eyebrow to stunning blue eyes and down to plump pink lips. “…temporary assistant equipment manager can be a lot more temporary.”

That breaks the tension.

Buck gasps, body wrenching backwards and away, one hand grasping at his chest in mock-hurt. “You’d threaten the livelihood of an honest man?”

Brat, the word comes unbidden to his mind. It’s apropos, that’s for sure. Tommy rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat, legs spreading as he settles in comfortably.

“Only when that man is disturbing my beauty sleep.”

A familiar grin stretches across Buck’s lips, “nah. You don’t need it, Cap.” He’d already turned away and settled down in his own seat before the sentence was finished.

Tommy wants to say something else, mouth already open before he slowly closes it. Somewhere off in another corner of the plane, he can feel eyes staring at him; he ignores them and closes his own again. They’re still a few hours away from landing in New York, and he’s really not a rookie anymore. If his dreams are filled with a particular shade of blue and wine-stained pink, it’s not something he thinks about too much when the plane speeds down the runway at their destination.

They pull out an easy win against the Islanders. Tommy doesn’t score any goals, but he nets two assists out of the four total goals they got, one of which was for the game winner. Suffice to say, he’s feeling pretty decent. Would he have liked to have scored a goal himself? Sure. But he’s happy. And his team is happy. He’s not even upset there’s a new bruise starting to bloom on his hip where Ethan Bear caught him with a stick when Tommy had dodged his attempt to spear him in the groin. Not to mention loud as they celebrated their win at a local club.

They’d let the younger players choose this time, so the music pumping through the speakers isn’t anything Tommy recognizes immediately, but the beats aren’t too terrible.

“So what is your type?”

Just a minute ago he had been laughing with his guys, dancing and bouncing around to the new age-y music the club was blasting, and the next second Buck appeared suddenly by his side, asking him random questions while he’s at the bar getting another round of drinks for the guys. The blond is crowded in close, mouth practically molding itself to Tommy’s ear in an effort to make sure his words are heard.

The question catches Tommy off guard and he nearly stumbles. A warm hand comes up to steady him, heat searing into him from the spot where it presses against his waist.

“Oops.” Buck’s giggles hit him alongside a puff of hot air.

“What?”

“If I’m not your type, Tommy, what is your type?” Buck pulls back just enough to be able to look directly into his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pick up anyone before.”

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough.” It’s an obviously flirty comment, made more so by Tommy leaning in, closing the already minimal gap between their bodies. He almost wants to smack himself for saying it. He doesn’t need to give Buck any more encouragement on that front. But Tommy can’t help himself, and he was definitely blaming it on the three (maybe four?) shots he’d already taken. Because he’s also doing his best to ignore just how close they are standing—a circumstance he created himself. Heat radiates off of Buck where they’re plastered against each other, nearly from shoulder to ankle, and Tommy finds himself enraptured by the other man’s eyes, where only the thinnest ring of blue is leftover.

A bit of shifting and Buck has nearly climbed his way into Tommy’s lap (if they were standing up). One of his hands accidentally grazes against his bruised hip and the flare of pain barely registers because he feels a little too caught up.

“Oh, I can promise you I’m definitely looking at you hard enough.”

Well…that’s certainly an interesting tidbit to file away. But it’s also neither here nor there; it’s not something that Tommy cares about. If Buck wants to look at him, that’s his prerogative. Tommy is not unaware of his own attractiveness. Not to mention he’s a professional athlete earning a couple million dollars a year. He’s certainly not a bad catch. But that doesn’t make him Buck’s catch.

Nor does he care to be another notch on the other man’s bed post.

“You better go before the pickings get slim.” Tommy nods out towards the rest of the club. In the distance bodies writhe to the rhythm of the music pumping out of the speakers; alcohol flows freely and people duck into dark corners, hands and lips roaming shamelessly, uncaring of the fact that they’re still in public.

Instead of taking heed, Buck leans in closer and bumps shoulders with Tommy, jostling him and the drink in his hand. A splash of amber liquid lands on his hand. “Nah, I’m not worried.”

Tommy brings his hand to his mouth, licking up the spilled liquid while his temporary companion watches, fully focused on his mouth. He raises one eyebrow as he meets the younger man’s blue eyes.

“…right.”

He wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.

“Plus, I happen to think I’m in great company right now.” Tommy laughs at Buck’s words. It’s both a line and the truth. He knows how to have fun, when he wants to. But he also is the captain and it’s his responsibility to make sure that the rookies and newer callups don’t get into too much trouble across the country. Buck is certainly aware of that; he’d seen Tommy rein Eddie in on multiple occasions over the years. “Except, it’s kinda rude to not answer a question when asked.”

And there’s the pout.

It’s the same one that always appears eventually whenever Tommy rebukes Buck’s more aggressive advances (which is really just his default).

“What?”

The blond is even closer now, though that could also partially be due to how loud the club is. “What’s your type, Tommy?”

“Not mouthy blonds.”

“Oh? But those are the best kind! Definitely know how to work their mouths.” Now it’s Tommy’s turn to stare at Buck’s mouth, watching as the other man’s pink tongue darts out to swipe across plump lips. “Want a demonstration?”

Enough is enough. Tommy stands up, forcing Buck to step back so that they don’t smash into each other—though it’s a near thing when the blond moves just half a second too slow and their chests brush momentarily.

“Rain check.” He pats Buck on the shoulder, not giving the younger man another chance to talk, before moving to join some of the other Kings players halfway across the corner of the club they’ve taken over.

Still, he manages to catch Buck’s last words, even over the throbbing beats battling in the air. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Twenty minutes later, out of the corner of his eye, Tommy catches sight of Buck leant up against a dark haired man just a hair shorter than him. It’s very obvious they’re flirting. The other man—Mathew Barzal, if Tommy’s eyes are seeing correctly under the venue’s shining multicolored lighting—has one arm wrapped tightly around Buck’s waist as Buck ducks his head to whisper (and maybe more) into Mathew’s ear.

For a second, the urge to muscle his way across the room and in between the two of them crosses Tommy’s mind. But it’s there and gone in an instant. Buck is an adult, and built not unlike most hockey players, he can take care of himself.

It’s hardly the first time he’s left with someone in the middle of a team outing that he was invited to; it certainly won’t be the last either.

Tommy snorts quietly under his breath and takes a long drag of his beer, looking away.

“Huh, Barzal? Really?” Eddie slides into the booth next to him, already swaying a little even sitting down. He’s staring in the Sam direction Tommy had just been, eyes narrowed as he watched his best friend blatantly picking up one of the players from their opposing team.

“Didn’t think he was Buck’s type.” Ravi seemed to have joined the conversation as well.

Eddie nods sagely (read: drunkenly), “too pretty, for sure.”

“Aren’t you two a little too invested in Buck’s…extracurricular activities?” Tommy can’t help but ask, regretting it immediately the second the words were out of his mouth. Already, Ravi and Eddie are mouthing the words extracurricular activities at each other, before creepily turning as one to stare at him.

“You sound so old, Tommy.”

“Dinosaur old, man.”

“And you two youngins are so going to regret flying tomorrow with a hangover.”

They aren’t really listening anymore. Eddie’s attention has drifted away to some bottle blonde in a barely there dress, standing by the bar with her breasts practically spilling out. Tommy can only hope the winger doesn’t make any too stupid decisions as he stumbles over to her. The girl looks delighted, clearly not minding at all that she’s practically being smothered by a nearly 200 pound hockey player. She even looks appropriately fascinated by the busted lip Eddie is somehow showing off to her; battle scars and all that stuff, Tommy snorts with a shake of his head.

“Uh oh.” Ravi’s head lolls onto Tommy's shoulders and he has to turn his head so as not to get drunk off the amount of alcohol wafting off the younger man’s mouth.

“If you throw up on me…”

He pushes Ravi away, but still throws an arm around his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t fall out onto the floor.

Part of him wishes now that he’d taken Buck up on his offer, just so he could have a valid excuse to escape whatever trap he’s found himself in right now. When Chimney and Dewey all but collapse onto him and Ravi, Tommy resigns himself to his fate. He downs the rest of his whiskey and manages to flag down someone to bring him more.

In Jersey, Tommy turns a blind eye to Buck sneaking Jack Hughes into his hotel room. They’d just pummeled the Devils 4-1, so he’s in a good enough mood to not care that the younger man was breaking the rules. The team had their own little celebration post-game, so he’s not going to fault Buck from having his own. At the very least, he certainly won’t call the man out on anything.

Though maybe he should at least tell the other man to be a bit more subtle. All that giggling and bumping into walls, it was a surprise no one had stopped them along the way.

He almost does in Pittsburgh after they lose to the Pens. Their loss had Tommy feeling just a bit more petty and he was definitely in a bad mood afterwards. The game not being a complete shutout was Tommy’s only consolation, but it still doesn’t make the feeling of losing 5-1 feel any better. Sometimes that’s just the downside of playing against Sid the Kid, unfortunately.

And it’s that thought hanging in the recesses of his mind when he catches Buck walking out of the hotel. It looks like he’s waiting for something, or someone. For a quick moment, Tommy nearly went over to pull the man back, to reprimand him for ignoring the rules—staff must stay at the hotel past curfew. He doesn’t. But there was a second where he really wanted to, thinking how it wasn’t fair that Buck got to have his fun while he had to wallow through a loss.

He’s so deep in his own thoughts he nearly misses Buck walking towards a nice—but pretty generic—SUV. Through the blink-and-you-miss-it moment of Buck opening the passenger side door, Tommy catches sight of just who is driving. It’s the hockey legend himself. Somehow, Buck had managed to bag Sidney Crosby. Tommy wants to laugh, because he realizes belatedly that there was also another person in the car: Malkin was perched in the backseat.

Well, he certainly has to hand it to Buck and his magic puck bunny ways.

Shaking his head, Tommy makes his way back to his room. He’s got some booze to order from room service, what other people get up to is their business.

He hopes Buck has fun though. Someone might as well enjoy the night.

A three goal loss to the Rangers sucked. Any loss sucked, but breaking their mini winning streak in Raleigh to a 5-2 game for the Hurricanes just hurts. Some of the guys decided to go out and drown their sorrows with booze and probably whatever willing person they could find to help them soothe the pain. Tommy declined, opting for the hotel bar instead.

There’s also a chance he may have pulled the same shoulder muscles again, but some post-game icing has eliminated the worst of the throbbing from before. Now, he just wants to wallow in the loss.

He had thought Buck would have joined the other—younger—guys out on the town, so he was definitely surprised to find the younger man plopping down into the barstool next to him. Neither of them talk for the first few minutes, Tommy staring at the blond man in confusion while Buck simply mirrored his action. As the clock ticked by, Buck never bothered catching the bartender’s attention, he just continued to look at Tommy.

“I don’t need your pity.” Sue him, he was a bit of a grouch when they lose.

“Good. Because you won’t find any of that with me.” Buck shrugs, finally turning to look for the bartender, which he gives up doing five seconds after he starts and instead reaches over to snag Tommy’s drink. And all Tommy could do was watch as he took a sip, grimacing at the taste of something he clearly disliked.

“Whiskey, neat? Don’t you even have the decency to add some ice to this?”

For the first time all night Tommy has felt the urge to laugh come upon him. Buck looked—dare he even think it—cute with his nose all scrunched up in disgust and tongue hanging out of his mouth as if now that it’s touched whiskey it should detach itself from his mouth. There’s a part of Tommy that wants to swallow it back, tonight’s loss still so fresh on his mind it feels mildly disrespectful to be happy about anything, but he can’t manage to catch the first bubbling sound in time.

As each bark of laughter grew louder, Buck’s smile grew wider as well.

If this was all an attempt at cheering Tommy up, it worked.

“You’re such an idiot, Buckley.”

“Eh.” The man shrugs, smile still tugging at the corners of his plump mouth. “Got you to laugh though, didn’t I?”

“Yeah…yeah, you did.”

Then almost as if he’d forgotten what had happened seconds ago, Buck raises the tumbler of amber liquid to his mouth and takes another sip. He gasps and nearly chokes on the liquor, a few dribbles of it trickle down his chin and Tommy reaches out in instinct to wipe it away with his own thumb.

“You’re wasting good whiskey.”

“Nope. Impossible. This shit is disgusting.” Buck shakes his head.

Laughing some more, Tommy shakes his head at the other man. “Says the guy who drinks Bud Lights.”

“What’s wrong with Bud Lights!? It’s one of the top 3 selling beers in America!” The indignation in Buck’s voice is more than obvious, pushing Tommy to lean heavily on the bar top as he laughs some more.

“That’s because frat boys like you drink them like the piss water they are.”

He does wave the bartender over and orders one of those piss water beers for Buck, alongside another finger of whiskey for himself. Together they sit in companionable silence, each nursing their own drinks. Even if he wasn’t in the best mood, he couldn’t say it felt terrible to not be completely alone, at least for a little while.

After a while, Tommy breaks the silence first, “you, uh, headed out?”

Just because they lost doesn’t mean Buck had to stick around. Not when there was a whole team of happy New York Rangers out celebrating their win tonight. Right on time, Buck’s phone chimes and Tommy looks down just in time to see Carson Soucy’s name pop up at the top of a text thread. The defenseman seems to be asking where Buck was. He certainly wastes no time, Tommy is kind of impressed.

“Nope.”

No? That was not the answer Tommy had been expecting. He fully thought Buck would be standing up and leaving to meet up with his newest conquest once that text came in. Instead, the younger man turns his phone over and picks up his beer for another sip, ass firmly planted on this stool.

“Won’t be good company.” He tells Buck. But he wasn’t going to kick the blond away if he didn’t want to leave. Still, he warns, “planning on getting drunk, just so you know.”

“Cool. Want company?”

Well then. Tommy shrugs and waves. The universal gesture to go ahead, do whatever.

Neither of them end up drunk, though they do end up ordering a few more drinks. They talk about everything and nothing at all, with the exception of hockey and the game from earlier tonight. Tommy gets the chance to ask Buck some burning questions, such as, “why they fuck are you spending time following around a hockey team like you’re some band roadie?”

Buck laughs, “aside from all the dick get, you mean?”

Tommy cringes at the phrasing, succeeding in making Buck laugh harder. It’s a nice sound.

“My dissertation has stalled and I’m bored.” The answer was straightforward, just like how the blond usually is. He’s never been one to beat around the bush in the two years since Tommy had first met him, trialing after Eddie at the first game celebration after the Latino man’s transfer from the Stars to the Kings. “Oh, and all the hot men willing to blow my back out.”

Tommy groans. That’s not an image he wanted to see in his head; even as it has him gripping his drink a little tighter.

“Seriously, Buckley?”

“Well…you asked. And also, it’s not all the men unfortunately.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask for further elaboration. Instead, Tommy asks Buck about his studies. Something he knew Buck was doing—it’s been mentioned a few times by the man himself as well as by Eddie, and sometimes even Ravi—but has never bothered to learn more about. And given it seems like Buck really isn’t leaving to go pickup tonight, there’s no better time to ask.

History, that’s what Buck is studying, at UCLA (Tommy let out an impressed whistle at that).

“—getting worse and worse, I’m telling you. I swear all I see in the libraries are sleeping students. Don’t they have homes and beds for that? Some of them even snore.” The groaning and exaggerated eye rolls has Tommy in stitches. It’s interesting to see a college student who actually is at school for studying and not for sports—he himself had gone to Boston College before being drafted by the LA Kings over a decade ago, but he coasted through classes just enough to keep playing hockey for the school. “And cafes are worse. Most of the ones with actually good coffee play awful music even my headphones can’t block out.”

“Your apartment doesn’t have a table or a desk for you to work on?”

“What it has is 3 very loud roommates.” Buck pouts, lips squished against the lip of his beer bottle.

It’s cute.

He turns away to take a sip of his third…maybe fourth…whiskey.

“You can come over to mine.” The words were out of his mouth before Tommy could stop it; didn’t even know he had to stop it. There wasn’t a single molecule in his body that knew he was going to suddenly offer up his own house to the other man…to study in?

When he turns to look at Buck, the blond looks as surprised as Tommy is; wide blue eyes stare at him incredulously.

“Um, huh?”

This would be the perfect time to take it back, pretend it was joke.

“I live alone and my house is quiet. Plenty of flat surfaces too.” And wow, doesn’t that sound completely wrong coming out of his mouth, to Buck, while they're both sitting at a bar. “For studying, I mean. Of course.”

“Of…course.” Buck says slowly, eyes still the size of dinner plates. His mouth opens and closes a few more times, but no other words follow.

“It’s just another option, Buck. No need to feel obligated to—”

“Yes!” Tommy’s mouth clicks shut hard enough that his teeth aches a little, but he also can’t help smiling at the blush that dusts across the other man’s cheeks. It’s cute, how eager but embarrassed he looks; not something he sees a lot in the younger man. Buck has always come off as a little too confident, full of himself, and not in possession of a single shameful bone in his body. This was different. Tommy kind of likes it. When Buck’s mouth opens to say more, Tommy leans back in his seat and waits. “I mean, uh, yes. T-thank you, that’s…if you really don’t mind?”

Yup. Definitely cute.

“Wouldn’t offer if I did.” Not that Tommy has figured out why he did offer it in the first place. He certainly didn’t intend to, and although he’s no stranger to the team coming over to his place for the occasional get together, he was still fairly well known for his privacy. The house was his place to be alone.

And now you get to be alone with Buck. Now isn’t that something…

Before Buck ever gets a chance to actually take Tommy up on his offer, Thanksgiving rolls around and the team (and their families) has gathered at Tommy’s house, as per tradition since he became captain, for the celebration. Mostly, it’s a lot of yelling and laughing accompanied by too much food—that they’ll all pay for later with extra sets of workout and skating—and some of the best people Tommy knows. Even the Canadian players, who always grumble about how it’s the wrong Thanksgiving, always show up to hang out and eat good food.

And Buck. Because of course Buck would be there. Eddie was there (with Christopher), the lucky two day break they have between games too short of a period for the man to fly to Texas and back again.

This is the second year Eddie and Buck have been in attendance, ever since the former had joined the team, and without fail, the blond always brings with them an entire bakery’s worth of desserts. There’s more pies spread across one of Tommy’s kitchen counters than most diners have in their displays, and each one looks to be perfectly made. Homemade at that, Buck had made sure to say when Dewey and Kopi had asked him which bakery he’d robbed last year.

Everyone, even Tommy, had been skeptical until they’d tasted it.

This year the whole team had requested—demanded—the pies be part of the celebration. At this point they might be the stars of the whole night.

“I still don’t believe you don’t put crack or some kind of black magic into those damn pies of yours.” Tommy tells him as he starts to put away the leftovers. There’s not a whole lot given he’d just played host to over a dozen hockey players with bottomless pits for stomachs and their families, but whatever is left would be enough for a few sandwiches come tomorrow.

And there’s still some pieces of pies left.

He’s got one finger inside the pan of the lemon meringue pie, scooping up a giant dollop of airy, sweet meringue and tart lemony curd, stealing another taste mid clean up. When he tries to go back for seconds, Tommy finds himself bumped out of the way by Buck (and his hips); the other man looks at him with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“I didn’t make these just for you to stick your fingers in them.”

“Who’s gonna know? Party’s over, Buck.” Tommy ducks in to reach for the pie again only for the younger man to snatch the pan away.

It’s just the two of them left, Buck having volunteered to stay to help Tommy clean up. His usual service will show up tomorrow to do the bulk of the cleaning, but it feels wrong to leave everything a giant mess for the cleaners, so he always opts to do some minimal stuff beforehand.

But it doesn’t mean he couldn’t be distracted away from the tasks at hand. Especially by delicious pie.

Advancing forward, Tommy feints to his left and then dives right, trying to bend around Buck’s not-so-little frame to reach his sweet and tangy target. It almost works, he’s so certain his finger tips have just skimmed the edge of the ceramic pie pan, when Buck turns and suddenly they’re face-to-face…standing just a hair too close.

Tommy swallows.

It’s hardly the first time he's stood close to the younger man. There have been plenty of times where they’ve hung out and parties together with the team (sometimes even just the two of them for short moments when at a bar or club during post-game celebrations), yet, somehow Tommy has never quite felt like this. Frozen and a little breathless; in a way that he knows wasn’t from the two seconds of exertion he’d expended trying to reach for the pie just moments ago. No, this was a kind of breathlessness that had his brain stuttering.

Oh, he’s kind of pretty, is the only thought in Tommy’s brain as he stares into pretty blue eyes framed by dark, luscious lashes.

Objectively, he’s known that Buck has always been attractive—pretty—or else he likely wouldn’t have been half as successful picking up as he is. But now though, Tommy feels the urge to reach out and mess him up, to run his hands through those curls and bite teeth marks into that pale skin and trace the dark lines of his tattoos with his tongue; Tommy wants to know if Buck will look just as pretty after he’s thoroughly debauched him as he does now, standing under the low lights of his kitchen.

And when Buck’s lips—oh-so-pink and plump—drop open on a small gasp, Tommy’s eyes dart downwards.

His body sways just a hair closer and then suddenly he’s halfway across the room, pulling open the fridge door and sticking the lemon meringue pie he’d managed to snatch back inside (alongside his own head). Every cell in his body feels overheated. It takes a few blinks and some shaking of his head for him to feel remotely back to normal. The cool air swirling around his head helps a little.

“Thanks for helping me clean up.” He says for the second time tonight, voice more steady than he feels.

When he finally turns back to grab more pies to put away, Buck is still standing exactly where he’d left him, backed up into the island counter, eyes wide and mouth agap.

Tommy chooses to ignore the desire to go over there and push his own body against the other man’s, to see how he’d fit between those miles long legs. Instead, he takes two more pies and stores them away. Lingering inside the open fridge doors a few extra seconds each time. After the fourth pie, he finally hears movement behind him.

“I wasn’t going to let you suffer alone.” Buck’s voice sounds a little shaky, but overall okay. The sound of running water and scrubbing follows. “Plus, pretty sure I’m the only sober one who’s not married or dating someone who can navigate a kitchen without something spontaneously bursting into flames.” No doubt they’re both recalling the one time Eddie and Chim had been standing next to the stove when somehow—they still won’t admit to anything—a kitchen towel caught on fire. They’d been chirped about that for two weeks straight.

“God. They really are disasters aren’t they?”

“They should come with warning labels, the lot of them. Where would the Kings be if not for the WAGs and meal delivery services?”

“In-n-Out.” They say at the same time.

There’s a pause and they finally turn to look at each other, before promptly bursting into laughter.

“Jinx!”

“Jin—no fair!” Buck pouts, and then laughs some more.

Whatever weird tension from earlier seemingly dissipated. If Tommy still feels some lingering tendrils in the air, they’re easy to ignore. He didn’t even feel weird offering up a spare bedroom for Buck to sleep in once he realized it was well into the next morning—3:00 am to be exact—by the time they’ve got everything more or less squared away.

Buck tried to protest, “I can grab an uber, really.” Because he’d carpooled with Eddie earlier tonight.

“And I have a house with more than enough room.”

“Well, geez. Just through that multi-million dollar hockey contract in my poor grad student face, why don’t you.” The words are followed by tinkling laughter, just Buck being Buck and joking around.

“Offer still stands, you know.” Tommy tells him, his tongue somehow uncontrollable when around the other man sometimes, especially late at night. “To make this your own little study hall.”

“Nothing little about your 6-bedroom mansion, Tommy.” Buck shakes his head, but he hasn’t walked towards his jacket and the door, rather he heads towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor. A small part of Tommy settles at the thought of the younger man not leaving. He shoves it down just as Buck’s voice drifts down from where he’s already halfway up the steps, “if I don’t know better, I’d think you were trying to keep me for yourself.”

It’s obviously another joke.

But Tommy can’t help but think back to that moment earlier, when he’d all but had Buck trapped against the counter, chests nearly touching and lips only a few centimeters away as they breathed in each other’s air. And the way his eyes have a tendency to always find Buck in a room, no matter how crowded or poorly lit.

“Maybe I am.” It falls from his lips before he can help it. The only consolation for Tommy was that it was spoken low enough that only him and his empty kitchen had heard. “What the fuck.”

It was more of a statement than a question.

Though Tommy is definitely filled to the brim with questions even he can’t figure out right now.

He heads to his own bed minutes later, and it doesn’t escape his attention that Buck chose the room closest to his bedroom, door ajar just enough that when Tommy walked past, he could see the younger man pulling off his shirt, back muscles rippling; he walks away before Buck started to remove his pants.

Sleep. That’s what he needs. Yup.

The next morning, he drops Buck off at his apartment before heading to his favorite local rink where he’s learned to skate as a kid—an old place that’s got wonky ice but filled with nostalgia—to get some ice time. They’ve got another roadie coming up, and Buck was still working alongside Darren while Dana is going to be out for a bit longer.

By the time he gets home hours later, Tommy feels better. The kind of better that always comes with spending a few hours on the ice without any other obligations that comes with being a professional athlete.

“What? Not gonna go out and play puck bunny—or whatever they call male rabbits—tonight? Or are the cats not up to your standards?”

This time, Tommy is the one that approaches Buck first.

The Kings are off on another road trip to the east coast after a two game homestand that set them on another little winning streak, continued here in Sunrise.

They’ve just pulled off a win in overtime against Florida—the game had gone into overtime and their game winning goal was more fluke than actual skill, but Tommy wasn’t going to look that gifted horse in the mouth—and the team decided even a less than spectacular win deserved to be celebrated. And Ft. Lauderdale had some nice clubs that were more than accommodating to a group of nearly twenty hockey players. Tommy has made sure they avoided the Elbo Room, the Panther’s usual spot, yet somehow there were still a few cats hanging about.

But he’s hardly seen Buck approach any of them aside from a few exchanged words with Matthew Tkachuk earlier. And instead of his usual disappearing act, the two had parted with a few pats and smiles. Which is how Tommy found the younger man propped up against a table, nursing yet another Bud Light.

“Bucks.”

“Hmm?”

“Male bunnies are called Bucks. And come on, puck buck just doesn’t quite have that same ring to it.” Buck continues before Tommy can even think to get a word in edgewise. “Also, I’m not into fucking rats who are pining after hot German bratwursts.”

And wow, isn’t that just a lot more information to take in than Tommy had bargained for. Because…what? What German bratwurst? Someone on the Panthers wants to eat a sausage? Hardly the worst deal breaker for a hook up, but what does Tommy know. Or is that meant to be some sort of euphemism? But also…that bit about male bunnies…

“Wait. So, Buck is literally a puck Buck?” He finally settles on.

This gets him a giant eye roll.

“I was called Buck way before I became a puck bunny, thank you very much. My name is all my own; come by it honestly.”

“Is that why you prefer to call yourself a puck bunny instead?” Tommy’s curiosity sometimes gets the better of him. He leans in a little closer and tells himself that it’s because the atmosphere around them is loud and he wants to hear the answer better. No other reason.

Which is why he hears clear as day, “Evan,” as it falls out of Buck’s mouth.

What?

“What?”

“It’s my name.”

“Right. I know it’s your name.” Tommy was likely being deliberately obtuse, but he can’t deny he feels a bit caught off guard by the suddenness of whatever is happening right now.

“You, uh, can call me Evan. If you want to…?” He leaves it hanging there and Tommy doesn’t really know what to say either.

It’s not the first time the offer has been extended for him to call the blond by his given name. Usually, it’s spoken in jest, nothing serious, because no one, not even Eddie who’s known Buck for over a decade or even Maddie, Buck’s sister, called him Evan on the regular. He’s always been Buck, to everyone; going as far as to correct people who tried to call him Evan before they can even get the whole (one syllable) name out. Yet, here he was, offering—seriously—for Tommy to call him by his real name.

Turning to face Buck—Evan…it’s a nice name that Tommy thinks will roll off his tongue nicely, and easily—more fully, he takes in the hopeful shine in the other man’s eyes.

For a moment, Tommy finds himself swaying closer, body listing slightly towards the blond.

“Bu—”

“Hey, um, wanna go for a walk?”

That catches him off guard a little and Tommy blinks, leaning back to put a few extra inches of distance between them.

“A…walk.”

Whatever tension that had crackled between them was maybe all in Tommy’s head, because Buck—or is it Evan now?—is smiling at him, soft and genuine as he indicates towards the outside with his head. “Yeah, the beach is right there and it feels nice out.” He’s already moving and Tommy finds himself following before he’s even registered his own feet moving. “Bet the air is better than in here, too.”

“…yeah, alright.”

It is nice outside, the salty sea air much nicer than the stale beer and smoky scent inside the bar. The breeze fluttering their shirts and hair is a nice reprieve from the stuffiness of the indoors, and even the unfamiliar humidity of a Floridian evening doesn’t bother Tommy as much. Nothing beats the dryer Californian air though. And when he says as much, Buck—Evan—laughed.

“It’s worse here than Texas. And Texas was bad.” He runs a hand through his curls, making them wilder than they already were, falling out of the gel he’d put in it hours ago. “But this time of night is always nicer.”

“So,” they’re still walking, side by side, hands brushing every so often and Tommy’s entire left side starts to tingle. “Why do you hang out with a bunch of stupid hockey players all the time?” It’s a question that he’s had since the first month or so of the younger man’s constant presence in and around the team. This is the first time he’s ever asked it out loud and directly at the man in question.

“What? This your way of telling me you don’t want me around?” It’s a joke, but Tommy can hear the layer of genuine worry cloaked beneath the attempt at humor.

“Evan.”

It’s the first time Tommy has ever called the man by that name and it rolls off his tongue just as easily as he thought it would. Not only that, it tastes good in his mouth when he says it. So he does it again.

“Evan,” he boldly takes Evan—because that’s who he is now, because Tommy likes the way the name sounds as it rounds out in his mouth—by one hand and brings both of them to a stop. Behind them, the oceans are like white noise, waves crashing against the sandy beach, inching closer to where they’re standing. “I’m not sure it’s actually possible to get rid of you. But, no, I was just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Well, first of all, hockey players aren’t stupid—”

His expression shifts a little and his nose wrinkles.

“—most hockey players aren’t stupid,” he amends. “But to be honest, I joined the first few times because Eddie invited me and I was…lonely. New city and all that, and a new school where I barely knew anyone. Actually, Eddie was, uh, the only person I knew in the city of LA aside from Chris. So when he asked me to come party with you guys…well…”

“You thought, why not?”

“Haha, yeah. That and hot guys. Hot hockey players.” Evan shrugs and Tommy laughs.

“Yeah, black eyes and lack of teeth really are so attractive.”

“I mean, Dewey’s not really my type, but…there’s a few eye candies here or there.”

Tommy had forgotten they were still just standing in the middle of the beach, just the two of them, until Evan took a step closer. Their hands are still connected, and even though there’s a part of Tommy that is telling him to let go, he doesn’t.

For a few seconds, they just stand there, looking at each other.

Evan’s eyes darted down towards Tommy’s mouth.

“So, no pining rats and teeth are a must.” Tommy breaks the moment and they resume their walking again. He does end up dropping Evan’s hand, but doesn’t move away so their hands swing towards each other with every step.

“The least a guy could ask for.”

They do nearly a whole loop before someone—Chim—drunk texts him and they’re headed back to make sure no one has died of alcohol poisoning in some Ft. Lauderdale bar. He’d hate to have to explain that to management.

And somehow, hanging out after games together, just the two of them, continue for the rest of the roadie. Win or lose, Tommy always ends up next to Evan for the rest of the evening. Sometimes it’s just in the corner or whatever bar or club the team decided to celebrate (or commiserate) in, and sometimes it’s back in Tommy’s hotel room.

Their next series of games takes them to Tampa, and from there, Buffalo and Boston.

In Tampa, Tommy gets boarded in the second period hard enough that his head knocks against the glass. Going through concussion protocol was routine, if a bit annoying, but luckily, he’s fine, no concussion, just a bit bruised from here his shoulder and hips were jammed against the boards. And even though he wasn’t allowed back on the ice for the rest of the game, the doc at least lets him sit on the bench to watch his team eke out a win against the Bolts.

Unfortunately, lack of an actual brain injury means he still gets caught up in the post-game media scrum, though for much less time than he’d usually get. They’re all more interested in Ravi and his game winning goal, unassisted.

“You look like you need a drink.”

Tommy looks up from peeling off his sock tape to find Evan standing barely a foot in front of him, blocking his view of the gaggle of reporters congregating on the other side of the room (and vice versa they him).

“Hen would kill you if she knew you offered me alcohol when I’m concussed.” He squints up at him with mock-reproach.

Evan scoffs, “Hen says you’re fine. Skull’s too thick. And I didn’t offer you alcohol, I was merely making an observation.”

Tommy laughs, taking off his skates as he starts to work on his pants. The other man has taken a couple of steps back to give him more room to maneuver around, but sticks close enough that neither of them have to speak up even over the usual post-game loudness around them. He pushes his pads down until he’s only clad in skin-tight underarmor, and doesn’t even look up before he starts to remove that as well. Growing up playing hockey means Tommy has had the modesty all but trained out of him, so even if he feels eyes on him—Evan’s, he knows—it doesn’t stop him from continuing until he’s only got a towel wrapped around his waist, his tights and jock laying in a pile in his stall; it’s Evan’s job to collect it all for the equipment crew to clean anyway.

“No concussion, possibly.” He clarifies, for reasons beyond him. Tommy feels fine, and says as much, yet a part of him still wants Evan to know that there’s maybe the teeny tiniest possibly he may not be. To what end, he’s not sure himself.

“Well, I’m no doctor…” Evan smiles, “but I’m told I make for a great nurse.”

Oh, are they flirting? It’s not the first time (if you were to ask some of the other guys on the team, or so Tommy has been told) but it feels different now; after Thanksgiving and after the beach stroll. Even so, Tommy still ends up inviting Evan back to his room later, just to hang out.

“Maybe concussion watch,” as Evan put it, before he moves away to let Tommy make his way to the showers.

They end up spending the night watching old 90s rom-coms, because apparently Evan has never seen any of them and Tommy thinks that’s a tragedy that must be fixed.

This continues in Buffalo, in Evan’s room.

And in Boston, Ravi’s shoulder is dislocated after a run-in, legal but unfortunate, with McAvoy and the Kings came away from the game with a 5-4 OT loss.

Tommy ends up in the corner of a local hole-in-the-wall babysitting the rookies, plus a small handful of vet members, as they drink their sorrows away. The game, injury aside, wasn’t terrible. In fact, Tommy scored a Gordon Howe hat trick during the course of the night, and helped to even out the score in the third period. But a snipe by Pasta in the last five minutes of overtime and it was game over. Evan ends up in the corner with him, leaning against his side, shoulder to shoulder as he chatted Tommy’s ear off about everything under the sun that wasn’t hockey.

It isn’t until he turns to look at the younger man, when Evan’s head lilts to one side and comes into contact with Tommy’s shoulder that he realizes something.

They’re four games into a five game roadie and not once has he seen Evan go off with someone—a player on either team—at all.

So Tommy brings it up as casually as he can manage, which probably wasn’t all that casual, and if Evan realizes, he doesn’t say anything about it.

What he does get is a nonchalant shrug from the younger man and an errant wave of a hand.

“Chucky? Not worth it. Cool guy, but I don’t fuck around with guys who are clearly pining after other people.” Tommy wants to ask, because he’s a hockey player and hockey players have always been as gossip mongering as a bunch of teenagers. Maybe worse. But instead he nudges Evan and asks about Buffalo, and even tonight, here in Boston.

Evan doesn’t quite meet his eyes when he answers this time, “been there, done that,” and “only fun ones out are the rookies and I don’t do rookies.”

So Tommy laughs.

He’ll accept those answers. But that doesn’t mean he’ll leave the conversation topic alone. His team had just lost a game, breaking their mini winning streak, so he’s gonna get his fun wherever he can find it. (He does make sure to sneak a glance up and around to make sure no one on his team has died or killed anyone—they seem fine.)

Bringing his own beer to his mouth for a sip, he looks off towards the bar where a group of women—drunken and clearly part of some bachelorette party—and says, “what if I wanted to pick up, hmm?”

“Are you? Picking up?”

Evan leans away from him now and Tommy can’t help miss the warmth, shivering a little at the sudden loss of the other man’s body against his. If he was a few more drinks in, he might have reached out and pulled Evan back into his side. But he’s not, so he stays in place.

He does give the other man a look, one brow quirked.

There’s a beat of consideration before Buck says anything.

“Well…you can always pick me up?”

Blue eyes twinkling, blond lashes fluttering, Evan sidles close again, leans in further until their noses are nearly touching and they’re breathing the same air. They’re so close all Tommy has to do is lift his chin an inch and their lips would collide.

He should pull back. Maybe even make an excuse to leave and go back to the hotel, but he doesn’t dare move.

Until he does.

“Real funny,” he finally says, voice strained.

He stays in place, centimeters away from the blond and makes no moves to bridge the gap between them even though he wants to. Instead, he gets front row seats to the way Evan’s face changes, lower lip protruding, enticing Tommy to want to sink his teeth into the shiny, pink flesh.

When the waitress walks by, he stops her, eyes still fixed on the man beside him.

“Another Bud Light, please.”

He nudges it towards Evan and is rewarded with a bright grin in return.

The tension is still there, but less suffocating. Like a warm, weighted blanket settling over the both of them. Neither of them part ways to do their own thing, choosing to stay in their little corner of the bar until most of the other guys have gone back to the hotel.

Days later in Ottawa, Tommy watches as Evan talks to Brady Tkachuk down in the bowels of the CTC after a 5-2 win. The conversation only lasts a few minutes before Evan spots him. He gets to watch that face light up and then the blond is turning to say something else to Brady before making his way towards Tommy. They end the night in Tommy’s hotel room with room service steak—perfectly medium rare for Tommy and a medium for Evan which he makes fun of the younger man for, only to be called a steak snob—and a giant plate of fries that will have Tommy running an extra hour in the treadmills tomorrow.

And then it (their hangouts) becomes a bit of a thing outside of roadies. Even back in LA, the two of them hang out without the rest of the team. No Eddie or Ravi or Chim, or any of the other boys, just Tommy and Buck.

At Tommy’s house. Because Evan has finally started taking him up on his offer of using his much-too-big-for-one-person house as a place to study. The only complaint he had was the lack of human food to be found inside the place—which, given him a break, Tommy had only just returned from two weeks on the road. Even though this is his house, he’s gone for pretty much half the season, and only actually at home for just a few days at a time. Like a lot of hockey players, he has a good delivery service that drops off pre-made meals tailored to fit his strict diet; cooking has never been at the top of his priority list.

“No one should live like Eddie does.” He’d scoffed.

Evan gave him the judgiest of side eyes the first time he found out, and immediately placed an order on InstaCart. Tommy had fresh groceries on his front step within the hour.

Since then, the younger man would just show up at Tommy’s whenever he was certain there would be someone home. Perks of knowing what the Kings’ schedule was like via helping out the front office whenever he can. He’d even taken over portions of the house as his own, piles of books and notes and other study materials spread out across multiple surfaces.

The first time Evan had begged off hanging out at Tommy’s house due to a looming paper deadline, he immediately told the blond to get his ass over here, and bring whatever school stuff he needed. His house had to be a better study environment than whatever corner of the musty library or shoebox apartment Buck usually holed up in.

Clearly, he was right as it continues to happen.

And Tommy happily let it happen. The sight of Evan biting his lips as he read over a particularly difficult passage or the way he’d chew on the ends of whatever pen or pencil in his hand—sometimes even other objects with reach—keeps igniting a warmth inside of him that he’d like to attribute to some sort of impending illness even as he knows it’s not that. But it might be just as bad.

Maybe.

It should be. With how messy it could get.

Buck may not be a player on his team or even a permanent member of the Kings’ staff, but anything actually developing between them could still mess with team dynamics.

Of course, messiness was inevitable, and it all comes to a head during their next series of home games.

They pull out a win at home against the Ducks, not that it was a hard won victory, but a W was still a W no matter what, especially when it was 6 - 1 lead. The room was filled with loud music blasting from Doughty’s speaker, some inane beat that really pumps up everyone even more than they already were. Each voice that speaks up sounds louder than the one before.

Someone—Howie—reaches over across two stalls to knock him on the shoulder.

“You gonna come out with us tonight?” He asks even as his eyebrows do a weird little dance that’s obviously meant to be suggestive of something.

Whatever it is, Tommy doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of even bothering to figure out. Feeling just high on their win as everyone else, he wants to ride that wave for a bit longer. So Howie can keep his opinions to himself. And he tells the man as much.

“I’ve already got plans.” It’s not a lie.

Tommy can already see Evan sprawled out across his sofa, books abandoned on the coffee table as he grins up at whatever SportsNet highlight reel of the game is playing, just as happy about their win as any of the guys who had actually played. Just the thought has him itching to go home and celebrate with the homemade food he knows Evan has made for him—nutritionist approved and all. Maybe he is getting old, craving being at home with someone waiting for him instead of wanting to spend time painting the town red with his boys. But the idea of Buck is too…enticing.

“I’ll bet you do, old man.” Another slap on the shoulder from Howie has Tommy facewashing the man until he’s back in his own stall.

“We’re the same fucking age, Han.”

There’s more jeering from the rest of the guys when Tommy tells them all he’s gonna head home instead out with everyone. He takes the catcalls and whistles in stride, rolling his eyes as he separates from the group to head for his own car. Their words roll off the back of his mind easily as he navigates through the LA traffic to get home, thankfully late enough after the game’s end that there’s only half as many cars on the road as usual.

But when he steps into his house, barely through the front door when he’s assaulted by the delicious smell of freshly made food, those words start to trickle back in his brain. And when he steps further inside, far enough to see Evan spread out on his sofa—exactly as he had pictured it back in the locker room—Tommy suddenly finds himself hungry for something other than food. There’s no doubt whatever concoction Buck has made would taste amazing, but the only thing Tommy wanted to get his mouth on right now was that patch of skin peeking over the stretched out color of Evan’s shirt—which was actually Tommy’s, because right there on the top left of his chest sits the number 20 in bright white.

Fuck, wasn’t that a sight.

It’s not the first time Tommy has seen the younger man in King’s merch, but there’s a difference between regular stuff that anyone can get online or in the arena shops and the stuff that has Tommy’s number on it, stuff that Tommy has worn before, and stuff that only players and staff get.

Seeing that wrapped around Evan, just a hair looser on the blond than the shirt sits on himself, has Tommy’s heart beating a mile a minute. He wants to tear that shirt off of the other man, to watch as it hangs in tatters around that fit body. He wants to watch as Evan’s chest flushes red with desire as Tommy fucks into that gorgeous body, those long legs of his wrapped tight around Tommy’s waist.

He…wants.

“Is that my shirt?” The words fall out of his mouth unbidden.

If Evan notices the strain in his voice, the younger man makes no indications of it. He does, however, perk up, body twisting in the couch to face where Tommy stood at the entrance of the living room.

“Oh yeah, hope you don’t mind. I spilled some juice on mine.” He explains, but all of Tommy’s focus has zeroed in on Evan’s chest, on the perky nipples that budded out from the shirt.

Tommy’s mouth salivates; he wants to bite, to sink his teeth into those little pebbles and find out just what kind of noises Evan would make. His fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and play with them, to pinch them and drag one blunt nail across them so that he can watch as they bloom red beneath his touch.

He wants…

“Uh…earth to Tommy?”

In the seconds Tommy’s imagination has gone wild, Evan has somehow made his way over to stand directly before him, too close and yet not close enough.

He snaps his fingers before Tommy’s face and that breaks the spell. Just not in the way it was probably meant to.

Quick as lightning, his hand darts out and wraps around Evan’s wrist—they feel daintier than he would have thought—and squeezes. Pink lips drop open on a gasp and Tommy drags him in with one pull of his arm. And then their lips were touching; Tommy used his other hand to cup Evan’s chin as he licked his way inside the younger man’s mouth.

It’s not that Tommy has ever actually spent a lot of time imagining it, but he’d always thought when he got his hands—his lips—on Evan that their first kiss would be softer, less frantic, but still just as filled with passion. He should have known better. Nothing was ever expected when it came to the younger man. So of course the first time they kiss it’s all tongue and teeth, wet and messy. But perfect. Like pieces of a puzzle finally sliding into place.

Tommy bites down on Evan’s lower lips and the moan he gets in response has him diving in for another kiss. He licks in deeper, mapping out the wet cavern of the other man’s mouth as one hand slides down Evan’s spine to land on the curve of his ass.

It’s even easier to give into temptation now that he’s already buried deep in it. The muscle beneath his palm is soft yet sturdy, and Tommy kneads it possessively, relishing in the whine Evan makes that he easily swallows up in yet another kiss. His lips trace out a path down the blond’s neck, blunt teeth scraping against taut skin as he goes.

They make it upstairs to the bedroom somehow, pausing every other step to push one another against the nearest vertical surface, lips attached to various body parts.

Once there, Tommy makes quick work of both their clothes, pausing just long enough to admire the muscles Evan always has hidden under various t-shirts and hoodies. And those legs, lean and long, and would look even better wrapped around his waist. Evan, in turn, is admiring Tommy’s hockey sculpted body, lingering on his powerful quads, a result of decades of working on ice skates.

When his eyes land on Tommy’s cock, protruding proudly outwards, hard as a rock with a pearl of precum beading at the bulbous head.

“Fuck.”

“Back at ya.” Because Evan’s cock is also a sight to behold. Flushed a dark pink and curved towards his stomach, it twitches lightly under Tommy’s gaze. He’s so wet, precum practically streaming down the length of his erection, pooling over his balls to smear across his thighs.

He wants to drop to his knees and take Evan into his mouth, to have the taste of him burst across his tongue. He wants to put the other man on his stomach and spread him open, so that he can devour his most intimate spot. He wants to impale the blond on his cock, to feel those inner muscles clench around him and feel the flames of desire lick across his own skin.

He wants.

From there Tommy simply steps forward and with a small push, tips Evan on to the bed. He follows easily, covering the younger man with his own body and letting Evan’s sweet moans serenade his ears as their erections brush together. Groaning, he grinds down into the vee of Evan’s legs before stretching up and over to dig around for supplies.

It only takes a few seconds—but feels like an eternity as Evan drags him even closer by winding those damned legs around him, dotting kisses across his throat—to grab a handful of condoms and the lube.

“Gotta get you ready, baby.” He whispers against Evan’s temple (right over the winestain of his birthmark), fingers already coated in the slippery substance and reaching down to spread the other man’s ass cheeks, seeking that furled entrance.

A punched out moan dissipates into the air as he pushes in one singular digit. Evan is tight and he breathes out a low groan as he works his finger down to the last knuckle, the other man’s body practically sucking him in. There is a part of him that wants to savor the feeling, wants to take his time stretching Evan open, to play with him for hours until he’s a mess of cum and tears, but right now, he’s too desperate to be inside of him. Next time, he tells himself.

“Next time, I’m going to take you apart slowly. Take my time with you until you’re begging to cum and then I’m going to make you come on only my tongue and my fingers.” He tells Evan, whose only response is a long drawn out keening wail as he struggles to push back onto Tommy’s hand as he pushes a second finger inside. “Would you like that, sweetheart?”

“Pleeeease.” The words are pants into his mouth, barely coherent, and they’ve only just gotten started. “Fuck me. W-wanna feel you inside.”

Tommy pushes in a third finger, a fourth, and it’s maybe a little too soon—Evan not prepped enough for the girth of Tommy’s cock—but neither of them care in the moment. He fumbles with the condom, sliding it on with a bitten off moan and then Tommy is lining up against Evan’s entrance.

For just a teasing moment, he grips the base of his cock and runs it down the length of Evan’s taint, the both of them groaning as the thick head of his cock pulls at the younger man’s rim.

“Fuck, T-Tommy—”

When Tommy finally pushes into Evan, feels his body give way under him, the sensation is almost too much, yet not enough. It is a heady feeling and sets his body on fire.

Evan digs his fingers into soft cotton sheets for purchase. Head tossed backwards, he’s barely able to hold back the whine building in the back of his throat. Sweat has their bodies slip-sliding against each, and Evan’s cock, caught between their bodies, twitches at the friction. The younger man’s legs are bent in half as Tommy rolls his hips forward; Evan arches, impaling himself further into Tommy’s cock as he finally lets the whine escape.

Taking it as the encouragement that it is, Tommy licks a wet stripe along the other man’s exposed throat, nosing at his jaw before returning his attention to that enticing clavicle—it’s barely been half an hour since they started and he’s already certain this is his favorite spot on Evan’s body, the perfect canvas for his marks.

When Tommy slowly kisses his way up Evan’s throat, all the blond has to do is tilt his head slightly for their mouths to brush the next time Tommy fucks into him.

Pleasure crackles up his spine, and he brings a hand to keep Evan’s mouth close to his; he tugs sharply the younger man’s curls on the next delicious thrust. His cock mush brush up against Evan’s prostate because the body under his seizes for a quick second, shaking as a loud moan rips out of the man’s mouth. The sound reverberates into Tommy’s mouth, down his spine, and straight to his cock.

“Soooo good,” Evan gasps out and Tommy has to agree with the sentiment, because it’s true and because the younger man truly responds so well to any and all of his ministrations.

It’s not surprising that Evan is a great fuck—even less surprising is how eager he is to please. This may be the first time Tommy has taken Evan to his bed, the first time he’s fucked the blond, but he’s heard the rumors.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Look so pretty on my cock,” he whispers into Evan’s ear and is immediately rewarded with the sweetest little whine and a tightening of muscles around his length. Tommy picks up his pace, sets one hand on the back of Evan’s thigh and pushes his leg up higher; the muscles in his own thighs protest at a new position as his hips keep moving, but it all fades when Tommy rocks forward again, the new angle even better than before.

“T-To—more. Please.”

“Yeah?” Tommy huffs out. He looks down and takes in Evan’s red cheeks—both from the heat radiating off their bodies and from the pleasure of their connection; dark blond curls matted around his face except where they’ve stuck up at various spots from Tommy’s hands.

He thrusts forward again, pausing to grind in deep, balls pushed up against Evan’s plump ass.

“Fucking perfect,” Evan says.

You’re perfect, the thought comes unbidden to Tommy, in the moment, here and gone with the next push into the responsive body beneath him. The head of his cock grazes across that little bundle of nerves inside Evan once more and he clutches Evan closer as he continues to fuck in and out of the other man.

Tommy fucks him deep and hard, hips relentless.

Blue eyes glassy and unfocused, Tommy chuckles at the sight.

But even most of his way to being fucked stupid, Evan doesn’t simply lie back and takes it. Hands roam across the expanse of Tommy’s body, touching, caressing, scratching. The younger man leaves his own marks behind for every bite and bruise Tommy sucks into his tattooed flesh. And there are many.

A particularly hard drag of nails down his back has Tommy surging forward, his mouth meeting Evan’s in a messy and uncoordinated kiss that's all teeth and tongue. He has no doubt the scratch has already left deep red marks welling up down the length of his back, right over his spine.

Every movement of Tommy inside Evan is not aimed at edging the younger man closer and closer to climax, dangling him upon the precipice.

“Oh fuck, fuck—just like that, just like that—fuck,” Evan chants as the next sharp thrust pushes them up the bed, the headboard banging into the wall with a dull thud.

Tommy reaches down between them and wraps a hand around Evan’s cock, grip firm and tight as he fucks into him again.

Evan bites his lip and Tommy immediately leans down to rectify that, using his own teeth to drag that lip out and into his own mouth. He shucks at the kiss swollen flesh as he pushes further into the pliant body below him.

A few more strokes of Tommy’s hand later, Evan is shaking apart in his arms, pushed into a powerful orgasm, entire body trembling even as Tommy continues fucking into him. His own rhythm is faltering as he chases his own climax, breath hot against Evan’s neck. The other man’s moans increase in volume, punched out and half-broken sounding from over sensitivity as Tommy drags his unshaven stubble against his cheek and his neck.

It’s not long before Tommy comes with a low groan and a continuous roll of his hips that sends aftershocks of pleasure zinging through both their wrung out bodies.

“Mmm, fuck, I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

Tommy can only laugh in response.

Curling a hand around the back of Tommy’s head, Evan pulls him down and licks into his mouth, swallowing his gasps and pants as they come down from their high. Everything still feels hypersensitive, yet softer at the same time. Less frantic now that they’ve both leapt over that crest.

Minutes, maybe more, later, Tommy gently disentangles them, pulling off and tying up the condom before tossing it somewhere in the direction of his en suite. But he doesn’t go far, settling half on top of the blond, enjoying the heat of their bodies despite how sticky and messy they both are right now. He nuzzles his face into Evan’s neck, hands still moving, mindlessly petting him all over. And it would be so easy for Tommy to start up something again even though they’d only just finished.

He doesn’t. Not right away at least.

Tommy isn’t 23 anymore. It’ll take him a little bit of time to recover for the next round, but he already knows there will be. And maybe more in the future. Because now that he’s finally had a taste of Evan, he’s not quite ready to give it all up just yet.

Plus, they have fun hanging out. And now that apparently sex is very much on the table, it’s all the more fun.

When their breathing finally slows to an even rhythm, Tommy lets himself be rolled over until Evan is laying on top of him. Lazy, aimless kisses are exchanged between them. Slowly and unhurried.

Some time later, Tommy feels a renewed stirring in his cock and knows Evan is feeling the same.

He skates his hand down the other man’s spine, fingers ghosting over each knob as he inches closer to his destination. Evan wiggles, body shifting, their reawakening erections bumping together and causing them both to release breathy moans, lost into the air between their lips. A tiny arch of the blond’s spine sends Tommy’s hand sliding lower until he’s got two handfuls of ass in his palms, squeezing and kneading, pulling the cheeks apart to almost dip into the valley between.

Evan squirms on top of him some more, deliberately trying to get Tommy’s fingers where he clearly wants it the most. Back inside his greedy little hole.

“Aren’t you eager.” Tommy’s fingers easily find his still wet rim, and he can only imagine how obscene a sight it must be, his thick fingers dipping in and out of Evan’s lube-shiny hole. He feels Evan shudder in his arms, likely still a little too sensitive, but he pushes back, taking more of Tommy’s finger with a small moan.

“I seem to remember a promise of some sort from earlier.” Evan grinds forward before pushing back for more.

Hooking his fingers slightly, Tommy makes sure to slide his fingers directly over the other man’s prostate, drawing a loud moan from the blond. Laughing, he leans forward to nip at Evan’s exposed collarbone, dipping lower to ghost his lips over one nipple than the other.

“If you still remember that, I’ve clearly not done a good enough job earlier.”

“Best get to it then, Kinard.”

Tommy rolls them over and slides down the length of Evan’s body, tracing over various tattoos with his tongue as he goes, fingers never once stopping their in and out pumping motion.

They fall into a pattern of sorts after that first night.

Evan doesn’t always stay in his bed after they have sex, but more often than not, the younger man can be found there, naked and spread out against Tommy’s sheets, body glistening with sweat and other fluids. Especially after the team has winning games, Evan almost always manages to find his way to Tommy, running a hand up his arms, or a finger up the inseam of his pants, or even sliding too close, mouth hot against his ear as he whispers filth into them until all Tommy can do is drag him into the nearest empty room, backseat of his car, or straight back to the house.

The Kings keep winning, and Tommy keeps fucking Evan.

With the younger man’s even more frequent presence in his life, it’s so easy to just grab him around the waist or wrap a hand around his arm to pull the blond into the nearest hidden corner (or closet) so Tommy can easily commence his new favorite celebratory method. Sometimes, when it’s the Kings down by a few points, his new favorite consolation prize: Buck’s lips.

Not once does Evan put up a protest, not even a token one. He always flashes Tommy a coy grin, blue eyes shining, as he allows himself to be pushed-slash-shoved and devoured. And that’s really the best way to describe what they get up to.

He’s made himself completely at home in Tommy’s space and Tommy did not mind it a single bit.

There was something extra desirous about walking into his own house after a long practice to find a gorgeous man bent over his stove, cooking something that smells almost as delicious as Evan looked, standing there wearing nothing but loose shorts and one of Tommy’s old BU shirts. And if whatever food in the stove goes cold by the time they finally get to eat it because Tommy just had to haul Evan upstairs so that he could thoroughly take the man apart, neither of them minded.

Evan always made sure to make meals that were easily reheatable.

And Tommy doesn’t mind eating cold food if it meant getting to play with Evan whenever he wanted.

The first time someone—Ravi, because the kid is too observant sometimes—makes a comment about how close the two of them seem lately, neither Tommy nor Evan dignified the gossip hounds with an answer. Not that there is a need for one when they’ve arrived and left practice together more often than apart.

Outside of that, if Evan wasn’t at work, still standing in for Dana, then he was at Tommy’s books sprawled across various flat surfaces just as often as he himself was laid out across different surfaces around the house.

Kitchen. The island he’d trapped Evan against Thanksgiving night turned out to be just the right height for Tommy to bend the younger man over on as he knelt behind him, eating him out until Evan’s legs trembled and tears streamed down his lovely face.

There was also the bathroom counter and the shower bench (marble luxurious against naked skin, heated from arousal and the warm spray of water cascading down upon them).

Also the couch.

And the floor. Particularly the soft rug laid out before the faux fireplace in the middle of the night, light from the fake flames dancing across tattooed skin.

Tommy has more than once pushed Evan up against the side of his car before and after practice, unable to—and not really even trying to—resist tasting those lips and watching as the other man’s blue eyes go hazy with desire. More than once, they’d almost been caught by the guys in the team, but even that was just another added thrill to their dynamic.

Suffice to say, they were not the most subtle people.

No matter what some fans would like to say about their abilities to see what’s right in front of them, the one thing hockey players don’t miss is gossip. Their captain spending more time with someone, particularly a known (and proud) puck bunny like Evan? That had everyone’s eyeballs honed in on their every move. And a lot of moves there were, because Evan and Tommy were suddenly attached at the hips.

“Need a crow bar to pry them apart.” Eddie had yelled across the room when Dewey had joked about it before practice one day.

He’d caught them getting out of Tommy’s car earlier. Made his own comments about that as the three of them walked into the practice complex together.

“Our captain has abandoned us!” Ever one for the dramatics, Howie had stumbled his way over to Tommy’s stall, throwing his whole body forward until he was all but collapsed in Tommy’s lap. “Forsaken our bonds, gentlemen! Whatever shall we do!?”

“Get ready for practice before coach comes in yelling.”

With one shove, Tommy pushed Howie off his legs, joining the other guys in laughing as the Asian man rolled to a stop in the center of the room, just in time for Nash to walk in.

The coach stares at Chim as Chim blinks back at him.

“I—nope, don’t tell me; don’t wanna know.” Bobby shakes his head. “You all get your asses into the ice.”

They finish changing into their gear in the next few minutes, trickling out of the room one by one. Evan (standing in again for Dana while the man had to leave again for a week or two) and Darren stand by the door doling out sticks to each player, already taped and ready for them to use. And if Tommy lingers until he’s the last one out the door, there’s only a few chirps from the guys by the time he steps out into the ice.

They stop hiding it completely a few weeks into it; hungry glances exchanged across the locker room, across the ice whenever Tommy scores a goal. He’d look over at the bench where Evan would be standing at the edges of, staring right back at him. And the night Tommy scores a hat trick, he’d rushed through the media scrum and a shower much to the jeers and chirps of his teammates. Because he was dragging Evan out behind him towards the players’ parking before half the other guys were even out of their pads.

Maybe he should have been considerate of the fact that the younger man was still on the job, but the only thing Tommy had on his mind was Evan. All the thoughts running through his brain culminated into one thing: spreading the blond out in his sheets and fucking into that tight heat. Better than scoring his third goal of the night.

And he does exactly that.

Only they barely make it inside his front door before Tommy is tearing at Evan’s clothes. Not that Evan is holding up much better. Hands pull at Tommy’s gameday suit, shoving the blazer off and yanking the shirt from the waistband of his pants. They trip and fall onto the entry way rug, and for the first time since his decorator suggested it, Tommy appreciates its addition to his home.

“Shit, Evan.” He hisses as his shirt is all but torn off him, buttons flying all over the place, and blunt nails drag down his back, no doubt leaving their marks all over him.

“Sh-should have just shoved me into the supply c-closet. Much more efficient—” That last word finishes on a keen as Tommy sinks his teeth into the juncture between shoulder and neck, biting, sucking, and licking until the only sounds out of Evan’s mouth are moans and whimpers.

“Gotta keep all your noises to myself, sweetheart.”

“Th-think they all know w-what we’re up to.” Evan pants, holding Tommy closer. He weaves one hand into Tommy's hair as he holds him in place, head tilted back to give his mouth more access.

“Good.”

He grinds down into the open vee of the other’s legs, feeling their hard cocks align. Tommy groans, needing to feel more, to get his hands on more naked flesh.

It’s easy to pull Evan’s shirt and pants off and then flip the younger man over until he’s on his knees with Tommy plastered against his back, hard length sliding up and down the cleft of the blond man’s ass. A moan punches out of him as the blunt head of his length drags across Evan’s hole and he watches as it pulls the wrinkled bud open, watching as it winks at him, a trail of glistening precum left in the wake of his cock.

A full body shiver runs through Evan and he pushes back, chasing after Tommy’s cock, eager and hungry.

“So greedy, baby.”

“Pleaseeee, T-Tommy…”

And really, how could Tommy deny that.

They’re no lube within reach so he takes the next best action.

Reaching under Evan, he wraps his hand around the other’s weeping cock. Tommy spares a thought for his rug—it’ll have to be tossed or professionally cleaned after this—as his fist slides over Evan’s erection, slippery from all the precum he’s leaking. His own hips push forward, grinding into the other’s plump ass, making a mess himself.

“Fuck, Evan, so wet for me.” He nips at the other man’s ears, feels the moan vibrate through the body underneath his before the sound even reaches his ear. Tommy needs more friction. He needs to feel Evan around him, engulfing his cock fully as he fucks into that gorgeous body. But he also doesn’t want to hurt the younger man.

Instead, he levers himself up, running a hand down the other man’s back when Evan whines at the loss of contact, soothing him. It’s only for a second, just enough time for Tommy to rearrange them so that he’s got his knees on either side of Evan’s, squeezing those long legs together until there’s barely enough room to slip a piece of tissue between them. He takes a second to admire the view, one broad hand kneading a butt cheek, revealing the other’s hole, pink and enticing.

He opens Evan up with a thumb, pulling at the edges of that furled entrance, smearing his own precum over and inside before pulling away and slapping the ass cheek he’d just been rubbing. It earns him a deliciously loud whine and Evan keening with his head tossed back.

Even from this angle, his eyes zone in on those fat lips; Tommy wants to feel them, to bite and lick and leave his mark.

“T-Tommy, Tommy, Tommy—”

One last lingering drag of his eyes down Evan’s body, he pushes forward, one hand gripping the back of the blond’s neck as he thrusts his cock between those lovely thighs, a vice grip nearly as tight as the real thing.

He groans, the hand at Evan’s nape slides upwards into burly curls and he easily yanks the other man backwards, back arching as he’s brought up to meet Tommy’s lips. His other hand continues to play with Evan’s drooling cock, thumb swiping over the bulbous head, causing more precum to fall to the (no doubt already forming) puddle beneath them.

“Feel so good, sweetheart.” The words of praise are whispered directly into Evan’s mouth, their shared kiss more a mess of wet breaths and dueling tongues.

“More. Wanna cum.”

And he can feel just how close Evan is, the younger man’s cock twitching in his palm as he pumps to the rhythm of his own thrusts between the man’s thighs. With every thrust of his own hips, the head of his cock rubs up against the underside of Evan’s balls, the friction heady. Tommy can feel himself cresting over that precipice, and his hips start to move faster as he chases his orgasm.

His hand moves up the cock held within it and his thumb digs into the weeping slit. The man under him shakes as ropes of cum shoot out, landing everywhere.

Evan grounds his ass back into him and Tommy is coming also, cock making a sticky, white mess of Evan’s legs.

Together, they fall forward, Tommy twisting at the last second so that Evan lands on top of him. The surface beneath him is disgusting—feels like it, wet and sticky rug fiber grating against his skin—but he can’t quite move yet. Wrapping his arms around Evan, he seeks out the other’s mouth, bringing their lips together for a soft kiss.

It’s softer than maybe it should be given their…situationship, but Tommy can’t help himself. Not when Evan so easily falls into the kiss, offering more. Who was Tommy to not take?

They lay there for god knows how long, until Tommy finally pushes them both up and herds Evan upstairs into the shower. And later, into his bed.

Three goals and sex in the entry way, and Tommy blinks awake the next morning to a steady weight in his chest and a tangle of dark blond curls obscuring his view. Outside his window with its half closed blinds, the sun is just peaking over the horizon. He could get up—maybe should get up—and go on his usual morning run, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he blinks before closing his eyes again. The arm he’s got wrapped around a solid back tightens as he pulls Evan closer, and in return a soft sigh meets his ears as the younger man snuggles deeper into his neck.

Evan doesn’t wake, though, and soon enough Tommy is once more pulled under the spell of slumber himself.

After that, Evan simply stays and just doesn’t leave.

One night a few days after their activity in Tommy’s entry way, Evan crawls back up the bed and doesn’t move. Fucked out and pliant, he simply turns himself over, flopping heavily into Tommy. He’s asleep within seconds, head pillowed on Tommy’s chest, their combined fluids air drying across both their bodies. It doesn’t matter though, and Tommy closes his eyes too, one hand threaded through Buck’s blond curls, thumb laid gently over the pink blotches of the other man’s birthmark.

It’s nice.

Tommy enjoys the weight of the younger man on him, like a heavy blanket radiating heat.

And lying there in the dark with Evan’s breathing little snores in his ear, Tommy starts to think about…more and what-ifs. Like what if this thing between them was something more serious?

It’s been a long while since Tommy has actually been in a relationship. Being a hockey player, and one in the big show, makes it hard to maintain a relationship with most people. A lot of them don’t understand, or even try to, the kind of schedules they have. Being away for a good portion of the year kind of kills even the most patient person. They certainly don’t understand how much a loss can affect their moods to the point that they can be the worst people to be around at times.

But Evan has been in this world, on the periphery and in the middle of it, and he at least gets it better than most.

The thought of seeing the blond decked out in one of those uniformed WAGs jackets that all the significant others don during playoffs season also scratches an itch inside Tommy he didn’t know he had. Because, god, what a glorious sight that would be. He has no doubt the black and white of the team’s colors would look splendid against Evan’s rosy complexion, more so if he was wearing nothing underneath, the dark lines of his tattoos made more mysterious peaking out from beneath the Kings logo branded attire.

Tommy has certainly seen enough of it at home—Evan has since taken to wearing Tommy’s stuff, from tees to hoodies—to attest to the absolute enticement it would be.

Only, they’re not dating, as far as he knows.

But we could be, the thought echoes in his head as he slowly drifts off to sleep. And Bye Week is coming up.

He brings it up the next morning, Evan humming happily to some pop song—Taylor Swift was the answer he got when he asked about it later—while he scrambled some eggs as Tommy fixes both of them coffee in his kitchen. There was no plan or even forethought to his words, he’d just pour (too much for his own taste) caramel oat milk creamer, that he only sticks in his fridge for Evan and Evan only, into one of the cups when his mouth opens on its own accord.

“You busy next week?”

“Hmm? I don’t…think so? Was planning on procrastinating some more on my diss. Why do you ask?” Evan barely even looks at him, but Tommy has already turned around to lean back against the counter to watch the other man wiggle to the beat or whatever song is playing in his own head. Cute. “It’s Bye Week, right? And All-Stars.”

Finally, he sees one blue eye peeking over a shoulder at him.

“Yup.”

“What’s up…?”

The stove is turned off and Evan’s full attention is on Tommy.

If the other man knew what the next words out of Tommy’s mouth was going to be, he gave no indications. Truthfully, not even Tommy knew just what he himself was thinking, but once they’re out, he found it was exactly what he had intended.

“Spend Bye Week with me.”

Evan snorts as he starts to dish out the eggs, “I’m well aware of what happens in Cabo during Bye Weeks, no thanks. And don’t you have to stick around for All-Stars?”

He waves Tommy off, and really, he doesn’t blame the younger man. It’s hardly a secret amongst the league that Bye Week vacations can get a bit wild, and Cabo trips always meant lots of booze, lots of sex, and more. Not that Tommy is even going there this year anyway, he’s obligated to attend All-Stars (while he could beg out of it, he doesn’t mind it too much—the media coverage is always crazy but getting to meet fans and catch up with friends from other teams is always fun).

But that’s not what Tommy was asking about and he says as much, “Yeah, but that’s only one weekend. I was thinking…a few days in a nice hotel? Up in San Francisco? Just get away from LA for a few days.”

Evan perks up at that and Tommy can’t help but move closer, crossing the short length of kitchen between them to pull the younger man into his arms. The suggestion of San Francisco had been a whim. He’s been there a few times, a few years back and remembered how nice the city was; he also remembered the architecture and also Alcatraz—he has some vague recollection of Evan talking about the prison with a lot of enthusiasm and excited hand waving. It’s not usually his thing, but it’ll be something Evan would no doubt like. And he was right in his assumptions when blue eyes lit up with interest, bright and lovely.

“Alcatraz?”

“Yeah, sure. If that’s what you want to see.”

“Well…” Tommy wraps both arms around the blond and hauls him forward until Evan is standing between his legs and he leans back against the counter. He waits for the younger man to work through the sudden bout of hesitation. “I can probably pay you ba—”

“I’m sorry? Who’s the millionaire hockey player here? I asked you to go away with me.”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?”

Laughing, Tommy tips in for a kiss.

Breakfast gets ignored until it’s too late for Tommy to actually eat anything more than a quick toast on the way out to morning skate. He doesn’t mind though, already floating on the joy of getting to spend a whole week with Evan, just the two of them and no teammates or best friends or practice and games to get in the way. It’ll only be them and the city of San Francisco for a few uninterrupted days.

If the guys all chirp him about it when they’re all sharing Bye Week plans, he just shrugs and threatens them with bag skates.

He also brings Evan to All-Stars with him, neither of them thinking it would be weird, after all, Evan has been to the events alongside Eddie before. Only this time, he mostly sticks to Tommy.

And really, their stay in San Francisco had been good. Tumbling around their huge hotel room overlooking the bay, making out until their skins pruned in their private pool with a perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge, and generally just doing nothing—except one must-do outing to Alcatraz—but each other. Tommy felt great as they stepped off the plane in Tampa.

But he should have known that things going too smoothly just meant that the universe was building up for something big.

The NHL All-Stars was not just a fan event, but an event for hockey players to mingle and catch up. It was a weekend of boozing and partying with people you don’t normally get to see for longer than the 60 minutes of ice time when they play opposite each other. It was also a gathering of a lot of people that not only knew Tommy, but knew Evan as well. Intimately, as Tommy recalls seeing Evan leaving with some of those faces, people he’s called friends over the years.

Never really one to be insecure about himself in any capacity, Tommy didn’t realize he’d be as uncomfortable with it all—Evan’s friendliness with every single person he’s ever hooked up with—until it was in his face. But it’s fine, really. Because even though they’ve not actually defined their relationship, Tommy knows that it’s something more than just casual. He does.

“Good on him for pulling his head out of his ass, I guess.”

Evan is a warm weight, and even warmer words, next to him, leaned back against into the booth they’ve settled themselves in, head tilted back to rest against the arm Tommy has thrown over the back.

He follows Evan’s eyes to find Matthew Tkachuk of all people sitting cozily next to Leon Draisaitl. Huh. That’s not a pair he expected to see together in the same room, much less in such close proximity, without any kind of bickering or loud chirping happening. He still remembers the 2020 All-Stars Game in St. Louis and the media circus of the while “get off the ice” comment.

“Are they…?” He doesn’t have to finish his question before Evan is already answering.

“Last time we hooked up, all he’d talk about was Drat this and Drat that. The pining was for real.” Evan sighed, shaking his head fondly. “Can’t help wondering if Draisaitl felt the same, but that man’s pants are buttoned up tighter than yours were.”

Just like that, the only thing Tommy could concentrate on was the sudden reminder that the man currently all but snuggled next to him has indeed slept with half—if not more—of the NHL. Now, Tommy included. And isn’t that a wake up call. Because as far as their little thing is concerned, they’ve never actually talked about what it is, and if they were even exclusive.

Tommy doesn’t think Buck even knows what that means. If he does, there’s never been any evidence of the fact.

“Wow. You really have hopped around the whole league, haven’t you.”

It’s unkind. Spoken in a manner that’s equivalent to a slap to the face, and judging by the expression on Evan’s face, it may as well have been. Tommy wants to apologize; the second the words left his mouth he wanted to take it all back, but he’s too late now. Evan is up and out of his arm—the corner booth they were seated in—immediately, stumbling a little on his feet as he stares at Tommy in shocked-hurt.

“Seriously?”

“I’m just calling it like it is, Evan.” He sounded condescending as fuck even to his own ears, but his mouth was on a roll and Tommy didn’t know how to stop it. “You can’t deny that you’ve been around the block a few times. I’m surprised you’ve settled with me for this long. Or…maybe you haven’t.”

And there it was. Tommy’s sudden insecurities rearing their ugly heads. He had just implied that the man he was certain was only sleeping with him—the man he’s basically dating—was still fucking other people.

He’s certain—he hopes he’s certain—that Evan isn’t sleeping around the league when he’s also in Tommy’s bed. Where would the blond even find the time? It seemed like every free second he was buried in a book or alongside Tommy in the locker rooms standing in for Dana, he was in Tommy’s bed, bouncing on Tommy’s dick. Evan may have been frivolous with all his previous bed partners but he was different with Tommy.

Yet, the words still tumbled out of him.

And with every passing syllable, he could see the hurt build up behind those crystal blue irises until it spilled over in the form of tears. Until Evan turned around and left.

Taking part of Tommy’s heart with him as he did.

Fuck.

He tries to follow but loses Evan in the crowd, so he drinks instead. When he attempts to call the next morning, it all goes to voicemail—and he doesn’t quite know what to say, so he doesn’t. It’s only after he runs into Ravi, the kid’s first ASG, that he finds out Evan isn’t even in Vancouver anymore.

Double fuck.

It’s been…days…weeks…since Tommy last laid eyes on Evan. Which isn’t overly unusual. Before they started their thing Tommy often went days without seeing hide nor hair of the other man. Now, though, it leaves him feeling rather bereft.

There were moments—too many to count—where Tommy wanted to run, drive, skate, whatever to wherever Evan was and beg for forgiveness. He wants them to talk about it. He wants to grab the younger man and kiss him until they’ve both forgotten their own names and all the stuff that had happened to break them apart.

But he doesn’t.

He stays home. He goes to practice. He plays games in front of thousands of screaming fans.

He tries to do the impossible: put Evan out of his mind.

And the universe must be laughing at him, because, the Kings start losing. It’s a downward streak that seems to go on with no immediate end in sight and the entire team, players, coaches, and staff alike are on edge. Even when they drag themselves to the occasional one-off wins, it doesn’t do much to boost everyone’s moods. The room both pre and post games is wrought with tension, that, no matter what they do and how much Howie and a few others try to lighten the mood, it does not dissipate. And really, it’s Tommy’s fault.

Yes, hockey is a team sport and there is no ‘I’ in team. Tommy is only one of over a dozen men on and off the ice, but his funk definitely is a major factor in how the team is doing.

Thankfully before they hit their little bump in the road the Kings had already clinched their playoffs spot, so as terrible on the team’s morale as losing is, it has little affect on their post season eligibility.

But it doesn’t help Tommy at all when he catches the random stray conversation between the guys, asking Eddie (and sometimes Howie), “where has Buck been lately? Haven’t seen him around for a while.” He never sticks around to hear the answer, too afraid that it would confirm for him that while he’s wallowing in their break up—though can you really break up when you weren’t even sure you were in a relationship in the first place?—Evan has been getting back on the hockey playing horse (or horses).

It’s the day before the last game of the regular season when Eddie corners him down one of the winding hallways inside the Kings’ practice barn.

“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you lately, bud?” Eddie steps into his line of sight and blocks his path.

Tommy tries to maneuver around, not really in the mood for whatever this is that the other man is trying to pool. Bad enough he still can’t stop thinking about Evan, and has to play on the team with not only Evan’s best friend but also his brother-in-law, he really doesn’t want to talk about the blond with Eddie. But the man isn’t budging. There’s a furrow in the middle of his brows and Tommy knows Eddie is worried; the entire team must be—he’d caught them throwing furtive glances his way for weeks now, but he really doesn’t want to have this conversation.

Especially not less than a hundred feet outside the trainer’s office right after he’d had to go in for another check on his previous shoulder strain (he’s fine, but was still suggested to remain cautious, what with playoffs right around the corner).

He goes to shove Eddie aside, but Eddie just pushes him right back until Tommy is slumping against the wall, head down, looking as defeated as he feels.

“I think…” he hesitates. “I might be in love with Evan.”

A heavy silence falls over them.

Then Eddie speaks, “you think…?” He sounds incredulous.

“But I fucked it all up,” Tommy continues. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking and…just…fuck.”

“What did you do?”

Tommy doesn’t want to say. Eddie is Evan’s best friend and…Tommy may be his captain but that’s no comparison. But now that he’s talking about it, he can’t stop until he lets it out. Not that Eddie would let him stop; he’d pry. So would the rest of the guys on the team.

They may not all care the same way Eddie does, but they know that whatever is going on with Tommy is affecting their team on the ice.

So he talks.

“Y-you know how we’ve been fucking around, right?

Eddie snorts, “ugh yeah, don’t remind me. Pretty sure everyone and their grandmas know. Y’all weren’t subtle at all. Didn’t even fucking hide it.”

Tommy ignores most of that. It’s unimportant.

He sucks in a deep breath.

“I…might have, um, implied that he was still fucking other guys while we were…together.”

The silence from moments ago returns, more oppressive than before. Warily, Tommy looks up, directly into Eddie’s aghast face. He watches as the other man stares back at him, unblinking, before looking up at the ceiling and muttering something that sounds like Spanish.

A beat goes by before Eddie’s eyes are back on him.

“….oh my god. What the fuck, man!?

“Eddie…”

“You really think Buck is that kind of person? That he was fucking other people while he was with you?” He’s rightfully angry. “Yeah, okay, he’s got an active sex life but he’s not that kind of person. You know this. How could you even—”

“I know. I know. I messed up.”

“Yeah, you fucking did.” Eddie shakes his head, looking away. Then a loud gush of air escapes him, a deep sigh. “Ugh I don’t like this.”

“Don’t like what?” He asks, confused. It can’t be the fucking a guy thing, Eddie’s well aware of both Tommy and Buck’s preferences, not to mention he’s seen with his own eyes before.

“Maldiot idiota.” The Latino man mutters, stepping closer. “Now I have to beat you up and that’s gonna be a whole mess with playoffs coming up.”

And Eddie’s fist meeting his jaw (plus their little confrontation in the corridors) seems to be the wake up call he needed.

Because, yes, Evan has slept around a lot, and he has made his way around the NHL block a few times, but Tommy was always fully aware of that fact. And it isn’t like Tommy is some 40 (35 actually) year old virgin or anything. He’s also hooked up with his fair share of people—in and outside the league—before, especially when he was around Evan’s age.

It was stupid of him to say what he did.

Maybe there was a part of him that meant it as a joke, but there was another part of him that knew exactly what those words would do, when said in that particular manner. And Evan had reacted like he’d expected.

Still. Did Tommy really want to leave it like that for the rest of his life? Did he really think he could go the rest of his life—the rest of his career—without ever seeing Evan again? When he played on the same team, and was friends with, Evan’s best friend and his brother-in-law? Did he even want that? To never see the other man again.

No. He didn’t.

He needs to reach out; needs to apologize. To at least attempt to make amends.

But first, he needs to figure out an excuse to tell Hen as to why he’s now sporting a sore jaw. His eyes flicker towards where Eddie had disappeared down the hall, muttering in rapid fire Spanish that he couldn’t completely understand, but what little he did catch, the man was definitely cursing both him and Evan, and their friendships.

Sighing, he slinks back into the trainer’s room, head ducked under Hen’s sharp gaze.

“I’m seriously considering telling Nash to put you in a non-contact jersey. What the fuck, Kinard?”

But when she gently pats the medical bench for him to sit down, he goes. And only winces a little bit when she pokes him in the cheek, right over where Eddie’s knuckles had grazed him. As far as punches go, it wasn’t the worst—barely more than glancing blow—so he wasn’t worried about the game tomorrow. Tommy had other, bigger, issues to worry about. Like what he was going to say to Evan when he called. Because as much as he thinks they should have a conversation in person, he’s just not ready to see the younger man yet.

After Hen checks him over and he’s sent on his way with a relatively clean bill of health (hockey player at the end of the season, no one is fully healthy or whole at this point), Tommy trudges through practice and his drive home in truly horrific LA traffic.

And it’s only when he’s plopped down on his couch that his anxiety builds again.

He pulls his phone out, locking and unlocking several times as he goes back and forth on the decision to call Evan. A few times, he nearly tosses his phone clear across the room before pulling back at the last second.

For fuck’s sake, he is a grown ass man, 35 going on 36. He can call his almost-boyfriend and apologize.

Letting out one heaving sigh, Tommy finally pulls up Evan’s contact and hits the call button. Then he waits as the dial tone sounds once, twice, and a few more times. It feels like an eternity before it cuts off and Evan’s generic voicemail message—the one that comes with all iPhones—plays.

Should he hang up? Call back later?

*beep*

Knuckles turning white from how tight he’s gripping the phone, Tommy starts to talk.

“Buck…Evan—” he pauses for a second, “I was—I am—such an idiot. And I’m so sorry, Evan. For what I said; for making it seem like I didn’t trust you. I do. I do trust you. I was just being stupid and insecure and—I miss you.”

It’s not all he wants to say, but it’s all he can put together into coherent words at this moment.

He can only hope Evan will listen to it and reach out.

Only…days go by.

Tommy and the Kings play their last game of the regular season, a hard fought win against the Blackhawks, and still there is nothing from Evan. When he tries to gleam some information off of Eddie, all he gets is a head shake and a pitying look that has him scrambling back to his own stall, his own house. Alone. Always alone, when he’d gotten so used to Evan’s presence filling up all the empty spaces in his too-big house.

Even months—just over two—of not seeing the younger man, Tommy can still feel his shadow everywhere. And he hates it. But he also doesn’t want it to go away.

The Kings are up against the Wild in Round 1, arriving in St. Paul the day before the first game.

Tommy spent the entire flight checking on his phone, making sure everything was charged and the signal was as strong as it can get. And still, nothing from Evan. Even Howie gives him sad eyes when the man walks past him to join the poker game at the back of the plane.

“Sorry man,” Chim pats him on the shoulders. “He wouldn’t tell us; not even Maddie can get it out of him. Though apparently he’s making great progress on his school thing.”

“Thanks.” His shoulders slump.

The phone remains silent.

Tommy’s playoffs start out on a good leg. Some critics would even say it was spectacular. He hasn’t put up numbers like this in the post-season since he was in his mid-twenties.

They sweep the Wilds in 4 games.

Tommy scores at least one goal per game and gets about the same amount of assists as well. .

His phone still has no messages or calls from Evan, and he sighs every time he looks at it. It’s frustrating to get silence in response, despite the fact that Tommy was the one that stuck his foot in his mouth to begin with, it still feels crappy to be ignored. Though, luckily, his hockey is benefiting from all the pent up anger and sadness he still has over Evan.

And the Kings move on to Round 2, against the Oilers.

Edmonton is just on the right side of thawed out by the time the first game is played. They lead the series 2-0 by the time both teams are headed back to Los Angeles for Games 3 and 4.

“He talks to Christopher,” Eddie slumps into the seat next to him on their flight back. “But…I’m told I’m not invited into the secret circle.”

“Of course not, Diaz.” Tommy tries to joke even as he feels his chest tighten painfully at the continued lack of anything from Evan. “Look at you talking to me right now. Spilling all the secrets.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kinard. I’m being a good friend.”

He pats him on the leg, “thanks, Eddie.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They lose Game 3 to the Oilers; McDavid passing to Draisaitl, who slams it home with an absolutely beautiful wrist-shot that even had Tommy begrudgingly admiring.

Between winning Game 4 and losing Game 5, Tommy almost drives out to Evan’s share-house several times. But he never makes it further than picking up his keys (except that one time he made it all the way to his car before coming back inside).

Game 6 is critical with the Kings leading the series at 3-2. If they win this game, they win the Cup. They’re so close Tommy can practically taste the silver of the trophy. So of course, the Oilers tie the series with an OT win. The away locker room at Roger’s Place is solemn but filled with electrifying determination. Bobby is standing at the front of the room, words of wisdom and encouragement falling from his lips.

“We got this, guys. One more game. Just one more game.”

“Hell yeah!” One of the rookies yells out.

“We’re gonna kick some Oiler asses on their own fucking ice!” It’s Howie, joined by Ravi and Eddie and Dewey.

Tommy’s phone vibrates in his duffle, but he’s too caught up in his team to notice. It’s not until after dinner with the team and sitting on his hotel room bed that he finally sees the missed call and the accompanied voicemail.

From Evan.

His heart ratchets up in speed, beating so fast Tommy is sure it's going to burst through his rib cage any second now. When he goes to reach click on the waiting message, he hesitates, finger hovering over the screen. What if Evan had only called to tell him to fuck off? To leave him alone and never call again. What if…?

Then it’ll be closure, he tells himself. Whatever answer he may get from the other man. At least then Tommy will know for sure.

So he presses play.

Evan’s voice flows out of the speaker, so familiar, like a balm to Tommy’s ears.

“I—” The voice on the phone pauses and he listens as Evan’s breath hitches, followed by a soft sigh. “I miss you too, Tommy. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out. I’d been—” there’s a quiet laugh, a little sad, before Evan continues. “—avoiding your message for so long and I wish I didn’t. I wish I’d heard it sooner. Because..I’ve been watching the games; it hurts to see you on screen but it hurts more to see you playing not like yourself. And yeah, you are an idiot. But so was I. I should have just stayed and we should have talked it out. I…I was just afraid to hear what you might say. I’m not stupid, I know the reputation I have. But part of me was naive enough to think maybe it never bothered you.” Anothr pause, and another (deeper) sigh. “Of course it did. Of course it did. I wish you could look past it and see how much I came to care about you. And I thought you felt the same way. Maybe you still do. I—Tommy, I still want you. I think…I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Did he hear that last part right?

I think I might be falling in love with you. That’s what Evan at said. That’s what Tommy had heard. Evan was starting to fall in love with him. Is still in the process of falling in love with him. Tommy could screen with joy at hearing that. It’s everything he’d wanted to hear but was afraid to hope for.

His hands are shaking as he calls Evan. It’s not as late in LA yet, there’s still a chance the other man is awake.

But all he gets is the voicemail.

He hangs up and calls again. And again. All voicemail. So Tommy resigns himself to his current fate.

*beep*

“Evan, baby. I never stopped wanting you. Pretty sure I fell for you the second I met you and was just too dumb to notice.” Self-deprecating laugh. “Let’s…let’s meet up? Once I’m back in LA. We should talk some more, but for now, I hope you’ll watch me win game 7, sweetheart.”

That night, he goes to bed with a smile on his face.

And doesn’t really think about it again—at least for the most part—because they’ve got one more game to play. It’s the decisive game, the one that will either send them home or send them to the Conference Finals. They’ve made it further than they have in the last handful of years and Tommy can almost feel the final victory within his grasp.

He shakes himself and casts those thoughts aside. It wouldn’t do him (or the team) any good to think they’ve won the Cup before they actually do. It might be a stupid superstition—mentioning the silvery punch bowl of a trophy before they actually get it—but it’s one most hockey players believe in, and Tommy is not an outlier in this instance. Instead, he keeps his thoughts on winning the next game; on how to kill Edmonton’s power play and prevent McDavid from getting any more breakaways.

Propping himself up against the hotel bed’s headboard, Tommy pulls up the tapes for their game last night for review.

They were gonna win Game 7.

They were gonna make it into the Western Conference Finals.

And they do.

But Tommy barely pays anyone any mind, when not even a minute after the reporters were invited to leave the locker room, the door opens again. Only this time, it’s the last person Tommy expected to see appear in Edmonton, Alberta of all places.

When Evan steps into view, Tommy’s name emblazoned across the shoulders of the Kings jersey he’s wearing, everything narrows down to him. The raucous celebrations of his teams and the echoes of the sports media’s hounding questions, all of it falls away and it feels like, for one moment, it’s just Tommy and Evan standing just inside the entrance of the locker room.

He just helped his team kick the Oilers’ asses—McDavid and Draisaitl tried their best to claw it back but Tommy’s team were unstoppable—on their ice in Edmonton and now they were moving onto the Conference Finals against the Stars. But that’s all irrelevant right now in the face of Evan, in the flesh, so close he can smell the scent of the other man’s coconut and mango shampoo, even over the usual odors typical of a hockey locker room filled with sweaty men and even sweatier equipment.

“You’re…here?” It’s not a question, but it also is, because Tommy’s not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Yeah.”

Yeah. The word is so simple, but to hear it breathed out in that wispy, airy way that only Buck can produce when he’s feeling uncertain about something—and how Tommy knows this so inherently…he’s a little surprised with himself—feels almost like a punch to the gut.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Or even how to feel. Because he’s still not certain this is actually Evan standing before him.

And then someone knocks into him from behind and he stumbles into Evan, who’s hands come up to catch him on the elbows in an attempt to steady him. Yup. Yeah. He is real. Evan Buckley is really standing just inside the away team’s locker room inside Roger’s Place, wearing a jersey that had Tommy’s number and Tommy’s last name, and was also just hair too big for him. This wasn’t just any generic #20 Kinard jersey, it was Tommy’s jersey, likely stolen directly from his closet without him even noticing.

“Evan…” he starts.

“No fair! Shouldn’t you be wearing my jersey?” Eddie’s face pop up right over Tommy’s shoulder, hair still wet from all the sweat he worked up over the duration of the game.

“Get off, Diaz. You stink.” He tries to throw the man off to no avail.

“You do, too, Kinard.” And then turns to look at Evan once more, a whine already on the tip of his tongue, pout even more exaggerated than before. “The betrayal! You’re my best friend.”

Evan quirks one eyebrow; Tommy spots the mischievous glint in the younger man’s eyes. He says nothing as he watches Evan’s gaze flicker to where Eddie is still hanging over his shoulder before refocusing back on Tommy. “Sure, but he lets me ride his dick,” the words are accompanied by a small smirk (that Tommy wants to lick off his lips).

There’s a beat of aghast silence, and then Eddie nearly chokes him as he rushes to pull back, forearm catching Tommy at his throat for a second before Evan helps pull him away. Their hands meet, fingers lacing together.

“Ew, ew, ew, no.” Eddie shakes his head so hard droplets of sweat flying everywhere and Tommy should be disgusted but his attention is only on Evan. “You can fucking keep him,” the last part directed at him rather than his own best friend.

I will, Tommy thinks but doesn’t voice out loud. But the slight quirk of his head and the reflected emotions in Evan’s eyes are enough for him to know that the other man feels the same.

"Wait!” Eddie comes back and Tommy has half a mind to push him away, but he doesn’t want to let go of Evan’s hands just yet. Behind him, he can vaguely hear the rest of the guys (and even the staff) start to take notice of the three of them, huddled around the entrance of the room. “We clearly need a custody agreement.”

They roll their eyes, sharing a look, before turning to face Eddie simultaneously.

“I get home games, you can have the away games.”

Eddie squawks in outrage, “—he’s not even at most of the away games!”

Tommy shrugs.

“Boyfriend privileges,” he squeezes Evan’s hand tightly and smiles at the answering press of the other man’s palm against his.

“Sounds fair to me.” It’s Evan butting in this time. A gentle tug of his hand and Tommy is pulled even closer. Their faces are centimeters apart, and it would be so easy to just nudge their lips together. “Boyfriend, huh?”

“Mm.”

The other boys are getting loud now. They’re likely going to close in on them any second now and Tommy wants to have just a few more seconds of Evan to himself before they get pulled into celebrating their winning of the series.

“That’s biased decision making!” Eddie pokes at Tommy’s face and he slaps the other’s hand away.

And once again not even bothering to look at Eddie, Evan says, nonchalant as if they’re just hanging out casually at some coffee shop and not about to be mobbed by a bunch of boisterous (and nosy) hockey players. “Well…you don't do that thing with your tongue.”

Eddie throws his hands up and stomps off, face twisted with disdain. He complains loudly as he starts to remove the rest of his gear at his stall. This in turn opens them up to the scrutiny of the rest of the guys. Howie and Dewey are leading the charge and Adrian is standing just over their shoulders with Ravi (already showered and changed after getting boarded early in the 3rd period, bad enough that he’d be a game-time-decision for the first few games of the next series) next to him. Even Bobby has popped his head in.

“Tongue thing?!” Chimney screeches, and the rest of the boys howl with laughter.

Evan’s cheeks flush red but he doesn’t shy away when Tommy tugs him in for that kiss, a sigh of relief leaving him as their lips finally connect. As far as kisses go, it’s tame (a fact that Adrian points out very loudly), and when he pulls back, he can’t help himself, “that tongue thing, huh?”

“Shut up.”

The guys get impatient and Tommy (Evan alongside him) is pulled back into the team’s revelries.

Round two is under their belts.

They’re afforded a few days break at home before they’re flying down to Dallas for Game 1 of the Western Conference Finals.

Tommy spends his mini-break with Evan—to the utter surprise of no one—and consistently gets fined (and happily so) for arriving at practice with various marks all over his body. The boys chirp him nonstop, but Tommy would rather they do that than look at him with pity like they had done for the last few weeks.

When they finally play Dallas, Tommy steps onto the ice at American Airlines Center and looks towards the suite where the WAGs (the few who like to travel to away games) are sitting. He can’t see them, but he knows Evan is up there watching. For every game of the series Evan attends, Tommy always makes sure to look towards him and touches his chest, right over his heart, for one beat, two beats, three beats, before heading to warm up with the rest of the guys.

They win the Conference in five games (a near sweep), at home in Los Angeles. The crowd is wild, and when Evan steps onto the ice, it’s in yet another of Tommy’s jerseys.

There’s something to be said about playing on home ice. And something else when it’s the Stanley Cup on the line. The Kings have managed to keep clinging to their series lead, dragging the Canes around on a merry ride across the country until they’re once more standing in LA, under the lights of their own arena, the home crowd filling the seats in a sea of blacks and whites, purples and golds.

The clock is counting down. The seconds, ticking away.

Eddie forces a turnover and then suddenly the puck meets Tommy’s tape. Without even thinking, he pushes forward—

—and it goes in.

Sliding right under the smallest of openings between Frederick Andersen’s pads.

For what feels like an eternity, Tommy is in shock. His mind goes blank, because he can’t believe what just happened. Then suddenly like the vacuum seal to a jar breaking, all the noises come rushing in and it’s overwhelmingly loud. Tommy blinks and finds himself engulfed by his teammates. They’re all screaming in his face, shaking him by the shoulders, and he can’t make out a single word anyone is saying. All he hears is the goal horn reverberating in his ears.

They just won.

They actually won.

The LA Kings are once again Stanley Cup champions and Tommy is the captain that led them there (and also the game winning goal scorer that clinched the final game for them), beating out the Canes in six games. Crypto.com arena is in an absolute uproar as the home crowd screams their delighted congratulations into the air. It’s all a little overwhelming. Tommy spins around on his skates, sees all his teammates hugging each other and jumping in their own excitement, and he can’t help the laugh that bursts forth from his lips.

Everything after the handshake line—he tells Staal that it was a “good game” and pats Anderson on the back for his tending—is a blur of black, silver, and white and then Gary Bettman is handing Tommy the Stanley Cup.

It’s lighter than he thought, but heavy with sentiment. His hands feel clammy, almost slippery with sweat, as he raises the trophy above his head.

The lap around the ice goes by both too slowly and too fast; soon enough Tommy is handing the cup over to one of his A’s—Chimney—right as they start to let family onto the ice for the celebration. Head swiveling, Tommy is only searching for one person amongst the sea of people. He catches sight of Maddie, a sleepy (but still excited) Jee in her arms as she makes her way to her husband. And if she’s already on the ice…

Wild curls and bright blue eyes catch his and suddenly everything narrows down to that one point, to Buck.

He’s had his turn with the cup (for now) and now all Tommy wants is his moment with his boyfriend. Not caring about all the people surrounding him, nor the cameras and sports reporters all pointed his way, Tommy pushes his way through until he’s standing directly in front of Evan. And what a sight he is, fluffy haired and skin flushed a gorgeous shade of pink, he looks like pure perfection decked out in a WAGs jacket, the black bomber draping over Evan’s broad shoulders and the number 20–shimmering in all its glittery glory—resting on his chest, directly over his heart.

He spots his own name, curled in soft cursive, along the hem of one sleeve. All over Evan is Tommy’s mark. Even underneath, he catches a peek of their home jersey, no doubt also with Tommy’s number and name on the back and shoulders.

Evan is practically dripping in Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.

“Evan.” He breathes.

Slowly, he skates closer, but doesn’t reach out to touch just yet.

In his skates, their matching height no longer exists as he towers over the blond, but that does nothing to stop Evan from throwing all 200 pounds of himself at Tommy.

“You did it, babe.” The words are whispered into his neck, muffled against his skin, but they ring loud in Tommy’s ears nonetheless and the endearment echoes through every cell of his body. “You’re a champion!”

Evan is beaming when he pulls back, looking gorgeous.

It hadn’t really been part of the plan—not that they really had one—but here Evan was, already obviously decked out in the same jackets as the rest of the wives and girlfriends. With his arms still encircled around Tommy’s neck, and Tommy’s own arms wrapped tightly around his trim waist under the jacket, there’s no hiding just what their relationship is to each other. So he throws more caution to the wind.

One hand coming up to cup Evan’s face, he smiles at the look of confused wonder that overtakes the younger man’s features, Tommy leans in and slots their lips together. The kiss starts slow and he swallows the other’s noise of surprise, but Evan quickly gets with the program, pushing into the kiss, deepening their connection as he licks into Tommy’s mouth.

There are camera flashes and an uproar from the press all around them, seemingly louder than when the cup was brought out, lens pointed in their direction.

Who the fuck cares? Tommy Kinard is a Stanley Cup champion and he’s going to kiss his boyfriend. And he was going to enjoy it.

Fingers sliding to Evan’s nape, he grabs ahold of the short hairs at the back of the other man's neck. He catches the breathy moan Evan lets out, chuckling against plump lips as he slowly eases them out of the kiss. But can’t help darting forward to steal a second one when confronted with Evan’s kiss-bruised, saliva-shiny lips.

“Thank you, Evan.”

The cutest wrinkle appears between Evan’s brows alongside a small frown, “I’m not the one who just played 60 minutes of hockey and won.”

“64 minutes.” Because they’d gone into overtime with a last minute goal from Aho in the last three minutes of the game.

“My point stands.”

Tommy shakes his head and pulls Evan closer as he stares into crystalline blue eyes that widen upon his next words.

“Evan, I love you.”

“I-I love you, too.”

He dives in for another kiss, quick but no less passionate than their previous ones.

“Good. ‘Cause I just won you the Stanley Cup, baby.”

“Hell yeah you did!”

The rest of the team crashes into them right as Darren Pang finally manages to pick his jaw up off the ice. Half a dozen sweaty hockey players and way too many arms engulf them as multiple voices holler into their ears. And Tommy has never been happier.

Later, when they finally manage to extract themselves, Tommy will proudly tell all the reporters how honored he is to bring the cup back to Los Angeles as well as how deliriously incandescent he is to share the moment not only with his team but also the man he loves. It didn’t matter that in that moment there were a dozen or so cameras pointed in their direction, and even more reporters wanting to get the scoop on the man wearing Tommy’s name on his jacket that demarcates him as one of the WAGs.

And even later, when the cup ends up back with him, he can’t help but pull Evan in for yet another kiss, this time with them leaning over the Stanley Cup as it stands witness to their love.

(Tommy’s Cup Day finds Evan (and Howie) trying—and failing—to put a much-too-big Jee-Yun in the bowl, but at least Phil wasn’t berating them about nearly breaking it.

They did still manage to get some cute pictures out of it though.

Even more photogenic is the new puppy they got—a tiny speck of a bi-colored mini Dachshund—Evan lowers into the Cup, its round black eyes peering up at them, more than a little lost as to how it wound up inside a giant silver bowl.)