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Chapter Text

Connor has never been the praying kind of person nor particularly religious. His parents took the family to church when he was little but Sunday mornings were yet another thing to fall by the wayside when hockey started to fill in all the available gaps in his life. Connor didn’t miss it much and he certainly hadn’t thought about it since.

Funny, isn’t it? A boy gives up God for hockey practice and extra ice time, juggles traveling teams and endless stretches of road between games instead of kneeling in pews, to hear ‘McJesus’ where his name should be.

But adrenaline works in mysterious ways. Connor doesn’t remember going into the boards but he remembers sitting on the bench in a haze and praying as the clock creeped down the 1:44 left. Coach wouldn’t meet his eyes and the palpable silence seemed to fill in all the panicking gaps of the bench. The game whirled on. Connor tried not to move too much, each slide on the bench jostling his body and sending electric shocks of pain down his whole arm and chest. He knew it was bad, something had broken, at least. It reminded him of when he broke his hand; the roar of the arena and the way adrenaline had flooded him, playing tricks on his mind so it felt like everything went silent except for the sound of his hand crumpling against that dickbag’s face.

He doesn’t remember going down against the Flyers but he remembers sitting on the bench and praying his husband wasn’t watching.

“Davoooooooo! Where’s your beer?”

Connor dodges his jubilant team mate and ducks into an emergency stairwell of the hotel, clutching his phone a little desperately to his ear. He’s… moderately drunk and feeling more pathetic than ever. Which is why he’s slinking off to call his boyfriend instead of drinking another Labatt. Connor thinks being World Junior Champions means they should at least get Molson but no one ever listens to him.

“Davo?”

Connor tries to not sigh sappily into the phone when the line connects and misses it by a mile. “Hey, oh -- hey babe,” he says, hiccuping a little as he slides to sit on the freezing steps of the hallway. He doesn’t think hockey players can get hypothermia but the concrete is cold on his ass.

“You’re lit as fuck,” Dylan says.

“Don’t laugh,” Connor groans, still relishing when Dylan laughs across the line. “You know how it is -- they made me shotgun a few beers. I think it’s still in my nose.”

“You’re such a whiner, Daver,” he says. “I’d give anything to have that problem right now, ya know?”

Connor frowns. “Stupid, you should have been here.”

“No I shouldn’t have. You guys did just fine without me,” Dylan says. He’s not wrong but Connor knows he could have used him on his line. They always play better when they’re together.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says instead. “I’d rather win it with you.”

Dylan laughs. “Yeah well, enjoy it anyway, bud. You won’t be there next year and we won’t be playing together for much longer.”

Connor’s always envied the way Stromer makes it all sound right. Connor used to think it was just because he always wanted Dylan to like him more, so Dylan’s opinions and perspective were always elevated in Connor’s mind. But the more they get to know each other, the more Connor just trusts Dylan to put perspective on everything without the dramatics. Connor gets stuck in his head sometimes and Stromer never lets him stay there for very long.

“You sound warm,” Connor says instead because he doesn’t actually want to think about playing without Dylan; about the draft; about where Dylan will be this time next year. Instead, he wants to think about how right now Dylan sounds like long roadies spent curled together on buses, huddled for warm and their hands tangled together underneath the blanket like the best secret Connor’s ever had. “I wish you were here. My ass is cold.”

“You’re a real charmer, Davo.” But Connor thinks he means it a little bit because he still sounds warm and soft and Connor is really tired.

“I’m tired and mad at you,” Connor says. He remembers the anger now. “Why didn’t you come down?”

Dylan sighs and this time it’s a little unhappy. Connor hates it when Dylan’s unhappy. Usually shitty movies and blowjobs fix the unhappy but Dylan isn’t here. Because he left.

“You did good, babe. I’m proud of you but I couldn’t come celebrate with you. You know why, Davo,” Dylan says it soft, like a secret. Connor likes it when secrets are good -- when it’s Dylan and Connor as the secret and not Connor here and Dylan there and secrets everywhere. Just because Hockey Canada is dumb. Just because they didn’t invite Stromer when they should have. That’s a bad secret. Hockey Canada is full of bad secrets.

So he tells Dylan that. Or at least, he tries to. What comes out is: “We’re the best secret. So you should have been here and I miss you and my parents -- it’s just not the same, ya know? I just want us to be the best secret.”

“I feel like Jay-Z when Beyonce finally let the world know they were banging,” Dylan says, back to his dry and giggly self. Connor prefers him when he’s not sad but he obviously is gone on him pretty much all the time.

“You gonna put a ring on it?” Connor asks. It comes out a little wet.

“Davo, you’re already getting a world championship ring -- don’t get greedy. Now, we won tonight too, you little shit. So where’s my congratulations? You gonna make it back in time for the game?”

Connor pouts and lets Dylan keep talking until he’s too cold and maybe a little bit more drunk than he thought because he almost falls on his face getting up. Maybe he should find some water. He leaves tomorrow to join the team in time for the Missasauga game. He wouldn’t miss it.

“I’m coming home,” Connor says, playing with the door handle that leads back to the hotel hallway and away from Dylan. “It’s better with you. Gonna light ‘em up.”

The hotel hallway swims into focus and Connor sighs over the phone. Dylan’s yelling at someone on the team, his hand muffling the speaker. It reminds Connor of sucking hickeys onto Dylan’s hip while their teammates banged on their door to get them to go down to the hotel pool. He always likes it when Dylan stands between him and the world -- like he’d do anything for Connor, whether it’s five more minutes lying in bed together or on the ice -- perfectly placed and soaring.

“Go to bed,” Dylan says, sounding sweet again now that he’s talking to Connor. “I’ll see you soon babe.”

“Thanks. Night, Stromer.”

Connor wakes up with one hell of a hangover and a thought that lingers.

He tries to stay present with his parents and Cam on the drive back home because it’s not like he gets to spend that much time with them these days. Now he’s started to think about it, though, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. He drifts. The line between being driven and obsessed is thin and Connor is the first one to admit on-ice relationships and motivations can seriously mess with life outside of hockey. Keeping the two separate has never been an option for him but he’s always tried to understand where the lines start to blur; being aware of that unclear division has helped him be better at focusing on the nuances.

Except, he and Dylan have always been Hockey and Life, connected on and off the ice. Getting together had been seamless -- one week Dylan was the rookie and then the next, a constant presence in Connor’s life. Bus trips spent innocently getting to know each other turned intimate in less than a month and then... Connor can’t really pinpoint the moment it became something more. He just remembers Dylan kissing his knuckles, rubbing an arnica salve from his mother over the bruises from a brutal slashing. It had seemed normal -- the most logical, natural progression.

“This is for real, right?” Connor remembers Dylan asking, breathless from making out and tangled up underneath the blankets of the hotel room bed. Connor hadn’t slept in his own bed on the road for two months. ‘Something more’ had clearly became dating.

Being together with Dylan hadn’t seemed scary.

It had been easy to start and Connor just hadn’t looked back. Now he’s looking forward, fast and furious, and wondering… was he supposed to take time to be scared of this? Connor doubts he’s going to find anyone who treats him like Stromer. He knows the draft is going to change a lot but most of all it’s going to change how people treat him. Stromer feels real and solid -- authentic in a way Connor has never felt before.

It might be naive to think they’re going to last forever but why not? The only factor in this is them.

Text: Stromer
ETA?!?!

“Your boy texting you?”

Connor automatically shields his phone by habit but Cameron is smirking at him across the backseat of the car.

“Your face is ridiculous,” Cam says, explaining. “Seriously. You’re so damn thirsty.”

Connor feels his face flame. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Language, boys.”

Cam goes back to minding his own damn business and Connor does not go back to being ‘thirsty’ because he’s not. That’s dumb. Dylan and he are a sure thing. Connor just needs to get back to the being in the same city as him. He’s sure his face will go back to normal then.

Because Dylan’s kind of spastic, he hasn’t waited for Connor to respond.

Text: Stromer
Gold medal blowjobs, babe!

There are at least a dozen eggplant emojis.

Text: Stromer
Seriously tho -- u meeting us tonight or nah?

Connor hesitates. He should probably stay the night with his parents.

I’ll text you when I’m close. I’ll be there tonight.

He’ll eat dinner with his family before he goes, he rationalizes, and they’re probably tired of him by now anyway.

The team is posted up in Alex’s room, making it practically impossible to pull Dylan away when Connor finally arrives and drops his bags in their room. Everyone wants to talk to him about WJC which is nice and Connor is absolutely not ungrateful for their support. He’s also really horny and Dylan looks way softer than expected in sweatpants and a shirt which is definitely Connor’s. It’s distracting.

Alex seems to take extreme pleasure in suddenly having more questions to ask Connor about the tourney just when things die down, everyone going back to playing cards. The constantly redirected focus makes Connor want to strangle someone but he stays, if only because Dylan is a long line of heat next to him and doesn’t look as if he’s in any hurry to end Connor’s suffering.

It’s nearly midnight by the time Connor can excuse himself and Dylan, who is giggling and practically boneless in his happiness. Dylan gets along with everyone and seems to feed off the constant social interaction, whereas Connor always feels just slightly out of place no matter which team members they’re hanging out with. Connor likes that about Dylan: how he’s not ashamed of what he’s feeling or expressing it around all the guys.

It makes kissing him breathless all that much more satisfying.

“Missed you, Davo,” Stromer says between kisses, fingers curled and tugging in Connor’s hair. Connor can’t decide what he wants to touch more so he ends up roaming his hands everywhere, hungry and desperate, never lingering too long before he moves on. Dylan is as soft and as warm as promised. It makes Connor miss him even more and he’s right there.

Connor’s stuff is piled on the bed they land on but Stromer’s hands keep tugging him closer and Connor can’t bring himself to care. Not when Dylan is noisy like this, arching into Connor’s greedy hands and demanding more from Connor’s mouth. Usually, they’re much more coordinated than this -- Connor is sure of it, but he barely gets their sweats down around their thighs before they’re pressing their hips against each other frantically.

Like, this -- their dicks pressed up against each other and Connor driving down into Dylan’s -- it feels wild and desperate and a lot like fucking.

Not that they don’t fuck. Connor’s not stupid.

But like, they’ve never had the kind of sex that really relied on thrusting or dicks in anything but mouths and tight, slicked up hands. Thrusting up against Dylan, panting into his mouth as they both chase their orgasm feels a lot more like the kind of filthy, intimate sex they haven’t quite had yet.

“God, fuck -- yes, yes, yes,” Dylan gasps out, head thrown so Connor can latch onto his neck and suck with abandon. Dylan keeps bucking up against him when Connor drives down, humping into the cradle of his hips and smearing leaking precome between them. Connor bites down because he can’t help it -- he’s so close and Dylan feels amazing underneath him.

When Dylan comes, he’s got one hand tangled into Connor’s hair -- holding on while Connor pants, opened mouthed and ragged, against his neck and the other is digging into the meat of Connor’s ass. Connor can barely see Dylan’s dick, with the way his chest keeps getting in the way but it’s a wet mess between them now and Dylan’s hips are wild, dick jerking and slicking the both of them. All Connor can think about is what it would be like to be driving his dick inside of Dylan like this, wild and so fucking good.

Dylan’s still moving with him and Connor shifts a bit to the side, moaning when his dick slides up the long lean vee of Stromer’s hip. Everything is hot with Dylan’s come now, the friction just a little bit less than before when it was too dry and too much. Now, Dylan’s langid, still pulling on Connor’s hair like he’s still not getting enough of Connor, like he needs more, like he could drink from Connor forever and still be thirsty for more.

“Keep going,” Dylan gasps and Connor can only groan, hips frantic. “Harder, Davo. Come on -- fuck me, come on. Fucking come on me, babe.”

It takes a few more thrusts and Connor’s gasping wetly, too high-pitched and breathy to his own ears to not be pathetic but he’s wrecked. He feels like he comes forever, messily gasping against Dylan’s neck to distract himself from how pornographic Dylan sounds like this.

He’s sweaty and more than a little bit disgusting when he kisses his way up to meet Dylans’ mouth. It still feels frantic but Dylan gentles him into long, sipping kisses until their bodies start to cool and Connor is more than a bit uncomfortable.

“So, I mean, ten out of ten would absolutely bang again,” Dylan quips, soothing Connor’s bangs back from his forehead. He’s smiling, searching Connor’s face and Connor does his best not to feel scrutinized. “Like, holy fuck, Davo.”

Connor can’t help but blush. “Was it… I mean, is this okay?”

God, he’s incredibly awkward but he manages not to look away from Dylan’s face. Whatever Stromer was looking for, he must be satisfied because he smiles, kisses the side of Connor’s mouth and says, “Yes, of fucking course. Jesus, you’re amazing.”

Connor blushes, nudging them closer together so he can say, “we’re amazing,” and not have to look Stromer in the face when he says it.

Painfully earnest. Painfully in love.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Dylan says but it doesn’t sound like that’s all he’s saying. Connor’s too tired and wrapped up in his own mess of feelings to decipher it but they lay there in their mess, making out and re-familiarizing themselves with all the bits of skin they’ve missed. He wasn’t gone very long, but now that Dylan’s here beside him it feels like he’s been away for months instead of weeks. There are bruises on Stromer that Connor doesn’t recognize. It keeps him desperate, even now. Connor’s a bit embarrassed about the bite mark blooming on Dylan’s neck, since Dylan’s usually the biter out of the two of them but Connor admits that he feels better now -- knowing exactly where that mark came from.

He knows he has to get used to not knowing every play that marks Stromer’s body but he’s not ready yet.

Eventually, they shower together and Connor assumes they’ll head straight to bed.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Dylan says but Connor’s halfway there. He’d barely found a pair of boxers to pull on before crawling into the clean bed and wiggling underneath the covers. For some reason, Dylan’s still up and digging through his bag.

“Stromer --"

“Just give me your hands, bud.”

It’s embarrassing but Connor can feel his eyes prickle a little when Stromer pulls out a very familiar tin. The label is worn thin and the contents list is unreadable, but Stromer always has a tin or two in his bag. It’s the salve his mother sends him, made by a hippie neighbor. When they were first flirting on bus rides and over team dinners, Dylan used to convince Connor that literally having soft hands helped them have soft hands.

Dylan admits it was just a reason to touch Connor.

But he doesn’t need a reason now and he still makes sure to pull out the lotion every night before they fall asleep and rub in the same circles across Connor’s hands. Connor doesn’t know why it’s making him feel so irrationally emotional now but the scent and feel of it so startlingly familiar. It’s a ritual that doesn’t only mark pre-game but everyday -- a superstition Connor definitely can’t talk about to the media but one he’s not sure he can ever give up.

It smells of unbrewed tea but it’s not overpowering. It’s smells like Dylan. It smells like falling asleep to Dylan’s hands on his neck and waking up with Dylan curled around him.

Connor manages to stay awake this time, watching as Dylan methodically works from wrist to fingertip. He works into the meat of Connor’s hands, pressing a bit too hard until they tingle and hum.

“It’s good to have you back,” Dylan says and Connor sleepily agrees.

“Back where I belong,” Connor corrects. “Next to you.”

It’s sappy and maybe too honest but Dylan just smiles, small and real. He works the lotion in and curls up around Connor between one breath and the next. Falling asleep is easy and dreamless.

The next morning, Connor wakes up before his alarm because Dylan sucking on his soft dick. Or well, presumably it was soft when Connor was innocent and sleeping but now that Dylan’s down there, it’s hard.

“Dyls --" he groans out, hands finding Dylan’s hair automatically. Unfortunately, it makes Dylan slide off with a pop. He looks disgustingly awake.

“Sucking a soft dick is so weird,” Dylan says, breathing all over Connor’s dick -- which is definitely no longer soft. “Cool, because I can fit you all in my mouth. But weird because it grows in my mouth. Wicked, eh?”

Connor tries to push Dylan’s mouth back to his dick because Connor’s very much awake now and doesn’t understand why this has stopped. Dylan just waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t call my dick weird,” Connor says, half-heartedly. Dylan looks really good, soft and hot between his legs but Connor is still weirdly sleepy, even if his cock is ready to go. Dylan grins wider, reaching out with his tongue to lap at the end, pulling down the foreskin to lick around the exposed head. Connor gasps -- it’s too much.

Dylan goes back to sucking him off but Connor feels so sensitive and weird. Maybe it’s because he woke up halfway to poppin’ off or maybe it’s because he’s not had Dylan’s mouth in what feels like forever. Regardless, when Dylan releases him and makes his way up for a kiss. Connor sighs into it.

“Can I try something?” Dylan says. Connor just nods because he’s too busy being kissed and trying to find his way back from the sensitive edge he had himself on.

Dylan leaves him for a moment, coming back with lube and a shy smile. Connor just lets himself be kissed breathless and follows Dylan’s lead when he asks him to turn over. It allows Connor to get a glimpse of the clock, put himself at ease that they have plenty of time, before Dylan sticks the tube of lube into Connor’s armpit.

“Dylan, what the fuck?”

He just laughs, nibbling on Connor’s ears and says, “Warming it up, you big baby.”

Connor gets distracted for a while as Dylan maps out Connor’s shoulder and neck with sloppy kisses and sucking bruises. He grinds into the mattress beneath him and feels less overwhelmed as he focuses on Dylan’s body moving above him. Eventually, Dylan takes the lube from his armpit and Connor makes a questioning noise.

“I’m not going to --" Dylan stops and Connor doesn’t dare breathe. “I just want to fuck between them. Is that, is that okay?”

Connor’s not sure they’re on the same page but Dylan’s forehead is pressed between his shoulder blades and he feels him run his hands over Connor’s ass, pulling just slightly. Oh. between --

“Between my --"

Dylan swears. “Yeah, just between -- and your thighs. If that’s alright?”

“Yeah,” Connor breathes out but Dylan must hear him because there’s an uncapping of lube and the slip, slide of it between Connor’s cheeks. It makes him squirm against the sheets. Dylan’s back to spreading his cheeks apart and Connor feels exposed, even though Dylan’s covering almost all of him. The trickle of lube down his ass makes his dick leak against the sheets and Connor can’t help but buck back when lube pools in his hole before slipping lower to cover his balls and drip on the sheets.

“Jesusfuck Davo,” Dylan swears, his hands keeping Connor open for a few seconds before more lube follows the first drizzle. “You look -- holy fuck that’s so hot.”

Connor can’t concentrate -- not with Dylan bearing down on him and the illicit slide of lube between his cheeks like they’re going to…

“Okay, fuck, okay -- I’m going to,” Dylan pants out, kissing along Connor’s shoulders before he rolls his hips.

Connor keens.

It’s so hot -- Dylan’s dick slides through the valley between his cheeks, tip grazing his balls before sliding across his hole.It’s so close to what Connor can imagine it feeling like that he feels dizzy and breathless and fucked.

“Oh my god,” Dylan breaths out. “Oh my fucking god. Is this okay?”

He doesn’t stop, just pulls back enough so his cock head bobs against Connor balls and he rocks back. It catches just a little, stutter-stopping on Connor’s clenched, wet hole, before riding up his crease. All he can do is moan. It’s a little graceless and Dylan doesn’t seem to know where to put his weight but Connor doesn’t care. He just -- needs more.

“Don’t stop,” Connor says, grinding into the mattress and then arching his back a little when Dylan makes another pass. “Just -- keep going, Dylan.”

It takes a few adjustments. Dylan’s arms wrap around his chest, wedging between him and the mattress so he can get leverage. It doesn’t help that Connor can’t help but push back into every thrust and it takes a few failed attempts at rhythm before they finally get it right.

It’s an imitation of being fucked but it feels so close to the real thing that Connor can’t breathe -- not with Dylan everywhere around him, biting and sucking into his neck as he fucks against him. Every detail is overwhelming. He wants -- he aches for it -- the rough push of Dylan’s dick as he fucks him down into the firm press of the mattress. It’s too fucking good. It’s still a little clumsy. Sometimes Dylan’s hips drive too hard and his dick slides past Connor’s balls but he always corrects on the next pass.

Connor wonders what it looks like, if it looks like Dylan’s sinking into him, riding his ass down into the mattress and fucking Connor with his face pressed into the pillows. Connor can’t decide what he likes more: the press of Dylan everywhere as he thrusts against him or the hot press of his dick along his hole. It makes him scramble at the sheets and squirm, legs moving to get leverage to press back, to get more, but it’s impossible. He takes what Dylan gives him and leaks against the sheets, his dick wet against his belly and the bed.

Maybe it’s the friction of Dylan’s dick sliding against Connor’s ass or the constant pressure of Dylan’s weight on top of him, rolling Connor’s dick against the mattress but he comes quickly. He muffles his groan into the pillow and Dylan bites his shoulder, hips crashing into him with a relentlessness which makes Connor want him inside -- wants to know what it feels like when Dylan pounds into him instead of sliding between his slick cheeks. The bed squeaks and Connor lets himself come -- Dylan holding him down.

“Did you just come?”

Connor squirms. “Still am,” he gasps. Dylan’s dick makes a hard pass and catches on his hole again. Connor clenches down and Dylan squeezes his chest.

“I’m really fucking close,” Dylan says and Connor just nods. He’s lying in the wet spot left by his own orgasm and he’s going to care soon. Right now, he’s riding the tail end of his orgasm and feels like a live wire. “Fuck, Davo --"

It aches, Dylan driving into him over and over again -- his dick chafing against the wet bedding -- Dylan’s making little hitching noises in time with his thrusts and god, Connor wants to be fucked so badly but it’s not the time nor the place to say anything.

“Look at you,” Dylan keeps saying and then he’s rearing up. Connor gasps, reaching back to pull Dylan against him but Dylan’s coming. Connor can feel the first hot splash of come on his low back like a brand. The second dips lower and Connor moans into the mattress, shameless as he presses his ass up into the next splash of come. Dylan’s up on his knees and Connor can feel him jerking off -- his knuckles grazing the swell of Connor’s ass as he beats off, fisting his dick and --

“Oh fuckfuckfuck,” Dylan says and Connor whines because Dylan’s aiming his dick at Connor’s hole and coming like a brand.

It’s just hot splashes of come, one of Dylan’s hands keeping Connor open with a crude splay over his asscheek, the other still working his dick and bouncing off Connor with every pass. It doesn’t feel like enough. Connor’s quick to arch back, reaching one arm around to pull Dylan closer until the tip of Dylan’s dick is right up against the clench of Connor’s hole. It’s stupid -- Connor knows -- but he doesn’t care. He lets Dylan come there, knuckles bumping against Connor on every pass as he works himself, and Connor is greedy for the sounds he makes when Connor clenches down on his slick cock head. There’s wet come dripping down his balls, and Connor’s got the sheets twisted up in one of his fists but he doesn’t stop milking the tip of Dylan’s cock until he’s got nothing left and collapses down onto Connor, sending them both flat. His dick is still trapped between them, awkwardly squished between Connor’s cheeks and twitching against Connor’s asshole.

It takes a minute for Connor’s brain to come back online. But he’s already craving the sounds out of Dylan’s mouth. He needs them.

“Was that okay?” Dylan asks, sounding unsure but he’s still pressed up against Connor so he can’t be too upset.

Connor shakes his head and then turns, so he’s not suffocating himself and say, “We shouldn’t have. But I liked it.”

Dylan rains small, tentative kisses across his shoulders and Connor sighs.

“I loved it,” Dylan says, flexing his hips in memory. “I want to, you know, whenever you’re ready. In case that wasn’t crystal clear.”

Connor doesn’t pretend to have to think about it. He wants Dylan to fuck him badly. It just never seems like the right time. This morning certainly isn’t and they shouldn’t have messed around without a condom, not with Dylan’s dick practically inside him for half of it. It was stupid but Connor wants more, not less.

“I want to,” Connor says, pushing at Dylan until he can roll over. Dylan stays above him though, studying his face for the lie. Connor lets him stare. He doesn’t lose eye contact until Dylan seems satisfied and they kiss because Connor’s embarrassed but won’t chicken out on actually talking about this. “I want to,” he says against Dylan’s mouth. “I want to all the time.”

Dylan kisses him like they’re both dying. Fucks into his mouth with his tongue just like he rode against his body. It’s sloppy but good and Connor keeps him there, making out with an intensity they shouldn’t even have, but Connor keeps snagging him back -- opening his legs to pull Dylan closer and shove their sensitive cocks together. Every time Dylan tries to pull away, Connor tugs him back in -- bites at his lips and sucks on his tongue until their alarm goes off.

He presses snooze without even breaking away from Dylan’s mouth.

“I want you, Dyls. Fuck, I want you so bad,” Connor says and it’s a whispered truth against Dylan’s mouth. “I want you inside me.”

By the time he lets Dylan pull away, it’s ten minutes past the time they’re supposed to be up and it doesn’t leave them much time to shower but it’s worth it for the secret smiles Dylan sends him all day, their hands hardly unclasping the whole bus ride home.

They’re home for one game -- an embarrassing thrashing -- and a few days break before they hit up Sarnia and London. If Dylan suspects something is up with Connor, he doesn’t say anything. Connor feels a little clingy but Dylan seems to accept it as left over from the time spent away from each other for World Juniors, the media and scout circus seemingly explodes overnight on top of their loss it’s enough to keep him occupied.

Connor doesn’t think he’s been thinking about it much, until they’re playing a home and away with London and he begs off seeing Marner and borrows his billets car. It’s not abnormal for Connor to ditch Marner; he’s kind of a smug son of a bitch. But they won 6-2 and Connor feels confident they’ve rebounded from the Windsor game enough they’ll beat Marner again on home-ice. Dylan and Mitch have an odd, antagonistic friendship Connor doesn’t pretend to understand. But it gives him an excuse to kiss Dylan goodbye after practice without anyone questioning him not going along. It’s not unusual for people to want to avoid Mitch Marner at all costs.

What is unusual, is Connor finding himself at Breakiron Jewelers with only half a mind of how he got there.

Connor’s never been to a jewelry store before. There’s always the kiosks at the mall that do sterling silver and engravings but Breakiron is a proper brick and mortar jewelry store. It takes him 25 minutes sitting in his car to actually get the courage up to go inside.

It’s a disaster.

No one in Erie really recognizes him other than around the rink but he feels like everyone is staring at him when he walks inside. There’s a few tight smiles aimed at his direction and he tries to look as wholesome as possible. Irrationally, he thinks the people back home wouldn’t be this judgemental but maybe it’s not true. Especially when he gets a look at the price tags on the jewelry in the well-lit cases.

They probably think he’s here to rob the place.

He’s not sure why he didn’t think about that to begin with. He tries to use his stipend as much as possible to save his billet and his family money. Conner learned his first year with the Otters asking for money felt ungrateful and he was more careful after. Except, OHL stipends don’t really cover an increased expense for engagement rings between teammates.

“Would you like to see anything in the case, honey?” An older lady asks him and Connor realizes he’s been staring at the case for a while.

The price tags had certainly given him a shock but now that he’s in the store, and clearly not going to purchase anything, he at least can figure out which styles he likes.

“Oh, no thank you,” he stutters out but she doesn’t move away. She sticks close to him, puttering around doing various things and keeping an eye on him.

Connor quickly dismisses the rings with a single diamond because Stromer would definitely lose it or punch someone and ruin the ring by getting the diamond stuck in someone’s face. But he likes the sparkle and thinks something a little less plain would look nice on Dylan’s long, thin hands. Connor prefers the plain bands himself but the men’s engagement rings are all too thick or weird for Stromer. The flashier ones are mostly all ugly and tend to be awfully gold.

“Do you have anything smaller?” Connor surprises even himself when he asks. The lady raises her eyebrows at him over the counter. “Um, more like, diamonds but maybe smaller and silver? Easier to wear under gloves.”

Under gloves? What, like Stromer would even wear it on the ice? Christ.

“We have wedding bands,” she says, motioning him down two or three cases. “Usually, these go next to an engagement ring for the wedding or an anniversary but there is nothing wrong with wearing them alone. Especially if you’re in the market for something more on budget.”

She’s clearly humoring him but Connor is desperately grateful for her pandering. She smiles at him sweetly until he turns his attention to the contents of the case.

They’re all thinner rings, just like she said, and Connor sees how they would look good paired with a larger one. But he likes how most of them have the diamonds inset into the band instead of exposed. It’s more subtle but still beautiful and striking, something nice. He likes silver for sure and thinks the contrast would be nice against Dylan’s skin.

Even if Dylan agrees to Connor’s crazy plan he’ll most likely be wearing it on a chain around his neck but Connor would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see Dylan wearing it on his finger when they’re not on the ice. As much as Connor tries not to think about it, the draft means different teams almost certainly. They’re both going top ten at the very least and, lottery or not, there’s no way a team has enough assets to trade up and get them both. If Connor’s being honest with himself, it’s a little about the fact that they won’t be together all the time anymore. But Connor knows a good thing when he has it, what’s wrong with wanting to ensure it lasts?

Connor knows they’re both hoping to be in the NHL next year. He’d be stupid to want to be back here in Erie but the tiniest sliver says it would be alright if Dylan were here, too. It’s not a guarantee, though. Whoever drafts Stromer would be stupid to send him down but there’s a lot of other factors in play which aren’t completely in their control. If they’re going to be apart, it would be nice to know there’s a piece of Dylan that is always reserved for Connor.

Which is why he likes the smaller bands. The gold ones look too delicate but the silver ones look sturdy -- like they can withstand a heavy burden.

“Ma’am, can I see that one?”

He knows it’s perfect before she even takes it out. The silver band is small with white and black diamonds which go almost all the way around. He imagines it would be comfortable — the smooth silver on the bottom of the ring and the soft, sparkle of the diamonds on top. It’s heavier than expected when he holds it in his fingertips but it looks startlingly small. Not delicate but precious — secret.

“Beautiful design, very simple, if a little masculine for my taste but I’m sure you know what you’re looking for,” the lady is saying. Her hand is hovering over the ring and Connor blushes. He’s not going to steal it or anything but she’s so close their fingers almost brush when he smooths over the edges. He’s looking for imperfections but he can’t find any. It’s the one he wants to put on Dylan’s finger but…

“Um, do you do installment plans?”

The lady’s face is clearly shocked and Connor feels himself blush harder, surprised at himself. His mind is turning over, trying to make it work. He doesn’t have all the cash now and he has a credit card in his name but his parents watch the balance. He’s fairly sure they’d notice a charge this big on his account. And sure, it’s expensive but some of the traditional engagements rings are thousands of dollars -- this is barely one.

“We do offer a few different methods of payment depending on your down payment amount and credit,” she says slowly. “Are you sure this is the right one? We have quite the selection. There’s no need to rush such a big decision.”

Connor runs his fingers over the diamonds again. The black diamonds shift matte—looking almost flinty in the light. He could probably find something cheaper but Dylan deserves something nice. If Connor is serious about this, money doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. He can make it work. He’s got enough in his bank account to pay for half of it now and still have enough to eat for the rest of January. He can have it paid off if he takes half of his stipend for February and half for March. He’ll need to go out less with the boys and eat more at home but it’s not completely out of the question.

He’ll have the ring in time for Dylan’s 18th birthday—although, he supposes getting engaged on your birthday seems sort of lame.

Connor supposes when you know, you know.

“Yeah,” Connor finally responds, setting the ring down. “I’m sure.”

The receipt of payment finds a home at the bottom of his sock drawer. Connor’s tempted to take it with him -- he likes the way the paper feels -- but he’s supposed to bring it with him when he makes his payments. He doesn’t want to lose it.

They win against London and Connor tries to hide his pleasure at beating Marner but he’s not sure he succeeds.

“Eggplanet emojis just aren’t satisfying enough,” Dylan says. He’s got his phone out at the table, something which drives Connor crazy, but half the team does it. Connor keeps his firmly in his pocket.

“What are you gonna do? Send him a picture of your actual dick?” Alex says, a little loudly for Connor’s taste.

To his horror, Stromer looks contemplative. “I mean, no, because Marner might get the wrong idea. But I could send him a picture of, like, Connor’s right?”

“No! You can’t!” Connor says.

Alex leans closer, “You have Connor’s dick-pics?”

Connor feels his face flame. Dylan does not have any pictures of his naked body, which is not a point of contingency but Connor is sure Dylan will bring it up when they’re not in the same city all the time. Connor staunchly feels that Skype video is better for his career than pictures lying around Dylan Strome’s unlocked phone. Not that he wouldn’t bet that Dylan takes unflattering double chin photos of him when they’re jerking off together but it’s not really the point. It’s the idea of sending his dick in a message to anyone, least of all Mitchell Marner, which prickles. It’s the principle really.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dylan teases but then him and Alex are fighting and Connor gets deputized to Snapchat the whole thing.

They have a few days off, which is nice because it’s Connor’s birthday and it eases into a bit of a homestand before they go on the road. He’s tempted to go home but he knows Dylan can’t go back with him. So he sticks around, lets his billets make him a cake and celebrates with them after practice.

Text: Stromer
Are you done w/ cake and the fam?

Connor texts him back, stepping away from the table where they’re all talking. It’s a Tuesday night, so most of the family is around for once. Everyone has their own activities to get to most of the time but there seems to always be time for cake. There is definitely not room in Connor’s diet plan for cake but tomorrow is a day off and they don’t play until Friday. He’s allowing himself a little treat, considering.

Text: Stromer
Sweet. Pack a bag. Cabin night.

Connor does blush now. Stromer’s billet family has a cabin on the lake which borders on being a yurt. It’s one room with the tiniest bathroom. They mostly use it for fishing, the property a lot bigger and a good place for tents and campers. Connor and Stromer usually use it for a night alone.

Which is why he’s blushing. Because he might be ready to marry Dylan Strome but sex takes all of Connor’s awkwardness and Dylan’s relaxed, natural chill and throws it all together and adds naked dicks and too many elbows. Connor is still amazed Dylan wanted to sleep with him a second time considering the first time they had sex, Connor got caught staring at Dylan in the morning and instead of acting cool, Connor had asked if he had slept well and spent a good three minutes rambling about the density of pillows and proper sleeping positions before Stromer put him out of his misery.

Going to the cabin definitely means sex, is the point. Like, ass sex.

Text:Stromer
Already cleared it with your billets, boo.

Connor rolls his eyes. Stromer claims he uses the term ironically but Connor’s not sure it’s entirely true anymore. Secret Sap Stromer makes Connor feel a little bit better about how much of a dork he is.

Text:Stromer
Seriously, be there in ten.

True to form, Dylan arrives an hour later and doesn’t even have the audacity to look sheepish. Not that Connor expects him to be. He’s literally late to everything and would be late to the rink if it wasn’t for the combined force of Connor and Dylan’s billets.

Connor can’t stop blushing the entire time Dylan is in the house. He’s charming and smooth with Connor’s billets, never once giving them the impression that he’s whisking Connor away to a barely heated yurt to spend the whole time having messy, sentimental sex. Meanwhile, Connor has it written all over his face so he lets himself hug them and then disappears out to the car and leaves Dylan to it.

“I scored us some cake,” Dylan says, slipping into the driver’s seat and tossing Connor a container. “What are you blushing about?”

Connor rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you took my leftover birthday cake!”

“Fuck you, I am your leftover cake,” he says nonsensically, waggling his eyebrows while he turns and pulls out of the driveway.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Connor replies but it doesn’t matter. They’re settling into the drive, fighting over the radio station and Connor has nearly forgotten about everything until he thinks about how perfect this is: Dylan and him in a car on the way to somewhere they can just exist together for a while. Once they’re on the highway out of town, Dylan’s reaching over to take Connor’s hand. No matter how much Dylan rubs away at Connor’s callouses, they’re still there and they just fit together.

If Connor spends too much time tracing the space of Dylan’s ring finger, no one is the wiser. It’s a secret he plays out between them on the drive to the cabin -- what it would be like if Dylan was wearing Connor’s ring; what it would feel like underneath Connor’s fingers as they drove off somewhere together -- maybe to a family Christmas or a fancy dinner party Connor had no desire to go to. Or maybe what it would be like hearing Dylan in the bathroom, taking the ring off to wash his hands and then hearing it clink against the porcelain when he put it back on. Or the way the metal would heat against Dylan’s skin and how it would feel when he was clutching the back of Connor’s neck -- how it would feel pressing, unyielding, when Dylan slipped his fingers inside of Connor…

“I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re the nice one,” Dylan says, breaking into Connor’s thoughts and squeezing his hand. “You only blush when you’re thinking about my dick.”

Connor laughs. “Not all of us can express ourselves in emoji, Stromer.”

“But you don’t deny that you are always thinking about my dick, Davo. Let’s not get off track here.”

Connor shakes his head, avoiding the stupid giddy feeling in the pit of his stomach seeing Stromer grin, confident and wild, from the driver’s seat.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Connor says. “Maybe I’m thinking about my dick.”

The sound of Dylan’s laugh is enough to keep his mind firmly in the present for the rest of their drive. Predictably, the cabin is freezing when they get in and it takes both of them, toques pulled low and gloved hands clumsy, to get the fire started. Even then, Connor refuses to stop moving for fear he’s going to freeze to death. He unpacks the car -- which is mostly full of unapproved diet plans foods, wine, and lube -- and chirps the hell out of Stromer when he comes back in to find Dylan has pulled all the blankets and pillows off the bed to pile in front of the fireplace.

“Shut up,” Stromer says, teeth still chattering. “This is romantic birthday shit, Davo. Don’t ruin the moment.”

He’s smiling, though, and Connor couldn’t ruin the moment if he tried.

Soon enough, the temperature of the room is drastically more warm than when they started -- although a far cry from actually warm -- and they can settle into the blankets. It’s a little uncomfortable on the floor but the lure of the hot fire, pilfered cake, and Stromer’s wandering, greedy hands convince Connor to peel out of his clothes and slide into the blanket cocoon Dylan’s got going.

“I am a fucking genius,” Dylan proclaims. His mouth is pink from the wine, which is sweet, cheap, and leaves Connor even more flushed than he normally is when they’re not even touching each other yet.

“Yeah, you’re a real beauty,” Connor says, missing sarcastic by a mile and landing on sappy. Which Dylan definitely catches because he grins, wide and careless, passing Connor the wine and tipping it forcefully into his mouth. They end up spilling a little bit but Dylan’s chasing the droplets down Connor’s chin with his mouth and it leaves them both in a giggling fit of ridiculousness.

It doesn’t take long for the giggles to turn into groans and the box of wine gets pushed to the side. Connor casts a glance it to make sure it’s not tipped over or too close to the fire before he writes it off completely, focusing on the way Dylan is gripping at his shoulders and panting into his mouth.

Every time they shift, rolling against each other as they shed more clothes, bits of Connor’s skin are exposed to the cold. It’s a shock, the thrill of the contrast between Stromer’s heat and the crispness of the air.

Which is what he blames when he gasps so loudly as Stromer’s fingers slide past his balls and rub, just barely there, but enough to shoot liquid heat up Connor’s spine.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dylan murmurs against Connor’s lips, moving his hand back soothingly before Connor can catch it crawling up his thigh and push it right back.

All the way back.

But, because Stromer is not as much as a jerk as he wants everyone to believe -- as Connor knows him to be -- he pulls away, just a little, so there is space for them to breathe.

“Davo, are you --"

“Yes,” Connor says, too aggressively but Dylan doesn’t back away. Their hands are still tangled together, which is weird because those are definitely Connor’s balls, but all of Stromer is so still. Connor feels his blush sweep down his chest. He knows he always splotchy mess when they fool around but he’s probably taking it to a whole new level tonight. Stromer hasn’t looked away.

“Um, I’ve been practicing,” Connor continues because he has and he doesn’t care if it makes him sound like a big virgin. He’s had a dick in his mouth before -- he’s not a virgin. “If you want -- I don’t want to pressure you or be a dick but I want, I mean, if you do.”

“JesusfuckingchristDavo,” Dylan swears hotly. “Of course I want to -- I mean, you’ve just never, you’ve never said.”

“Oh, well, um -- I think about it a lot? I like it when it’s just my fingers --"

Stromer wastes no time sliding both their hands back, their fingers press awkwardly against Connor’s hole. Connor’s practically bent in half but he’s not going to protest when Dylan’s rubbing the soft pad of his finger against a place Connor’s been imagining him being for months.

“You’ve touched yourself here? When and why wasn't I invited,” Dylan teases, nipping at Connor’s lips. “Can I --"

“Please?” Connor says and is so proud of himself when he doesn’t sound like he’s pleading, it’s just embarrassingly soft but that’s fairly normal. Dylan curses and slides his finger the rest of the way inside Connor. It’s too dry, but Connor doesn’t care, not right then, because Dylan’s inside him, even if it’s just a finger.

For now.

Which is what spurs him to uncurl, reaching up to search for the lube (underneath two bags of Doritos and the cap from the wine) and driving his hips down, sliding more fully onto the length of Dylan’s finger.

“Oh that’s --"

Dylan looks gobsmacked, staring at his hand between Connor’s legs and then he grins, a little hair-brained and crazy looking. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Connor laughs because Stromer is being an idiot, taking the lube from Connor’s hands and sliding his finger out. “Can I just --" Dylan mimes a bit of thrusting and Connor wants to die -- he would if he didn’t want this so much.

“Lots of lube? And I kind of -- go off a little fast, so if you want to get a chance at --"

Dylan’s eyes are huge. “Do you want me to -- to fuck you?”

He can’t help it -- he smiles, because this is definitely a role reversal -- usually it’s Stromer unraveling Connor and it’s nice to win the face-off so cleanly. “Only if you want to -- your fingers are probably, I mean, I’ll probably come if you find --"

“I’ve watched porn! I know what a prostate is, Davo,” Stromer says, regaining his chill for all of three seconds before the blanket around his shoulders falls off while he’s uncapping the lube and he starts yelping at the cold.

With the help of some long-lost coordination, a pillow gets shoved underneath Connor’s lower back and he’s helplessly draping his legs over Dylan’s hips so he can be close enough to have Connor hold the blanket over his shoulders and still have his hands free.

“Oh, so you can’t help with the blankets, eh?”

Between his legs, where neither of them have gotten less hard because that feels impossible right now, Dylan grins.

“I’m definitely going to need both of my hands.”

Being fingered by someone else is completely different than touching himself. For starters, Dylan seems to be able to reach further -- not limited by their ‘Yoga for Hockey Player’s’ flexibility. So it’s two lubed fingers sliding easily inside Connor, leaving his chest heaving and Stromer looking like he’d seen a ghost.

“Good or not, should I --"

Connor shook his head. “No, it’s good. Just different than my own.”

Dylan doesn’t look away from the slow slide of his fingers and Connor notices how he doesn’t have the same feedback loop as he does when he fingers himself -- it feels a little detached. It’s not as intense but then again, it’s more unpredictable. Stromer goes from exploratory thrusts to tugging at Connor’s rim and he feels his dick jump against his belly. Dylan’s fingers press in again, curling a little and Connor’s back arches into it shamelessly.

“Holy shit, Connor --"

“Fuck, just keep going.”

Dylan takes him at his word, working his fingers in with a smooth, swift stroke and then stretching wide on the way out. He’s clearly searching, used to the tightness and Connor’s jerking thighs around him. A few more thrusts have Connor shyly grabbing at Dylan’s arm and asking for another.

“Yeah, yeah, okay but give me some direction here,” Dylan says, the third finger a stretch that Connor feels from his toes up through his neck. “If I can’t find it with my fingers, no way I’m gonna find it when it’s my dick.”

Connor embarrassingly, thrusts his hips greedily down back on Dylan’s fingers and gasps at the stretch. When it’s just himself, three fingers was too awkward for anything more than a few luxurious thrusts of fullness before he went back to two. Now, Dylan eases three in -- seating Connor firmly on his hand over and over again until Connor is gasping, fingernails digging into Dylan’s skin.

“This is fucking amazing. You look so hot,” Stromer says, finally looking away from where he’s working his fingers into Connor. “Now, tell me where it’s at.”

It takes ten minutes and several different positions before they get Connor’s right leg pulled up to his chest but it’s a fucking breeze once they find the right angle. Connor’s always been quiet or well, quieter compared to Stromer but Connor has always blamed Dylan’s brothers for his shamelessness. But Dylan’s fingers pressing confidentiality inside of him while Dylan watches eagerly from between his legs -- where Connor can fucking see how hard he is, how much he’s leaking from making Connor feel this good -- yeah, that makes Connor a little bit louder. He’s just, less mindful of it? He can’t think about his mouth when Dylan presses in and then doesn’t stop, finding that spot inside of him which has Connor gasping for air. It’s relentless, all of Dylan’s focus on driving into Connor, the angle perfect, and over very, very fast.

Connor comes all over his belly, hand unconsciously furious around the base of his dick. When he stops coming and his hand falls away from the mess, Stromer hasn’t moved an inch. He looks stuck -- gorgeous and yeah, with his fingers still in Connor.

“Can you um,” Connor starts and Dylan goes to pull out but Connor stops him. “No, I just -- I was gonna ask you if you could last if you, um, if you put it in me now?”

Dylan gapes. “Davo, I’m about to come all over you. Dicking is going to have to wait like… ten minutes -- tops. This is the hottest fucking thing -- -”

“Yeah, you said,” Connor laughs out. “But just, can you keep your fingers there?”

Connor stretches his leg out, moving Dylan’s fingers away from his prostate and brings them a bit closer together. It’s easy to get a hand on him, help him jerk himself off. Connor’s own arousal is still there, despite his recent orgasm, but it’s a bit distant and now he can watch Stromer greedily drink in the sight of his fingers sliding inside of Connor, loose and waiting for him. It takes maybe a dozen strokes, before Dylan’s sinking his teeth into Connor’s shoulder and adding to the mess between the vee of his hips.

“Do you think I can eat cake off your abs without moving my fingers?” Dylan pants minutes later and it gets them both laughing. Connor’s been stroking his hands over the long planes of Dylan’s back and keeping the blanket firmly around them. Dylan’s fingers have slide out of Connor but they’re still there, stroking over Connor’s balls and thumbing his entrance. “I want cake but also, I’m still lowkey obsessed with your ass.”

Connor hums and can’t help but kiss the sweaty mess of Stromer’s hair, which looks messier than usual as if it reflects their sexual progression. They move eventually, sitting up and stoking the fire so the warmth of the room swells and it’s not longer frighteningly essential to keep the blankets wrapped around their bareness. Connor feels extremely weird about eating naked, so he snags a pillow and a blanket to set his cake on. Dylan stays stark naked, pressed up against Connor’s side and Connor tries to find whatever level of chill is needed to stop staring at Dylan’s chubbed up dick as they eat left-over cake.

By the way Dylan grins at him, smug and infuriatingly casual, Connor doesn’t manage any chill.

It can’t be twenty minutes before the cake is abandoned -- Connor can taste the frosting on Dylan’s tongue when he sucks, pleased when he can see his blunt nails have made the faintest of lines down the sides of Stromer’s neck. None of his hickeys ever get noticed on Dylan, not like when Stromer bites too hard and Connor has to get dressed to the hoot and hollar of the dressing room.

There is a brief moment of unrelenting awkwardness when Dylan gets up to wash his hands -- because there’s cake everywhere and baby wipes feel grossly inadequate for sanitization, especially when they know where Dylan’s fingers are going to end up. The fire doesn’t even need another log before their dicks are back to being hard between them and Dylan’s fingers are up inside Connor. Leftover come from their hasty clean up and more hastily added lube has them rocking against each other in rhythm.

It feels like it’s been forever since they were here but it can’t have been more than hour. Connor feels desperate, the thought of Dylan getting inside of him makes him feel frantic and breathless in a way which has little to do with Dylan’s fingers fucking him open. Everything is warm and hazy, the buzz of good sex and cheating on their diets mixing with thrill of losing his virginity.

Before long, they’re thrusting against each other -- Connor halfway into Dylan’s lap trying to get more of the hard twist of his wrist. It’s desperate but still languid in a way Connor can only describe as content and Connor doesn’t realize how close they are until Stromer’s dick almost slides inside when Connor thrusts down on a particularly good finger fuck.

“Fuck, Dylan, we should -- we need a condom,” Connor says, his own teeth scraping against Stromer’s neck as the length of Dylan’s dick slides up between Conner’s cheeks. Everything is slick with lube and Connor wants to just let him -- let him push in with the bare, wetness of his dick until he’s completely inside Connor. But that’s not, that’s not smart and Connor tries to claw back to reality, even with Dylan’s fingers holding him open and letting the slickness smear across his hole.

“Dyls, condoms -- fuck, god -- we need a condom right now,” Connor pants because Dylan’s dick is definitely inside of Connor. Just the tip of it, his fingers bracketing it and definitely not sliding in but it’s there and Connor’s self control is thin. It would take barely anything to just take it -- sit down and let Dylan slide into him bare and wet with precome. The thought makes Connor whine and shiver, clenching unconsciously around Dylan’s fingers and the tip of his dick.

“Fuck, Dyaln -- condoms --"

“What -- oh yeah, I mean but we don’t have to?”

Connor blinks, breathing. “What? Yes we do --"

“Well I clearly haven’t done this before, Connor -- I’m not --"

“But you have with girls.”

Dylan blinks slowly. “I have never cheated --"

Connor pinches him, shifting so Dylan’s dick is no longer pressing against, what feels like, his gaping entrance. Neither of them can think or talk straight with Dylan that close to Connor. He feels a little less pathetic when he backs away -- he was practically crawling into Dylan’s lap and that’s just… well, it was clearly very nice but he’s also a little embarrassed by it.

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous. I just mean, before me -- right? You’ve slept with girls before me. You’re not like -- I mean, I’ve obviously never --"

“Obviously -- bullshit. You could have!”

“ -- but you have. With girls, right?” Connor finishes because his awkwardness knows no bounds.

Dylan blushes. “Two? But let’s not act like it was more than that -- or that I lasted very long or that, I mean, I wore a condom.”

“Just because I can’t get pregnant doesn’t mean you shouldn’t wear one, Dyls,” Connor says, softly but firmly. It takes Stromer a visible few seconds to get it.

“Oh yeah -- duh, godfuck, I’m like cum-dumb? Look what you’ve done to me, Davo -- fucked all the sense out of me.”

Maybe there’s a joke to be made there but they’re too busy clammering for a condom. Connor stops Dylan for a moment, kissing him again until Connor’s chest doesn’t feel so tight. Dylan’s fingers find their way back inside of him, lube dripping down Connor’s cheeks and it’s suddenly different. Dylan’s covering him, kissing him and pressing against him in all the right ways. And then, just like that, Connor’s back on his back, pillow in place and taking it. There’s not some huge moment. One second, Dylan's rubbing the head of his condom-clad dick over Connor’s hole and Connor makes the most embarrassingly needy noise into Dylan’s mouth and then, Dylan’s inside of him.

It doesn’t hurt very much, maybe because there have been at least three fingers in Connor’s ass for nearly an hour but it’s uncomfortable. It’s extremely uncomfortable. It’s undeniable and unyielding and just -- it’s a lot.

“Fuck, holy fuck, Davo, fuck,” Stromer curses, head bowed above him. Connor’s got one hand on Dylan’s hip, holding him still as he trembles inside of him. Connor can feel it. “Davo -- is it okay? Because oh my god, just -- are you good?”

Connor hums, rocking his hips a little. It’s so full? He says so. “It doesn’t hurt -- just like, really full.”

Stromer’s hips twitch. “Sorry, just -- you’re full of my dick and that’s really blowing my mind right now and also, you feel -- Davo, I literally cannot.”

Connor has to kiss him then because Dylan’s shaking. And Connor just loves him so much that any lingering nerves wash away. Connor pulls him in for a kiss by his neck. It shifts them both, startling a gasp out of him and a groan out of Dylan.

“Maybe you should just move. But go slow, eh?”

“Yeah, just --"

Dylan blinks and pulls a little bit away from Connor to get leverage but he looks a little scared. Connor kisses him on the cheek, nuzzles him because he can’t believe they’re here -- he can’t believe it and he never wants it to end.

“Don’t come, Dyls. Just fuck me for a bit, bud? We’ll figure it out.”

“Don’t come, right,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes and pep-talking himself before he pulls out. He nearly falls out of Connor completely and then over corrects, slamming into Connor and causing them both to shout. “Sorry, it’s just -- you’re insane. You feel insane and I’m also trying not to cry because I love you.”

Connor laughs because Dylan is amazing and pathetic and yeah, this is definitely the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Stromer lasts long enough to get Connor hard again, slowly adjusting to having more than just the length of fingers inside of him. Connor feels little less full, like he’s adjusting more to the power behind Dylan’s hips and enjoys the way Stromer groans when he pushes inside -- like he’s barely hanging on.

On a whim, Connor pulls his right leg up again, just like before with Dylan’s fingers, and it’s magic. “Christ, Dyls.” Because the angle has Dylan’s dick glancing off his prostate on the way in and riding it hard on the way out. It’s so good Connor thinks he could come from the feeling alone, if Dylan would last.

It also helps that Dylan looks good above him, shaking a little less and looking more like himself, mouthing off as usual during sex -- which is something Connor has grown to love and ignore.

There are maybe five glorious, heart throbbing, shouty thrusts which have Connor just as wide-eyed as Dylan because he’s nailing him perfectly. Dylan looks better than sex, moving above him and inside him but Connor knows it can’t last, not when Dylan’s hips are way out of control and is saying Conner’s name over and over again. It’s fucking amazing -- like they’re streaking together down the wings and toward the goal at a relentless pace.

Dylan comes with a brutal thrust of his dick, one hand pulling at Connor’s shoulders and making Connor cry out because being brought down onto the slide of Dylan’s dick is something they’ll need to investigate further -- it feels so different than being driven into. Dylan clings to him, heavy and definitely useless as he jerks inside of him. Connor doesn’t bother waiting, but finishes himself off while Stromer is still limp and whimpering above him. The only signs of life are the panting against Connor’s neck and the slowly softening dick inside of him.

Which -- that feeling is almost...Connor tries to tighten around him and yeah, when he does Dylan’s half chub rubs right against his prostate, even though Stromer whines.

Connor comes like that, hand frantically moving between them with Stromer’s dick going soft in his ass and Stromer licking a long line up Connor’s throat, stroking his hair back and murmuring truly pathetically romantic things in his ear. Dylan’s voice is wrecked from all the loud noises he made but he sounds perfect. It’s a mix of porn inspired dirty talk and the sweetness that always makes Connor weak in the knees, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and luck.

It’s when Dylan holds Connor’s other hand, squeezing too hard, and tells him he loves him that Connor comes between them.

“Hell yes, Davo,” Dylan says when Connor’s hand has gone as limp as his twitching dick between them and Dylan’s fallen out of Connor’s puffy, loose hole. “I love you so fucking much. Get some.”

Connor doesn’t want to encourage Dylan’s ridiculousness but he can’t help but accept Stromer’s fistbump, even as he works a truly epic hickey on Connor’s neck which will ruin his locker-room cool for weeks to come.

Connor wakes up in the middle of the night because the fire has died down and Stromer’s stolen most of the covers. He shifts a bit, cataloging his soreness, slipping away from where Dylan was nestled like a human burrito into his side, so he can get to the wood and stoke the fire. He likes the way he never feels bleary eyed here -- even in the dead of night his mind feels crystal clear. It feels a lot different than waking up cold on buses or jerking awake to his alarm in hotel rooms.

Granted, Connor always sleeps better with Dylan.

“Davo?” Connor pokes the fire a few more times before he turns back to Dylan. “Sorry, I was cold,” Connor says, scooting closer when Dylan’s bare arms escape the blankets to reach out to him. It takes all of their coordination to get the the blankets untangled from Dylan’s body and nestled around both of them.

“Thanks,” Dylan says, their legs are slotted together and Dylan throws himself back on top of Connor, settling in. This time, the blankets cover both of them so Connor doesn’t mind so much. “Sorry I stole the covers again.”

“It’s perfect.”

He says it because it’s true but then he knows he sounds stupid. “I just mean- I’m used to it.”

Dylan grins, sleepily. “Hell yeah you are bud.”

The light from the fire flickers all over Dylan’s face and Connor never wants to leave this moment. It’s crazy, because in times like these the show feels like it will pale in comparison to having this: Dylan grinning, tousled from sleep and sex, above him. Connor feels stupidly safe, like nothing could touch him here and he’s spoiled. Too blessed to be stressed, or something ridiculous like that.

“You know when those reporters asked us what the greatest thing hockey has given us?” Connor says, because he needs to. Dylan doesn’t stop grinning, he just tilts his head like he’s willing to follow Connor’s lead.

“Yeah,” he says. “Alex said jock itch and they had to edit it out.”

Connor pokes Dylan in the side. “Gross. No, I mean -- I said teamwork.”

“Yeah, I said that too.”

“Well, I lied,” Connor says, watching Dylan mock being shocked and appalled. “I wanted -- I wanted to say you. I didn’t but that’s the first thing I thought of when they asked. Hockey, without it, I wouldn’t have met you and that’s -- I can’t even imagine my life without you.”

“If you go first in the draft, I doubt you’ll be saying that soon,” Dylan says. He’s smiling still, like he doesn’t get it, hand too casual as it strokes down Connor’s side.

“No,” Connor says, as serious as he can between them. “That’s what I’m trying to say, even if -- even with everything that’s going to happen this year, you’re still the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Dylan looks concerned and he’s wiggling his hands free, leaning in to rub his hands over Connor’s forehead and over his bedhead -- like he’s checking Connor for a head injury.

“Davo, is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, trying to smile. “Everything’s perfect. That’s -- that’s the whole point.”

Strome just looks at him with a patience Connor has never felt. He’s been trying to get better at being patient because hard work doesn’t always create instant results and it will never be more true than going high up in a draft lottery of the worst teams in the league. But Dylan’s always been easy and Connor keeps waiting for it to get hard but it doesn’t seem to be happening. When he thinks about having to choose between anything and Dylan, it’s not even a thought to entertain.

“I just, I just love you. This, you -- us, jesus, Stromer. Just thanks,” Connor says. “That’s all -- thanks for a great 18th birthday.”

Dylan stays there, searching Connor’s face with his dark, steady eyes. The fire is warming the room again and Connor’s feeling sleepy, a little wrung out, but Dylan looks wide awake now.

“Hey Davo?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too and you’re welcome,” Dylan says and he looks serious, mouth set when he leans down and kisses Connor. It feels different, like they’re sealing a promise Connor desperately wants to know more about. But he let’s Dylan kiss him, firm and steady.

“Also, anytime -- because I’m already trying to think of when I can get back between your thighs, boo,” he says, jokingly but Connor nods, grinning.

“Yeah, we’re not half bad, are we, bud?”

“We’re really just getting started, Davo -- I’ve watched a lot of porn in my life. Literally -- I’ve never studied harder. I’ve got a long list of things and like, the first twenty things involve your ass and my dick or your dick in my ass -- I’m just saying. I’ve got plans,” Dylan says lightly, winking outrageously, and then tucks himself into Connor’s neck. In a few hours, the fire will go out again and Dylan will roll away with all the blankets but Connor would rather be here than literally anywhere else. Then, in a few hours, Connor will work up the courage to ask Dylan to fuck him again in the predawn light. It will be awkward, even more than their first time, and Connor will have to stop himself from tearing up when Dylan holds him close, dick working inside of Connor as he fucks him with desperation and tells Connor how beautiful he is.

For now, Connor strokes his fingers through Dylan’s hair and focuses on breathing. Dylan’s heavy on top of him but solid and safe. Dylan mumbles, breath hot against Connor’s neck.

“What are you saying?”

Dylan shifts, smacking Connor’s chest with the flat breadth of his palm. “I said you’re the best thing hockey gave me, too.”

“Well good,” Connor says, “Glad we’re both on the same page.”

“Good post-game chat there, Cap.”

“God, you fuck, go to sleep,” he says and they do -- smiling. Connor can feel Dylan’s teeth against his skin like a brand.

The rest of January flies by in the best way possible. They’re winning hockey games, Stromer is wracking up points on Connor’s wing and the draft feels impossibly far away. It’s an illusion which is constantly shattered by the increased presence of reports asking questions definitely not about the Otters’ current season. It’s more difficult than ever to ignore but the team does a valiant job of keeping things loose and Connor doesn’t fight it when the curtain falls back into place and everything feels like they’re only playing hockey again.

It also helps he’s got Dylan to occupy his time (they're making their way through Dylan’s list) and the last deposit for the ring to think about.

He doesn’t mean to tell Alex.

Connor’s been doing pretty good dodging the team on going out too much. He hits the gym a few extra times and lets everyone write it off as pre-playoff stress and draft bullshit. He doesn’t lie but he certainly doesn’t correct them and he’s fairly certain no one has noticed his subdued spending except he wasn’t counting on Alex being an eavesdropping shit.

Everyone counts Alex out because he’s small but Connor knows better. It’s a rookie mistake.

His March stipend is deposited when they’re in Kingston, so he slips away to call the jeweler with his account information to make a direct deposit. He never ordered any checks for his bank account, so it seems like the simplest way.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just confirming the amount was transferred successfully,” he says over the phone. Connor walks out of the bathroom only to run into Alex, who looks terribly guilty and also like he might vomit, which solidifies just how much Alex was listening in.

“Yes, Mr. McDavid -- the transaction just cleared. Will you be in today to pick it up?”

“Oh no,” Connor says, then he apologises and promises to swing by soon. He can barely hang up the phone fast enough, her congratulations on the “purchase of a lifetime of happiness” rings so loud he’s certain Alex can hear it from his position as a gaping statue in front of him.

“Listen, Alex --" but Alex is shaking his head, looking incredibly disappointed and even a bit upset.

“No, literally fuck you, Connor. This is some seriously fucked up bullshit. Dylan is obsessed with you and you’re what, messing around behind his back? Buying some GTA trash model a ring when we both know she probably just wants you because you’re gonna go number one? Seriously -- fuck you! Fuck you!”

Connor honestly thinks Alex is going to cry, which is just fine because now Connor feels like he’s going to cry. Jesus, this is a mess.

“No, it’s not like that -- I’m not, that’s not what is happening, Alex. Christ, you really think I’d do that to Dylan?”

Alex looks torn, eyes red and skipping all over Connor’s face like he’ll find the truth there. Connor doesn’t look away.

“You’re his captain,” Alex settles on. “You’re our captain. You’re not supposed to be a fucking asshole in real life.”

Connor sighs, completely resigned to giving himself up to Alex -- who, for the record, has never kept a secret in his entire life.

“Um, well, I’m not sure about being or not being an asshole, but the ring is for Dylan. I, um -- God, it’s really hard to say out loud because I haven’t told anyone this, but I was going to propose,” Connor says, grimacing. When he says it, the whole thing sounds so stupid coming out of his mouth. Like he isn’t serious. Like he’s just a kid with a stupid notion of forever he’s desperately clinging to -- like Dylan is a youth driven, Peter-pan like fantasy that Connor is refusing to let go of because he doesn’t want to grow up.

When it’s literally the opposite of all those things. Connor digs through the mess of media training and tries to find actual words which aren’t senseless shouting or crying. Because neither of those sound like he’s ready to make decisions about the rest of his life.

Alex blinks at him but doesn’t back down.

“It’s just -- with the draft coming up? I don’t want him to think this isn’t it for me, you know? This isn’t something that gets to be screwed up by the NHL or long distance or whatever. Dylan is the real thing -- we’re good together and I want it to be forever.” Connor continues, then he steps forward to show Alex the picture Connor has of the ring on his phone.

“We’re the real thing,” Connor says, firmly. “The ring is for Dyls.”

“Holy shit,” Alex says.

“Yeah.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

Connor bites his lip to keep his laughter in because Alex looks manic now, eyes even wider than when he thought Connor was a cheating douche-bag. His hands are spread wide around the phone Connor’s holding, like he’s afraid to touch it. The emotional shift from being accused of being a cheating asshole to pathetic romantic is a little harsh for Connor.

“I mean, do you think he’ll like it?” Because what else does Connor have to say when Alex continues to look like one of those deep sea gulper fish -- mouth gaping open.

“Well, if you’re lying to me, Davo,” Alex finally says, grin spreading across his face, “then that’s the ugliest ring I’ve ever seen for a gold-digging puck bunny.”

Which makes Connor want to scold Alex. Sure, there are some people out there just looking to marry rich but it’s not like hockey culture doesn’t promote it. He doesn’t have the chance to tell him once again that there is no one else because Alex is promptly losing his shit. There is much more hugging than Connor is strictly okay with, but if it means they don’t have to acknowledge that Alex basically cried about Connor and Dylan’s relationship then it’s all fine. Of course, once Alex properly expresses his relief -- then the chirping comes.

“Look at all that bling! Dylan is going to shit himself,” Alex is saying, grabbing at Connor’s phone and turning it this way and that, like it’s going to change the picture or something. “You’re gonna be gay-married to Baby Stromer, this is lit as fuck. Homos for life! That’s some seriously adult shit. Davo, he’s gonna shit himself!”

“That’s not really the reaction I’m going for,” Connor says. “Listen, Alex, you can’t say anything.”

“Course not bro --"

Connor sighs. “I’m serious here. I don’t want you to tell Dylan, so I do not care what this means to you -- whatever you need to do in order to keep your mouth shut. I do not want him to find out about this from you.”

Alex looks up from Connor’s phone. “Come on! I’ve totally got this.”

“You absolutely do not,” Connor replies with enough misery that Alex looks a little wounded. “You can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

“That’s stupid shit,” Alex says. “This is serious life shit. I got this on lock.”

“Alex…”

“I have kept every single secret about you and Stromer’s dicks touching,” Alex says, crudely and explicitly with a hand motion which Connor wants to never see again.

“My relationship with Stromer wasn’t ever a secret on the team,” Connor says sagely. “It’s not like we are sneaking around.”

Alex bites his lip. “Okay, but I’ve walked in on you two like, four times and never sold anyone that accidental dick-pick Stromer sent me. And, I totally vouched for you when someone made that joke about OHL guys dicking around with each other.”

Connor feels his entire face flame. “That -- I mean --"

“I'm just saying -- no shame in that bottom game. But can I just say, you looked very captainly while it was happening and now I guess I understand why there was so much hand-holding during all the anal banging.”

To say this conversation never made it into Connor’s great plan to ask Dylan to marry him is a severe understatement. Alex Debrincat is just -- something is wrong with him and if anyone at the draft asks him about the kid’s mental state, Connor will rat him out in a minute. Seriously.

“What the fuck are you even saying,” Connor says, already trying to figure out if he should move up his timeline. Alex pushes Connor’s phone back into Connor’s chest and reaches up onto his tiptoes to wrap his arm around Connor’s shoulders.

“Cap, I got this. Trust me.”

Did Connor mention he just wants to die?

They play back to backs at Owen Sound at the end of February, the first game has their entire defence crumbling in a 5-4 loss and then the second game rebounds for a huge win that has Connor keeping his smiles to himself and apologizing for the only goal they let in -- as it definitely should have been a shut-out.

They head back to Erie in good spirits and by some miracle, Alex hasn’t completely ruined everything. He’s come suspiciously close a few times, but Connor’s beginning to think he might actually keep his word. It helps that Connor keeps Dylan as far away from Alex as he possibly can after Alex hangs over the back of a bus seat, makes several lewd comments about Dylan’s hands and while he avoids making any comments about jewelry, he does make sure he implies to the whole bus that Connor enjoys fisting.

It’s only seven days until Dylan’s birthday and Connor’s not sure he can wait that long.

Connor leans over on the bus ride back to Erie, intending to turn down the volume on Dylan’s blaringly loud headphones, when Dylan slides one eye open and keeps Connor very close to him.

“Did you get mad about Alex because he was right?”

Connor blanches. “Right about what?”

“Do you want me to fist you?”

Connor chokes on his tongue and feels his entire face turns red like he’s been doubled shifted for half a period. It’s not that they -- it’s not that they’re not having sex on the regular but they’re also usually too horny or exhausted to do much more than what Connor knows the world considers vaguely vanilla -- handjobs and blowjobs but there's plenty of time in the summer to get the bulk of Dylan’s porn list. If all goes well, their engaged sex can involve them getting better at more… complicated sex. Stromer’s finger almost always finds it’s way inside of Connor these days but they don’t have time to really explore more than once at week -- if that.

Not that their… penetrative sex isn’t great. Connor is enjoying it, even if he wants to die with embarrassment half the time. The other half he’s trying not to come too fast. So it all works out in the end. The point is though -- fisting is definitely not even on Connor’s radar right now. He’d like to get good at just taking a dick before he tries to take an entire fist.

“Davo?” Dylan looks perfectly serious and he’s not blushing but he is staring at Connor like he expects an answer. “Alex strike a nerve?”

Connor clears his throat. “I haven’t really thought about it.” And he hasn’t but he certainly is now and also maybe because the majority of his fantasies have been occupied by Dylan eating him out, his hand dark and sparkling with Connor’s ring, holding his thighs open.

It’s a very specific fantasy Connor refuses to stop having because he’s superstitious it won’t happen at all. He’s reverse superstitious about it. He wants to propose and then he wants Dylan to put his mouth on him before they fuck their way to happily-ever-after.

Right. Connor should probably buy one of those self-help books on how hard people need to work to have a good marriage to dull the weird massive way it's built up in his head.

“But I’m not -- -against it,” is what Connor ends up saying, deliberately not looking at Dylan. Which is why he is completely unprepared when he feels Dylan’s hand pressed up the length of his dick as it lays, semi-hard, against his thigh. He doesn’t squeak but he does whip his head around to glare.

“No, Dylan,” Connor says, as forcefully as possible. “Not on the bus. Come on, we talked about this.”

Dylan smirks, his small mouth making Connor want to melt into the vastness of Ontario and never return.

“Actually, Davo,” Dylan says casually, leaning closer and squeezing Connor’s dick to full hardness. “We talked about how much I want to suck you off when you fall asleep on the bus, looking terribly attractive and captainly, and then, because you are so kind and gracious, you let me choke on your dick a bit while you pretended to look at stats. Do you remember that?”

Connor’s going to fly into a million pieces.

“Of course I remember it,” Connor hisses, trying not to raise his voice. “It was last week! Don’t act like this is -- Dyls, fuck --"

He can hear the beat of Dylan’s music through his headphones -- too loud and horrible for his ears -- but it’s distracting, bass heavy and hot. Dylan wets his lips and readjusts the blanket over them, leaning in for a kiss.

In testament to the sheer normality of their epic gayness on the team, no one even bats an eye to Connor and Dylan getting very cuddly. Which is why Dylan is pretending to lean in for a kiss, when really he’s just being a filthy, horny teenager and Connor hates him.

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” Dylan says and Connor believes him, because he presses a closed mouth kiss to Connor’s chin after he says it. “But I really don’t want to. What I want to do, is jerk you off in your sweats and watch you be really quiet so no one can hear you when you come on my hand.”

Connor doesn’t whine. He doesn’t look away from Dylan. He feels like he doesn’t even breathe. Dylan kisses him, small little innocent kisses -- sipping kisses and then grinds his hand, too hard and rough, against Connor’s dick.

“Dylan --"

“Just tell me what you want me to do -- because I’ve been thinking about touching you for like -- three hours now. I’m going insane,” he says but his hands already working its way into Connor’s sweats to get at his dick properly.

This is the man Connor wants to marry.

He really, really hopes his mother forgives him.

Amazingly, Connor picks up the ring without issue. It seems now that he’s actually paid for it, the people in the store no longer look at him like he’s about to take a baseball bat to all the cases and make a run for it. Before he leaves, the lady at the corner does mention he should keep them in mind for birthday and anniversary gifts because they make a nice pair of diamond earrings for his fiance.

Connor doesn’t even know what he says when he leaves but he knows his face is bright red, partly for thinking she’s jinxed the whole thing with her assumption and partly because he’s thinking of Stromer with his ears pierced, wearing diamond earrings Connor’s bought him.

One thing at a time.

Text: Stromer
BOO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING.

Connor can’t help but look around, panic-scanning the parking lot for any sign of Dylan. He doesn’t seem him and Connor curses, sliding back into the borrowed car and laying the bag on the passenger seat. He’d thought the ring would just come in a box but there is a certificate of authenticity for the carats, an instruction manual for caring for it, and a whole host of other information packets. He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to give Dylan. In the movies, it’s always just the ring.

He shoots a quick text back, saying he’s driving back home and then pockets his phone. Dylan knows he refuses to text and drive so at least Connor has the twenty minutes it takes back home to quietly panic.

The thing is, he’s still sure this is something he wants to say. Whatever Dylan says -- it doesn’t have anything to do with Connor. All he can do is be honest and hope Stromer wants the same thing, which, historically? Dylan has wanted the same things as Connor. So, he knows his odds are fairly good but Dylan’s an entirely more laid-back sort of person than Connor. They are mostly opposites in every way but on the ice. Connor has always felt… awed that Dylan was attracted to him and not because Connor’s ugly or anything but because he’s nothing like the guys Dylan normally hangs out with on the team.

For a long time growing up, Connor thought everyone was wrong to label him as a leader. He was just quiet -- there was nothing strong about his silences. He didn’t have anything to say. But he’s learned over the last two years that silence can be strong for a captain but only because when he does want to speak up, he knows it’s the right thing to say.

So maybe it’s a fools thought but Connor’s convinced their opposition is what makes them work. There’s always a possibility he’s gotten it wrong but the thought seems too cruel to even entertain.

People keep telling him he’s allowed to have things: privacy from PR people; money from his agent; a chance to win for years to come from his coaches. But although privacy, money and success would all be lovely, really -- no complaints -- the only thing he really wants to know is if he’s allowed to have this.

“That’s why you have to ask him,” Connor says to himself, physically shaking himself out of his headspace and getting out of the car, taking the bag with him.

Barrie comes to town a few days later and they win in an absolute landslide. Ten goals sends them soaring and the whole team feels invincible. Connor wants to feel bad and he tries to tell the guys to cool it on the bench during the final minutes. They are due to head to Barrie in three days -- on Dylan’s birthday -- to play in their barn and Connor really doesn’t want any trouble -- embarrassment breeds hatred and resentment.

Winning makes the weight of the ring a little less and he feels a lot more relaxed than he has in months. He lets Dylan drag him out with the guys to play video games and split the twenty-four pack of Natty someone smuggled into the basement, bribed off an older brother. Connor doesn’t partake, mostly because he hates Natty, but also because he’s got a history paper to finish up in the morning.

Stromer’s on his third, flushed from another horrible loss at Mario Kart and lounging rather suggestively between Connor’s knees. Connor managed to snag a seat on the couch and Dylan’s sitting on the floor in front of him, head lolling back to chirp or to sneak a bite at Connor’s thighs when he thinks no one is paying them any mind.

Across the couch, Alex is singing that horrible Bruno Mars song --"Marry You” -- and if Connor didn’t feel so good after the win, he’d want to smother him. As it is, he just flips him off and relaxes back into the couch.

“Hey Davo,” Stromer asks, nudging his head against Connor’s thigh. “You sure you don’t want a Natty?”

Connor makes a face.

“Yeah okay, bud. You’re such a snob.”

“Fuck off. I can drive your car home, though, if you want to keep drinking and I can just stay at yours,” Connor says, not even bothering to make it a question. It would take more than a few Natty’s to make Stromer too drunk to drive but it’s an easy excuse to spend time with him.

“Thanks, Davo,” Stromer says, long and whiny and ends it with a bite to his thigh that makes Connor more horny than annoyed.

Which was most likely Dylan’s whole plan.

By the time they leave, Connor’s got a hickey on the inside of his thigh that is barely covered by his basketball shorts. Dylan looks entirely too smug for someone who spent two hours on the floor after playing a hockey game. Connor has to hold Dylan’s hand the entire way back to his billets because it keeps straying and Connor’s not trying to die before they even get drafted.

“The Next Next One Dies in Horrific Sex Car Accident,” Stromer jokes as they giggle their way down to his basement room. He’s flushed and happy and Connor can’t stop kissing him.

“That makes it sound like the sex is horrific,” Connor says, punctuating the ludicrousness of such a statement by shoving his hand down Dylan’s sweats and listening to him moan.

“Yeah, horrific, Davo. Gross -- oh fuck yes.”

Connor doesn’t like messing around at his billet’s house -- it seems disrespectful when they treat him so much like he’s apart of their family and also because his room is on the same floor as the rest of the kids’. He used to feel bad about having sex here for the same reason but then Dylan told him his billet family basically gave him the green light when they found out he was dating Connor and although that’s mortifying on so many levels, it makes Connor feel better that he’s not actively disrespecting Dylan’s billets.

They still have to be quiet though, which is why Connor is on his hands and knees using the couch in Stromer’s room as leverage to push back, because it’s not against any walls and sturdy enough to take the weight of Connor and Dylan. They tried fucking lengthwise on it, but they’re both too long and it squeaks if they’re not careful.

It’s not Connor’s favorite thing in the world, only because he can’t see Dylan’s face and it’s murder on his knees, but it’s hard to care too much when Dylan’s got this much leverage. It’s so easy to find the right angle which has Connor on the edge way faster than is normally acceptable. It’s only been two months, but they’re getting very good at this. It helps Dylan is fairly tall and the couch is the perfect height for Connor to fold his arms and watch his cock bounce against his belly as Stromer pushes the pace.

“God, Davo, you feel so good,” Stromer says, leaning forward to whisper into his skin and scraping his teeth along Connor’s shoulder. Stromer loves to be loud but they just can’t, so he keeps his porn-mantra to a low murmur, which just makes Connor more turned on because it’s all hushed and intimate.

Not that having a dick in his ass isn’t intimate enough.

Stromer pauses a bit and Connor bites back a whine. “Dyls --"

“Hush, just -- give me a minute here,” Stromer pants, squeezing Connor’s hip and then he’s shifting Connor forward on his knees and pulling back on his shoulders. He’s still mostly on his knees but the angle is different and gravity sinks him back onto Stromer’s cock just deeper -- a less controlled riding.

“Holy fuck,” Connor whispers, moving to brace his hand when Dylan starts up again.

“Is that --"

“Just, I’m going to come so fucking soon,” is all Connor gets out because he absolutely is. It’s so good Connor feels like his spine is melting and Stromer’s got both his hands on Connor’s hips, pulling him back onto his dick and it’s not hard to imagine Connor’s ring on that finger, warm from Dylan’s skin and hot like a brand against Connor’s.

“Wait, I can --"

Connor comes before Dylan’s hand can get to his dick. It’s completely mortifying but Connor can’t do more than gasp wetly and clench down to ride it out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck -- Davo.”

Connor can’t feel Stromer come but he does feel Dylan’s teeth sink into his shoulder, one of his arms coming around to hold Connor on his dick. He can only gasp Dylan’s name and grab numbly at his head, fingers sinking into his sweaty hair, as his hips grind lazily into the full seat of Connor’s laden hips.

“So… that’s never happened before,” Connor says, wiping at his mouth and giggling a little. He knows he should probably be more embarrassed but he’s so sated that maybe it can wait until morning.

“I am so good at that, hot-damn,” Dylan says, voice honey-warm and gloating. Connor rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. He came so hard his dick kind of hurts, like on the inside. That has got to count for something. “You okay if I…?”

Connor groans a little but nods. He leans forward, away from Dylan’s soft mouth and embrace, and puts his forehead down against the couch because this is his least favorite part. It always hurts when Dylan pulls out and then Connor feels weirdly empty. Like, it’s worth it -- obviously, but Connor doesn’t have to like this part. Jesus, he’s clingy even in his own head.

Stromer disappears, only to come back with a wet towel to clean up Connor’s jiz, which is approximately everywhere. Connor’s sleepy and a little lost in his own head, thinking about the days to come, as Stromer tugs him up and into bed. Connor takes the briefs handed to him, even though he wears boxers and they are so clearly Dylan’s, because he hates sleeping naked. Dylan, of course, sleeps in the nude even when Connor isn’t there.

Stromer pushes and pulls them until Connor’s on his back and Stromer’s lying on top of him, pulling at Connor’s hands until they’re combing through his hair.

“Mmmm,” Stromer hums, clearly pleased with himself. “That was really hot, Davo.”

Connor wills himself not to blush but he feels his cheeks heat anyway. “Yeah, yeah, you’re not allowed to chirp me.”

“That’s not chirping -- it’s encouragement! Please feel free to be so overwhelmed by my dick that you come untouched. Feel free, Davo.”

“Don’t get upset if it never happens again,” Connor warns. “I was all wound up from earlier -- with all the biting.”

Dylan’s eyes are full of mirth and Connor sticks his tongue out because he’s tired and emotionally wrung out.

“I’m not going to be like, upset or anything but that’s like, goals.” Connor flicks his ear and Dylan grins against his skin. “It’s nice to see you so relaxed.”

“My dick hurts, Stromer. Is that what you want to hear? It literally hurts from poppin’ off so hard.”

Stromer pokes him. “No, you asshole, I just meant -- you’ve been a little weird these last few weeks. It was good to see you loosen up a little and let me make you feel good.”

“You noticed, eh?“

“Davo, you can’t be serious. Of course I noticed,” Dylan says, voice low and chiding. His face is serious. “This is me telling you I noticed, gave you room to figure it out and am now asking if you want to talk about it.”

Are you going to think I’m ridiculous for wanting this to last forever?

“It's actually -- I've been thinking about your birthday,” Connor settles on. “Do you want your present on the road or after?”

Dylan blinks, brown eyes soft and confused. “What the hell kind of present is it?”

“I can't tell you!”

“Can I have it now?”

Connor flushes and shakes his head.

“We play backies yeah?” Dylan asks, chewing on his lip. “Are we staying in North Bay overnight?”

“Think so.”

Dylan squints at him and Connor wonders what his own face looks like. Can Stromer tell? Is he just playing it cool or does he suspect?

“Then I’d like my present then please -- not sure I can wait until we get back, especially if it’s making you weird,” Dylan says frowning. “Presents are supposed to be fun.”

Connor yawns, mentally rolling his eyes. “Yeah well, you let me worry about that.”

They fall asleep like that, Dylan’s chin digging into Connor’s sternum and his hands combing through dark strands.

Connor has a plan.

It’s a loose plan and it starts with winning their back to back. Which goes absolutely swimmingly -- except for the part where Connor’s shoulder is fucked up in the process. It’s not bad but Connor’s held back for an extended ice bath and a painful massage. By the time he gets back to the hotel with strict instructions not to aggravate his shoulder, it’s almost midnight and whatever loose laid plans Connor had are out the window.

One, because Stromer is drunk, based on his increasingly exuberant and incoherent text messages and two, because Connor is exhausted. He’s pissed off, hurty and exhausted. He doesn’t bother texting Dylan to tell him he’s back from the North Bay barn -- he just crawls into their hotel room bed and holds Dylan’s engagement ring in the dark. There was supposed to be romantic room service but they had called Connor’s cell four times before leaving a message saying they assume he won’t be needing his request.

They were supposed to take a bath, something Stromer absolutely loves and Connor puts up with (it just doesn't feel sanitary and then he always ends up showering after -- so what the hell is the point) but Connor spent so much time in the ice-bath, he’s not sure he could have stood it anyway. Connor had a speech -- one he had practiced on Alex, for fuck’s sake -- and there was supposed to be some sort of sex before Connor sprung the whole, death due us part thing.

Then, of course, was the matter that Connor couldn’t possible propose to Dylan while he was drunk. Not that Connor blames him -- it’s his birthday, they’ve won their back to back on the road and Connor’s been kind of a tetchy bitch. He deserves to blow off some steam. Connor’s not mad -- he’s just tired and wallowing.

Also, his shoulder is throbbing. He really should have accepted the pain meds but he’s stubborn and proposing while high on painkillers also seemed like a bad idea. He falls asleep after tossing and turning for a while, trying to get into a position that doesn’t feel like it pulls at his shoulder. He spares a thought to the ring, underneath the pillow now, but resolves to deal with it in the morning.

Connor wakes up to too much light and a groaning Dylan. They have a late call to the buses today because the coaches are having a morning meeting and tape review session. Connor knows it’s mostly because they assume everyone would be violating curfew for Dylan’s birthday and he’s secretly grateful they don’t have to be on the bus until noon -- just in case Connor needs to lick his wounds a little longer or like, devise a way to walk back to Erie.

Surprisingly, Dylan’s made it back to the hotel room and Connor slips out of bed to brush his teeth. Stromer’s passed out, ass naked as usual, on top of the covers. He’s frowning in his sleep and Connor checks his texts while he brushes his teeth. There are… 27 unread texts from Dylan alone. The fondness for him swells, leaving whatever shitty mood Connor was in to evaporate as he rinses and spits out his toothpaste.

Text:Stromer
Miss you

Text:Stromer
Ass looks great. Shoulders bad

Text:Stromer
Sleeping by myself sux

The last three text messages are mostly incoherent and probably sent by a mostly passed out Dylan -- seeing as Connor can see his phone haphazardly neglected on the duvet. Who knows why Dylan was texting Connor from the bed next to him, probably because he didn’t want to wake Connor or hurt his shoulder and it’s kind of sweet when Connor thinks about it.

He shoots a text off to Alex, asking him to make sure no one bothers them before he crawls into bed with Stromer, who immediately rolls into Connor’s warmth. Because he’s bare naked, the hotel is chilly and Stromer is a blanket hog even in the summer.

“How’s your shoulder?” Dylan slurs, his face smashed against Connor’s sore shoulder. Which, it’s fine, it feels better and he’s glad he let them poke and prod him so much. It feels much better than it did yesterday.

“Fine -- sore but not terrible. How’s your head, birthday boy?”

Dylan groans. Connor is fairly sure he’s being drooled on. “There were shots of tequila and I think I told the team embarrassing things about our sex life.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Connor says but he’s laughing. “How classy of you.”

“It’s fine,” Dylan says, hand burrowing into Connor’s sides. “I think I just talked about how much I love your dick.”

“I’m sure Alex has it all on film.”

“Fuck him. He’s just jealous.”

Connor smiles and moves them a bit, ignoring Dylan’s pathetic noises, until they’re both underneath the covers. Connor’s just got his boxers on but even he’s a bit cold.

“Do you want me to get you some water?” He’s thinking about all his plans -- the elaborate room service and the bath, it all seems rather silly. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. This is them -- inappropriately hungover, a little smelly, sore from good fucking hockey but together through and through. “I think there is a gatorade in the fridge.”

“Hmm, that all sounds okay,” Dylan says but his fingers tighten from where they are lazily groping Connor. “You know what would be better?”

“What, bud?”

Dylan leans back, struggling to open his eyes and stare at Connor very, very intently.

“Birthday blowjobs.”

Connor can’t help but start laughing. Dylan’s hair is a disaster and he looks rough -- Connor can smell his horrible tequila breath from here and looking down, he’s already got half a chub going just from thinking about birthday blow jobs.

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Dylan reasons, trying to prop himself up and rub up against Connor, who is still laughing. He doesn’t know why he tried to make this so complicated. Him and Stromer aren’t complicated. They work because this is them.

“Hey Stromer?”

Dylan perks up, looking a little less squinty and more hopeful. Connor takes a deep breath and runs his hands down Dylan’s thin chest.

“Yeah, bud?”

“I want to marry you.”

The silence is pretty fucking deafening. Connor realizes this must be kind of a surprise, going by the dumb look on Dylan’s face and how he’s sort of stopped breathing. Man, he probably should have had Stromer drink a gatorade first.

“I mean, birthday blowjobs are great,” Connor continues, heart beating a million miles a minute all of the sudden. It’s funny how Dylan does that -- he makes Connor so at ease one minute and then he’s a flustered mess the next. “But I think engagement blowjobs are probably better. Wouldn’t really know, eh? It’s just a guess.”

Connor reaches underneath the pillow, looking for the ring, but he realizes he’s switched beds in pursuit of Stromer.

“Shit, here just hold on,” Connor says, trying to scramble off the bed but Stromer is holding onto him too tightly. “Come on, let go -- I have to give you the ring. You’re making me mess this up.”

Dylan sputters. Connor goes to grab the ring.

After googling all the stupid paperwork, Connor decided to leave it all at home. No matter what happens, it’s not like Connor is going to take it back. It’s Dylan’s ring but it seemed weird to give him pamphlets on care when he hasn’t even said yes yet. It’s a matte black box, not velvet like Connor thought it’d be, but he has to put it in Stromer’s hands himself.

They’re both shaking.

“Davo --"

Connor opens the box for him.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Connor laughs, nervously, but also because Dylan’s breath is so bad. “So, yeah, we can do birthday blowjobs or we could do engaged blowjobs -- it’s entirely up to you.”

Dylan’s staring at the ring.

“Stromer?”

“Connor, I --"

“I know this is big but I just fucking love you,” Connor says, breathless but finding some traction now, remembering everything he had planned on saying. “I’m tired of telling myself everythings going to be okay without doing anything about it. I have no fucking idea where we’ll end up in the fall -- the Draft is going to screw everything up and I don’t want to go into it without knowing that you’ll always be there. Before you came to Erie, I thought I understood what it was to want something this much -- I’ve never wanted anything more than I’ve wanted to play hockey.”

Connor swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, they’re still holding hands and cradling the ring but Connor wants to be closer so he leans forward until their foreheads are touching. Stromer lets out a shaky breath and Connor loves him, fiercely and wholly. Connor closes his eyes.

“You changed everything. I want you -- what we have, us -- I want that more than I will ever want hockey. Maybe I’m insane and maybe you don’t feel that way but that’s what this -- I just really want to marry you. I don’t care what city we’re in or what jersey we wear -- I want to know that we can have this forever. You’re the best thing that ever happen to me, Dylan and I don’t care what anyone says -- I don’t need you and you sure as hell don’t need me. But I want you and I’m never going to stop.”

Dylan kisses him then. It’s a little salty because Stromer is definitely crying and Connor can’t help gasping into his mouth, fingers grasping at Dylan’s hands and just never stopping. It’s a desperate kind of kiss that has Dylan biting at his mouth and Connor licking into him until they both have to break away to breathe. There’s a moment, looking at Dylan’s smeary face, when Connor thinks he’ll say no but then he’s grinning -- it’s shaky and scared but his smile is right there.

“Which fucking hand does this thing go on?”

The end up having to look it up but when they finally get it on the correct finger, it’s a sight to see. Dylan’s fingers are long and the ring fits perfectly. He’s wearing Connor’s ring. He said yes. They’re choosing forever.

“Holy fuck, Davo,” Dylan whispers.

Connor shrugs. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Now Connor feels like crying -- so he clears his throat and says, “Happy Birthday?”

Dylan tackles him back to the bed, wrenching Connor’s bad shoulder and they go fumbling back, cursing and laughing. Dylan kisses his shoulder, apologizes and then says, “I can’t believe you asked me to marry you when I’m naked and hungover. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

“Yeah, you’re fucking rank.”

Dylan punches him in the stomach and then crawls on top of him to kiss him. This kiss goes from sweet to desperate hungry before moving back to languid again. It’s scattered -- erratic as Connor’s heart beat and it’s perfect. He can feel the ring on Dylan’s hand where it’s gripping Connor’s neck and he can’t help but reach up and cover it with his own.

The diamonds do feel nice underneath his skin, knowing they’re blazing a mark on Dylan’s skin and catching the morning light.

“I pictured what it would feel like,” Connor says, breaking the kiss. “When you wore my ring and touched me.”

Dylan moans, pushing his dick against Connor’s boxers. They’re both hard now -- adrenaline crashing through them. Connor feels so high.

“I think it’s time for engagement blowjobs,” Dylan says, roughly and Connor doesn’t hesitate meeting him for another kiss.

They don’t quite get to blowjobs, because Dylan won't stop kissing Connor -- despite his truly foul breath -- but it’s worth it to feel Dylan’s hand working them both over, ring skin-warm and very, very distracting.

“I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you,” Dylan says, both of them watching his ring-clad hand jerk them off. It’s frantic and Dylan keeps biting him in very visible areas but Connor can’t bring himself to care. Dylan’s dick is dark and leaking against his; every time the ring rubs against the head, Dylan swears out Connor’s name and jerks them harder.

Connor comes first, silently -- watching himself spill over Dylan’s hand and messily smearing his jiz between them. He doesn’t stop watching Dylan’s hand though -- it makes Connor brave, seeing it there after it’s all Connor’s been thinking about for months. “I used to think about what it would be like, you putting your fingers inside me -- wearing this ring, your hand on my thighs, holding me open -- fuck, Dyls. I love you so much.”

His confession is about as close as he’ll ever come to dirty talk, which will definitely make long distance a challenge, but it makes Dylan come between them with a shout and punctuated with a bite to Connor’s lower lip which is going to swell.

Connor doesn’t let them linger, because he knows Dylan wants to open his mouth and say something. He bustles them into the bathroom, getting them showered and hydrated with minimal words because he’s wrung out and the weird smile on Dylan’s face mirrors the one on his own.

He can’t help reaching out to catch Dylan’s hand whenever he can.

“It looks good,” Connor says, when Dylan’s drinking his second gatorade and finally wearing some briefs. Connor loves Dylan’s dick but sometimes having it flopping around all the time is a little weird. “Too bad you can’t wear it all the time.”

Dylan blinks. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He sounds disappointed, a little crestfallen. Connor scoots closer, taking his left hand between his own.

“I don’t want you to break your finger on the ice -- we’ll get you a chain when we get home. I mean,” Connor stops and then thinks ‘fuck it’. “I want you to wear it all the time. But I understand that’s kind of stupid.”

Dylan’s shoulder knocks his. “I want to wear it forever.” Which, yeah, that’s kinda the point but he sounds fierce and incredibly more brave than Connor has ever been. His eyes prickle and Connor squeezes their hands together until the ring bites into his own skin.

“We’ll figure it out, Davo,” Stromer says. “We fucking got this.”

Yeah, Connor supposes they do.

Chapter Text

March turns out be one of the best months of Connor’s life. All the weirdness of the last few months and the stress of the impending summer melts away in the face of winning. Not that Connor’s never been on a winning team before but this is domination. They can’t seem to lose. It feels electric and too good to be true but Connor doubles-down and tries to keep them all relatively grounded.

“It’s all the engaged sex we’ve been having,” Dylan says sagely, when Connor mentions it half-way through March and they’ve yet to lose a game. Connor slaps him on the chest and then frantically looks around. No one is paying attention to them, though, except Taylor but that’s because he’s a creep and is sleeping with his eyes open again just to fuck with the team.

“Why don’t you say that a little louder, eh?”

Dylan goes to stand-up but Connor pulls him down with a hand to his chest, giggling.

“Oh, give it a rest.”

“I’m telling you, it feels good to win,” Dylan says, low and quiet and then winking outrageously. Connor can feel the ring underneath the palm of his hand. Dylan’s taken to wearing it around his neck on a chain. It hangs low enough that it remains relatively hidden unless Stromer is in the locker room. He got a few chirps about it from the boys but Dylan had made a joke about it bringing him luck and now it’s nothing anyone pays attention to.

Except for Connor.

“Yeah okay,” Dylan says, bringing Connor back to bus. “But I’m not jerking you off on the bus this time.”

“What! What are you talking about -- you’re the one who convinced me!”

Dylan shakes his head. He’s pulling the chain off his neck and putting the ring on his finger. He pockets the chain easily and settles back into his seat. “That’s not how I remember it. I think I remember a lot more begging.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Stromer shrugs and then leans back, closing his eyes and casually setting his ringed left hand on Connor’s knee. “Whatever you say, Davo. I know you’re hot for it.”

There’s no denying that -- seeing Stromer wear his ring is still illicitly new and relatively secret. They haven’t really talked about who they’re telling and when. For right now, it feels nice to have a secret that makes him so insanely happy. It’s private but also an adjustment; Connor keeps waiting for them to change, to be Engaged Davo and Stromer but it hasn’t happened, yet.

Connor is hard up for it, though, and when he goes to tell Stromer they should stay at his when they get back -- Dylan’s asleep. His mouth is a little open -- framed by the truly awful facial hair he’s trying to grow -- and he’s snoring. Connor texts his billets, let them know he won’t be home until tomorrow and watches the lights pass outside the bus.

They don’t lose a single game in March.

Not one.

The end the season is all on the road and it’s a glorious week of playing high scoring hockey, fucking whenever they get more than fifteen minutes alone (sometimes less to be perfectly honest, because anyone who says winning doesn’t make them hot is a dirty liar) and ignoring anything beyond the play-offs. That is, until Connor gets the flu and is benched for their last game.

There’s nothing dignified about the way he feels or the way he looks: black bags underneath his eyes, skin a truly ghostly color. The pre-game chicken and quinoa he ate are no longer settled in his stomach. He doesn’t even feel like he’s going to be sick anymore, he just doesn’t have the energy to get off the floor. Coach comes to see him and confirms that there’s no way he’s playing or going near anyone on the team.

“You just lay there and get better,” Coach says. He stays a good ten feet from Connor, who’s sitting on the floor of the hotel bathroom. “I’ll have someone bring you some Sprite.”

Then he leaves and Connor is left to wallow in his own sickness.

He sleeps a bit -- drifting in and out of it -- so he’s a bit surprised when he hears his hotel room door open. He feels like it’s been hours but it can’t be too long because there’s Dylan.

“Just watch for Coach, Brinksy, you big fucking baby. I’ll be five minutes,” Dylan whisper-screams through a mostly closed door and then he’s turning to Connor.

“Jesus fuck, I can’t leave you like this.”

Connor shakes his head, warm forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet. “You have to -- you have to beat the fuck out of Marns.”

“Screw Mitch! He can have his scoring title. You look like you’re going to die.”

Connor groans. “Don’t come near me,” he warns, but Dylan doesn’t listen. He’s pressing a few pills into Connor’s hands and then handing him a straw for his Gatorade. It’s blue, his favorite and Connor suddenly misses his mom. Dylan combs through the mop of Connor’s hair, which feels dirty with sickness sweat, before he pulls a toque down over his head so that it covers his ears.

“Thanks, Dyls -- now go.”

“Davo --"

Brinksy bangs on the door. “Come on Stromer!”

“Give me one fucking second, DeBrincat!” Dylan yells before leaning forward to kiss Connor on the back of the neck. “I’ll be back after the game -- I’ll bring crackers.”

Connor lets him get to the door before he says, “Don’t come back if you don’t get the goals, Dyls. Get Alex there, too.”

“Bossy, Davo,” he says cheerily and Connor can tell he’s grinning. “Love you too, boo!”

Connor likes to attribute Stromer and Brinksy’s performance to their overall strength as hockey players playing with their team in mind but privately, he hopes that seeing him pathetic on the floor of the hotel bathroom helped Dylan lead the charge. Stromer’s a natural leader because his voice carries in the room. He’s smart on the ice with enough talent to make him stand out. He’s so different than Connor, makes a great Alternate because of it, but Connor thinks he could easily hold a captainship on his own. Connor hopes Dylan can see it, too. So often, it’s easy to get wrapped up in being dwarfed by the stupidity of the media surrounding Connor.

His teammates can hold their own and they don’t need him to succeed -- which is what he will tell the media later. Because he’s proud of them, but he was going to proud no matter what and he didn’t doubt them for a moment.

Marner texts him a series of sad faced emojis and your boy stole my title. To which Connor replies, Fuck yourself, Mitchell. Otters for life. He blames it on the fever when Dylan steals his phone to see what kind of lame chirps he’s been serving to Marner and calls him a petty bitch but he’s smiling and stroking Connor’s head while he says it. Connor thinks it’s probably fine.

“I wish we could go back to hating him,” Connor says sleepily. Dylan’s been texting Marner for what feels like hours but that might just be his fever talking. “Those were the good days.”

Dylan laughs. “You were the one who told me mortal enemies were overrated and that, and I quote, ‘Mitchell might be a nice guy’.”

“I was wrong.”

“He really does excel at being a douche. But he’s just jealous,” Dylan says, fondly. Someday, Connor will ask what changed Dylan’s mind about Marns but he suspects it might have more to due with Mitch than it does Stromer or he probably would know by now. “Mitchy is just jealous I stole his trophy and I get to bang you on the regular forever.”

Connor snorts and then groans because that makes his head hurt more. He is about to ask if Marns knows, about the two of them or the ring -- about any of it. Because Marns is Marns, it’s hard to tell the difference between mindless chirping and informed chirping. He means to ask but Dylan is trailing his fingers down the plains of Connor’s back and he falls into a medicated sleep before he can form the question.

They prep fairly furiously for the playoffs and Connor feels good. The team feels steady even if they’re a little wild with the last win of the season. Physically, he’s a bit battered but better than most of the guys. His hand finally feels back to normal, no favoring or weird habits from when it was in a cast, and his shoulder only hurts when he’s not in his pads. His legs feel strong underneath him when he makes his rounds -- holding guys back to tell them what they need to work on or offer a little bit of encouragement.

It takes him forever to get back to Dylan, who is holding court with a few of the other boys, telling an impressively exaggerated story about the time he saved John Tavares from an untimely death. It involves a kiddie pool, a vacuum cleaner, and a MILF. The fact that it’s true is why Connor thinks it’s amazing any hockey players survive long enough to make it to the show.

“Bout time, cap!” Stromer says, waving goodby to the boys and then smacking Connor on the ass, getting a cheery hoot and holler from the last of the guys.

Connor forgives him when he catches the light glinting off Dylan’s ring in the parking lot. “You’re getting a little brave with that thing, Dyls.”

“The boys think it’s a gift from my brother,” Stromer says, grinning and taking Connor’s hand. “They think our homo is only because of the O -- thank you, Canadian Hockey League -- and that our bro-jobs will be long forgotten by the draft.”

Connor doesn’t have anything to say in response to that because he’s never really been a popular guy in the locker room. He’s the captain and he also doesn't understand any of that bullshit. The guys just don’t… speak as freely with him as they do Dylan. Connor doesn’t think they’re uncomfortable with him but he knows they watch their words when they think Connor’s listening. He supposes that comes from his inability to stop being a captain, no matter the setting.

They probably think he’s boring.

When they get back to Dylan’s, they raid the kitchen and Connor waits Stromer out. There’s clearly something on his mind -- despite his bravado, he’s never worn his ring when they were around the guys or even at the rink. It’s always been firmly around his neck when they’re not in private.

Connor’s too tired to initiate sex but he usually can be conned into it -- especially with Stromer’s current fascination with learning to deep-throat. Connor’s not sure it’s a skill Dyls can learn but he’s sure enjoying the effort. There’s something about laughing with Stromer when they’re messing around that makes everything more real to Connor. Sure, it’s great to get off but Connor likes it the best when they’re giggling on their way there. He’s never -- not with anyone else before -- but he knows Dylan’s had more than his fair share of random partners before Connor, both girls and guys. All blowjobs are successful blowjobs, Connor supposes. But he won’t pretend that this isn’t his favorite: watching Dylan try not to grin around his dick, tears streaming down his face and belly taut from laughing -- all because the last four attempts to deep throat had resulted in some combination of choking, premature ejactulation and/or excessive biting.

But tonight, Dylan simply strips out of this sweats and falls asleep with TSN2 blaring in the background, head buried in the dip of Connor’s waist.

The next morning, Dylan disappears for a few hours -- letting Connor take calls from his agent and when he returns the ring is back on the chain around his neck. They sit on the bed and do homework for a while, mostly silently, except for when Stromer leans down to show Connor a text from someone or another. It isn’t until Dyls takes a call from his brother outside the room that Connor finally breaks.

“Everything good?”

“I think we should talk about a timeline,” Dylan says, finally, after Connor’s read through their final papers for American Literature five times. He puts them down and gives Dylan his full attention. “Because I’m not sure what’s going on in your head.”

Connor blinks. “I hadn’t really thought --" Dylan kicks him and makes a disbelieving face. “Okay, fine. Did you have anything in mind or did you just want to know what I already had planned?”

“I want to be married before you leave.”

Connor feels something inside him crumble and it’s suddenly imperative that they conduct this conversation while touching. He crawls up the bed to where Dylan’s been slowly sliding down the headboard and lays out until they’re curled into one another, knees pressed together.

“I’m not leaving,” Connor says. He can’t look at Dylan’s face right now so he sets about pulling Stromer’s ring from its hiding place underneath his worn Otters shirt and divesting it of its chain. “The lottery is in two weeks -- we have loads of time.”

Connor feels immensely better about the whole thing once his ring is on Dylan’s finger again. The matte black diamonds glint back at him.

“Your parents are coming to Erie, right?”

Connor nods, leaning down to kiss Dylan’s hands. “Yeah, I think there will probably be cameras and stuff. I haven’t been paying attention.”

“Do you want to tell them?”

Dylan looks… scared? Or perhaps, uncertain and Connor doesn’t know where that comes from so he just says, “I want to tell them but I’m not ready for this to be something everyone else gets to have just yet. Things are going to be -- crazy for a while. Any team that drafts us, they’re not going to be chill about it, are they? I don’t want us to be a spectacle. I’m not ashamed -- I’m so fucking proud of you but they don’t get to take this and make it about the draft or about hockey. We stand alone, eh? I don’t want anyone to think they have power over this part of our lives. Does that make any fucking sense? Probably not. Just -- if we tell people, it stops being just ours for a bit.”

“I get it but,” Dylan stops, chewing on his lip. “I want to tell my brother.”

“Yeah?”

Dylan smiles, pushing until their legs are tangled together. “Yeah, I was thinking he might help us out, actually -- unless you already have a plan.”

“I did my planning; it’s sitting right there on your finger,” Connor chirps. “What were you thinking?”

“He probably knows people who can pull some strings. I was thinking maybe we could head to New York and stay with him before the draft,” Dylan says, squeezing Connor’s hands and stopping until Connor looks up from where he’s been kissing at Dylan’s knuckles. “He could probably help us keep a lid on it -- get married before the draft even happens, you know. If you want.”

Connor blinks. “Is that -- I would fucking marry you right now if I didn’t think Brinksy would ruin the photos.”

When Dylan kisses him, they’re both smiling and Connor actually likes this the best -- when it feels endless and perfect. He likes the way their teeth smack together and how Stromer’s nose gets in the way.

“At least we’ll know where you’re going in two weeks,” Dylan says when they part. “I’m not hoping for Buffalo but --"

Connor nods. “It’s closer to here but we don’t even know if you will be here. If you get drafted high enough --"

“Davo, they’re gonna send me back. No way they’re desperate enough to keep me. They’ll send me back,” he says, honestly. Connor nudges his cheek with his nose. “At least we’ll know where you’ll be going. I think that will help.”

Connor doesn’t mention the possibility of getting sent back. He knows that the hype is too big -- whoever takes him will keep him and make him the face of the franchise. It’s a threat as much as a promise.

“Are you -- are you scared?” Connor asks.

He doesn’t want Dylan to be scared. They’re going to work it out but he hates being the cause of all the turmoil and discord. It makes him feel shitty -- like when he was getting a lot of attention in the smaller leagues, causing trouble for everyone else during games.

“I think I’ll feel better once it’s done,” Dylan says softly. Connor nods, thinking he’s still talking about the draft but then -- “I know it’s just a silly piece of paper but then no matter what happens, we’ll have that holding us up. Or something. I don’t know -- maybe I’m just really into the idea of being Mr. and Mr. McJesus.”

It’s a joke but it’s not -- Connor nips at Dylan’s chin. “Hey now.”

“So that’s okay with you? If we get married before the draft? There’s not going to be a ton of time and I know you have sponsorship obligations. Or maybe, maybe you wanted to wait longer?”

“I do not want to wait.” Connor says firmly. “I can make sure I’m free for a few days. We can fly out to see your brother -- I do want you to tell him if you want. It might be nice to have someone in our corner.”

“Brinksy’s in our corner,” Dylan counters, grin filthy. “I still can’t believe you told him.”

“It was definitely against my better judgement.”

They lie there for a while before Dylan pulls Connor on top of him, luring him in with long kisses and groping hands. It’s late in the morning and Connor really should make an appearance at his billet’s but talking about the future makes him clingy. He needs to feel Dylan’s ring dragging across his skin.

Dylan ends up pressing his wet dick between Connor’s ass cheeks and getting off there, thrusting up between Connor’s legs. It’s not the most efficient position but Connor can watch the way Dylan’s ring-clad hand wanders all over his skin. Dylan doesn’t even touch his dick that much -- gets distracted rolling his nipples or feeling his dick thrust up between Connor’s cheeks and smear against his balls. He makes a mess out of both of them when he comes -- watching Connor get himself off over his shoulder and then rubbing his sensitive, still leaking cock against Connor’s entrance.

“Stop being a tease -- if you’re not gonna do me then get away,” Connor says, sleepy with his own orgasm and really disgusting, but necessarily opposed to another go. “You should go to a wet rag.”

“In a minute.”

“Dyls --"

Connor gets two come covered fingers shoved in his mouth. “Stop ruining the afterglow, Davo. I just want to lay here and think about how awesome married sex is going to be -- especially when I’m fucking the number one pick.”

He bites at Dylan’s fingers but he keeps them in his mouth until he starts to drool. He ends up rolling over to make out with Dylan a bit more, getting a little too into it and having to jerk them both off quickly -- just for the sake of time.

“Can’t wait to marry you,” Dylan says sleepily, after Connor has come back from getting a washcloth to clean them up because Stromer is a lazy asshole. Four orgasms is a lot of jiz to clean up. “Gonna let the number one pick of the NHL fuck me, too.”

Connor pauses in his clean up but tries to keep his cool. “We aren’t even married yet and you’re already letting Jack Eichel bang you?”

Dylan swats at him. “Shut the fuck up. I’m gonna give you my ass virginity and you’re going to like it.”

“Well when you put it like that,” but Connor is smiling. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it, but Connor loves getting fucked and it hadn’t seemed like a pressing need. “Can’t believe I’ve got to marry you before you put out. What if you’re a terrible lay?”

Dylan pulls him up, throwing the rag onto the floor where Connor will inevitably step on it later and bitch. They really shouldn’t nap but if Connor sets an alarm they’ll still make it to afternoon skate on time.

“After the playoffs -- gonna win some more, do the lottery, get married, get fucked and dominate the draft,” Dylan slurs out, sleepy and happy and Connor will do anything to keep him this way.

“Sounds like a plan, bud.”

On April 18th, against all odds, Dylan Strome successfully deep throats Connor’s dick and the Edmonton Oilers get the first round pick of the 2015 draft.

“It’s a fucking wasteland of number one picks,” Stromer says next to him. He’s wearing his ring around his neck and Connor leans against him until he can feel it digging into his shoulder. He wishes he could hold Dylan’s hand right now, but they’re at his billets with his parents and what feels like the entire Erie team. There are also several cameras and a reporter. (“She’s a spy for Bettman,” Dylan had said when she came in and introduced herself. Connor had choked on his own spit.)

“You’re going to leave me for Taylor Hall or YakCity,” Dylan jokes but Connor can see the worry behind it. The likelihood that Dylan goes top five is high -- Edmonton, Buffalo, Arizona, Toronto and Carolina. If Connor ends up first, Edmonton is ages away from everything. The only hope to close the distance is if he goes second to Buffalo and Toronto takes Dylan at four.

It’s all completely out of their control.

He goes where people point, says exactly what he was supposed to say, and tries to not to offend anyone. There isn’t any way to sound humble without sounding like a boring, hockey robot and Dylan doesn’t help, commenting inappropriately when he can get away with it and hanging out with Cam and Connor’s mom when Connor’s too busy. It’s not nerve-wracking but it is uncomfortable.

Connor will need to get used to it.

“Edmonton, eh?” Cam says. “You’re gonna look like a freak in orange.”

Connor punches his in the arm. “Don’t be a dick.”

Cam hums and then steals the broccoli off Connor’s snack plate. They eat, watching the film crew shuffle things around to get set up for a few taped interviews. Dylan had snuck off to call his brother and Connor is selfishly glad because he can’t even wrap his head around Edmonton (probably), let alone try and speak to Dylan about what it means for them.

“Stromer’s probably freaking out, eh?” Cam says, crunching a carrot. The last time Connor saw him he just had scruff going on -- now it’s a full-blown beard. It’s even kind of ginger. Connor desperately hopes his own beard stays blond.

“Edmonton’s not really near anything,” Connor says neutrally.

“You guys gonna break up?”

Connor looks up at that, frozen a little bit inside. He’s never told Cam that he and Dylan were dating -- he didn’t hide it by any means but he’s never told anyone explicitly that they were dating. It’s not like Cam was around a ton when he and Dylan met, anyway.

“Um, what?”

Cam rolls his eyes in the most annoying way. Connor prickles -- Cam and he had never been particularly close but they were always brothers. Which meant that Cam knew the direct route to getting underneath his skin.

“You two are not subtle. I knew like -- Thanksgiving of his rookie year just from the way Mom and Dad said you talked about him. You two are so gross.”

“Hey -- we are not!” Because what else is he supposed to say. “And fuck you!”

“But for real, you’re gonna break up over you going first? That’s some messed up shit,” Cam says casually and Connor gapes at him.

“We -- we’re not breaking up,” he says finally because Cam doesn’t look effected at all. In fact, he’s demolishing all of Connor’s veggie plate. “We’re definitely staying together.”

“Cool. Then why does he look so twisted?”

Connor snatches his plate back. “No one asked for your opinion, Cam -- and also, your beard looks stupid.”

Cam smirks, infuriatingly, and says, “Literally the least chill person I know” before walking away to go hustle the camera equipment people. One of them is an extremely pretty blonde and Cam slides in casually and coolly in a way that Connor has never been able to master.

“Who is that hot guy talking to the camera lady?” Dylan says, scaring the shit out of Connor. For some reason, Dylan always seems taller when he’s standing behind Connor like this. Connor resists the urge to lean back into Stromer’s space. “That beard is hot.”

Connor throws an elbow and Dylan laughs as Connor turns around to face him properly. He looks… better. He gets a pinched, haunted look that is plastered all over his face when he’s really upset. Connor saw it enough when he was out with his hand and for a while after Dylan told his family that he was dating a guy. Connor never really thought about telling his parents. It’s not something he’s ever really considered before. He always assumed that they sort of knew about him and Dylan.

Which is… ironic? Considering he’s months away from marrying the man.

“You go talk to your brother?” Connor asks. Dylan grins, suddenly sly.

“Yeah, we probably shouldn’t talk about that here though,” Dylan says. “But I guess it’s safe to say that our trip to New York is going to be great.”

Connor rarely wants to commit flagrant public displays of affection but watching Stromer grin like that this -- coy but excited, like he’s got the best secret and he can’t wait to share it because he’s so happy -- makes Connor want to kiss him so everyone can see just how lucky he is.

“Great, huh bud?” Connor asks.

Stromer taps his chest twice, winking and says, “The best.”

Maybe they forgot how to lose -- Connor’s not really sure. They barrel through the playoffs like nothing can stop them. Connor looks around the room and sees so many different things in this group of guys. He’s so proud and tries to buckle down his defensive game. Outscoring their opponent is fine but high scoring games gives everyone hives in the playoffs. But Connor looks around and sees winners -- terrible beards and worse, bleached hair -- but the grimiest winners he could ever have the pleasure of playing with. It feels inevitable, like nothing can stop them from reaching the final. He can’t fathom anything but the Memorial Cup in his hands, passing it off to Stromer under the lights of barns he will most likely never play in again. He knows they’re going to get there. It feels like a foregone conclusion.

That is, until like all their luck runs out. Sudden, like the snuffing of a candle.

Connor feels like it starts when they lose in OT -- making it a 3-1 hole instead of a 2-2 series. They don’t get the bounce, Oshawa does. Something doesn’t feel right -- in the room, in his head, and on the ice. He tries to ignore it, tries to get the boys to rally around the adversity but he knows they feel it too. And then sails come off -- their defensive game crumbles too far for their goals to save them and the puck stops going their way. After Brinksy’s goal is disallowed, Connor knows.

It doesn’t feel real.

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen at all. It doesn’t feel right. But that’s the end of it.

Losing it at home is a blessing and a curse: the fans are so disappointed that they couldn’t bring it at their own rink but the familiarity of the surroundings, knowing he gets to go home to the Catalde’s with their full house that doesn’t revolve around hockey (completely) and that Dylan’s right there.

“I’m really fucking sorry,” Dylan says. It’s freezing in the parking lot and they’re alone for the few minutes it’s taking to pull the cars around. Dylan pulls him in for a hug that Connor doesn’t really want but he doesn’t fight him. “This was it and we let you down, Davo. I’m really fucking sorry.”

Stromer doesn’t sound like he going to cry but he sounds devastated -- not that they lost, they’re too numb for that right now -- but Dylan’s right. Tonight might have been the last chance Connor gets to win something with Dylan. It stings knowing that they might never play on the same team again and might never get a chance to win anything else that matters.

So much for keeping it off the ice.

“We could have won something together,” Stromer continues. “I’m sorry, Davo.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He lets Dylan hold him in the emptying parking lot of the Erie Insurance Arena and feels numb. Bob pulls up eventually, long enough that Connor knows he waited to give them some privacy. He wants to take Dylan with him, wants them both to sit on the couch in the living room and eat the snack Bob will put together for them and fall asleep to Holmes on Homes reruns. But Dylan pulls away far enough to kiss him on both cheeks and says, “Go. Sort yourself out and I’ll come by for breakfast in the morning.”

Connor’s not sure he’ll be put right by the morning but he lets Stromer puts him in the car and they don’t even make it out of the parking lot before Connor feels the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He relaxes into the seat of the car and watches the lights pass.

It’s done now.

March and April flew by in a way that Connor viciously hates, looking back. It was so easy to ignore literally everything but the Otters. Now that it’s over, Connor watches the Memorial Cup round-robins and tries not to be incredibly bitter as he packs up his life in Erie, PA.

“I told them I would be back,” Dylan is saying. He’s eating an apple but instead of cutting it up and dipping it in peanut butter like a normal person, he’s taking massive bites and then spooning the peanut butter into his mouth. “So they better not take anyone else. I don’t want anyone messin’ with my room.”

“You might stay up though,” Connor says. Dylan shrugs. “Why do you keep under selling yourself like this?”

Dylan looks up. “Bud, I love the hell out of you right now but I’m not dumb. Whoever drafts me, will send me back here to make sure playing with you didn’t inflate my numbers. They’re not wrong, Connor. You’re the best player I’ve ever been on the ice with and it impacted my numbers.”

“Dyls --"

“But it’s not a pity party. I know I can produce without your soft hands,” Stromer adds, confident and firm. Connor feels his hackles relax a little. “Speaking of -- come here.”

“I don’t have time to give you a handjob, Dyls. I need to pack,” but he walks over to where Stromer is setting down his apple and digging in his pocket.

“You love giving me handjobs,” Dylan gripes and then takes a familiar salve out of his pocket. “I have been neglecting my duties. I’m gonna need to call Edmonton and find an Oiler to take care of these hands. Taylor Hall doesn’t look very gentle. Maybe Nugent-Hopkins?”

Connor’s helpless to pull his hands away as Dylan pulls the salve from wrist to fingertip. Connor’s hands are much larger than Dylan’s, who is wearing his ring and works the salve into the meat of Connor’s palms.

“I don’t think they’ll want to volunteer.”

Dylan tuts. “I’ll bribe ‘em. Maybe Talbot will do it -- goalies always have a soft spot for you.”

“You’re gonna bribe them with my own money? You know, since we’ll be married,” he finishs awkwardly.

Dylan frowns before it clicks --"Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought of that -- what’s mine is yours and all that… I’ll be the richest kid on the team!”

Connor secretly preens because he loves the idea of their shared life unspooling in front of him. Shared bank accounts, shared homes in the off season, shared vacation plans, shared phone bills -- a whole life shared. Even if it means calling Dylan about outrageous purchases -- that sounds way more appealing that Connor wants to admit.

“You gonna bank-roll the whole team?”

Dylan shrugs, leaning down to kiss Connor’s wrists. “Nah, only Coach so he’ll give me the best wingers. Brinksy too, so he’ll leave the hotel room so we can have Skype sex.”

Bob knocks on the door and Connor doesn’t move. Since the loss, he hasn’t really felt like hiding him and Dylan very much. But it’s hard to condition his body to ignore the response to jump back. Instead, he kisses Dylan’s forehead, stays put, and says, “Come in!”

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know that if you want a ride to the airport, we gotta leave in about thirty minutes,” Bob says, easy. Connor’s going to miss him. Connor loves his parents but there is something different about billets. Maybe it’s because they have no skin in the game or because there’s a degree of separation but Connor’s never been more thankful for him. It’s more than just dinner and transportation to practice. It’s hard to explain.

“Thanks, and yeah, I’d still like a ride if you don’t mind.”

Bob smiles. “Good. Dylan, you hanging around Erie for a while?”

“No sir, I leave tomorrow. Spend some time with my parents before going to help my brother pick out a condo in New York,” Dylan says. Connor likes how he still holding onto Connor, like it isn’t a big deal that they’re holding hands with Connor standing in the open sprawl of his knees.

“Connor said something about that. New York is great,” Bob says. “Okay, I will leave you to it. Connor, 30 minutes!”

He closes the door behind him.

Connor gives in a bit, stepping closer and pulling at Dylan’s shoulders until he’s hugging Connor around the waist, his face tucked into the dip of his hip. Connor runs his hands through Dylan’s home-dyed blonde hair, tugging at the small hairs at the nape of his neck until he bites at Connor’s hip like the vicious shit he is. Connor hates this hair color but he’s sad to see it go. Talk about bitter-sweet.

“See you in a few days, right?”

Dylan nods into Connor's stomach. “Yep. And then two weeks before we go to New York.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “New York.”

“My brother is really excited.”

Connor snots. “Just your brother, eh?”

Connor tries to protest when Stromer pulls up his shirt enough to nibble on the skin of his hips. They really don’t have time to mess around. Besides, Connor is still kind of sore from last night -- he doesn’t have the hang of riding Dylan yet. He always takes too much too fast and ends up sore and embarrassed from coming too fast or sore and embarrassed for getting soft because he can’t find the right angle. Connor can’t feel too bad about it, seeing Dylan’s wide-eyed and breathless, rolling into groans and hitching moans, is mostly worth it. It’s a work in progress really -- they’ve got some time to figure this sex business out.

“Nah, I’m not excited at all,” Dylan says and Connor can feel him grinning against the skin of his hip. If they had a bit more time, Connor would give in -- getting off before his flight would help him relax. But he’d feel bad -- no way they have time for both of them.

“I want --" Connor bites his lip and Dylan looks up, quirking an eyebrow and smirking when he sees the want that is probably clearly all over his face. Connor turns red because he has no chill and he’s horny. “But I won’t have time to… do you too.”

Dylan’s already unbuckling Connor’s belt before Connor’s finished his awkwardly constructed sentence.

“Don’t you worry about that, Davo. I’m a multi-tasker -- and now a certified deep-throat slut.” Connor doesn’t even have time to process that self-proclaimed title before his half-hard cock is being pulled out of the slit in his boxers.

Stromer sucks hard at the head between one breath and the next, knocking all the air out of Connor’s lungs. Connor scrambles to hold onto anything because it’s too much too soon but they don’t have time to drag it out. So he sinks his hands, still smooth with salve, into Dylan’s hair and lets him support his weight as much as he can because Connor’s knees feel weak.

Connor’s fully hard and dizzy with it when Dylan pulls off and says, “You’re gonna have to drive, Davo.” Then he shoves his hand down the front of his sweats and takes Connor’s dick down to the hilt with a stuttered inhale.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Connor swears, clutching too hard at Dylan’s hair and trying his damndest not to jerk his hips. He can feel the ripple of Dylan’s throat as he works the length, trying to get comfortable fast -- even while being distracted by his own pleasure. “Just -- can I, is it okay?”

Dylan’s eyes blinks open, blown so wide that Connor can barely see the brown there. It’s distracting. Especially since Dylan’s not still, he’s squirming and jerking his own dick -- mouth full of Davo’s cock.

It’s a really, really good look on him.

It takes approximately three minutes of hitching thrusts before Connor comes down Dylan’s throat. He tries to keep his thrust shallow and soft because they’ve not done this a ton before and Connor literally hates it when he loses control and Dylan chokes. So he tries his best to pull Dylan’s face on and off his dick instead of working his hips -- grinding into his throat instead of thrusting so much.

It helps that Dylan’s practically vibrating with pleasure, jerking off fast and desperate. Connor matches the movement unconsciously. It’s punishing and so fucking good.

“Dylan fuck,” Connor sputters when he’s helpless and coming without much warning. He can feel the soreness of his quads from pulling his body along Dylan’s dick the night before but it feels good to remind himself of how good it was -- evidence to take with him for a few days.

Admittedly, Connor sort of loses all control at the end and he hopes Stromer doesn’t mind. He was a bit rough but his dick falls out of Dylan’s mouth after he’s mostly spent. A few drops spear across Dylan’s face but that’s because he’s gasping, wetly and rough, rubbing his cheek against Connor’s sensitive dick.

“Oh god,” Connor says, because it’s way too much -- especially since Dylan hasn’t shaved his shameful playoff scruff yet but it doesn’t last long. Stromer’s got his teeth buried in the skin of Connor’s upper thigh in no time. It hurts like a son of a bitch but Connor just goes back to cradling Dylan’s head close to him as a dark spot floods the front of his sweats.

It’s a debauched picture.

His heather grey sweats have a dark, wet stain seeping the front of his hips and it looks like so much -- even though Connor knows it’s not a weird amount or anything. It’s just normal jiz amounts. But it looks like a lot when it’s laid out like that -- coming in his boxers in a flood with Connor’s dick down his throat, fucking his face as gentle as he can.

“Five minutes,” Dylan says, unlatching his teeth from Connor’s skin. It stings again and Connor’s hisses but Dylan licks at it, apologetically. Connor would fall in love with a biter. “We’re so fucking hot.”

Connor’s not proud that he returns Dylan’s fist-bump but he’s come-dumb and feeling emotionally vulnerable.

“I have ten minutes to pack,” Connor says dumbly.

Dylan nods. “I’m gonna need to borrow some pants.”

“Yeah, just -- can I, um, can I take a picture first?” Connor feels his face flame after he says it. Dylan’s eyebrows fly up but the pull at his mouth is a tell that Connor loves. “I won’t send it to anyone, you know. Just um, just for me.”

Dylan nods and says, “Davo, you aren’t allowed to say those kinds of sexy things because I’m going to have to tap that again and we just don’t have the time.” Then he leans back and Connor swears he can see Dylan’s spent dick twitch underneath the rough fabric.

“You should take a boomerang,” Stromer says, cocky and sprawled out on display for Connor.

Connor leaves the house with most of his shit packed, two good illicit photos that he can’t wait to jerk off to, and Dylan trailing behind him in borrowed Otter sweats that say “MCDAVID” down the thigh. He kisses Dylan goodbye in the driveway of the Catalde’s home, Bob waiting in the car. It feels exciting and freeing -- both because this is the close of one of the biggest and best chapters of Connor’s life. He’s going to miss Erie fiercely. But it’s hard not to want to fast-forward because this is also a really incredible beginning.

Bless the fuck up and all that.

“This is a long way from sneaking into your room,” Dylan says, kisses soft between them. The spring sunshine on them. “Feels nice.” Connor kisses him one more time, chaste and full of promise, before he gets into Bob’s car and leaves.

When Connor checks his phone after the measly Erie airport security, there’s a text from Stromer that reads: left my jiz briefs and sweats in your luggage. Skype me tonight and be a panty sniffer.

Connor’s laughing so hard he forgets to be sad that it’s all over with.

Home is a concept that Connor hasn’t quite understood for a while. He’s been on traveling teams for so long it’s hard to unravel home from locker rooms and the constants, like Dylan. Team is home -- but it has been a surrogate for a while. Connor’s room in his parents house feels hollow. There are stacks of fan mail, school trophies from ages ago, and team jerseys she loves to keep. His full bed hardly fits him but he doesn’t like the idea of sleeping in Cam’s old bedroom that is now a guest room.

Home feels incredibly nebulous with the draft looming.

Connor agrees to do as many interviews as they can fit in -- as long as he doesn’t have to go anywhere. His dad’s old truck still runs and Connor takes it when he needs to meet a reporter. He knows they’re probably annoyed having to drive outside of the city but Connor doesn’t want to go anywhere near the heart of Toronto right now. He spends his mornings in meetings with his agent and his PR representative who walks him through planning for the draft and a million different scenarios. It seems that no matter where he goes, everyone has plan for him and he keeps being assured that all he needs to do is play hockey.

He figures he can manage that.

On a rare afternoon off, Connor’s watching a group of Ryan Strome’s friends play ball hockey. Connor’s always really liked Ryan and Matt, although Connor doesn’t know Matt that well comparatively. Ryan and Dylan seem to constantly be at extremes: they hate each other or they love each other and nothing in between. Today seems to be antagonistic. Dylan’s stuck in goal and Ryan’s chirps, while mundane to the rest of the group, seem to rub Dylan the wrong way.

Connor has money on a fight breaking out before dinner at the very least.

He’s been hanging back the last couple of days. He tries to say hi to everyone but he’s not in the talking mood really and his desire to meet new people is at an all time low. Between the interviews and his agent, Connor’s done with everyone who isn’t related to him or Dylan. He can’t count how many times he’s almost told his agent that he’s eloping with a man from his OHL team, so maybe they should be more worried about what he’s doing off the ice. But that’s petty and horrible. Besides, he and Dylan decided to tell their agents after they were married so that they can come up with some sort of plan but don’t have time to interfere.

Agents see the world in dollar signs. He doubts they’re romantics.

Across the yard, Dylan launches himself across a defender and tackles Ryan into the grass. It’s impressive that he had that much power in all the goalie gear to propel them both off the concrete and onto the lawn. The goalie padding provides a nice cushion, which is good, since Connor’s sure the Islanders wouldn’t be particularly happy to find out Ryan had been hurt in a sibling fight gone wrong. It’s hysterical, considering all the gear flying everywhere and the participants. It’s a freaking yard sale of equipment and the rest of the guys gather around to cheer them on or wander off to get a drink. It’s inching towards warm -- not quite there but almost.

Summer in the GTA.

Eventually, everyone loses interest in well worn sibling rivalry and Connor makes his way over to where Dylan is sprawled on his back. He’s lost his blocker pad, a shoe and his mask. His goalie stick is shoved down the front of his pants.

Connor snaps a picture and sends it to the Otters group chat and then, on a whim, to Marner.

“Avenge me,” Dylan says, petulant. His eyes are closed and he looks relaxed, like he might go for a nap. Connor stands so that he’s shading him from the sun. “Like a crusader. Avenge me, McJesus.”

“If I’m McJesus, I think that means you’re crusading for me, actually.”

Dylan waves his glove. “Don’t harsh my mellow. Help me get out of these smelly as fuck pads.”

They do smell and Connor happily lets Dylan drag him into the downstairs bathroom for a hot shower afterwards. It’s moments like these, with Dylan wet and laughing as he styles Connor’s hair into a shampoo mo-hawk, that he is torn. Dylan is home, which is great since Connor’s fucking marry him and all, but also awful.

Connor’s most likely living in Edmonton next year. That’s a long way from home.

They fuck in Dylan’s childhood bedroom, skin still damp from their shower, Dylan’s hips moving to the rhythm of his shitty Spotify playlist. Connor comes first, knees going weak with pleasure as Dylan drives into him. Connor keeps gasping into the pillows, trying to tell Dylan to keep going but Dylan pauses, pushing until Connor’s on his stomach and then rotating them both until they’re on their sides, Dylan still inside him.

Dylan sucks a hickey into Connor’s shoulders and comes like that -- pressed inside him and grinding too deep. When he goes to pull away, pressing soft, lingering kisses over Connor’s shoulders, Connor can’t help but stop him.

“Stay,” Connor says, reaching back to thread his fingers through Dylan’s damp hair and pulling him closer. He can feel Dylan softening inside of him and the familiar wetness of his come but Connor doesn’t want to lose the closeness. It’s stupid because this is just another part of their summer routine -- morning workout, photo shoots or promo shit, a working lunch, some sort of workout or ice time in the afternoon, a quick fuck and then a nap before dinner. Often times, dinner is just Dylan or Connor’s families on sprawling on the deck and the late, summer sun falling into nights illuminated by fireflies.

For whatever reason, at this very moment, Connor doesn’t feel like letting this slice of home go yet. Clings to it, desperate and needing, suddenly, for Dylan to stay exactly where he is.

“Davo--”

Connor lets go of Dylan’s head, now that he’s tucked back against Connor and mouthing his name over and over again in the closest Connor’s ever seen Dylan to praying. Connor knows he has freckles blooming across his shoulders from the shirtless runs they’ve been going on and Dylan chases kisses along his skin like he’s worshiping each one.

“Stay,” Connor says again, taking Dylan’s hand and pulling until he’s wrapped around him completely -- still tucked up inside of him. “Just for a little while longer.”

They nap like that: Dylan’s small, soft cock hidden inside Connor and holding Connor so close he can forget that they’ll be a country away from each other soon. The only thing Connor can think about is the endlessness of summer and the press of Dylan’s skin against his. He listens to the sound of someone mowing a lawn a few houses down; the hum of the air conditioning unit; the way their breathing syncs up and the faintest twitch of Dylan’s hips, shifting him as he’s seated inside Connor. He wants to ask Dylan how it feels -- resting inside Connor like this but he falls asleep with Dylan’s hand in his, engagement ring skin warmed against his chest.

He wakes up to Dylan fucking him.

“Oh,” Connor breathes awake, stretching into the pulse of Dylan’s hips against his. The room is still lit with afternoon sun, which means they haven’t slept the day away. But Connor can’t even think about it because he goes from sleepily content to burning up with desire in a fraction of a second. “Oh my god,” Connor says. It’s such a surreal feeling -- Dylan’s been inside him while they slept and fuck, he doesn’t know why that’s so hot but it is. He wishes he was awake to feel Dylan grow inside of him but this, it’s really good. The drag of Dylan inside of him is a little uncomfortable, the lube from before dried out but it’s not bad, it just adds to the grind and Connor shivers when he thinks about Dylan’s cock still wet with his own come, kept inside of Connor while they napped.

Dylan’s fucking him with the kind of lazy casualness that makes Connor blush. It feels possessive and secret, still covered by a sheet Dylan must have pulled over them while they slept.

Dylan hums against his shoulder, hips working ever so slowly. “You awake, Davo?”

“Yeah,” Connor gasps out, when Dylan’s hand comes up to circle his dick. He’s leaking a lot, like maybe his body has been awake longer than he thinks. He tilts his head back, arching into the sweet motion of Dylan’s hand. It looks obscene, somehow even more so than if they were on top of the covers. Dylan’s hand works Connor over from root to tip, every once in awhile the force of his thrusts are highlighted by their indentions in the sheet as it drags against their skin.

Connor’s cock head makes dark, wet impressions in the white fabric.

“You’ve been hard for ages,” Dylan says, teeth finding Connor’s neck. “You’re so hot, Davo. Fuck. Is this, fuck, is this okay? I woke up because you were squeezing around my dick -- like you wanted me to -- like you needed--”

“I do, Dylan. Oh. Don’t--don’t stop.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say to reassure Dylan just how okay this is, so he just pushes back into the lazy rhythm Dylan’s got going. It feels so good, like Connor’s entire body is a livewire of pleasure. Dylan’s jerks him roughly, cupping his balls hard on a downward pass and holding him still for the next roll of his hips.

“More. Dylan--more.” Connor says, reaching back to squeeze Dylan’s ass.

“Got you,” he replies, thumbing at the head of Connor’s dick. “Fuck, Davo, yeah I got you.”

Dylan’s rolls them so that Connor’s on his stomach, arms still so wrapped around him that they’re tucked underneath Connor’s chest, even as he shifts and fucks up, into Connor. They stay like that, still lazy but deep, until Connor can’t wait any longer, the angle only hitting his prostate every once in awhile. He feels like he needs to come right now. He whimpers into the pillows, restless and unsatisfied by Dylan’s slow thrusts. Finally, Dylan stretches out their arms underneath the pillows, shifting Connor’s leg up and changing the angle.

They haven’t kissed since Connor woke up and it makes it even hotter somehow.

Dylan gets enough leverage to give it to him harder and fast, the lazy sprawl of waking up gone. Connor can only suck in so much breath with his face pressed into the pillows, gasping Dylan’s name and getting fucked exactly like he needs it: short, hard thrusts that are quick to light him up from the inside out. Dylan fucks him like he needs it -- like he’ll die if he doesn’t fuck Conner harder, get deeper and stay there. He’s biting into Connor’s shoulder, moaning and grunting with the force of his thrusts until they both come, adding to the mess they made before their nap.

Connor barely waits the seconds it takes for Dylan to slip out of him, hole gaping, clenching around nothing after being held full for so long, and dripping, before he scrambles to pull Dylan in by the back of his neck and kisses him breathless.

He aches. His body missing the sure space Dylan had filled -- both small in his softness and hard when he stretched Connor into consciousness, fucked him like he own every bit of Connor.

He does. They do. This is forever.

“Thanks,” Connor says, mumbling against Dylan. They’re breathless against each other, mouths bruises from the force of Connor’s kisses. When Connor finally pulls back, only barely restraining himself from reeling Dylan back in -- Dylan’s smiling, soft and sure and then blooming into this crazy grin.

“I fucking love you,” Dylan says and Connor can’t even say it back because Dylan’s already kissing him again.

Finding Ryan a new condo isn’t a ruse. He really is looking for one but it’s a good excuse for the two of them to fly to New York. Connor asks a few times if there is anything he can do -- but Dylan shoos him away every time with a grin. It’s nice to let Stromer take the reigns on this one and Connor sits back for the next two weeks -- except for demanding that Dyls dye his hair back to the appropriate color.

“What the fuck do I wear?” Connor asks over Skype. They fly out tomorrow.

Dylan grins. “Don’t over pack. I got us covered for wedding day attire.”

“What does that mean? Seriously, Dyls, I’m not getting married with my dick out.” Connor doesn’t care what Alex says, that isn’t romantic.

“Trust me! I sent Ryan’s tailor our measurements like, weeks ago. We’ll be looking fly as fuck, I assure you,” Dylan says. “And matching. I know how much you like that.”

Connor is not so secretly pleased. He’s never been much for fashion but he knows that Dylan likes it and the idea of suits made especially for their wedding is nice.

“Are they ridiculous? Or will I be able to wear it again?” Connor inquires, going back to packing a few shorts and shirts. They won’t be there long -- two days at Ryan’s, then presumably they get married and go on a three day honeymoon but Connor’s been told little else other than that.

“Hell yes, you’ll wear it again,” Dylan says, looking smug. “You’re gonna wear it on game days and I’m going to drool half a country away. Then after you dominate your game, score a hatrick or some shit, you’ll call me and I can watch you take it off on camera.”

Connor peers over to the computer. Dylan’s grinning. “You seem like you’ve thought a lot about this.”

“No shit,” he says. Then he kisses his ring and shoves it toward the camera. “Now are you done or what, I want to watch this replay and get to bed. I am exhausted.”

Connor grumbles but more or less wraps up the rest of his packing. There’s a few things he needs to do in the morning before he can leave but overall it’s fine. He sets his alarm for an absurd hour, wanting to have breakfast with his mom before he leaves, and queues up the DVR.

“Ready?”

“Very much so,” he says and they’re both smiling. Familiar Blackhawks broadcasters filter in and Connor watches as much as the 2nd period with Dylan’s running commentary. But he’s out by intermission -- a side-effect of Dylan trying to push the pace training with Ryan. Connor spends the third period watching Dylan’s face over Skype, his own game-playback muted.

Connor’s been to New York before, but mostly for hockey, so it doesn’t really compare when he’s there and free to do as he pleases. New York is Toronto on steroids. Downtown Toronto is intimidating but this is colossal on a scale that Connor can’t really understand. They land at JFK together and Ryan has a car come get them. There’s a huge line of dark sedans lined up in arrivals and it takes them nearly two hours just to get their bags and get out of the airport.

Connor just tries to take it all in.

Ryan and Dylan are chatting softly, since Ryan’s in the front seat of the car with the driver. Connor likes the way his ring looks sitting on Dylan’s gesticulating hands. When Connor had questioned him on the plane about wearing his ring out -- Dylan had shrugged him off. It was New York. No one was paying them any mind and even if a hockey fan did miraculously find them, they probably wouldn’t even recognize Ryan. The city had much more exciting people to look out for than the three of them.

They have dinner at an Italian restaurant that looks like something out of a mob movie. The people who work there do seem to recognize Ryan but they greet him like friends instead of fans. They ask him about his family and Ryan introduces them to his brother and Connor. Everyone seems much more interested in Dylan than they do Connor and it puts Connor at ease. Which is funny because Connor hadn’t realized he needed it -- he supposes it’s normal to be nervous. He’s about to get married.

“We’re gonna meet him for drinks at his office,” Ryan is saying, once they’ve gotten seated and he’s looking over the drink menu. “He needs to meet with you guys, talk some shit over before he can get the paperwork together.”

“Are we still on for tomorrow then?” Dylan asks and Connor’s brain stutters. He just -- everything feels like it’s going so quickly.

Ryan shrugs, stuffs half a loaf of bread in his mouth and says, “Probs. You’ll have to ask him tonight.” Then he turns to flag down a waiter he apparently knows and they start chatting.

Next to him, Dylan squeezes his hand. “You good, Davo?”

“Yeah, I just,” Connor says, taking a drink of water. “I’m just surprised.”

Dylan raises his eyebrows and says, “Surprised? You’re the one who asked me bud.”

“No, I just mean,” Connor says then stops. “I don’t know what I mean.”

Dylan flashes him a wide grin, mischievous and Connor doesn’t have time to panic about meeting the man that is marrying them because Dylan is leaning over his glass of wine and kissing Connor.

It’s a dark lit room but it’s still in public. It’s still a restaurant full of people with camera phones but he can’t stop himself from kissing back. Dylan keeps it chaste, pressing his lips to Connor’s and then moving to the side of his mouth, his jaw and finally his ear.

“No take-backs,” Dylan says happily. “For keeps, Davo.”

Connor’s doesn’t have time to panic or even pull Dylan in for one more because Ryan’s done with his conversation, turning back to the table and scolding them.

“Jesus, I turn my back from one minute and you’re already making out,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “You guys are fucked.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dylan replies, easing back in his seat but keeping hold of Connor’s hand. “We’re getting married. Let us live.”

Ryan flips him off but he’s smiling. Connor wasn’t around when Dylan told his brother but he’s been nothing but aloof and supportive. Connor doesn’t know what he was expecting, a fight maybe -- something about them being too young or not understanding what it would be like to be out in the NHL, even if it was a secret to most everyone. Ryan hasn’t said anything, though, seems to take them getting married as a done deal and treats them like he always has.

It’s… bizarre.

“Drink some wine, Davo,” Dylan says, pouring him a small glass and topping off his own. “Relax a little. You’re about to marry the prettiest damn Stromer -- it’s a step up. Let the world mourn the loss of the most attractive Strome.”

The squabble that breaks out (about whether or not Ryan’s awkward phase is enough to make Dylan the prettiest Strome) is enough to put Connor completely at ease. They eat well and by the end of dinner Connor has completely forgotten about his momentary panic. It might be because the wine has him feeling warm or the high of being just a little bit more public with Dylan. They don’t kiss again but Connor is aware of how Dylan sways into him, their shoulders bumping and their hands clasped together when they’re not eating. It’s just… fucking nice.

That’s the thing about keeping secrets, Connor thinks. You don’t know they’re silencing you until you feel what it’s like to speak.

Jean Paul has an office in a huge glass building that looks virtually indistinguishable from any of the other ones surround it. He’s a very, very tall man in a sharp suit with a bit of a gut but his soft French-Canadian accent is familiar. He shakes their hands when they all enter the room and offers everyone a drink. Connor sticks with water, because his cheeks still feel pink from the wine.

“So Ryan tells me that you wish to marry,” Jean Paul says once they’re seated. “You are over 18, yes?”

Connor and Dylan both nod and Jean Paul takes a sip of his drink. “Usually, when people marry this young, it is because there is a little one coming.”

Connor blinks and Dylan laughs.

“We’re not pregnant,” Dylan says, grinning at Connor and looking down at his stomach like he’s imagining Connor fat with a child -- which is ridiculous on so many levels but particularly because Connor wouldn’t be able to play hockey in a few months if he was busy gestating Dylan’s love-child.

“Although probably not from lack of trying,” Ryan jokes and Connor feels himself blush. Dylan squawks but Connor’s not fooled, he can see him preening.

“It’s just,” Connor says, suddenly feeling the need to explain himself to Jean Paul. “The draft is soon and we’d like to be married before it happens. It’s a little.. unpredictable.”

Jean Paul tilts his head side to side, considering. “Yes, I suppose that is understandable -- although, I think everyone knows that your number one spot is nothing if predictable. But your lives are going to get rather complicated.”

Dylan snorts and Connor feels stupid. The anonymity of the restaurant made him forget that this man, who probably grew up in Canada following the Canadiens with a fervor that doesn’t leave once you relocate, probably knew exactly who Connor was when Ryan called him.

“Well, I do not need to tell you that this is very permanent,” Jean Paul says, finishing his drink. “This is the rest of your lives -- there is always divorce, but that is not secret, pretty or inexpensive.”

“This isn’t a sudden decision,” Dylan says, fierce and loyal and god, Connor aches for how much he loves him. “But we’d just prefer this to happen privately now, so we can focus on the draft and training camp. We’re a done deal.”

Dylan’s voice is steely and Connor squeezes his hand to get him to look away from Jean Paul so he can give him a small smile. It’s funny to think that it wasn’t long ago that they were meeting in Erie and now Connor’s sitting on a stiff leather couch, trying to marry him.

“Well then, let us begin,” Jean Paul says, clapping his hands and getting up to retrieve a sheer mountain of paperwork. The pressure in Connor’s chest seems to go -- now faced with making copies of their IDs and passports, filling out approximately 100 forms with the exact same information and what feels like a dozen NDAs. It takes them nearly an hour and Dylan’s pen runs out of ink twice.

“I will file tonight, but it probably will not be validated until tomorrow morning,” says Jean Paul, stacking their papers together. “So do not come back until the day after -- then we will file more paperwork and see a clerk friend of mine.”

Ryan comes back from the hall, pocketing his cell phone and says, “So Thursday, at 9:00 in the morning? I have to see a condo at noon.”

Jean Paul laughs. “Yes, we will marry your little brother in enough time for you to make your house hunting appointment.”

With that, there is more shaking of hands and they’re off -- apparently, they’ve applied for a marriage licence. Because they’re getting married.

“Heavy shit, eh?” Ryan says when they finally get back to the hotel suite. They have a two room suite, simply because none of Ryan’s friends are in town and Ryan’s got several condo showings set up for the next day. But Connor is exhausted, so he begs off scrolling through the listings, Matt facetiming in for added Strome brother arguing, to take a shower.

Connor cranks the air conditioning up and takes the hottest shower he can stand. It’s humid and warmer in New York than it was at home, but the knots in Connor’s shoulders are stubborn. By the time he gets out of the shower, he can barely keep his eyes open -- feeling slightly guilty that he only got a run in this morning before breakfast with his mom, not even a true work out. He changes into an old Otters tee and briefs, crawling into the bed and settling in the crisp sheets. Outside, he can hear the sound of car horns and the white noise of a city that never sleeps and just outside the bedroom, he can hear Matt, Ryan and Dylan still talking. Connor tries to muster up the energy to go into the sitting room and tell them that he’s going to bed but the wine from earlier and Jean Paul’s everything has set his head spinning. So he lets himself doze to the sound of New York and his wandering thoughts.

For the first time since he proposed, Connor wishes he would have shared this with his family.

Connor wakes up before dawn. There’s blue light streaming through the windows but it’s not quite bright enough to be real morning. As usual, Connor’s the big spoon to a blanket burrito. He gets up to use the bathroom and brush his teeth but nothing’s changed when he comes back.

It takes a few blind, sleepy tugs to get Dylan unwrapped and Connor settles in behind him again, draping the blanket over them. He listens to the muted sounds of the early morning outside but their hotel room is quiet. Ryan’s an earlier riser but not this early. The clock says 4:40 and tomorrow, Connor’s going to marry Dylan Strome.

He wraps his arms around Dylan, tugging and re-adjusting them until Connor can tangle his hands with Dylan’s and feel the warm metal of the ring against his hand. They have the day to themselves really and there are a million things they could do. The lowkey anxiety from yesterday is gone and Connor doesn’t miss it. He wants to enjoy this.

“Davo?”

Dylan is sleep dumb and slow, squeezing weakly at Connor’s hands and then groaning a little when Connor presses forward with his hips -- slotting his half-hard dick along the curve of Dylan’s ass.

If he didn’t want Connor to touch him so early in the morning, he should have worn clothes to bed. He says as much, teasing Dylan about his brother walking in.

“Ryan knows better,” Dylan says, still sleepy. “Want you.”

“How do you want me?” Connor asks because their current position implies an activity that they’ve definitely only talked about vaguely. Connor doesn’t think they have enough time to really explore Connor inside of Dylan. If only because it still kind of blows Connor’s mind and also, they’re gonna need a lot of prep-time.

“Suck my dick a little,” Dylan basically whines, pushing Connor’s hands down to wrap around his dick. “Then I’ll fuck you. Just -- let me wake up to your mouth.”

Connor’s not going to say no to that.

He pulls Dylan onto his back, crawling over him to give him a few slow kisses. Connor’s extremely happy he took the time to brush his teeth because Dylan’s mouth needs the help. But it doesn’t take long for Dylan to whine and push weakly at Connor’s shoulders.

“Come on,” Dylan says, “please, Davo. Let me have your mouth.”

Connor’s not as good at this as Dylan is but, then again, Connor’s mouth is generally just bigger. He can take in a lot more of Dylan’s dick in his mouth without having to navigate deep throating. He sucks and bobs with Dylan’s hips, rolling his balls between his hands and listens to the way Dylan slowly wakes up. His mouth is as filthy as ever, making Connor blush even when he’s pushing back Dylan’s foreskin and lapping at the precome there. Sucking on Dylan’s dick when he’s half-hard and plumping up in his mouth just gets Connor more horny than he thought physically possible. It’s not long before he’s pulling off and coming up to kiss Dylan.

“Can you just --"

“Yeah, yeah, come here,” Dylan says, flipping them over and then pressing between Connor’s legs in one movement. “We need lube.”

“Get some and then, just,” Connor says, suddenly desperate. “Can you just -- push in?”

Dylan stops kissing him. They had lost the condom as soon as they could but they’ve always been meticulous about prep. Mostly because Connor can’t imagine explaining to trainers that he’s been broken by athletic and over-enthusiastic, if inexperienced, sex. But Connor wants to feel it a little -- wants to know if he can take Dylan without prep.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah but I’m looser, just -- I think I’d like it, just get yourself really wet,” Connor justifies. Dylan seems to pause for a full five seconds before he’s scrambling off the bed and to his suitcase. He comes back with the cap of the lube already off and pouring it over his dick with abandon.

It’s a pretty ridiculous picture.

Connor laughs, too loud, but Dylan is crawling over him and there is lube dripping on his own dick and between them and Dylan is taking him at his word. He pushes Connor’s right leg up and Connor can feel the hot heat of his cockhead at his hole. Dylan’s hand wraps around the back of Connor’s neck, keeping him folded up so that they can kiss while Dylan presses in.

Because they are actually getting better at this, Connor relaxes into it and pushes back, letting Dylan slip in between one breath and the next. It’s a lot -- pressure and prickles of pain but Connor can feel Dylan groaning, cursing against his lips and it’s worth it. Connor looks down, goes to wrap his hand around his dick to get it hard again once Dylan’s fully seated but to his surprise, he’s mostly still hard. Softer than before, sure, but for taking a dick without much prep, Connor’s doing okay.

“Holy fuck,” Dylan says, looking down with Davo and then grinning. “You love my dick so much.”

Connor doesn’t dignify that with a response because Dylan’s moving. It’s good immediately because Connor has the best ideas and also because they do this enough -- Connor on his back -- that they know what works best.

Well.

“Shit-fuckfuckfuck --"

Connor tries not to laugh. “Did you just --"

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you -- just, shut up for like two seconds,” Dylan gasps, wetly and dramatically, his hips jerking into Connor. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

Connor flexes around Dylan’s twitching dick. “Still sort of happening.”

“I can’t believe I just came in you like a virgin,” Dylan groans. He hasn’t moved -- still seated tight and pressed inside Connor. It’s enough to keep Connor hard though and so he runs his hands up the length of Dylan’s back and brings their heads back together. Making out with Dylan isn’t a chore and it just makes Connor want him more.

“Do you think you can --" because Connor isn’t really there yet so Dylan needs to get down there and suck his dick.

Dylan groans. “Yeah, yeah, just -- let me --"

But then he’s not pulling out at all; he’s pushing at Connor’s leg again until it’s up and Connor is distinctly aware of how wet he is down now that Dylan’s not as hard. He’s -- well, he’s definitely leaking a little. It makes something hot bloom in his chest. Dylan groans, probably insanely sensitive and then he rocks his hips a little, the new position grinding his dick into Connor’s prostate.

“Oh,” Connor says. It’s such a weird feeling -- usually Stromer’s bigger inside of him -- but he’s smaller now but still fucking Connor a little. He’s surprised at how much he likes the feeling.

“I want --" Dylan tries because he curses again, teeth digging into Connor’s lip before kissing him properly. It’s brutal, way more savage than Connor’s used to and Dylan pants into his mouth. “I can -- let me try. Fuck you’re so wet.”

Connor feels his face flame but Dylan’s kisses him then, murmurs a few lines that Connor will never repeat and then pulls back a little, waiting for a verdict.

“Stay in me,” Connor whispers. Dylan groans at that, ducking down to bite at Connor’s neck. His hips are swiveling slightly, but they’re pressed so tightly together that Connor’s got a bit of friction on his dick, which is really all that matters right now. He can’t really feel Dylan growing inside him, he’s still post-orgasm softening, but Connor wants to know what it feels like to have Stromer lengthening inside of him.

“Just -- stay in me,” Connor repeats. “I want to feel it.”

Dylan gasps against him, hips jerking and making them both groan. “Keep talking, Christ -- Davo.”

“Yeah?” Because Connor doesn’t talk, not like Dylan, mostly because he usually listened to porn on mute. Dylan grew up with two brothers and zero privacy at the best of times. Connor’s always maintained a bit more dignity. “I’m not --"

“Gonna marry you tomorrow, babe. Tell me about our honeymoon,” Dylan says, mouth open and scraping up Connor’s neck. “Tell me what you want to happen after we get married tomorrow.”

Thoughts explode in Connor’s head. He knows -- he thinks he knows -- what Dylan’s getting at. But he doesn’t have words for that, not for what it would feel like to work into Dylan and fuck him open. Instead, Connor thinks about his earlier fantasy.

“When I was working up to giving you my ring,” Connor whispers, arching into Dylan’s mouth. “I thought about -- your mouth.”

“Yeah?”

“No just -- your hand with my ring on your finger, inside of me and your mouth --"

Dylan’s hip jerk and Connor pushes back. He tries to concentrate on the feeling -- he thinks, if he squeezes -- he can feel Dylan thickening inside him.

“Jesus I can feel you,” Connor says.

“Don’t stop talking, Davo. My ring finger fucking you and where’s my mouth?”

“No, just your hands on my thighs -- with your ring and your mouth -- god fuck, I can feel you getting hard,” Connor moans. He reaches up to push against the low headboard, arching his back and letting Dylan work himself in tight circles. “Your mouth on my --"

They get distracted then because Dylan’s grinding against Connor’s prostate as he fills up the space inside of Connor and he keeps slipping his fingers down to play Connor’s hole. How is Connor supposed to concentrate when Dylan’s murmuring about how wet Connor is?

“So wet for me, babe -- that’s my fucking come,” Dylan says because he’s an idiot.

Connor smacks him in the side. “Shut up --"

“Yeah Davo, focus,” Dylan says smirking. His fingers pull away from Connor’s gaping, slightly weepy hole, and pinches at Connor’s nipples with come and lube wet fingers. “My fingers on your thighs and my mouth… on your dick?”

Dylan winks at him and Connor’s just hates him. He leans down to lap at the mess he smeared across Connor’s chest.

“My ass -- inside, fucking me,” Connor finally says, embarrassed and so happy that Dylan’s working a truly epic hickey beside his nipple because he’s fairly sure he’s the color of a god-damn tomato.

“You want me to eat you out?” Dylan says and yeah, Connor can definitely feel his dick a bit better. He’s harder now and Connor stretches into it. “You want me to eat you out after I’ve come a second time? Davo -- you’ll be fucking soaked.”

And that’s all it takes, like the switch has been flipped from crazy sensitive to go-go-go, Dylan’s hips are suddenly brutal and Connor uses both hands to push back and get enough leverage on the head board to meet his thrusts. Dylan’s got one hand keeping Connor’s knee up so he can keep nailing his prostate and the other one is holding him up so there’s not much Connor can do but thrust down, get more of Dylan inside of him and harder. This would probably be better if he was on his hands and knees but he can’t get the presence of mind to move them. Dylan’s really giving it to him now, working him over and it’s so loud. It’s so wet between them, Dylan working his come and lube out of Connor and then driving it back it. Their skin slaps together and Connor can hear his own gasps in tandem to the squelching of all the wetness inside of him.

He feels a little sloppy, even though he’s pretty tight still. Oh god, he’s a genius.

“You like that, Davo -- me sucking my own come out of you, oh my god,” Dylan says and Connor’s very, very close. “You’re so -- god, you need it. Fucking fuck -- make me come again. Make me come, babe. You’re so tight, Davo -- listen to that, holy fuck.”

Connor comes so hard he shouts. Partly because it’s so good and partly because Dylan won’t stop talking -- about how he’s going to fuck Connor and then lick it all out so he can fuck him again; about how wet he is and how he’s going to fuck Connor’s with his tongue -- let him sit on his face and leak down his cheeks; about how Dylan wants to fuck him full and suck it out of him; how Connor makes him come so hard; how thankful Dylan is to get to fuck him; how Dylan needs to come in Connor. It’s just filthy, dumb, horrible shit that Dylan thinks is hot because he’s watched way too much Cocky Boys but it doesn’t matter because it’s working.

Connor stretches through the final spurts of his own orgasm, making a bigger mess between them and realizes how badly he’s shaking. The force of Dylan’s hips is a little painful.

It loses a bit of its appeal, after he’s come and Dylan’s still going. Mostly because the squelching sound sounds gross now that he’s come so hard his balls kind of ache. But it’s fine because Dylan doesn’t last long. He leans down to shift his weight, rabbits his hips into Connor, and finally comes with a few shouts of Connor’s name and a curse. Connor can’t feel him come, he’s already too wet for it to matter. But Dylan’s hips moving even a little makes Connor leak.

“Oh my god,” Dylan says weakly, hands moving to Connor’s ass as he fondles Connor’s abused rim and tries to keep himself seated. Connor’s knee is twinging but he doesn’t want to rush Dylan. He lets Dylan keep grinding into him and knows he’s flushing with every wet squelch.

“You’re a mess, babe,” Dylan whispers, pulling out with an obscene pop. Connor feels like covering himself, he can feel the wetness spread out a bit underneath of him. He feels embarrassed? But also hot and twisty -- like if Dylan asked him, Connor would give it up again, let Dylan back inside him and fuck him some more. It’s weird but Connor doesn’t know if he hates it.

He’s just… wet and empty.

Dylan’s weight is on top of Connor, pinning him. It’s disgusting. They’re disgusting with come and lube and so much sweat that Connor’s worried about their condition. Dylan’s fingers are dipping into the mess of Connor’s asshole and he protests but it doesn’t stop him from whimpering when Dylan’s fingers slip into him -- easy, all the way to the hilt. Dylan twists his wrist and Connor feels like all the air is sucked out of the room when he presses too hard on his prostate. Connor’s too sensitive, hot cheek pressed against Dylan’s where he’s sucking on Connor’s neck. He doesn’t know if he wants Dylan to stop or if he wants to get flipped over and fucked into the mattress, face pressed into the pillows and hips dragged over the length of Dylan’s dick.

Connor’s face is flaming. He feels used and so good and Dylan’s scraping his teeth all over his neck and pushing his fingers inside Connor so easy.

“You’re so wet from me,” Dylan whispers, the pads of his fingers pressing against Connor, sticky and slick. “God, Davo that’s so hot -- that’s my come, like twice. Fuck, I want to get back inside you -- keep you wet, keep fucking you. Can I -- I want to get down there, will you let me --"

Connor doesn’t know what he’s going to say, if he’s going to crawl down there and put his mouth on Connor or if he’s going to fuck himself back inside and give it to Connor all over again because there is a very loud banging on their door that derails that train of thought.

“You’re both dead to me -- you motherfuckers,” Ryan hollers from the otherside, sounding furious. “I can’t fucking believe you. I’m going to kill you myself -- if you haven’t killed each other with your dicks.”

Whatever weird, post-orgasm spell is broken by the sound of Ryan’s voice and Dylan pulls his fingers out carefully, patting Connor’s thigh and kissing him soundly on the mouth. Dylan leans away, grinning wide and Connor’s desperately trying to reboot his brain.

“Sorry, but I’m so not sorry,” Dylan yells back and Connor smacks him.

“I do not want Ryan coming through the door right when I’m --" Connor gestures at himself. Dylan keeps grinning. “You know, when I’m --"

“A come dumpster?”

“Soggy,” Connor settles on and immediately regrets it.

Dylan smirks. “Mark my words, Connor McDavid, let’s write these in our vows -- I will come in you and then eat you out for as long as you want. In fact, I’m just gonna withdraw my name from the draft and become your personal stallion of a fuck machine, you darling soggy little come dump --"

Connor pushes him off the bed, watching all 6’4 of him flail, giggling and naked, as he tumbles off the bed in a pile of sheets. He gathers up the sheet around him and shouts back, “Sorry, Ryan! It’s fine -- fucking murder him for all I care.”

Connor escapes to the bathroom, sheet trailing behind him, just as Ryan flies through the door.

Getting married is nothing like the movies.

Which, obviously, but also because Connor and Dylan are practically eloping. Part of him wishes his parents never, ever find out but the other part of him is sad that his mom isn’t there to buss his cheeks with teary kisses or have his dad share advice in a vestibule before Connor walks down the aisle to take his place and wait for the rest of his life to begin.

There is no bride walking down the aisle toward him and their symbolic future. Then again, there’s also no aisle.

They stopped by Ryan’s tailor the day before, did some last minute adjustments to their suits with instructions to come back in the morning. The marriage certificate they have issued in their name says they can be wed at 9:01am on June 18th. Which is why Connor finds himself sucking down coffee in a fitting room at seven in the morning for their final fitting, while Dylan bitches from the partition over because the barista at the coffee place they stopped at thought Dylan actually wanted coffee instead of some sort of chocolate sugar monstrosity.

“Oh my god, just take these raw sugar packets and shut the fuck up,” Ryan says. There’s a squawk of protest, making Connor thankful this is a private booking, and then Connor’s dressing room curtain is being pulled back. Ryan asses him.

“Lookin’ good, McDavid,” he pronounces. “You sure you want to marry into the family? You could definitely do better.”

Connor turns back to the mirror and pulls at his cuffs. The fabric is incredibly soft but still maintains structure. It’s a beautiful suit, navy with grey piping on the lapel and detailed stitching around the buttonholes; Connor can’t wait to see Dylan in his. They’re even wearing the same shoes, squeaky with newness. It’s the perfect outfit to get married in.

Or, well, he supposes it’s at least better than their Erie sweaters.

“Yeah,” Connor says, catching Ryan’s eye in the mirror. “I’m very sure.”

“Hell yeah, he’s sure,” Dylan says, appearing behind him and -- oh. They’re not matching like Connor thought Dylan had meant, not quite. Dylan’s suit is grey with an entirely navy lapel and his pocket square matches the pattern in the fabric of Connor’s dress shirt. Their ties are identical but everything else is complementary instead of the same. He had first imagined them doing this looking like they always had together: matching in same kit from head to toe. But now, as he takes in the picture they make together, he gets why Dylan chose these suits.

Individually excellent, but better -- more striking -- together. It’s so pathetically romantic Connor wonders how he wasn’t the one to come up with it. Dylan was definitely right; Connor really likes them matching. Complenary. Whatever. He fucking loves it.

Connor realizes he’s been staring when Ryan clears his throat.

“I’m gonna settle the bill,” he says, stepping back but Connor stops him.

“What? No! We can --"

Ryan stops him with his hand. “Seriously, consider it a wedding present.”

The curtain of Connor’s dressing-room flutters closed and Connor’s left with a suited Dylan in an enclosed space. Usually, his mind would turn to thoughts of hurried blowjobs but it just doesn’t seem like the mood for it.

“Hi, Davo,” Dylan says, stepping forward to smooth out an invisible line in Connor’s suit. He lets himself be turn around so that he’s facing the mirror again. Dylan presses behind him -- not close enough to wrinkle but close enough for Connor to feel how warm he is, the tickle of his breath across his ear and whatever tension Connor had in his shoulders visibly recedes.

“You look good,” Connor says. Dylan’s all long, uninterrupted lines. The grey looks amazing with his tan and Connor’s so glad Dylan got around to dying his hair back to it’s proper color -- as the blond wouldn’t have looked this good.The blue accents of his suit makes them look like a pair. Connor loves it.

Dylan smiles. It’s small and honest and Connor wishes they could stay in this moment forever. Just the two of them in a Brooklyn tailor shop, loving each other enough to stand on the precipice together.

“You know what’s funny?” Connor says and Dylan shrugs. “I’ve never been unsure about you. Even now -- God, Dyls, we’re about to get married and I’m not scared or nervous. Is that crazy? Are we --"

Dylan shakes his head and leans down to kiss Connor’s shoulder. It’s where he always kisses Connor when they wake up in the morning -- not close enough for Connor to smell his morning breath but enough to say hello -- and when he says goodnight, it feels like a promise that he’ll be there in the morning. Bookend kisses, Connor likes to think.

“We’re perfect,” Dylan says, voice low and emotional and Connor really hopes Dylan doesn’t cry because it’ll set him off. “We’re meant to do this together, Davo. Everyone always says that I benefit so much from your skills on the ice and they’re not wrong but they don’t know that it pales in comparison to what you do for me here.”

Dylan’s left hand comes to rest on Connor’s chest, just above his heart.

“The funny thing is that we’re so much better off the ice than we’ll ever be on it,” Dylan says, fiercely. “So it isn’t crazy. We’re not crazy; we’re just supposed to do this together. I’ve never felt more sure of anything because you’re the only person in the world that makes me think we can do this. You’re the only person who makes me feel this invincible, Connor.”

Fuck it -- Connor’s definitely gonna cry. “Dylan --"

“Shut up,” Dylan says. His eyes sparkle with tears that Connor hopes he doesn’t shed because then they’ll be crying instead of blowing each other like normal teenagers in a confined space. “Our vows are going to be totally plain and lame with that lawyer dude, so let me just say this shit now.”

Connor nods and sniffles, just barely, and it makes Dylan smile a watery but determined smile.

“You had to have known, I mean -- I’m so pathetic for you and you must have known that every time I said ‘Otters for life’, I meant you. I could lose hockey and as long as you were still there, I would make it out the other side alright,” Dylan continues. Connor is definitely crying now. “That’s what this means. It’s not new. Doing this is just a way to make sure the world knows we aren’t messing around -- when I mean for life, I mean no matter what. Gary Bettman and the fucking Edmonton Oilers aren’t going to change that. You’re my person, Davo -- literally fuck everyone who gets in the way of that.”

When Connor kisses him it’s wet because they’re both crying a little and Connor’s nose is running. But it’s perfect -- they’re careful of each other’s suits as they press together for chaste, sweet, everlasting kisses until Connor gasps for breath. He pulls back and Dylan’ stoops so that their foreheads rest together.

“You’re the best thing that hockey ever gave me,” Connor says, remembering the cabin floor and Dylan above him. “And I love you so much.”

Dylan doesn’t say it back but it doesn’t matter. They breathe each other in until Ryan opens up the curtain and says, “Jesus -- you’re not even fucking. You’re just crying on each other.”

“Fuck you,” Dylan says, kisses Connor a few more times and not stepping away. “We’re about to get married. I’m allowed to have feelings.”

“You’re all snotty,” Ryan teases. “This is not romantic. Oh god, don’t get snot on the suits.”

“Oh my god, I fucking hate you,” Dylan whispers but he’s smiling against Connor’s mouth. “Give us like five more minutes.”

Ryan grumbles but leaves them be.

“I’m surprised we haven’t fucked in this dressing room,” Dylan says, still holding onto Connor’s hands and pressing reverent kisses to them.

“We don’t really have time,” Connor says.

“That’s not stopped us before,” Dylan says hopefully but Connor shakes his head. “Hey, give me some credit here -- we’re crying in our wedding day suits instead of fucking in them. I was trying to save us some face.”

Connor opens his mouth to say something and instead he says, “I just fucking love you.” Connor watches as Dylan closes his eyes and presses kisses to every knuckle before he leans up and kisses Connor on the lips.

“I love you too,” Dylan says. “Now prove it. Come marry me.”

They take a car across town to do just that.

Connor and Dylan sign a hundred more documents and finally, Jean Paul brings in two people to make it official. It seems surreal but they stand in Jean Paul’s fancy lawyer office and say their vows. Dylan doesn’t cry and Connor doesn’t even get choked up once. He’s too busy being happy. Dylan is so handsome while reciting his vows, trying not to curse when he fumbles over his words and squeezing Connor’s hands too tightly between his own. The sun streams in through the windows and with Ryan as their witness, Dylan gives Connor a plain silver band.

Connor doesn’t mess up a single word of his vows and they kiss in front of Jean Paul and Ryan and two men that Connor has no idea what purpose they serve, other than make them really -- legally, officially -- Mister and Mister really fucking married Connor McDavid and Dylan Strome.

“I feel like I should feel different,” Dylan says, as they’re taking selfies and posing for pictures. Connor raises his eyebrows and says, “You don’t feel different?”

Dylan shakes his head. “Nope! I’m kind of hungry, I want to suck your dick and I’m really happy -- but like, standard, ya know?”

“Yeah, Dylan -- I know,” Connor says and he can’t help but kissing him again. That’s Connor’s favorite picture of them, when he looks through them all: Dylan smiling while Connor kisses him in the late morning light of the office. The sun casts shadows over their faces but they look so happy -- they look like Connor feels, out of this world and outshining the force of the sun.

“I feel like you guys are grosser now,” Ryan says, taking a swig from his water bottle and judging them. They’re making out on the couch of their hotel but it’s casual. Ryan said he was going to be right back. But Connor can’t get enough of his own ringed finger against the tan slope of Dylan’s jaw when he cradles him in for another kiss -- so he doesn’t fucking care.

“We’re newlyweds,” Dylan says, flopping down on Connor’s chest and flipping Ryan off.

“I seriously have no clue how you’re supposed to keep this a secret when you’re all,” Ryan says then gestures to their tangled pile of limbs. “Disgustingly happy?”

Dyan snorts. “To be fair, we won’t be in the same room most of the time and besides, people see what they want to see. Straight people kind of suck.”

It’s bitterness there, not about the distance but about how people will look at them and see exactly what they want to see: rising stars in the NHL but certainly not anything but straight, athletes. Connor assumes he’s going to have to identify to a label eventually -- people will ask. He supposes that being Dylan’s means he’s gay, since Dylan Strome-sexual doesn’t seem to be an option. He’s honestly not thought about it much.

“Whatever, I’m straight and I still think you’re fucking obvious,” Ryan says, shrugging. “When do you leave?”

Connor frowns. He was under the impression they were staying in New York until Saturday before heading back. Connor’s got to catch a flight to do pre-draft press on Monday and Dylan’s coming with him even though he technically doesn’t need to be in town until Wednesday.

“I was thinking we could all get dinner before we head out,” Dylan says. “Or did you have plans?”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Only if you promise to be less happy at dinner.”

“No fucking chance. You’re lucky I didn’t give Davo a ‘congrats we’re married blowjob’ in Jean Paul’s office,” Dylan says out of spite and then grins like a shit when Ryan throws the nearest object -- a pad of post-its -- at his head.

“What-the-fuck-ever, be ready in like an hour.”

Dylan frowns. “Where are you going?”

Ryan looks at him like he’s insane. “I’m not hungry now and if I leave you unsupervised for more than ten minutes, you start fucking. I’m going to pick up groceries for tomorrow and run an errand. So… just don’t get jizz on my stuff.”

Connor doesn’t know when he’ll stop be embarrassed about other people talking about his sex life, but that day isn’t today. Regardless, as soon as Ryan leaves, Dylan turns to him and starts in on the buttons on Connor’s shirt. Connor had ditched his suit jacket in favor of rolling his sleeves in the June heat. Naturally, Dylan sees it as an opportunity to get them a step closer to sex.

“Wait --"

Dylan pauses. “I can totally do you in an hour. Hell, I can probably make you pop twice in that time.”

“Not that,” Connor says, smacking him. “Where are we going?”

“Oh.” Dylan’s smirk turns into a soft grin. “I thought we could go up-state for a bit. I rented a cabin for a few days and Ryan rented us a car. We can just drop it at the airport when we leave. It’s like three hours drive -- tops.”

Connor blinks. “I… don’t have anything to wear.”

“Davo, husband of mine, you will not need any clothes. We just got married -- for the next two days the only thing I want to do involves you not being in public. You will be so sexed up that you won’t be able to walk, let alone wear clothes or talk to reporters or do anything but like, come on command.” Dylan says helpfully and then he goes back to divesting Connor of his shirt. “We are having all the sex. In all the ways. I made some plays for you. You can look at the diagrams in the car.”

“Oh, okay.” A honeymoon, eh? Connor supposes that’s something they get now that they’re married.

They’re half an hour late to dinner but at least they make it to the shower before Ryan comes home. The sound of the water drowns out Dylan’s swearing when he accidentally gets a face full of come when he fingers Connor’s prostate too hard. It’s amazing they make it to dinner alive, considering the face-coming resulted in Dylan coming -- which resulted in him getting poked in the eye with Connor’s dick, a bruised elbow and neither of them noticing the giant hickey on the back of Connor’s neck until they were in the car to the restaurant.

Sitting at dinner, watching Ryan and Dylan bicker over something mundane, with Dylan’s hand in his, Connor realizes that it will never be like this again; he will never marry anyone else; he’ll never get dressed and cry in a tailor shop before business hours with the love of his life; he’ll never want something this badly; he’ll never have to look at anyone else the way that he looks at Dylan; he’ll never have to be anywhere more important than beside Dylan -- metaphorically or physically.

He’ll never be quite as happy as he is just now and that’s fine. Life will continue to come in second to this feeling of safety and everlasting happiness that feels tethered between him and Dylan. It’s amazing to think that anything that comes at him with have to contend with this force -- life can sure try to top this, Connor supposes, but he knows it never will.

This is what it’s all about.

Being married doesn’t make Connor feel any different as the summer goes on but he likes keeping the secret close to his chest. The end of June brings the draft -- wholly unsurprising other than the amount of time they have to spend with Mitch Marner, who seems to have only gotten more annoying since the last time Connor spent significant time with him. He keeps asking Dylan when they can go back to hating him but Dylan only laughs and puts more sunscreen on his nose.

Connor feels like he’s mostly sunscreen, but then again, they’re not in Canada anymore and he doesn’t want to be bright red at the draft just because the Florida sun is unforgiving.

Jack Eichel is a pretty cool guy, even if he is bitchier than all hell and puts Dylan’s teeth on edge. It makes Connor like him even more. They don’t talk much, him and Jack, but he likes him well enough and keeps his distance out of respect. If he was coming in second, he wouldn’t particularly like the guy ahead of him either.

“Does he ever shut up?” Connor asks, quietly because he’s afraid he’ll attract Mitch’s attention and be forced to participate in the conversation. Right now, he can close his eyes and mostly nap while Mitch goes on and on about who knows what.

“Not really,” Dylan says. “Mitchie has never been chill a day in his life. High-key disaster.”

Connor hums and settles more fully against Dylan’s thigh for a proper nap.

The draft is mostly media, more media, and shoving food in his face whenever he possibly can. He misses the weight of his ring on his finger but he has a nice tan-line of where it should be and he still gets to wear it on a chain. Luckily for both of them, the high caliber of their draft class means there’s a lot of guys and most of their media sessions are together. Connor has what certainly feels like a million more media obligations and he tries not to look pathetic when Dylan is freed to go hang out with the rest of the boys. He catches Dylan playing with his own ring at times, idly drawing his hands up to his chest and Connor can’t help but smile. It certainly helps him get through the extra media, even if he does have to watch Mitch flirt with his husband.

The weight of the secret is more comforting than anything else. It’s settles him when he is overwhelmed, even when Dylan isn’t around. There’s something about knowing that this is for them alone that helps the anxiety about their future fade away to a dull roar.

What keeps you grounded? Connor just smiles because Dylan keeps him grounded -- being married keeps him solid. He doesn’t tell them this. The pre-draft spins madly on.

They make them sit with their families and Connor is only slightly pissed that him and Stromer are so far away from each other. His mother keeps fussing with his suit but Connor doesn’t mind too much, because every time she comments on how good he looks in it, he remembers that this was the suit he wore to his wedding. The amount of pent up energy he has is distracting, though. He feels jittery and awkward, knowing that the cameras are on him the entire time. He’s worried about embarrassing himself somehow, accidentally picking his nose or someone reading his lips when he says something personal.

So he sits silent, lets his mother and Cam talk over him and tries not to sweat through his suit.

Connor checks his phone as carefully as he can. Stromer’s sent him a few texts and he waits until his mom is explaining something to his father about draft order so that he can check it without her reading over his shoulder.

Did you know that otters hold hands when they sleep? BC they are hella cute but also bc they don’t want to drift away from each other in the water. Otters stick together. SPOILER ALERT. WE ARE THE OTTERS.

Connor hopes the camera isn’t too focused on him in this moment, because he’s sure his face is as stupid as Cam always accusing it of being when Dylan’s involved. Connor doesn’t know what to type back, so he waits until he can catch Dylan’s eye and then he waves, both hands up. It’s not smooth at all and Stromer laughs at him, incredulous and fond and Connor can’t help it. Before they left the hotel this afternoon, Dylan had rubbed the same salve over his knuckles and worked it into their skin -- a soothing ritual that had calmed Connor down. Sharing kisses over the smell of that lotion is as much connected with them as it is with winning.

Across the way, Dylan rolls his eyes but waves back. Connor loves him with he whole of his heart -- he feels a little tension unfurl from his shoulders.

His pocket vibrates. Oh my god, you fucking dork. I hope they caught your absolute ridiculousness on camera. I love you so much.

Connor only gets to send back a heart before his mother is telling him to put his phone away. He does as he’s told but lets himself watch Dylan chat with his family. His phone keeps vibrating in his pocket and he’s sure to have a fair few texts at the end of the night but half of them will be from Dylan, who doesn’t seem to be getting the same chastising as Connor about his phone.

“You’re pathetic,” Cam says, nudging his shoulder when the lights dim a bit, signaling that they’re about to start. Connor’s mouth twists, eyes still on Dylan.

“Don’t be a dick,” Connor says but his mother is reaching across them to pinch them both on the thigh. Cam curses and it distracts Connor from frantic butterflies upsetting his stomach.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say,” she hisses through a smile. “Then I suggest you shut your smart mouths. We are having a nice family moment. You are supportive and loving brothers. Do I need to remind you that this is being broadcast internationally? Your grandmother is watching.”

Connor says sorry but Cam waits until she looks away before rolling his eyes and calling Connor a suck-up. It’s… normal. Connor breathes easier.

The NHL never does anything on time and it feels like forever before they finally get started. Connor can’t imagine sitting through the whole first round, wondering if the scouting reports are right -- watching the GMs send people from one table to the next. It would be cruel.

Thankfully, Connor doesn’t have to wait very long for his name to be called. And neither does Dylan.

Connor doesn’t think about explaining himself when he asks to watch the 3rd pick. Jack’s walking off the stage, determined but not happy, in Sabres colors. But Connor doesn’t have any thoughts to spare for him. They take a few pictures, handlers directing them where to look, before wanting to move them both into the media room but Connor can’t help himself.

“Can I just --" he starts and stops, eyes skipping away from Jack’s. “I want to watch the 3rd pick… if I can.” It doesn’t sound like a question coming out of his mouth, despite his phrasing -- permission hastily tagged on the end, and the woman escorting them nods, clearly surprised. Connor edges closer, gives himself space in the wings to watch as his husband’s name is called.

They didn’t have any aisle to walk down when they married each other, but it feels a bit like it now -- with Dylan making his way down to the draft floor and then up to the stage. He’s also wearing the same suit, looking handsome in all the lean lines that Connor loves. When he gets on stage, he pulls on Arizona burgundy like it was made for him. It’s funny because in the moment, it’s just pure happiness. He thinks he should feel a little sad; Arizona and Edmonton are worlds away but it doesn’t register. All Connor knows is pride.

Dylan leaps into his arms when he gets off stage, like he knew Connor would be there, and Connor doesn’t hesitate to catch him, squeezing him around the middle. Connor likes the way Dylan feels, sweater clad in his arms and shaking. It reminds him of Erie and he spares a fleetingly sad thought at how different their sweater colors are now.

“They wanted me,” Dylan’s saying, his awe and happiness banishing any lingering moroseness. “Third -- holy fuck, Davo!”

Connor doesn’t know what to say so he squeezes him harder. He never had any doubt that Dylan would go after Eichel, but his bias against Mitch was mostly based on how annoying he is in everything that he does. Arizona clearly is a decent club with the understanding that Stromer is a more solid pick -- definitely better in the long run and at least less trouble. Connor shudders to imagine Mitch Marner let loose in an American college town. Toronto has the fourth pick going on in the background -- not quite done with the fanfare of the top three. Connor will be surprised if Mitch doesn’t get it. At least the GTA is used to his fuckery.

“I’m so proud of you,” Connor says, pressing his face close to Dylan’s -- as close as they’ll get to a kiss. “You’re so good. You deserve it, babe.”

They have a few fleeting seconds to cling to each other -- the feel of the Stromer’s sweater underneath his hands is so familiar, even if the color is different. Connor soaks it in, closing his eyes and hoping he can remember every single second of these moments. It’s like a second honeymoon. Sure, the had those days at the cabin but this, getting drafted first and third in the same draft is something Connor wants to be able to tell their kids about someday.

Which is an interesting thought to have, but then the media woman clears her throat and finally leads them away -- so Connor shelves it for another time.

Behind them, the Leafs call Mitchie’s name and Connor rolls his eyes to Dylan’s grin. He’s going to be insufferable; not only because he got picked after Dylan but because it’s the fucking Leafs. Hometown boy narratives and Toronto media are a match made in heaven -- like the GTA is hard up for hometown boys and they aren’t dime a dozen.

Beside him, Dylan reaches quickly to squeeze his hand and says, “Mitch is gonna look so good in blue.”

Connor holds his tongue, squeezes back and ignores Jack snorting in front of them. They have a long night ahead of them all but at least Connor knows that his ends with Dylan and literally always will in one way or another.

The rest of the summer passes in a haze. It goes too quickly -- water slipping through his cupped hands. He’s desperate to make it last longer, summer days spent with Dylan in a familiar routine. They train as much as they can, eating and fucking when they’re not working out and Connor wears his ring as much as he can get away with until the tan line on his left ring finger is commonplace.

It helps him get through all the meetings with Oiler’s management and his agent; promotional shoots that take him to Edmonton more often than Toronto and suddenly, his obligations pile up around him -- as if warning him of the upcoming season. Connor travels more, mood sour as he modifies his workouts and lives out of a suitcase for days at a time. It’s not the same without a team around him -- even if Dylan sneaks candy, a Stromer 19 Otters shirt, and a tin of arnica salve in his suitcase to make him feel better.

“Remind me why you didn't come with me?” Connor whines, mostly into his pillow and in the general direction of his phone. Dylan’s on speaker and Connor can hear him laugh over the hum of the hotel room air conditioner.

“Because I’m busy and I didn’t want to go to New York,” Dylan says, like he isn’t missing Connor. “You better get used to hotel rooms and late night phone calls, bud.”

Connor grumbles.

“What are the chances that Pierre McGuirre accidentally kisses you or like, tries to hold your hand?” Dylan asks, instead of indulging Connor’s whining, which is unfair because NHL Live is awful and New York is hotter than hell -- he deserves some pity. “Do you think his one-sided romance with Crosby will be over now that you’re there? You Canadian hunk. The next one, 2.0! Homewrecker!”

“Fuck off. You’re a Canadian hunk.”

Dylan laughs. “Hell yes I am -- don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t,” Connor says because he’s a sap and Dylan loves him for it. “I want to order room service.”

Over the line, Dylan sighs. “It’s definitely not your cheat day, Davo.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. He eats two granola bars instead and grabs his foam roller so he can suffer with decent company at the very least.

Connor has meetings with the NHLPA and manages to pack in two sponsor photo shoots so he doesn’t have to come back. He’s used to being spoken to like he’s important, even when he’s not relevant because that’s just how the media is -- questions about being the next Gretzky or being better than Crosby -- just stupid shit that no one cares about. It’s easy to navigate because no one comes up with anything original. Connor could do those interviews in his sleep. (He’s admittedly been putting off requests to do an extensive interview with Cabbie because nothing about him is predictable and Connor always blushes like crazy.)

That being said, Connor’s a little blindsided by the fact that it’s a Tuesday afternoon in August and he’s getting an afternoon smoothie with John Tavares, Steven Stamkos and James Neal. They’re meeting up with Michael Del Zotto and someone said Wayne Simmonds was on a train and might meet them.

It’s… surreal.

Ryan isn’t even there to act as a buffer and now Connor feels like the odd man out. These guys have been in the show for much longer than Connor’s even truly realized it was a possibility for him. He thought it was just going to be him and Johnny but when Connor came down to his hotel lobby, Steven Fucking Stamkos was there to greet him with a smile and a half-hug, like they were already friends.

Connor orders a “Zen Smoothie Blast” and prays no one thinks he’s weird.

The guys clearly all know each other and Connor watches, content to sit back and watch everyone rip on James Neal like he’s their collective little brother.

“Sorry about it,” Johnny says when half the guys go up to collect their orders from the hand-off counter and flirt with the juicing chick. “I thought Stammer was alone.”

“It’s cool. Just kind of crazy,” Connor says, sheepish. Johnny smiles, wide and easy. He’s an easy guy to get along with and Connor can see why him and Ryan mesh well. Connor’s never met anyone who didn’t like Ryan.

Johnny accepts his smoothie from Stammer and Connor lets himself be engaged in a conversation about a few new sticks that came out. It’s a soft question but the subject loosens Connor up and soon enough they’re talking about everything from their draft years to the “chicks” James Neal is wheeling in Smashville.

“Dude, she likes you for the dogs,” Del Zotto says, hair falling into his eyes. He’s oddly intense. Connor would have bet that Stamkos would have been the most intimidating but he’s the most mellow out of everyone. Del Zotto leans forward, eyes unwavering when he speaks and Connor feels a little scrutinized.

“If by dogs, you mean -- ”

Johnny elbows Neal in the ribs and Del Zotto cracks up, nudging at Connor and saying, “Nealsy here is shit with the ladies. Like, he’s not even that bad in the looks department but fuck, he’s got to beg ‘em to go home with him.”

It dissolves into violence eventually but not before Stamkos leans over, easy and engaging and just being nice, and says, “You have a girl back home?”

Connor knows he freezes. DZ and Nealer have their phones out and are showing each other something but Johnny and Stamkos are definitely giving him their undivided attention.

“Um -- ”

Stammer smiles. “A girl in Erie, eh?” He leans back against the booth. “I noticed your ring -- I remember what it was like to have a girl like that back in Sarnia.”

“That’s not,” Connor says and then stops. What the fuck is he supposed to say? “It’s not like that.”

“It’s good to have things outside of hockey,” is what Stamkos says and Connor can’t help but laugh. He’s playing the pronoun game but he doesn’t care -- the idea that his marriage to Dylan isn’t intrinsically intertwined with hockey is laughable. It’s more like… it’s good to have hockey outside of Dylan.

“Quit with the dad advice,” Johnny says. “Let Connor have his secret girls if he wants to.”

“Dad advice -- what room do you have to talk Johnny, what the fuck are you even wearing?” Del Zotto says, joining their conversation and conducting a thorough breakdown of just how terrible a dresser Johnny is and if Stammer could not stand too close to them, that’d be great because no one can compare.

That night, Johnny takes a car back from the bar with Connor. It’s late but they didn’t drink much since they were all supposed to get together for training before their meeting. It was smoothies and then dinner before they decided to head out for a few drinks. True to form, Connor saw Neal’s complete lack of game for himself and tried not to spend the whole time missing Dylan. It’s just hard when hanging out with the boys makes him think about how everything would be better, would be easier, if Stromer was there. Not only because he gets along with everyone so easily, but Connor feels safer when there is a buffer between him and everyone else. When it’s just him, he feels a little exposed and like he constantly has to be careful of what he says.

“Hey,” Johnny says, sitting next to him in the car. Around them, the lights of NYC rush past. “I just wanted to say, I think you and your girl are great.”

Connor blinks.

“Promise rings and all that, the guys will give you shit for it but you just do your own thing, eh? I saw you texting her all night -- you look a little less tense afterwards and this is nothing -- this is just hanging with the boys, you’re not even playing yet. Stammer was right about having something outside of hockey. So don’t let shit get in the way of that. It can be as easy or as hard as you make it. I’m sure she’s great.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“You’re welcome, kid. See you tomorrow.”

He is probably the most awkward but he doesn’t care. Connor flees and can’t get over the whole thing. When he gets back to his room, he showers and does a twenty minute yoga video. It’s the first time he’s ever lied about Dylan -- it was a lie of omission but for whatever reason, it felt like more than he’s ever done. The combine had asked about his personal life -- carefully poking and prodding, trying to unveil secrets that could become problems. He’s had interviews ask him about girlfriends but it never made him feel weird. It’s weird to think of Stromer as his “girl at home”. Wifey material, as it were.

They are literally married.

He calls Dylan but doesn’t tell him about all his weird thoughts, just lets himself listen to Dylan and Marner play PS4 until Marns gets too smug. Connor falls asleep to Dylan talking about how he mowed the lawn for Mr. Martinson yesterday and forgot sunscreen on his neck.

The funny thing is, Stamkos and the boys made a lot of assumptions but his wedding ring is a promise. A pretty ultimate one, to be perfectly honest, but it’s funny how it plays out. He wants to tell Dylan that everyone thinks he’s really sweet on a girl, that’s that what makes him quiet when guys talk about wheeling or picking up strange. He wants to tell Stromer how he almost said, yeah, she’s the best thing because despite the pronoun, it’s the truth. He wants to tell them all how kind Dylan is; how hot he is pressed up against Connor’s mouth, open and honest and strong; he wants to brag. He wants to be brave enough to shake his head and say, “No girl back in Erie -- I think my husband might have a problem with that” but he’s not. So he doesn’t.

He falls asleep to Dylan and wakes up to Dylan and he’s not upset about anything in between. Someday he’ll be dissatisfied, he’s sure, but he’s not now.

He’s brave enough to wear his ring the next day and let the boys wonder -- think he’s got a girl back home -- while he looks at Dylan’s texts and snaps and falls in love him just a little bit more. Maybe the guys are right -- maybe Connor does have a sweet thing going back home.

Or maybe he’s Stromer’s sweet thing.

August gives way to September and suddenly their separation looms larger than before. Which is fucking dumb because it’s not like they haven’t known it was coming. Connor tries not to be resentful when Dylan practically skips off to Arizona for camp. Dylan sends him Snaps from the airport, sappy little videos and rainbow heart covered selfies that reak of excitement. It makes Connor feel guilty, so he tries to keep any bitchy negative thoughts to himself.

That doesn’t extend to Brinksy and Marner, though, but he never claimed to be poised. Marner’s in a foul mood because the Leafs told him that no matter what happens at camp, he’s going back to London. It’s a rebuild, so Marns understands but he’s still pissed as hell he’s not even given a chance. Brinksy hates them all equally and doesn’t waste any time telling Connor to stop bitching and then goes into explicit detail about some girl he wheeled two weekends ago and if it’s appropriate to bang her little sister (of course it isn’t) but he’s going to do it anyway (because he’s a classless shit).

Connor thinks hockey players are probably all disgusting. Except for PK Subban, but Connor’s only met him once.

That being said, there’s some comfort in knowing that Dylan’s in sunny Arizona wearing his ring, playing his best hockey, and he’s still Connor’s. Distance can’t take away the fact that they’re married. It’s as comforting as Connor thought it would be -- the whole point of it really. He’s smug when he gets another selfie of Max’s dog and Dylan, with Miss you babe pinned along the bottom.

Max’s dog is damn cute but Stromer still misses him.

Connor takes a screenshot and then goes back to listening to Mitch bitch at him over the headset, directing Connor’s subpar Call of Duty skills like they’re really in battle and not in their basements, passing time between workout sessions. Connor’s character on the screen dies when he’s replaying one of Dylan’s snaps but it serves to piss Marner off even more, so Connor lets himself be distracted.

They still don’t tell anyone. Not even Marner, who is around more often than not, much to Connor’s annoyance because it’s the last of their summer and Connor is positive that Mitchie has some other people in his life that tolerate his presence enough to keep him from showing up at Connor’s door. It feels odd to have such a huge secret, especially from his parents, but at the same time, literally nothing in his life is private anymore. Not with the media and certainly not with the Oilers, who are invasive in ways that Connor didn’t think about before he got drafted. They warned him -- everyone did -- but it still catches him by surprise every time another awkward prying into his personal life comes with nonchalance. They’re concerned about where he’s going to be living and with whom, asking veiled questions that he basically needs Dylan to translate because what are they really asking him. If it’s not that, it’s if his pre-game meal is something they’re going to need to cater to or --

Connor tries not to resent them but it’s hard to stay humble when he’s horny, missing Dylan, and spending too much time with Mitch. It bodes really fucking well for the season and the rest of Connor’s life, eh?

He leaves for Edmonton a few days after Dylan. He sends Dylan three awkward selfies in the airport and then shuts his phone off for his own sanity. When Connor gets off the plane, he expects to see his name written on a board and a driver sent from the Oilers. What he doesn’t expect to see is Taylor Hall signing autographs in a snapback, board shorts and flipflops with a killer tan. Connor joins him when Hall catches his eye, nodding to him when Connor says hello. They both pay more attention to the kids than they do to each other until they can break away.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Connor says, expecting Hall to tell him that the Oilers asked him to but all he gets is a grunt. Connor follows Hall’s long strides as they make their way out of the airport. They go out to arrivals, instead of the parking lot, and now Connor feels bad -- are they just taking a car back? Then why the hell did they make Hall come get him? What if Hall hates him?

“Um,” Connor says. “Where is your car parked?”

Hall finally looks at him and says, “I don’t drive.” Which is when they come up on Jordan Eberle hanging out of his car, trying to convince the security woman that he is in fact that Jordan Eberle so she should let him park in the loading zone just a little bit longer.

“See! Look, that’s Taylor Hall and Connor McDavid,” Jordan is saying, pointing at them as they walk closer with Connor’s stuff. The security woman looks between them and cocks a hip, she still seems like she wants to give them a ticket regardless. Connor tries not to smile too aggressively. Hall just frowns.

“Him I recognize,” she says, pointing to Hall. “Now hurry up and get inside this boy’s car before I impound it with half the Oilers inside it, don’t think I won’t.”

Hall and Eberle get into some sort of whisper fight as Connor loads his stuff in the back and distracts the security guard by signing a Timmies napkin for her (found in the back of Eberle’s car). She winks at him and when she declines Jordan’s signature, his squawking is enough to make Hall smile for the first time since he stopped talking to the kids at arrivals.

Connor gets into the car and tries not to take up too much space.

Eberle carries most of the conversation, although Hall clearly has opinions about all manner of things based on his body language and eye rolling. Eberle keeps trying to draw Connor in but Hall doesn’t seem too enthused to include him and Connor doesn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with these guys. It’s weird to meet outside the locker room and with all the stupid hype around his drafting (and the Oilers general disaster), he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

It might be a long camp.

The drive from the airport into the city is a bit long, so Connor distracts himself from Hall and Eberle’s seemingly endless bickering by turning on his phone. The Otters group chat is lit up, so Connor thumbs through that before he heads to his own inbox, which is a mess of memes (thank you, Mitchell Marner), encouragement and well wishes (his mom and Brownie) and a smattering of sexting and random conversation that will make more sense if he looks at his snaps (Dylan).

He’s too afraid to look at his snaps without headphones and privacy, as it appears that Dylan has most likely send him various videos of himself jerking off, based on the text messages five through nine.

Connor taps out: Most awkward welcoming crew. then sneaks a picture of the back of Hall and Eberle’s heads. Dylan is quick to respond but it’s mostly just exclamations and sporadic, foundationless accusations on their character trying to get Connor to relax.

“You look like you had a good summer,” Eberle says, startling Connor a little from his texts with Stromer.

Connor shrugs. “Been trying to stick with the nutritionist plan. It’s hard to pack on weight as much as I’ve been skating but I’ve been focused.”

“You look like you’re doing just fine,” Hall says, critically and Connor is fairly sure it’s supposed to be a compliment. “Ebs doesn’t have any room to talk. He was a fucking beanpole summer he got drafted.”

“Oh fuck you, I did fine,” Ebs shoots back and they fight for the rest of the drive into Rexall. The arena is old and Connor’s been there before. He expects it to feel different but it doesn’t. Maybe it will when he’s dressed in a game day suit or taking the tunnel for warm ups but as it stands, just strolling in still smelling of recycled airplane air, he feels just the same as always.

“Where you are staying? Because if Ference offers, you should definitely decline,” Eberle says, waving to someone across the parking lot as they make their way to the building. No practice today, just stopping by to sign some paperwork. Connor’s got a hotel to stay in for the duration of camp but he’ll be surprised if he stays there more than a few nights. Oilers management want him to stay with someone on the team and Connor’s not opposed to it. They want him to live with someone to help him integrate into the leadership group when the season starts. Connor just wants to make sure that he’s part of the guys and not orchestrated as this savior in the room. If they want to spin it that way for the media, that’s one thing. But in the room, he just wants to be like everyone else.

Eberle is still talking about the weird shit Ference eats, apparently really into new-age health shit -- which Connor respects to some degree. He’ll eat whatever the nutritionists tell him to. He’s long since made peace with it. He only seems to covet the occasional empty carb and blames Dylan for when he caves outside his cheat meal.

“McDavid isn’t staying with Ference and his weird juice,” Hall says, stern and mouth twisted. “He’s going to stay with me.”

Eberle opens the door to the arena, face stunned and says, “No shit?”

“Uh, I --" did Connor miss something?

Hall squints. “They said they were going to ask you like, three weeks ago. I’ve got the room. Luke is bouncing back and forth -- it makes the most sense. You don’t want to end up with fucking Ference or worse, Nail. You’re staying with me. I hired a painter.”

Connor does not want to fuck this up.

“Um, sure? I mean, I don’t really like weird juice but I’m not picky. I can crash wherever,” Connor says. “I don’t want to impose or anything, but if you’re offering…”

“I’m fucking offering! I offered ages ago,” Hall grumbles, smacking at Eberle’s gaping mouth and pushing at Connor’s shoulders until they’re all into the building. “Management thinks I’m going to ruin you or some other completed fucked bullshit. I told them weeks ago that you’d be staying with Luke and I. Assholes.”

“Oh please, Hallsy,” Eberle whines. “Don’t start.”

“Fuck you! McDavid is a damn adult, eh? I’m not going to corrupt him or some shit like that.”

Connor is definitely out of his depth. “I am kind of boring,” he warns because I’m basically old and absolutely secretly married isn’t something he’s willing to make a first impression on. He’s sending Dylan an SOS text as soon as he can break off to the bathroom. “But I’d be down to live with you -- if you don’t mind.”

Eberle loops his arms around Halls’ thick shoulders. They’re easy with each other, even if Hall doesn’t seem particularly friendly. He’s not hostile. It might just be his face.

“Hallsy is hella mellow. I know you can’t tell because he’s being a pissy whore mouth right now,” Eberle says, smiling. “Just make sure you donate to the candle fund and like, give up sugar.”

Connor blinks. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth?”

“Fuck off, Ebs. I’m fucking normal,” Hall says, elbowing Eberle in the stomach and herding them both down a weird hallway. “You’re staying with me, McJesus and everyone else can go to hell. I’m a great host -- for sure. Model fucking citizen.”

It sounds like a threat but Connor gets the impression that mostly everything Hall says is a deadly promise. Hall stomps off in one direction, presumably to snarl at someone about Connor living with him. Connor lets Eberle lead him to what looks like an equipment room.

“Are you cool with living with Hallsy? Cause if not --"

Connor tries to look confident when he says yes but he must fail because Eberle just laughs. “If anyone can help you survive this place, it’s Hallsy. Us first picks got to stay together,” he says, eyes dark and mouth pinched a little, despite his light tone. “Hallsy’s weird as fuck and like, a little mean, but he’s got his shit together. It’ll be good. And if not, you can always come hang out with me and Lauren. She’s awesome.”

Connor nods, asks appropriate prodding questions and lets Eberle ramble on about his fiance. He takes a moment to check his phone -- send Mitchie on a fact finding mission about Taylor Hall because if there is one thing that Marns has in common with a preteen, it’s gossip. If he’s living with Taylor Hall, seemingly without a real choice, then he wants to be prepared. He’s got three messages from Dylan: the first is a picture of him at the rink, sweaty and disgusting but smiling, mouth guard hanging out of his mouth; the second is a selfie of him pool side with Max’s dog; and the third is a text that reads: love you, babe.

He takes a deep breathe, rubs at the warm metal beneath his t-shirt and manages not to jump when Hall comes banging into the room, face set in a scowl but actually looking happier than before.

“Cancel your hotel, rookie,” Hall says. “You’re staying with me.”

Eberle screeches, “AW. MCJESUS IS YOUR ROOKIE. THAT’S SO CUTE.” Hall tackles him into a stick rack when he starts hollering about Hallsy trying to stay relevant to the youths and they all go tumbling down. Eberle is mostly laughing and when Connor catches a glimpse of Hall’s face, he’s smiling.

Connor taps back, Thanks, bud. Needed that. Call you tonight. Then he goes to call the hotel -- his reservation is no longer needed.

Chapter Text

Taylor Hall can’t cook for shit besides KD but he does get freshly ground coffee delivered for his programable coffee maker that he always preps before he goes to bed. Or, well, he makes sure it’s ready -- whether that means bribing Ebs to do it or asking Connor to do it via text, while he hooks up with one of the many blondes that always seems to be in Hallsy’s bed. Regardless, coffee is programed to come alive at seven am sharp -- five cups -- and it’s one of the best parts of living with Hallsy.

Everything else is standard fare horrible and Connor shudders to think what it was like before Luke.

Connor has no idea why Taylor offered up his home since he’s generally kind of a weird dude. Connor has never my anyone like Taylor Hall -- who is an absolute crazy person on the ice and just as crazy off it -- and he doubts he ever will. The only person who lasted more than a week was Luke and it doesn’t seem to count since he’s in and out of the lineup and is about the most laid-back bro that Connor has ever met. But Connor remembers the long, hard stare of Hallsy at training camp and that hasn’t really gone away.

“You like livin’ with Hallsy?” Nuge had said, two weeks into the season and Connor hadn’t known what to say. Luckily, Jordan Eberle had taken that opportunity to wrap his arm around Connor and say, “Of course he fuckin’ doesn’t, ya non. Hallsy is the worst.”

Which is definitely not true, but Hallsy is so hard to get. He’s short tempered, yet “chill” in the way that only hockey players can be, but also goofy. Connor literally never knows what to expect. He’s the kind of cool Connor has never hoped to be but also hot-headed about hockey, has all sorts of bizarre rules, and -- despite living in Edmonton nine months out of the year -- always has a tan. Although, Dylan thinks that’s just because Hallsy has huge white teeth that makes him look tan. Regardless, he’s just… puzzling.

“Hallsy is great,” Connor had said loyally because even if Hallsy was a fucking basket-case, he was one of the best teammates Connor had ever had.

No one wants to win more than Taylor Hall and Connor values that more than anything.

Right now, Connor is trying to remember all the great things about Taylor Hall because there’s some spectacularly loud morning sex coming from his room and Connor hasn’t gotten laid in approximately three months.

“Jesus Christ,” Connor curses, tripping out of bed and blindly looking for his headphones. When he finds them, attached to his phone from last night’s Facetime with Dyls, he sees the time and figures he might as well get up. His dick is sad and calling his husband at 6am for sex seems a little desperate, even with timezones in his favor.

He takes a minute to think about Luke: who, nine times out of ten, actually sleeps in Hallsy’s room, in a platonic way that Connor thinks might be a little gay. But then again, it wouldn’t surprise him if Luke slept through the entire thing, Hallsy and his hook-up right next to him. Luke is an extension of Taylor that Connor doesn’t understand.

Thinking about Luke, Hallsy, and the girl… it’s just too much for 6am.

Connor jerks off in the shower, water scalding hot, trying not to think about the girl Hallsy is wheeling screaming, “Daddy, yes -- fuck my pussy, daddy”. This is why Dylan needs to be in the same city with him. Connor cannot process Hallsy’s possible daddy-kink and non-hetero relationship without assistance or at least extensive therapy.

He sends Leon an SOS text message once he’s out of the shower and dressed. There are days when Leon is the only sane person on the entire team and it shows when Connor gets a sympathetic text back and link to soundproof headphones, followed by a link to condos in Edmonton. It’s something they’d talked about a little, moving in together next season. But obviously Connor has a lot to consider. Crashing with someone is one thing but making a conscious choice to live with someone without telling them about Dylan feels... disrespectful?

But Connor wants to tell Leon yes, he thinks. Move in with him in a condo by the new arena and not worry anymore.

The coffee machine is alive and well when Connor comes out of the bathroom and there is thankfully relative silence from Hallsy’s room. Luke’s room is closed but there’s no way to know if he’s in there, in Hallsy’s room, or even in the NHL right now. It’s hard to keep track of the back and forth, especially since he doesn’t seem to mind too much. Connor doesn’t wait for the pot to brew fully, just until there is enough for a cup and snags it. Hallsy doesn’t allow creamer in his house, because he’s a complete freak about sugar, and so Connor’s learned to suffer through black coffee as a result.

Empty carbs? Fine. Sugar? Hallsy legit hurled a bag of Halloween candy out the balcony window, the people below be damned. Ebs had pouted about it for a week (hard to tell if the pouting was about the candy or about their inability to win consistently, though. Losing is exhausting and Connor sees it written on everyone’s face every night -- regardless of the result of the game. It’s the worst part about being here, about being asked to be “the guy” when he stares at five other guys in the locker room who are capable and want to be the one to turn it all around on their shoulders alone… if only management and coaching could get their shit together at the same time.)

Dylan is horrified -- about all of it -- but mostly about the sugar. Which is why Connor sends him a snap of his coffee, jet black and steaming because Connor’s not superstitious but he likes his days to have a pattern. Waking up with his husband, one way or another, is just starting off on the right foot -- game day or not.

Text from Stromer:
Oh my fucking god gross. Also wtf it’s so early for you.

Connor replies back, detailing the horrific way he woke up this morning and waits for his phone to ring.

“You’re fucking joking,” Dylan hisses, face smashed into the pillow and looking sleepy and way too attractive for his own good. Connor tries to remember if Dylan’s at home in Erie but can’t for the life of him remember if this was their long road trip or their long homestand. It makes him feel guilty. Googling it makes him feel more guilty. Even so, the time difference means it’s much later for Dylan.

“I wish I was,” Connor says instead of sorry I’m not there. “She seemed... really into it.”

Dylan shakes his head, a weird look of awe and disgust on his face. “She come around often?”

“Oh no,” Connor says, refilling his mug. “Hallsy never pulls the same girl twice -- although, I’m not sure he would know. They all look exactly the same to me.”

“What a fucking beauty,” Dylan says, grinning. Dylan is a big fan of Hallsy’s erratic moods and nonsensical vocabulary. He says it reminds him of all the friends his brother used to have when they grew up around the rink. “He’s a monster.”

“Yeah. He definitely has a type. Oh -- speaking of --" Connor stops and holds the phone so that Dylan can see the rest of the condo. There’s movement, definitely the noise of Hallsy’s door opening. A blonde comes walking out looking well fucked, smug as hell, and texting on her phone. She doesn’t even look up when she leaves, like Connor isn’t standing there -- number one pick of the 2015 draft and actual hockey jesus of Edmonton.

“Was that her?”

Connor looks back at Dylan and nods. Dylan makes a confused face. “She’s kind of --" He makes a few shapes with his hands that Connor doesn’t understand.

“What?”

Dylan shakes his head and blushes. “It was a dick thing to say but she’s kind of, you know, bigger. Uh, like curvy? Fuck. I’m a dick.”

“Oh,” Connor says, thoughtful. “Hallsy isn’t picky. Blonde with…” He gestures to his chest because he can’t say boobs -- it seems disrespectful. Then again, she was screaming about Hallsy being her daddy where anyone in the condo could hear and Luke probably bore direct witness to it.

“But I mean, that’s it. Big… chested? And blonde. They’re all… different but I’ve never seen one come around twice.”

“Huh. I guess I always thought he’d go for the model type,” Dylan says. Which is rich because Dylan should know better than to think that, considering his type is Connor -- who is definitely not a model. “Is the daddy thing normal?” Dylan asks and now he’s definitely blushing. Connor quirks an eyebrow and says, “Why? You want to ask him to be yours?”

Connor can’t say that with a straight face and Dylan starts hollering so it’s mostly just a mess of noise and laughter that makes Connor’s ribs hurt. He misses Dylan the most in the morning, before practice, when Hallsy is still in bed and all Connor has is black coffee, general confusion as to where Luke sleeps and Hallsy’s latest one-night stand.

“You play the Flyers tonight, eh?”

Connor nods, trying to memorize the way Dylan looks: flushed from teasing and laughter, shirtless and sleepy in the morning light. He looks safe and so fucking good. Connor aches a little.

“You should get out of bed,” Connor says, looking at the clock. Dylan rolls his eyes.

“Homers until the 14th, bud,” he says, stretching. Connor can’t help but let his eyes wander. “Practice is late today. I’m gonna run with Brinksy in a bit.”

Connor hates himself for the ten seconds he viciously wishes he was back in Erie instead of here. It’s selfish and stupid but he’s learned over the last few months to just let it wash over him. There’s no sense dwelling.

“Hey, Connor?”

“Yeah?”

Dylan tilts the phone toward him a little and Connor sees the glint of his ring on his finger. Usually, it’s on the long chain and hangs well out of view, dipping down to his stomach -- since he found it irritating underneath his chest protector. Connor keeps his ring on a short chain so that it rests just below his collarbone but he’s quick to put it back on when he gets back to the house.

Luke asked about it once when Connor forgot to take it off after Facetimeing with Dylan. They were playing cards and Connor hadn’t known what to say, letting the silence creep in with his panic. Hallsy had reached over to squeeze his shoulder and said, “It’s all good, McJesus” and that was the end of it. Connor suspects Hallsy said something to the rest of the team because no one ever asks about his wedding ring.

He’s become less shy about wearing it around the boys now.

“I love you,” Dylan says, soft and real. Connor closes his eyes and finishes his coffee in a few gulps.

“I love you too, babe,” Connor says and then continues to let himself look when Dylan shifts, pulling the comforter down and exposing more and more of his body to the light. He’s busy looking his fill and doesn’t notice things are getting a bit more nude until Dylan’s kicked the covers down and Connor can see the cut of his slim hips.

“Um?” Connor’s hands want nothing more than to be framing Dylan’s hip bones. “Dyls --"

Stromer’s dick is definitely half chubbed.

“Are you too scarred from Hallsy’s hook up or do you think we can --" he palms his dick and Connor’s world narrows.

“I already did,” Connor says, licking his lips. “In the shower but --"

On the screen, Dylan pulls at his dick. His hand is twisted underneath his tattered underwear and Connor can only see the lewd way his hand moves, the tip of Dylan’s dick barely visible. It’s trapped underneath the elastic and Connor really wishes it were in his mouth. Dylan’s always so warm, even in the cold November chill of Pennsylvania, and Connor misses desperately the juxtaposition of the crisp sheets and Dylan’s body.

“Um, yeah, I guess could go again,” Connor says, clearing his throat and Dylan throws his head back and laughs.

“How gracious of you,” Dylan says, grinning and reaching up to pull at his own nipple. Connor can’t even be mad. “Am I gonna have to call you McDaddy?”

“I think at this point, it wouldn’t matter,” Connor says frankly.

“Well, I think you should probably leave communal space,” Dylan says. “Because I want to see your dick.”

And yeah, it’s probably a “non-beauty move” if Connor jizzes on anything in the kitchen.

Hallsy doesn’t drive much but he does solicit rides for both of them. So Connor makes sure he’s down by the door in time to be picked up for morning skate. Hallsy has left him a few times -- which is fine! Connor has his own truck but it doesn’t make sense if they’re all going to the same place.

“Bro, sorry about this morning,” Hallsy says, coming up to Connor and giving him a half-hug. Luke is trailing behind him, looking normal and not at all like he got a front-row seat to the Hallsy show. “But she let me fuck her titties -- so, you know, I had to.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say to that because Connor definitely does not know. The funny thing about it, despite Taylor being exactly who he is, Connor thinks he’s probably one of the only people on the team he would even consider telling about how much he doesn’t know Him and Leon -- which is hilarious because they couldn’t be more opposite of each other and yet they’re probably the closest thing Connor has to friends at this point.

Luke fist-bumps Hallsy and makes a face, like he’s remembering the lady’s breasts and Connor wants this moment to be over as soon as possible.

“Um, sure,” Connor says. ‘It’s no problem.”

Hallsy nods a few times, like he was worried and then takes out his phone. “I fucking hate it when Ebs is late. I just Facetimed him.”

Connor blinks. Hallsy’s hair is still wet from a shower. “You were just in the shower.”

“We always Facetime before morning skate, bro,” Hallsy says, bitchy and mouthy all of a sudden like he’s told Connor a million times and Connor tries to look non-judgemental.

“Right, well, sorry he’s late,” Connor says because what the literal hell else is he supposed to say.

“Fucking Flyers,” is what Hallsy says back, taking the comforting backslap from Luke, and then there’s a honk, indicating that Ebs has arrived.

The ride to the rink isn’t short by any means, because Rexall is out in the middle of nowhere and won’t everyone be pleased as punch when it’s somewhere relevant. So Connor replies to texts from his parents and some people he ignored in favor of Dylan this morning. Not that there aren’t fifteen various texts from Stromer but nothing like that time Connor was out with the boys for dinner and opened Dylan’s snaps to various pictures of Dylan’s dick and loud demands for attention. This is just normal Stromer filling up his phone because he knows that Connor’s not… coping well with the distance.

He knew it was going to be hard but Connor didn’t expect the little things to bother him so much.

“Your boys doing okay without you?” Ebs asks, after Taylor and him have had some sort of half-telepathic communication about Taylor’s hookup -- Tiffani, with an ‘i’ (according to Luke and seriously, what the fuck?).

Connor smiles, despite himself. “Yeah, homestand for a while -- until the 14th.”

Taylor groans in jealousy and Ebs says, “They gonna get a chance to come out?”

They’d talked about it. And the honest answer was no -- they didn’t play the Leafs until the 30th and that didn’t mesh with Dylan’s schedule. Then they weren’t in Buffalo until well after Christmas.

“Oh, probably not,” Connor says, trying not to sound devastated. “But it’s fine. We talk a lot.”

In the front, Hallsy and Ebs fist bump. Hallsy says, “Stromer’s your boy, eh?”

Connor chokes on his tongue a little. Luke’s broad hand coming to slap him on the back. “Yeah we --" There’s a split second that he wants to say it: he’s my husband, literally my whole world, and I miss him but Hallsy saves him from himself.

“He’s savage. Too bad he’s gonna be in Arizona,” Hallsy says, sagely. “But like, you should invite him over, eh? That'd be cool.”

Connor doesn’t really know what’s happening. Eberle smiles encouraging in the rearview mirror and says, “Yeah, Hallsy can always stay with me and Lauren. You could have the house to yourself.”

“Yeah, we can fuck off and give you time with your boy,” Luke says beside him.

“That’s nice of you,” Connor says but he knows he’ll never take him up on it. One look at Connor next to Stromer and everyone will know. Hallsy might be weird and grumpy and confusing -- but he’s smarter than he looks. And Darnell Nurse knows everything about everyone from just looking at them because he’s a psychopath and Connor’s afraid of his ability to creep on social media more efficiently than a teenage girl. Nursey probably already knows all about Connor. It’s incredible and also weird as hell.

The point being: there’s no way Dylan would leave Edmonton without the whole team knowing that Connor was beyond gone and committed and he has absolutely no idea where he stands on the issue from one minute to the next.

“But, uh, the schedule’s not really gonna let that happen,” he says, not looking anyone in the eye. Luke’s staring at him and Ebs is definitely paying more attention to Connor than he is to the road.

“Blows,” Hallsy commiserates.

“Dirty pool,” Ebs agrees ,and that’s the end of it.

Connor wonders, not for the first time, if it’s just Hallsy and Ebs or if Edmonton has changed them somehow. Ebs is the nicest person Connor has ever met and for some reason, he makes sense with Hallsy -- who doesn’t make sense at all. If Ebs wasn’t basically married, Connor might take a chance on Hallsy and Ebs having history. As it stands, Hallsy and Ebs share some sort of telepathic connection and Luke and Hallsy are a fucking mystery. Dylan thinks they’re fucking but “just bros” -- which is ironic. Connor thinks they might just share chicks and sleep in the same bed -- perhaps a relationship that only Taylor Hall can maintain with any honesty. Regardless, Connor wishes he knew them before they came to Oilers so it would be easier to tell if these are coping mechanisms or simply just the way they are.

Losing, especially in this business, can change who you are.

The sights and sounds of game days are always the same. It doesn’t matter the locker room. He thinks it’s a bit romantic, the inevitability of the game and the people he gets to create with.

The locker room before a game is always loose. Guys seems to be on either end of the spectrum, boisterous and energetic or silent and focused. Connor tends to be pretty quiet himself but he won’t shy away from the noisy guys. He has his own routine, nothing super strict -- but there are some parts of it that border on superstition.

Connor’s wrestling with a tangled bit of tape, listening to the boys circle back to Hallsy’s latest nudes -- which he had submitted for judgement when someone complained that it was impossible to send a flattering dick pic. Connor has never sent a dick pic in his life and all the ones Dylan has were taken in person and while Connor was not looking.

“How about you, McDavid? You pick up?”

He thinks about the way he listened to Dylan jerk off on the phone this morning -- loud and hot. He thinks about reading the texts from Dylan before he turned his phone off -- about being loved that well, fiercely, quietly and absolutely. He thinks about the ring around his neck and how grounding forever feels.

He thinks about Dylan’s hand clasping his and then smiles and says, “Yeah, I do okay, man.”

Everyone gets either louder or quieter the closer to game-time. Breaking off for two-touch or to stand silently in empty hallways or watch the arena slowly fill.The excitement is palpable: to do their job and do it well. Everything feels perfect, just as boisterous and yet calm, as the boys in the room.

Connor likes the way he feels before a game: the comfort of knowing that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

It’s the same feeling he gets when he thinks about Dylan.

Connor listens to both anthems with a smile, his hands faintly smelling like bergamot and arnica. He tries not to fidget because it seems rude. But before the lights come up, he takes his ring out from where it’s tucked beneath his sweater and brings it to lips.

He makes it through the end of the period on sheer will and fast-fading adrenaline. Something’s fucked -- his shoulder, his collarbone -- it’s just all fire on that side of his body. Connor tells the trainers point blank that he’s not leaving the bench until the period is over and although they hover over him, they don’t argue.

If Dylan’s watching, he’s going to be devastated. And for the first time since the start of the season, Connor’s happy Dylan isn’t right by his side for this -- watching Connor ruin his first season in the NHL first hand. The thought makes him want to vomit but it might just be the pain. Connor tries to remember if Dylan said he was going somewhere to watch the game or if he was staying at home but he can’t remember.

His mind is blank.

The eerie silence of the crowd and the roaring of his ears follows Connor back through the tunnel. The medics get to him before he can talk to anyone and the hit, the adrenaline is fading away, and this pain makes it certain it’s nausea from the injury. Connor vomits the moment he hits the training room and tries to get his gear off.

They help him get undressed but his vision is swimming and he throws up again before they can get him situated on the table. He tries to be as still as possible but even breathing hurts. It’s a whirl of trainers and phone calls and we don’t like to assume but…

Connor has no hope that Dylan wasn’t watching but he closes his eyes and prays he wasn’t, anyway. He takes controlled breaths and doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t ask for his phone either.

It’s as close to hiding as he can do, he thinks.

Hallsy comes to visit him and Connor guesses the game must be over. He wonders if they won. The trainers had turned off the TV when Connor had come in and he hadn’t had the words to tell them to turn it back on.

“Connor,” he says. He sounds… mad mostly, but also deflated. “What the fuck?”

Connor doesn’t bother to hide his face, which is red from crying -- mostly from the excruciating pain of his shoulder, but also because he’s just fucked up his season. He’s ruined everything. They won’t say how long he’ll be out but he’s not dumb. Broken means weeks and surgery means months.

Goddammit.

“Guess my skating needed more work than everyone thought,” Connor says, grinding his teeth when he breaths too deeply and it jostles his collarbone. Because it’s not his shoulder; it’s his collarbone and it’s in fucking pieces. “Lost an edge and he was just, stronger, I guess. Saw the opportunity and took it.”

“That’s fucking horseshit and you know it. Fucking Flyers! So it’s for sure broken?”

Connor snorts. “Surgery tomorrow, if it can wait.”

“They give you something for the pain?”

He nods and waves his hand a bit. “Yeah, five minutes ago. Should be numb soon.” They told him they had to wait so they could see the damage and that numbing it too soon could mean they miss something. So they kept him in pain until they could assess the break, which was nice since it gave him something to focus on. Now that it’s a done deal, his x-rays sent off to the hospital to confirm surgery, they gave him a shot and a few pills. He’s likely to be stoned out of his mind soon.

“Hey, look at me,” Hallsy says and his voice isn’t soft like most looking to comfort a team mate. Connor’s never heard Taylor’s voice be anything but firm or sarcastic, even when he’s goofing around with Ebs. When he looks up, Hallsy’s face has the same blankness as when they’re losing but he hasn’t lost hope yet.

Hallsy always thinks they can win.

“You’ve got this, McJesus. It’s just bones -- fucking sucks but they mend, eh? You’re gonna be fucking right as rain for sure,” he says and his blue eyes do not waver. “Because fuck all if I’ve got to deal with those reporters alone for another season.”

Connor doesn’t laugh. Taylor always volunteers to do media. He’s the guy.

“If I have to nurse you back to health myself, so fucking be it,” Hallsy says, squeezing Connor’s ankle hard enough to snap through the hazing fuzziness that is seeping in. “You’re not completely fucked.”

They sit in silence for a while and Connor wonders who is fielding Hallsy’s questions or if they’ll wait for him around his stall until he comes back out.

“Nuge is gonna go with you to your appointments,” Hallsy says. “He’s good with medical shit. I’ll tell Leon the sitch -- cause you know how he is, fucking fucked about you and probably freaking out the reporters. Do you need me to have Ebs call your parents or someone else, your girl? We can grab your phone.”

Connor shakes his head -- he wants nothing more than Dylan’s voice in his ear and the smell of his mother’s perfume around him right now. But he can’t bear to think about either of them now. God, all this, everything him and Dylan have sacrificed and now Connor’s thrown it all away on a lost edge and being weak on the puck.

“I want to wait to see about surgery,” Connor says, or he tries to, but the consonants get a little messed up around ‘surgery’. Hallsy squeezes his ankle again.

“Got your back, kid,” Hallsy says but between one breath and the next, Connor’s suddenly very sleepy and doesn’t have the thoughts to thank him.

Connor gets shuffled to Hallsy’s place by a trainer, Leon, and Nuge, who keeps grabbing Connor close and smells like cedar. It’s a nice smell and not overpowering like the cologne Hallsy wears but nice. Warm.

“Right, so we have to stand with him in the shower,” Nuge is saying and Connor tries to blink himself into consciousness. He’s nauseous but nothing really hurts. Connor’s sitting on the closed seat of the toilet and everyone is crowded in the bathroom staring at him but he doesn’t seen Leon anymore. Connor doesn't remember leaving the kitchen.

“What,” Connor slurs but Nuge steadys him.

“You played two periods of hockey. You need to shower.” Nuge says.

Which is how Connor takes a shower with Luke and Taylor while sitting on a kitchen stool Nuge brings in. It feels weird to have his ass on the stool with it all wet and he tells them all so -- how it feels slippery like lube -- which leads to Hallsy and Luke high-fiving over his head while loofaing his back.

Connor hopes he doesn’t remember any of this.

His dick is most definitely out but when he squints his eyes open to check if Luke and Hallsy are wearing clothes, they’re both in swim trunks. It makes him feel better that he’s not gonna accidentally touch someone’s dick or get poked in the eye but also awful because he’s the only one with his dick out. That’s horrible and embarrassing.

“Nuge, take off your pants so Connor feels better,” Hallsy says and Connor can feel Luke nodding aggressively. “Be a bro.”

“You’re fooling no one, Hallsy -- Luke, that’s conditioner, not shampoo. You two are fucking idiots.”

Nuge is Connor’s favorite person right behind Dylan. Aw fuck -- Dylan.

“Don’t worry, we called him. Cause you did that thing where you said ‘no’ but you’re the shittiest liar, so,” Hallsy says, taking the loofa and broadly sweeping through Connor’s junk from ass crack through to the vee of his hips. He looks serious and Connor wonders if there is video of this. “Your mom will be here after surgery.”

Connor frowns and tries to remember when he’s having surgery. In the morning -- early. It must be late now. Hallsy shouldn’t be talking about Connor’s mom while aggressively washing his balls with a loofa.

Hallsy orders Luke to hold him while they scrub his feet. Nuge makes a phonecall that Connor can’t focus on.

“I think we should give him some more meds,” Nuge says, pulling the curtain back and tilting the shower head away from him. The water flow hits Luke in the face and Connor watches it drip from his ugly ass beard.

“Ouch, McJesus, that’s harsh coming from your baby-face,” Luke says but what the fuck does he know. He doesn’t know which one is shampoo. Connor doesn’t bother replying because Nuge is pushing pills into his mouth and coaxing his head back so he can swallow them down with cool water.

“You have weirdly soft hands, Connor,” Hallsy says where he’s rinsing the loofa over Connor’s body. “Like, girl soft.”

“Soft hands make softer hands,” Connor replies because that’s what Dylan always says but there must be something lost in translation but everyone just stares at him. Dylan would understand.

Nuge curses. “Are we done? I’d like Connor to get some sleep before surgery.”

“Why the fuck? He’s gonna be passed out -- it’s not like he’s going to be running a marathon, or going to practice, like some of us. You’re not worried about my beauty sleep.”

Connor smiles behind closed eyes because Hallsy audibly gets a smack from Nuge. He wonders where Leon went.

“Help me get him out of the shower,” he says and they do, even if Hallsy keeps asking questions that don’t make any sense. Connor is really, really high.

The pills make him sleepy but he tries to help them get him dressed as best as possible. Luke has a soft button up plaid pajama top that they put him in so that they don’t have to mess with his shoulder and he doesn’t have to sleep in a dress shirt.

“You hang to the right or the left, McJesus?” Hallsy asks in all seriousness, his hands pulling up Connor’s boxers but stopping beneath his ass. Connor leans against Luke and wants to die.

Nuge curses from the door, on his phone. “It doesn’t matter! Oh my fucking god you --"

“It does too, fuck you, Ryan,” Taylor defends, turning back to Connor and looking terribly, terribly earnest. “Putting a dude’s dick down on the wrong side can seriously fuck with him.”

It’s the kind of thing Dylan would say and Connor misses him fiercely. He wishes he were here -- instead of Hallsy and Luke and Nuge, even if Nuge smells good, because Dylan smells better and knows that his dick goes on the left.

“See! It does matter,” Hallsy says, nonsensically. “Left it is, bud.”

Connor doesn’t remember telling Hallsy that but it doesn’t matter. He finally gets to lay down. Albeit in a way that is not comfortable at all. His stomach is churning and he’s so tired -- why isn’t Dylan here with him? Connor should have texted him. He’s probably worried.

“Sorry, it’s just for your collarbone,” Nuge says, directing Luke and Hallsy to stack more pillows against the wall while Connor blinks.

Connor closes his eyes to the shuffling in the room. The light is still on but he feels like he might throw up again. Nuge makes him drink some gatorade and the ambient noise of the full condo reminds Connor of the Catalde house. Someone was always home and the house was warm and full of noise that happens when families thrive. He likes that -- misses it when Hallsy is out with Luke or with Ebs. He drifts, focusing on not throwing up and trying his hardest not to think about Dylan. It’s hard though because Dylan is his favorite person in the world and Connor misses him.

He drifts, dreaming for a bit about Dylan in Jean Paul’s office. It’s not really a dream, more just a memory, of the way he frowned and read through the paperwork when they got married.

The sun looks beautiful when it falls on his face.

Ebs comes by at some point, turns on the light and puts Connor’s mom on speaker. It’s dark out and Connor has no idea what time it is.

“Hang in there honey,” his mom says. Connor doesn’t say anything back. He’s afraid he might cry, throw up or a combination of both. “I’m getting on a plane in the morning. I’ll be there soon. I love you so much.”

Someone smoothes his hair from his forehead and Connor drifts back to sleep. Their hand is cool and feels rough, not like his mom’s or Dylan’s.

The next time Connor comes to, it’s only to catch a few snippets of conversation. Hallsy and Ebs are arguing.

“ -- from Erie! And he’s got games. That’s not just buddies --"

“ -- what the fuck you’d know about just buddies? You and Luke --"

“Fuck yourself, me and Luke? Me and you before --"

“Ebs. Hallsy. Can we focus? I am calling him back. You’re both worthless.”

Connor wants to say something but he gets distracted by the warmth of the pool in his dream, the way the water runs over the edge. It’s fancy and it looks out over the mountains -- like those cottages people have in Jasper or on a lake, like, in Muskoka. Connor never did have one but he does like cabins. He wants to buy Dylan a cottage for Christmas, where they can go during breaks to get away from hockey (not too far away, they’ll still have to train) and enjoy warm summers on a lake fishing, which Dylan hates, but Connor thinks he might like it a little better if he could find a lake secluded enough to work blowjobs into the mix. Maybe handjobs if the boat is too small. Connor thinks Dylan would look good in a canoe cause it’s slender like him and Connor fits inside just perfectly.

Someone comes in to give him some more pills and Connor asks for his phone but it might just be a dream because he doesn’t remember anything else.

They get him into surgery in the morning so early it’s not even light out yet. He doesn’t know where Hallsy and Luke are but he imagines that Ebs is home with his girl. Nuge is right there by his side, which is weird because Connor isn’t even sure they’re friends.

He remembers the smell of the hospital and the lights but that’s really it.

He supposes that’s the kind of memory of surgery he would want.

Connor wakes up feeling really, really high and incredibly thirsty. He blinks, the hospital coming to him in a rush when he remembers his collarbone and, unfortunately, the showering from the night before. It wasn’t a dream. At least, he’s fairly certain the shower wasn’t but Dylan’s looking at him and saying, “Oh, you’re awake” and that feels like it might be one.

“Here,” Dylan says and Connor’s getting ice chips fed carefully to him. He sucks the leftover water droplets from Dylan’s fingers and then just holds on with his teeth because it feels real.

“You’re so high, Davo. Let go of my fingers,” he says.

Connor reluctantly does so but only because Dylan’s got bags underneath his eyes, looking sunken and hollowed out and Connor thinks this might all be his fault.

“M’sorry,” he says but it’s slurred and doesn’t sound sincere. He tries again but Dylan just shushes him. “I can yell you at you later,” Dylan says. He puts down the cup of ice chips and comes to sit at Connor’s hip. He kind of looks like he wants to yell now.

Connor is glad he doesn’t have to move to keep touching Dylan. He doesn’t feel like moving. In fact, he feels like sleeping for five years.

“Your mom will be here soon,” Dylan says and Connor frowns.

“What time is it?”

“One,” he says. “Your mom’s flight gets in at four. She had a delay.”

“But how did you --"

Connor’s a still fuzzy, slowly coming around. Dylan looks vaguely embarrassed. “Um, I borrowed the car and drove to Cleveland after I saw -- there was no way you weren’t broken. You didn’t answer my texts and I just, I kind of lost it?”

“Dyls, m’so sorry,” Connor says because he is. It was selfish and stupid and Dylan drove to Cleveland. He has games.

“There was a flight out real early and I booked it,” Dylan continues. Connor grabs at his shirt until Dylan’s hand comes to hold his. “Got here when you were in surgery, you stupid fuck. You should have called me.”

Dylan sounds like he’s going to cry and Connor hates that he did this. Maybe Dylan should yell now and get it over with. Connor certainly deserves it.

“I was scared,” Connor says. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, that’s not good enough and I’m fucking mad at you,” Dylan says but he’s leaning down and pressing his forehead against Connor’s. He smells -- like recycled hospital air and stale sweat but he’s the best thing in the world. Connor hopes his breath isn’t horrible.

“God,” Dylan says, voice fond. “You’re doing that thing --"

Connor tries to tug him closer by his shirt but Dylan doesn’t move. “What thing?” Connor asks muzzily. If Dylan flew all the way from Cleveland, they should probably kiss.

Dylan laughs. “Remember the whole two times you smoked with me and Brinksy?”

“Being high sucks,” Connor says. “Makes me dumb.”

“It just makes you say everything you’re thinking without realizing it,” Dylan says. “No filter. It’s pretty cute.”

Connor sighs and rubs his nose against Dylan’s. “Feel weird. I had to shower with Taylor and Luke -- hate being broken.”

“I know you do babe,” Dylan says, like he wasn’t there for months of Connor’s stupid broken hand, and then he kisses Connor.

He’s not proud but he’s high and injured and guilty and Dylan is here and so Connor kind of cries. Dylan shushes him but doesn’t stop kissing him. They’re the kind of soft kisses that Connor craves late at night, when he wakes up too hot because Dylan isn’t there to steal all the covers, or the kind of kisses he sees people have casually with the ones they love and Connor covets, jealous and ugly. Just small, sipping kisses that run into each other and make Connor feel treasured in a way he doesn’t deserve. Connor clenches his fingers into the soft cotton of Dylan’s t-shirt and loves him, desperately.

“You’re going to be okay,” Dylan says, pulling back enough to mouth at Connor’s jaw when he speaks. “You’ll be back. Surgery went good.”

Connor nods. “Are you -- are you okay?”

Dylan wipes at Connor’s cheeks. “I’m not gonna lie -- I kind of freaked,” he says. “They wouldn’t tell me anything about you. No one would talk to me because to them, I was just a crazy person.”

Connor aches.

“I wanted to scream at them,” Dylan continues. “You’re my fucking husband but they didn’t know that. I didn’t know what to do, I just -- I’m sorry. I went to Taylor’s house.”

“Fuck, Dylan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think --"

“You fucking did not and I’m so pissed at you,” Dylan says but he doesn’t sound pissed. Connor just tries to press closer but it makes his shoulder throb when he moves too much. He’s wearing his ring though -- that’s nice and so he presses that to Dylan’s neck and hope he gets it. “So, whatever, Taylor Hall probably thinks I’m an insane person but um, yeah, so you’ll probably have to explain. And I want to be sorry about that but you should have texted me, Connor. You absolutely fucking should have because -- I didn’t know if you were okay. I didn’t --"

The meds make everything hazy and fleeting so Connor clings to Dylan and cries because he is sorry. He says so, over and over again and Dylan kisses his face but doesn’t forgive him. Connor understands.

“I felt --" Dylan starts and then stops, clearly trying to steady his voice. “I never want to feel like that again. You talk to me, Davo -- we have to figure something out because I won’t do that again. Not knowing if you were okay and no one would tell me anything. I was just -- I was no one to you, this ring on my finger meant fuck all. And I thought that was the point of getting married -- to be something to each other for fucking ever. You’re such a bastard sometimes when you don’t think.”

Connor nods. What is he supposed to say?

“It’s just your collarbone this time but what if it was your head? They wouldn’t tell me anything. Jesus, Davo. They looked at me like I was some love-sick nobody.”

“M’really sorry,” Connor says. He really wishes he could stop crying at least Dylan isn’t crying. They would really be a mess then. “I love you. I’m sorry, Dyls -- so sorry.”

“You should be and I’m just gonna be mad at you for months,” Dylan says. “And I’m not sorry that Hallsy knows. Ryan Nugent-Hopkins called me from your phone but I was already driving and then no one answered when I called back. I was pretty -- I was pretty messed up when I got here.”

Connor nods. “Yeah, I guess I would be too.”

“You’d be a fucking monster if it was me,” Dylan says, laughing. “We’re lucky it was you hurt and all I did was out us to Taylor Hall. You’d probably have told the entire world if it meant getting what you want.”

“You told Hallsy?”

“Yes, Connor. I just said,” Dylan repeats. “Screamed it at him really.”

“I don’t -- Dylan, I don’t care about that,” Connor says and finds that it’s true. “I don’t care who knows. I’m not… I’m not ashamed.”

Dylan sighs.

“No, I know that. But I kind of want to play NHL hockey before I have to deal with playing gay NHL hockey or read story lines about how banging you is the only reason I’m in the show.”

“That’s not how it works,” Connor says. Tongue thick. “My dick doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t jizz Hockey IQ.”

It’s worth the effort to make the joke because Dylan laughs, a real laugh -- not the angry one.

“So yeah, I guess Taylor fucking Hall knows we’re married,” Dylan says. “I mean, he might not believe me but he let me in and drove me here.”

“He drove you?” Which, is telling -- Taylor doesn’t drive himself anywhere, let alone a half-crazed Strome going on about being married to Connor. Dylan smirks like he knows what Connor’s thinking, that Hallsy is probably pissed as hell at him, and Connor misses Dylan all the time. Connor tells him as much.

“I miss you too, Davo,” Dylan replies. “But he took your truck and he seemed mad as fuck -- at you, not me. Because you’re a fucking idiot and I’m awesome.”

It’s hard to tell when Hallsy is truly pissed but Connor has a feeling he will have some extensive explaining to do. That’s… fair. But Connor doesn’t want to think about Taylor anymore.

“I love you,” Connor says because he’s starting to feel really sleepy again and he doesn't want Dylan to leave. “Stay?”

“Oh now you want me to say, eh?”

Connor whines, because he always wants Dylan to stay, but Dylan’s prying his fingers out of his t-shirt and pulling the covers up over Connor’s exposed arm. He wipes Connor’s face and Connor can’t seem to keep his eyes open anymore.

“I’m not going anywhere, you douche,” Dylan says. “Go to sleep. Your mom will be here soon.”

“Stay,” Connor stresses. “M’sorry.”

“Go to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“ -- your ring,” Connor struggles out. He tries to stay awake but it’s impossible. “Are you wearing --"

“Go to sleep, Davo,” Dylan says and Connor can’t disobey, even if he wants to.

Connor counts himself extremely lucky, all things considered, that he misses the arrival of his mother. She’s there when he wakes up and the only sign of Dylan is his crumpled jacket in the corner and several styrofoam cups. Thankfully, Connor’s doctor is also there and means that Connor can at least get his bearings before he has to explain to his mother that it’s perfectly normal for Dylan to have shown up before his family and no, they’re not married or anything insane like that. Despite the ring on his finger.

“How are you feeling son?” The doctor notices him first and his mother comes over from where she’s looking at films of his collarbone to kiss him on the forehead.

“Hello sleeping beauty,” she says and Connor’s so glad she’s here. “Dr. Simon is just going over your break.”

Apparently a little bit messy. Connor’s chest clenches.

“I’m certainly no expert on hockey,” Dr. Simon says, fiddling with his pen in his lab coat. “But I’ve sent your films back to your trainers and I think we can comfortably say, eight to twelve weeks before you’re ready to play again.”

Connor swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and tries to breathe. Next to him, his mom squeezes his hand. Connor can’t look at her -- because he knows she’s going to cry and she’ll set him off for sure.

“That being said,” the doctor continues, setting a clipboard down next to Dylan’s coffee cup tower. “You athlete types always surprise me. You could be back sooner if you be careful -- listen to your doctors and let yourself heal properly. I don’t have to tell you how an improperly healed bone can affect muscle development, range of motion and a whole host of issues that would plague non-athletes, let alone someone who plays such a physical game.”

The warning doesn’t go unheard and his mother spends the next twenty minutes fluffing Connor’s pillows with a heavy dose of aggressive lecturing. The doctor bails around minute three but it’s a nice distraction from the devastation he feels. It’s a bit numbing, hearing how long he will be out. He won’t be playing hockey, maybe not even practicing with the team and or cleared for contact until February or March. It’s practically half his rookie season. The thought is nauseating and incredibly bleak.

What the hell is he supposed to do.

“You should come back home,” his mother is saying. “Who knows when you’ll be ready for physical therapy -- and you can’t get better, you can’t rest living with a bunch of boys. Connor, are you listening?”

“Mom --"

Dylan pops his head in the door. “Was that the doc? Did he say --"

“8 to 12 weeks,” Connor says, watching the news filter through Dylan’s body. His shoulders folded in and Connor feels it to his core. Dylan looks ready to argue, which is fairly typical.

“That’s bullshit,” Dylan says, angry. “Davo --"

Connor shook his head. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” Connor says with firmness that masks his fear.

The silence in the room is suffocating.

Connor’s mom has nothing left to mess with and so she hovers and Connor’s trying his best not to cry or worse, throw some sort of fit. It’s not fair, 12 weeks seems like an incredibly long amount of time but it just is what it is. And Dylan’s still standing in the doorway like not coming in the room is going to change a damn thing.

Connor blinks back tears and takes a deep breath. His shoulder throbs but in a weirdly distant way -- floating through the meds. His mother tuts and Connor looks back at Dylan, who seems to make a decision and comes into the room.

“Cheer up, Davo,” he says, physically shaking off the news and walking across the room, sipping on his coffee. “You’ll always be my hockey Jesus -- even if you’re broken forever. Such tragedy -- such drama. Do you think you’ll be able to go on? Do you think the NHL will have another lockout because of your collarbone? Will Bettman grow a soul?”

“Oh fu-screw you,” Connor says but he doesn’t mean it. Beside him, his mother breathes again. Dylan comes closer to the edge of Connor’s bed. He doesn’t look like he’s slept yet and Connor wants nothing more than to make room but literally his entire body hurts and his mother looks like she wants to hit both of them over the head.

“I’m going to go get us some dinner, Dylan,” his mom says, instead of violence, smoothing Connor’s hair back again and giving him a kiss on the eyebrow.

“What about me?”

“Jello,” she says. “And please, stop being so damn dramatic. How am I supposed to be upset that my baby got beat up by some Broad Street thug, when I have to keep it together?”

“Mom,” Connor draws out.

“Remember when you had your tonsils out? Dramatics. I think the pain killers just make you so crabby,” she continues and then she’s off tutting, leaning up to give Dylan a kiss on the cheek. “There’s a sandwich shop -- do you want cold cuts or something warm?”

“I can go --"

“Oh hush,” she says, grabbing her purse. “The nurse will be by to give Connor his meds soon. Best make the most of it.”

Connor knows he’s blushing but his mom is gone and Dylan’s laughing. It feels a lot less. Connor lets himself sigh out the stress of the news. He feels tired again -- which is ridiculous, he’s only just slept the entire day away. But then again, it’s mostly meds. He’s definitely going to blame the meds for the crying.

“Did your mom just give me the green like to suck your dick? Because --"

Connor shushes him. “I think she meant make out or like, talk.”

“Make the most of it definitely means dicks. Do you think you can jerk me off with your good hand?” He’s joking, which is good because Connor’s not sure he can even get it up, let alone try and orchestrate a handjob. “Or, you can just lay there and let me kiss you while they drug you up again.”

“That sounds nice,” Connor says.

Dylan chugs the rest of his hospital coffee and pulls the chair close enough so that Connor doesn’t have to move to be close to him.

“Did my mom ask about your ring?” He asks and Dylan shrugs. “Or mine?”

“She gave me the side-eye but I’m not sure she realizes just how crazy we are,” he says, linking their hands together. “You want to tell her?”

Connor doesn’t know. If he moves back -- it seems impossible not to tell his parents when he’s living underneath their roof.

“If I move back with them…”

Dylan nods. “I wouldn’t complain about it.”

“Me moving back or me telling them?”

“Either,” Dylan says, kissing Connor’s cheek. “You’d be closer to Erie and it might be nice for you to talk to someone about this all -- me, you, being a big gay married NHLer that takes it on the regular.”

“Hate you,” Connor says but Dylan’s kissing him and they sit there, exchanging the soft kisses Connor loves and craves until the pain in his shoulder gets too bad and he calls the nurse.

“You’ll be out of here in the morning,” the nurse says. “So you best enjoy the morphine drip while you can.”

He smiles at her and hopes she’s not a hockey fan but she doesn’t pay them any mind. She administers his meds and then turns the lights down on her way out. It’s nice and that’s how Connor falls back asleep, Dylan talking about Erie and finally feeling warm for the first time since he woke up.

He’s released the next morning and it’s decided (his mother decided) that she would head back home and Dylan would bring Connor back in a few days. Which meant that his mother was descending on Taylor Hall’s condo for a full three hours to make sure it’s enough to keep him alive for a few days.

“Taylor’s a big boy,” Dylan says, voice dripping with innuendo. “He can handle your crazy mom for a few hours.”

Connor has his doubts but his opinions stopped mattering when he went crashing into the boards, apparently.

Getting discharged from the hospital is a surprising amount of paperwork and Connor waits for the trainer and rehab specialist to come in from the Oilers before he leaves. He’s to check in twice a week and they’ve got all his films being transferred to a doctor in Toronto. They give Dylan seven different pamphlets but none of them have if it’s safe to engage in… sexual activity so Connor has to work up the nerve to ask. He doesn’t ask any of the Oilers’ people -- he’s not an idiot.

“Your face is so red,” Dylan says, when Connor finally comes out of the exam room. He’s messing around on his phone and generally looking much more comfortable than Connor -- whose brain was spinning before with medical information and is now mush because he’s due for another pain pill and just had the second most embarrassing conversation of his life.

“I should have made you do that,” Connor mumbles and rubs his hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Dylan grins. “You should have. I love talking about your dick. Literally -- who needs a quote,” he says, way too loud for Connor’s sanity. “Did you ask specifics? Because I can go back in there --"

“Don’t you dare. Take me home,” Connor says, puts a little whine in his voice and Dylan rolls his eyes. “He gave me two pamphlets and a list of positions to avoid.”

“Ah,” Dylan says, curling his arm around Connor’s good shoulder. “Are there instructional pictures? Diagrams and shit? Does this pamphlet only have positions where you’re the top and I’m a chick -- because I’m a team player, Davo. No need to sneakily top me. I’m all for learning how to take a dick -- well, not any dick but yours, for sure.”

Connor can’t believe he’s having this conversation. A nurse walks by and Dylan winks at her, then pulls Connor back into his room so that he can kiss him. It’s not -- they’re just slow, sweet kisses that have him sighing into Dylan’s mouth. The throb in his shoulder makes him exhausted but this is worth the trouble. He supposes he’ll stop being embarrassed about that conversation sometime in the next century, it’s clearly worth it. Reinjuring his shoulder while fucking his husband seems like an even more uncomfortable conversation to have and one he’d probably have to do with Oilers management involved.

Either way, definitely worth it.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Dylan says, pulling away to say so before he tilts Connor’s head back to kiss him again. “You collarbone is going to heal, the Oilers will miss you dreadfully while you’re gone and meanwhile, I will be happily winning games and getting dick on tap.”

Connor snorts. “Charming.”

Dylan kisses him on the cheek and Connor closes his eyes. He’s tired but it feels good to be standing in Dylan’s arms instead of laying in a hospital bed.

“Maybe this was just the universe’s way of telling you to stop being so greedy and let me learn how to get fucked,” Dylan continues to prattle on. Connor shakes his head. “You’re not captain of the Oilers, Davo -- they’ll be fine without you.”

Connor takes a deliberate breath in, holds it and then lets it out.

“You can be captain of bottoming,” Dylan teases. “I mean, let’s be real -- you already are but like, you can impart your wisdom. And by impart, I definitely mean fuck me sideways but we can hold strategy sessions and I’ll let you diagram the play with a white board before we bone. Sex hockey -- I expect a full two points from you, Captain.”

“Is this supposed to be comforting?” Connor asks because Dylan is laughing at him.

“Just trying to get you to see the bright side,” Dylan says, giving him a few more kisses before pushing him down into the wheelchair their insist he needs and steering him out of the room and toward the elevators. “Because when we get back, I’m going to abandon you so that you can have another awkward conversation with your housemate and later, if you’re good, we can fool around.”

Connor rolls his eyes, staring at the elevator walls. “If I’m good?”

“Well, you’re a shitty patient.”

“You’re a shittier caretaker,” Connor counters. “You’re supposed to be soothing me, not talking about our sex life and getting me all --" he stops because he doesn’t want to say anything that will get him in trouble in the hospital waiting area. Dylan winks at him.

They settle into the car Dylan called and Connor presses his forehead against the cold glass. He’s car-sick already and they haven’t even started to drive yet.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Dylan says. Connor closes his eyes, breathes deep and slow, and hopes he’s right.

The door opens before Connor even gets up the steps. Taylor is standing in the threshold, looking no more salty and pissy than he normally does.

“Hi,” Connor says.

Behind him, Dylan presses close and whispers, “is that just his face? Or is --"

“You should get inside before your mom pops out of the bushes and yells at me,” Taylor says, smiling a little and turning to walk inside their house.

It’s not the screaming that Connor was prepared for but he’ll take it.

“I thought he was going to hit you,” Dylan whispers. Connor glares at him. “What! He’s kind of scary. It’s his face -- he’s got a really strong brow bone. Cro-magden like, really.”

“Why didn’t you go back with my mom, again?”

Dylan grins. “Because collarbone injuries will never cock-block me and also, you can’t dress yourself.”

Valid.

They make it inside and Connor’s trying to decide if they can just slip into his room when Taylor yells from the kitchen, “no naps until we talk about your feelings, McJesus!”

“I think that’s my cue to disappear,” Dylan says, inching his way toward the hallway. “He’s way bigger than me -- so if you have to offer sexual favors to get him to stop killing you, I’m cool with it.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Connor says but Dylan winks at him and his nerves dissolve a bit.

Taylor’s leaning against the breakfast bar when Connor walks into the kitchen with a glass of water and several pill bottles. Connor takes it for something to do and walks over.

“Where is everyone?”

Taylor pushes the glass of water at him and one huge pill bottle. “Drink that and take two of those.” Connor does as he’s told because he feels really guilty, mostly about the secrets but also because his mom was probably really cranky. She’s even bossier than Nuge.

“Ebs is with Lauren and Luke is at some Victorian tea time thing,” Taylor says without humor but Connor doesn’t know if he’s joking or not. “Leon went to get coffee with your mom and take her to the airport.”

Connor smiles. Leon is such a suck-up.

“I’m torn between punching you and hugging you right now,” Hallsy adds, eyeing him hard.

Connor shrugs. “Neither are doctor approved.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Taylor says, then pulls Connor in for a hug anyway. Taylor’s solid, big and bulky in a way that Connor will probably never be. They’re mostly the same height but Taylor hugs him like he’s three feet shorter, hunching over to avoid all contact with Connor’s collarbone.

“I thought you’d go for the punching,” Connor says when Taylor pulls away.

“I’m mostly pissed you’re injured,” he says.

“Not because I’m married?”

That gets him a grimace. “I’m not in any position to judge, McJesus -- you’re allowed to have a personal life that doesn’t involve this team but if you didn’t tell us because you were afraid of us -- of what we would say because Strome has a dick, that shit needs to be addressed.”

Connor has no idea why Taylor isn’t the captain of this team. Sure, he’s a little scary and crazier than hell -- but he’s a good hockey player and a better teammate.

“No,” Connor says. “It was more about us -- Dylan and I, than it was anything else.”

Taylor gives him a hard look. “If anyone said anything in the room --"

“No it wasn’t -- it wasn’t like that,” Connor says, feeling his face flush. “No one knows. We got married this summer -- before the draft. Not even our parents know because we’re still figuring it out. It’s more complicated that just the team.”

Connor grimaces. He’s not explaining it very well. “It wasn’t -- anyone. Just us.”

“You’re going to be the captain of this team. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Taylor --"

Taylor shakes his head. “It’s not going to be me. We both know that -- we don’t even know if I’ll be around from one day to the next. You’re not dumb, kid. Me, Ebs -- hell, even Nuge -- we all know the reality of our fucked up situation. You’re going to captain this team next year so you’re going to have to be better than this.”

Connor swallows. “It should be you.”

“Well, it’s not gonna be. So suck it up,” Taylor says. Then, because he can’t help it, serious conversation or not, he sticks his tongue in his cheek and says, “Get it? It’s a dick sucking joke because you’re married to a dude.” He flicks him on the ear and then pulls him in for another hug before Connor can do anything but grimace in response.

“I get that you and Dylan have a lot going on beyond your personal business being anyone’s but your own -- believe me. But a lot of those guys, they’re going to find out and be really fucking upset and pissed off that you didn’t trust them with this,” Taylor says quietly. “No one cares who you fuck or what stupid ass teenager you’ve shackled yourself to but they want you to be fucking here.”

Connor opens his mouth to protest but then wisely shuts it because Hallsy is giving him a look and yeah, Dylan’s pretty fucking dumb.

“They won’t trust you if you don’t trust them. If this team is important to you, then you have to clue them in on the other shit in your life,” Taylor says. “Things have been bad in the room for a long time -- changes are coming and everyone is going to need a solid, boring captain like you to trust. So maybe get your shit together, eh?”

Despite the backassward advice Taylor has been known to give, he’s not wrong. Connor steps away from the hug, nodding and chugs the water for something to with his hands.

“Sorry about my mom,” Connor says. Taylor snorts.

“It’s no wonder you’re so damn quiet -- she’s something else,” Taylor says but with respect and Connor narrows his eyes.

“Did you hit on my mom?”

Taylor blinks. “I mean, I didn’t not hit on her.”

“You’re truly fucking disgusting,” Connor says with a smile. “You’ll never be good enough to be my daddy. So don’t even try it,” he adds slyly and then tries not to be too pleased with himself when Hallsy barks out a laugh.

“You’re not too bad, ya know? You look pretty good for being beat the fuck up.”

Connor goes to fill up his water from the refrigerator. “It’s mostly the painkillers but it’s nice to have Dylan around too. Makes the whole broken thing better.”

“For sure,” Hallsy says then adds, “You married him. I assume you enjoy his presence.”

Connor takes the Taylor approach and shrugs. “Don’t pad his ego. He’s definitely eavesdropping.”

“Fucking shameless youths,” Taylor jokes, raising his voice, but he steals Connor’s water and chugs it. So Connor’s fairly sure the bulk of the conversation is over. He’s thankful because he’s got a lot to think about.

“I am sorry,” Connor says finally. “About all of it really -- management, the season, me getting injured, not telling you about Dylan and I.”

“Good,” he says. “You’re allowed to feel shitty about it for the next couple days but then we go on a roadie and you’re going home. Until they trade me or kill me, this is my team. We don’t have to be invited to the orgy but we want to know it’s happening, eh?”

“There’s definitely no orgies.”

Taylor rolls his eyes. “Not only are you married but you’re a boring married,” he says but he doesn’t sound surprised. “Seriously, get the hell over yourself.”

Connor nods. That sounds like a pretty good deal.

“I’ve got some stupid photo shoot with Ebs tomorrow, so I’m gonna stay at his but the boys are coming by tomorrow night. Nuge says everyone’s worried and shit -- so they can meet your boy and you can decide what you want to tell them.”

“Thanks for giving us some space,” Connor says. “But I’m about to pass out.”

Taylor gives him a dead look. “Sure -- I’m sure you two will be completely damn schoolboy chaste while you’re here.”

He wishes he could blame the blush on the meds but his shoulder hurts like a son of a bitch, so it’s all futile. Taylor claps him on his good shoulder before making his way out of the kitchen. He stops and leans against the hallway entry, turns and says, “I’m not gonna tell you what to tell the rest of the team. But you should think about telling HD.”

Leon was a surprising friend when Connor arrived in Edmonton. Maybe because he’s incredibly serious in a way that sets him apart from everyone else. Losing makes everyone too serious, that’s half the battle. But everyone still has different ways of dealing with it on and off the ice. The fun, carefree sort of guys were few and far between -- nothing against them but it’s hard to be that way with the pressure of performing, ups and downs of teams, trades and just the entire breadth of being a professional athlete.

Hallsy plays with the sort of reckless abandon that he carries with him always, fun and driven to win, without limitation -- but Leon is driven by perfection. Connor likes the quiet way he handles himself and how serious he takes his teammates, his workouts, his nutrition -- which is probably why he earned his nickname: HD.

That was the first thing Connor ever knew about Leon, that his seriousness and perhaps a bit of a language barrier had him labeled as a bit of a dick. But then someone had noticed that Leon also had a huge dick. Not that Connor had really payed attention but the nickname made Leon laugh, deep and genuine.

Leon’s his best friend, next to Dylan and the boys back in Erie.

Connor stays at the breakfast bar until the pain in his shoulder is too much to ignore. Then he gathers up all his pill bottles and heads to his room to listen to Dylan repeat the strict instructions given to him by his mother.

Connor gets to sleep pretty easily with the aid of the sleeping pills and the relief of finally sleeping in the same bed as Dylan. Connor’s forced to sleep on his back and Dylan finds his place on Connor’s chest -- to keep him from moving around but also because he’s a big sap.

He wakes up once to piss and take another pill, this one to ward off infection, and eases himself back to bed in the pre-dawn light. He has to unwrap Dylan from his blanket burrito that he’s managed to cocoon himself in while Connor’s been absent from the bed.

“I was gone for like three minutes,” Connor says, incredibly fond. Dylan grumbles a bit but eventually Connor gets him untangled and repositioned.

“Lucky you have to sleep on your back,” Dylan mumbles, when they’re finally back to Dylan about to drool another wet spot on Connor’s chest. “Your ass is too tempting. I would have to get inside it.”

Connor laughs because Dylan’s face is mostly smashed up against his stomach and doesn’t really look like he’s ready to sex anyone.

“The doc said we could still make lo --" Connor says and then stops because he was going to say something incredibly embarrassing. “Shut up. Stop smirking.”

Dylan doesn’t. “Yeah but like, no vigorous activity and what I want to do to you is definitely vigorous, even if it is loving.”

“You sure look ready for vigorous activity,” Connor says, moving his hand through Dylan’s hair.

“Whatever, Davo -- I want to make love to you as vigorously as I like.”

“Please -- can we stop saying vigorous?” Dylan simply hums and closes his eyes. Connor falls back to sleep like that but it feels more like a light doze and not a proper sleep. He probably should have taken another pain pill when he was up but he manages to get mostly back to sleep before Dylan wakes him for another round of pills and oatmeal.

“You’ll have to pretend there’s cinnamon sugar on top,” Dylan says grimly, handing Connor a bowl. “Because there wasn’t anything in the cabinets. Hallsy is a sadist.”

“I’m used to it,” Connor says, taking the bowl and forcing himself to eat it. The bland taste is something he’s familiar with but the lack of solid food in his diet for the past 24 hours makes his stomach churn. He knows he’ll feel better and the meds did say they should be taken with food.

They eat mostly in silence and Connor makes a call to his mom afterwards. He doesn’t tell her anything more about Dylan and him -- telling his parents is definitely a work in progress -- but it’s nice to hear her setting up the house for his homecoming, however depressing it is. Afterwards, he dozes and Dylan messes about on his ipad.

“You missing games?” Connor asks, eyes heavy but feeling awake.

“Just a few -- official line is a lower body injury,” Dylan says with a shrug. “Brinksy will take care of everyone while I’m gone.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

Dylan laughs, putting down the ipad and stretching out beside him. Connor lets himself be kissed and thinks, almost automatically, about the positions Connor’s allowed to have sex in.

“How are you feeling?” Dylan probes and Connor huffs a laugh. “What? I can’t ask you --"

Connor nips at his jaw and gives him a serious look. “You’re only asking because you want to get your dick wet.”

“To be completely fair to me and my dick, we’re not picky about how it gets wet.”

Connor laughs, watching Dylan smile in his bed here in Edmonton is sort of a dream. He wishes it were on better terms but he won’t pretend that having him here isn’t amazing. They make out because they have time to do so and surprisingly, it doesn’t get heated for a while. Connor is surprised it takes them so long but he’s not complaining. It feels good to just lie back and be kissed.

“Let me touch you,” Dylan says finally, pressing chaste kisses along Connor’s cheeks. “Let me take care of you, bud.”

The moment Connor nods, Dylan falls into action -- getting them both undressed and grabs a bottle of lube from Connor’s bedside.

“Dylan, I don’t --" Connor really wants to get Dylan inside him but he’s not sure his shoulder can take being jostled that much. But Dylan shakes his head and uncaps the lube.

“We’ll work our way up -- I just want to get my hand on your dick,” he says, pouring lube all over his hand and his dick before straddling Connor’s thighs and pressing them together.

It’s a lot of work, holding himself up. Connor pays attention to keep himself from rocking back or arching his back, bracing with his hand above him. Despite all of Dylan’s jokes, Connor usually doesn’t just lie back and take anything -- he’s used to pushing into Dylan’s dick or begging with the bend of his back. Now, he tries his best to keep still.

“Oh fuck that’s good,” Dylan says, sliding their cocks together in his hand and coating them both with way too much lube. Connor groans, nodding when Dylan checks in and watches his hand as it works them both over.

“Dyls -- I’m --" It’s been maybe three minutes and Connor’s going to come. He would feel bad about it but Dylan’s dick is hot and leaking against his -- clearly he’s not the only one desperate for it. Connor comes first, conscious not to thrust up into Dylan’s hips but just riding Dylan’s hand and kisses as he comes between them. Dyls curses in his mouth, the wet sound of his hands around their dicks harsh and loud.

Dylan comes a few moments later, holding the base of his dick like it hurts and sucking a bite mark into Connor’s neck that won’t be covered by anything but a turtleneck.

“How’s your shoulder?” Dylan asks, still panting and lazily stroking them both. Connor’s almost too sensitive but he doesn’t want Dylan to stop. It feels good to be this messy together and not on opposite ends of the phone line.

“Fine,” Connor answers. “Tried to keep myself steady.”

Dylan nods, licking and sucking still at the sore mark on Connor’s neck. “Good, good -- cause I’m going to suck you off next.”

Connor looks down at his softening cock and giggles. “I’m not sure I can --"

“We can shower and find out,” Dylan says teeth scraping over Connor’s neck and sending a shiver through his spine. “It’s not even nine yet -- we’ve got plenty of time.”

Connor supposes he can indulge a little before he has to figure out what to do about the boys. They laze about until the tacky feeling of drying semen is too much. The shower has a bench that they use to take turns underneath the spray, careful to keep his bandage dry as much as possible. Surprising no one, halfway through Dylan practically begs to get his mouth on Connor’s dick. Stronger men have fallen in the face of such greedy sluttiness and Connor’s on painkillers, okay? Connor gets one of the best blowjobs of his life, sitting in the steam of the shower and watching Dylan jerk off on his knees.

Dylan comes before Connor does, choking on Connor’s dick when he does and then deep-throating him until Connor finally comes, slow and hot, down Stromer’s throat.

When Dylan gets up to shake out his knees and condition his hair -- he’s smirking. Connor’s slumped against the cold, wet tile and wondering if napping in the shower is acceptable or if he’s liable to drown.

“Can I just say,” Stromer says, tilting his head back to wash out conditioner. Connor can see the redness of the skin at his knees. Connor likes that. “I am so glad deep-throating is a skill that doesn’t go away with disuse -- it’s like riding a bike. I worked hard to make sure I could swallow your dick -- I was gonna pissed if I had to start at the beginning again.”

Connor giggles, yawns, and by the time they’re both out of the shower and dried, he’s ready for a nap. He manages to stay awake enough to change his bandage and drink a protein shake but falls asleep once they’ve settled back into bed. Dylan’s got the TV on and he’s messing about on his ipad again, so Connor lays on his good side and presses his face into Dylan’s hip until he falls asleep in a patch of his own drool.

Connor wakes up nuzzling Dylan’s clothed dick while Dylan looks through his phone.

“Oh,” Connor says, rolling onto his back and away from Dylan’s crotch. “Sorry.”

Above him, Dylan grunts --"as much as I would kill to have your mouth of my dick right now, I’m not sure your shoulder could support you and you choking and dying is not attractive.”

“I mean, you’re still hard, so you can’t be too upset by it,” Connor says, snidely -- as if he’s offended that Dylan doesn’t want him to die on his dick. Whatever. He can die on Dylan’s cock if he wants to, he thinks petulantly.

Dylan flicks him in the ear. “Don’t be an asshole. I just mean that I can wait for you to wake up so we can figure it out but now that you’re awake and an actual fuckface, we can have weird grumpy hate sex if you’re into it.”

Connor doesn’t comment just stretches carefully, listening to his back crack and trying to figure out if he should take another pain pill. A quick look at the clock says it’s noon, which means they still have plenty of time before the guys come over to figure out what he’s going to tell them, what he’s going to tell HD, and how they’re going to have sex. It’s not the worst way to spend the afternoon. It would certainly be better if he wasn’t broken but he can’t help that.

“Why are you snooping through my phone?” Connor asks. Not that he minds really.

“Leon kept texting you,” Dylan says, and Connor laughs because he sounds jealous. “So I backread all your texts to make sure you weren’t leaving me for Leon fucking Draisaitl -- whose nickname is HD, that stands for HUGE DICK and I’m not jealous of that one bit -- and once I remembered that you’re actually way too nice to cheat on anyone, let alone the love of your life, I took 500 pictures of you snuggling my dick because it made me feel better.”

Connor cracks open one eye. Dylan’s not looking at him, still scrolling and tapping on Connor’s phone.

“Mature of you,” Connor says. Dylan’s eyes flick down to him and then back to the screen before he replies, “I thought so.”

“What are you doing now that your irrational fit of jealousy is over?”

“Googling ways to fuck you without causing damage and pain to your shoulder. I needed a second opinion on those pamphlets,” Dylan says simply, then nodding to his tenting shorts. “Your wandering face got me all hot for you and my irrational jealousy over your admittedly hot, German team mate inspired me.”

Connor swallows. He’s suddenly feeling a lot less grumpy.

“And?”

Dylan keeps scrolling on Connor’s phone. “You should probably figure out what you’re going to say to your team before we start doing it -- I have a plan, but like, I’m going to need a few hours to bone you. I’ve missed your ass so much. I kind of just want to get inside you and never leave. Also, you’ve been snuggling my dick for a good twenty minutes. I want to fuck you blind.”

That’s fair.

Connor closes his eyes and groans. “I don’t know! Why is this so hard?”

“Do you not want to tell them?”

Connor stomach rolls a bit. Dylan sounds like he’s being careful -- like his feelings might get hurt and Connor doesn’t know how to explain this without sounding like a dick.

“I am not ashamed of being married to you,” Connor says, sitting up like a fucking adult having a serious conversation and taking his phone out of Dylan’s hands. “Marrying you is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Dylan’s face is impassive. Connor sighs and pulls him closer, rearranging so that he’s straddling Dylan’s lap. He puts his sling back on -- because it won’t do them any good if he damages himself more -- and then he pulls their heads together until Dylan’s no longer carefully poised but relaxing against Connor’s body.

“Did you really think I was sleeping with HD?”

Dylan huffs out a laugh. “Of course not, Davo. I’m just jealous because he gets to have all this time with you --"

“No one will have me like you do,” Connor says, cutting him off. “No one has ever had me like you and no one ever will -- and not just sex stuff, Dylan. You know that.”

“Yeah well, Leon’s got a cool accent and great hair and apparently is hung like a god,” Dylan says stubbornly.

Connor kisses him a little but pulls back and says, “You sound like you’re considering dating him.”

“Oh fuck you. I’m just saying, we’re not in Erie anymore! Maybe a little exposure has given you something to think about, that’s all.”

Connor sighs and squeezes the back of Dylan’s neck. “Did you want to leave me for a Coyote after camp this year?”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”

“Well then listen to yourself. I’m not having trouble telling the team because I don’t want to be married to you -- I just don’t know how to tell a group of people that I would give it all up for you and will if I have to. If there was a choice between leading this team to Stanley Cups and being your husband, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving the rink. They’ll always be second to you and that’s not -- that’s a lot to tell a group of people who are thinking I’m going to save them. I don’t want to… I don’t know, I don’t want them to be disappointed in me before we’ve even gotten started.”

“Davo.”

“I’m supposed to be their captain, Dyls. I’m McJesus and it’s not a joke.”

Dylan sighs and kisses him, rubbing their noses together. “So raise the level of expectations, Davo. You don’t have to choose between them and us right now and they don’t need to know you’d walk away for me if it came down to it -- it’s never going to happen. If the world finds out we’re married, we’ll figure it out. You’re so fucking dramatic. You’re a big deal, sure. But they’re just looking for you to trust them a little bit. Be there captain. They don’t need a detailed history of your sexual orientation. Just send them a text.”

“Just send them a text?”

“Yeah, in the group chat. Just be like, ‘you’re meeting my boyfriend tonight, so be nice’ or something. Super casual. Set the tone.”

Connor hums. Is it really that easy?

“Davo, I love you so goddamn much but this doesn’t need to be complicated,” Dylan says. “Some guys won’t be chill -- but don’t make them come here and announce it, that’s asking for trouble. If they don’t come, you know who you’ll need to be careful around. But you play hockey, Davo. They will get over it because you’ll be too good. Then you can be mature and captainly and they’ll look like supreme assholes.”

Connor wants to say something more but then Dylan’s kissing him, insistent and firm. The pain in his shoulder seems to fade away and heat licks up his spine, chasing Dylan’s wandering fingers. There’s no way this doesn’t lead to vigorous sex but Connor figures he can go against doctor’s orders just this once.

“You should send it out now,” Dylan says, after tugging at Connor’s bottom lip with his teeth. “So we can have celebratory sex.”

“I thought we were having jealous sex,” Connor says dazed.

Dylan laughs. “Sorry bud, that ship sailed when you crawled into my lap and got all sappy about your epic love for me over hockey.”

Connor feels his face heat. He can’t help it.

“Text them,” Dylan prodes. “Text them so I can be right and we get put all my research to the test. I’ve got to get inside you, Davo. It’s a matter of severe urgency over here. My dick needs to be reunited with your ass -- I bet you’re so tight. It’s killing me just thinking about it.”

Dylan kisses him like he’s demonstrating how he’s about to fuck Connor -- thoroughly, if carefully. They make out until Connor is unconsciously grinding his hips into Dylan’s and whining into his mouth. He turns it over in his head and then pulls away, letting Dylan kiss down his throat, and grabs his phone. He thumbs open the group chat.

“Don’t over complicate it,” Dylan says, nipping and sucking at Connor’s neck like the vampire he is. “I’m sure Hallsy will back you up.”

Oil:
Shoulder’s feeling okay -- thanks for the texts. You’re meeting my boyfriend tonight if you’re coming to Hallsy’s for dinner. Please shower after practice assholes.

“What about this?”

Dylan pulls himself away from the hickey Connor feels blooming and reads it quickly. “No emoji?”

Connor punches him in the shoulder. “I’m not putting an eggplanet emoji in this text. Jesus.”

“I was thinking more of the dudes holding hands emoji, Davo,” he says and then cups his own dick. “But I guess we know what you’re thinking about.”

“You’re the one running your mouth about how tight --"

Dylan smirks. “I’m going to wreck you.”

Connor swallows, unable to look away the from Dylan’s dark eyes. It’s certainly... motivational. He takes a deep breath and sends the text.

“Holy shit,” he says because it feels… well it feels big. This isn’t Brinksy knowing. Below him, Dylan giggles. “What are you laughing about?”

“Just you. You’re a fucking ridiculous human, you know that? Marry me, sure -- no problem. Not scary at all. Tell a group of grown adults that you have a boyfriend? Freaking out.”

“I’m going to punch you again,” Connor says but Dylan laughs at him more, just as his phone is vibrating.

Oil:
Hallsy:yeah, fucking shower, pigeons.
Anton:Pigeon is bird. What are you saying?
Mark:WTF
Cam:I’ll even bring beer.
Klef:Wait, he’s probs under age? Don’t corrupt the rookie.
Nail:i do my hair just for you and bf (heart emoji)
Ebs:(boys holding hands emoji x 10)

The good reception makes Connor brave and he opens up his thread to HD and taps out: Can we talk tonight? I want to tell you something.

“So that went well,” Connor says and Dylan smiles, radiant and smug like he had anything thing to do with it. “You’re right. So?”

“I’m just letting you have room to freak out before we fuck,” Dylan says already groping Connor’s ass. “Also, is your shoulder okay? I’m a little worried. You should probably take something.”

Connor gets up to take a pill with some water but Dylan doesn’t let him go alone, which results in Connor’s shorts around his ankles and Dylan’s pressing his dick up against his ass while they take off Connor’s shirt, only to put his sling back on.

“I hate the sling,” Connor says, a bit breathless. Dylan tugs it back into place, his hips rocking all the while and Connor tries not to spread his legs and beg.

“You’re going to need it,” is all Dylan says, which is, wow, so fucking hot.

They make it back to bed eventually because Dylan has a plan and Connor is happy to follow his lead. Dylan settles back against the headboard and pulls Connor back on top of him.

“Here first,” Dylan says, lubed fingers trailing up Connor’s inner thigh.

“First? It’s not going to take long.” Because it’s not and Connor doesn’t want to ruin the mood but he’s going to pop when Dylan gets inside him.

“Yeah,” Dylan breaths out, pushing one finger inside of Connor and making him gasp. It’s not that Connor doesn’t finger himself when he gets off but only when he has the house to himself and can take the time. Usually it’s just a quick one in the shower or pulling at himself in time with Dylan before bed. It just feels different with Dylan here.

“I’m going to have you here first,” Dylan says, working one finger in and out of him before sliding in two and making Connor groan, stilling for just a few moments before working them back in and stretching him. Connor hisses. He really is tight. “God Davo, you’re fucking amazing.”

Connor doesn’t reply, just takes Dylan’s fingers and his tongue when he leans forward for a kiss. Despite the stretch, Connor’s dick leaks between them and he holds onto Dylan’s shoulder to keep himself from bouncing on his fingers.

“I’m gonna make you come on my cock,” Dylan says into Connor’s ear. “And after I come inside you, I’m going to keep you loose with my fingers and put you on your back and fuck you again. Because you need it -- fuck, look at you.”

Listening to Dylan over the phone is nothing compared to this.

“Give me another,” he breathes out and Dylan complies easily, like he was waiting. Connor’s thighs tremble with the stress of trying to keep still but Dylan doesn’t work him with three very long before he’s sucking on Connor’s jaw and asking him, desperate and raw and so nicely, if he can fuck him now.

“I need to,” Dylan says and Connor can feel his dick leak at the sound of Dylan panting for it. “Davo, do you need --"

“Fuck, just --"

It’s not like being fucked for the first time because it doesn’t hurt at all, which adds more fuel to Dylan’s point -- maybe sex is like riding a bike or skating, muscle memory. Connor sits on Dylan’s cock in one smooth slide that has him gasping and Dylan swearing and grinding his hips in circles, even before Connor’s fully seated.

“Oh that’s --" Connor opens his eyes and Dylan’s grinning again, looking stupid with pleasure. “That’s nice.”

Dylan taps his hip. “Come on, Davo.”

Connor works himself carefully at first, just revelling in the hot, slick slide of Dylan inside of him. It takes a minute for him to get a rhythm that doesn’t mess with his shoulder too much but he’s got Dylan’s shoulder to steady him and use for leverage so it works out okay. The sling scratches against him when he moves but he’s too hungry for more of Dylan to care. Dyaln’s hips push up, filling him perfectly and Connor picks up the pace as much as his shoulder lets him.

He can’t seem to stop himself.

They rarely ever fuck his way because Connor can’t get the angle right but being full is what seems the matter the most at the moment. It’s a combination high of telling the team and of Dylan’s everything that has him so close. But they both know he can’t come like this -- it’s almost too much stimulation, or perhaps just not the right kind of pressure and angle combination that comes from being fucked on his back or his knees. Regardless, he’s going to need a little help.

“Touch me,” Connor says, panting against Dylan’s mouth. “I need --"

“Whatever you want,” Dylan says, reaching for Connor’s dick like a madman, thumbing at the exposed head and making Connor cry-out. It fucks with his rhythm but it’s worth it. Connor’s chasing his orgasm fast now, can’t seem to keep kissing Dylan and has to break away to focus. He wraps his hand around the back of Dylan’s neck to drag him forward until his mouth is back to working on Connor’s neck and then takes his pleasure with a high gasp of Dylan’s name.

He comes in a dozen thrusts of Dylan inside of him. It’s sharp and hot, ripping through him and then he tries his best to keep his rhythm when Dylan lets go of his dick and grabs onto Connor’s hips. Connor’s still coming between them and he stops grinding, fully seated to keep rising and falling over Dylan’s dick.

Dylan thrusts up, jostling Connor just a little but that’s all it takes before he’s moaning low and spilling side of Connor. It’s wet and messy and just as hot as it’s always been. Connor is exhausted and too sensitive by half but he keeps working himself with little twitches over Dylan’s cock just to feel the wetness of it inside him. Connor whines when Dylan finally pulls out, dick slapping softly against Connor’s cheeks. Dylan’s cock is half hard and sticky, smearing across Connor’s skin and hot like brand.

“Oh that’s just -- fucking christ that’s so good,” Dylan says, gasping into Connor’s neck and wasting no time letting the hand he used to pull Connor off come to cup Connor’s ass and feel the wetness he left there. “This is the best.”

Connor just pants. He’s aching all over and it feels so good he might actually die. He flexes his internal muscles and feels a slow slip of come work out of him.

“Oh my god that’s so hot,” Dylan is saying, dick still half chubbed and rubbing up against Connor’s ass while his fingers paw against Connor’s opening. “You’re so -- you’re so good, Davo. Holy fuck.”

They make out because Connor has to stop the weird porn filth from ruining his post-orgasm come down. Eventually, Connor’s painkillers kick in and he drifts, letting Dylan move him back onto his back. They kiss, lazy but still hot and hungry that has Connor arching into each kiss and pulling Dylan closer.

“You should, you know,” Connor says nonsensically. “With your fingers -- like you said.”

Connor can feel Dylan smirk against his thigh, where he’s watching himself play with Connor’s balls. Connor doesn’t really care if Dylan does but he feels kind of empty now that Dylan’s not inside of him. He was really tight and still feels that way -- way tighter than what he normally is after they’ve fucked but he supposes that’s to be expected. He spreads his legs a little and hums pleasantly when Dylan’s fingers sweep over his hole and Connor’s reminded of New York--fucking on the eve of their wedding, filthy with it and so happy.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Connor says, watching Dylan watch him. It’s addicting. “I want it.”

The admission gets him Dylan’s fingers toying with the rim of his slick, fucked hole. He’s sensitive and hot down there -- especially so soon after -- but it feels good when Dylan’s finger slips in with little resistance. He feels… a little slutty, asking for it like this. Which is ridiculous considering the words that regularly come out of Dylan’s mouth. Connor may like to bottom but Dylan’s definitely the slutty one between the two of them.

“You’re so greedy,” Dylan says but Connor doesn’t mind so much because he sounds like he’s in awe. Connor’s back arches automatically at the sound and suddenly, he wants nothing more than for Dylan to talk all he wants if he continues to sound like that.

“Oh, oh,” Connor can’t help but say, stretching his quads out and pressing down on Dylan’s finger. The tacky slickness of Dylan’s come loses it’s appeal and Connor complains. Soon enough, Dylan’s squirting more lube onto his fingers and sliding two back into Connor.

He takes it easily, spine melting and sighing into the careful push-pull.

Connor drifts, letting Dylan finger fuck him with lazy abandon that lurches into frantic thrusts and then back to tugging at his swollen rim, easy and slick like Dylan has all day to work Connor over. Connor wishes they did, that there was all the time in the world for Dylan to fuck him until he forgets what it’s like to miss Stromer’s fingers inside of him -- what it’s like to ache for him in hotel rooms all across North America.

Connor feels his face flame. It might be his favorite jerk off fantasy -- it might be the one thing he wants most in bed, in actual reality, not just fantasy land, but it makes him flush hot with embarrassment. It’s not just terrible porn talk that comes out of Dylan’s mouth because Connor wants it. He wants it badly.

“Can you go again? I know we shouldn’t but I want to have you again,” Dylan says and Connor moans because it’s silly but he loves it when Dylan says it like that. Dylan doesn’t just want to fuck him. He wants to have him and makes Connor absolutely crazy. He’s the worst cliche ever but he doesn’t care -- not now. He’ll be extra embarrassed about it later, but for now he’s riding the high of his team not hating him forever and Dylan’s dick inside of him for the first time in way too long.

He likes the idea of Dylan inside of him, holding him open and getting him messy over and over.

By the time Dylan gets back inside of him, Connor’s body feels loose and everything feels a little hazy from so much prolonged stimulation. Dylan slips in so easy, still only half-hard since they’ve come three times already but Connor likes the way it feels when Dylan’s swelling inside of him. It’s easy like this and Connor feels like he’s spilling over the bed with pleasure. Dylan is propped up over Connor’s good shoulder, using his other hand to keep moving Connor’s leg.

“Be careful,” Connor warns, slow and warm. “I’ll come.”

Dylan waggles his eyebrows and slaps at Connor’s thigh but doesn’t move it back enough for Dylan to nail his prostate on every thrust. This is nice -- Dylan working into him with his hardening cock with little dips and grinds that have Connor feeling a little used and on display but there’s no urgency here. Dylan’s eyes never leave him for too long. Connor likes to watch the way Dylan looks at his dick disappearing into Connor’s body -- it’s a lovely feedback loop made even more prolonged and enjoyable by the distant floating feeling he’s got from the painkillers.

It feels like they have all the time in the world. Connor breathes deep and enjoys taking it, letting Dylan do all the work and only occasionally repositioning his legs to pull Dylan down for a kiss or push him back so he can stretch out his shoulder when it starts to hurt.

Dylan leans down, kisses him with a sloppy open mouth and asks, “You good?”

Connor hums in reply, hitching his leg up and letting Dylan grind deep inside of him.

“Just -- don’t stop,” Connor says, breathless and a little blissed out. Dylan kisses him, tongue fucking into his mouth and letting go of Connor’s leg to pull at his hair, tilting his head back so Dylan can lick and nibble his way down Connor’s neck. When their mouths come back together, Connor moans into Dylan’s--trying to coax him into the rhythm Connor wants with a few encouraging squeezes of his thighs. It gets a bit heavy for a bit -- Dylan fucking steadily into Connor’s loose, loose hole and it’s just the sound of slapping skin and being fucked harder than Connor normally likes. But Dylan stays so close, kissing him and sharing space and breath that Connor doesn’t mind.

Dylan keeps him steady, sling damp with sweat between them, as he fucks Connor hard enough to make Connor tremble. The whole bed rattles on every thrust and Dylan’s face is twisted with pleasure and concentration. Connor can feel Dylan’s muscles flexing every time he slams into him. It’s way, way too much but Connor likes it -- mostly because it won’t last long and it’s never, ever been like this before.

“I need -- fuck, Davo,” Dylan curses, easing back but not out of him. Connor stretches a little and Dylan strokes at his cock so lightly that it almost tickles.

“Feels good,” Connor says. “Do you need to come?”

Dylan shakes his head, biting his lip and not moving -- just sitting inside Connor. “Not yet. Soon because fuck -- you’re so wet but I can keep going. If you’re good?”

Connor can’t help his blinding, dopy smile. He wants to blame it on the meds but he’s well fucked and so happy to have Dylan here, so that’s probably 90% of it.

“I’m fucking great. Keep going -- feels really good,” Connor says and Dylan leans down for a kiss before he settles back. Connor drifts a bit, watching Dylan watch him as he fucks him. Time stretches and Connor just takes it -- loves the way Dylan fucks him at different angles, paces and follows them up with matching kisses. It’s like he’s relearning how to fuck Connor the best -- how to draw out certain noises or reactions. Connor’s dick is leaking, precome sliding off his stomach and pooling at the small of back.

Finally, Dylan sits up, leaning back to watch himself pull out slowly. It’s obscene to hear the way his dick pops out of Connor’s body and then slowly drives back in, making a wet sound as Dylan pushes lube and come back inside him with force. It’s a slow, hard, deep thrust that makes Connor gasp out Dylan’s name and --

Dylan makes four long strokes out -- the head of his dick audibly popping out of Connor and then sliding slowly back in before Connor reaches for his own cock.

“Is that -- do you,” Dylan says and Connor nods, squeezing down when Dylan makes another retreat. “Fuck, Davo. That’s --"

Connor nods and closes his eyes, focusing into the feeling of Dylan working into him so slowly and methodically. He strokes himself in counterpart -- disjointed and slick with his own wetness. When Connor opens his eyes next, Dylan’s still watching himself between Connor’s legs -- fingers running along where Connor’s stretched over Dylan’s dick. It’s suddenly not enough and Connor whines.

“What do you want?” Dylan doesn’t sound like he’s teasing and Connor doesn’t have the words. He wants to say all the things Dylan does -- wants to tell him that he wants Dylan to fuck him harder, come inside of him in a flood and then Connor wants to jerk off to the sound of Dylan’s dick fucking him with his come. He wants to tell Dylan how good it feels; how much Connor misses being fucked, misses being this close with Dylan and dreams about being loved like this, about being had by Dylan until that’s all he is but Dylan’s. He wants Dylan to use him like this, fuck him so good that this is all Connor wants. He wants Dylan to know how much Connor needs this.

Instead, Connor closes his eyes and says, “Just -- fuck, come here, I need -- fuck.”

Dylan goes easily and they kiss as Connor gasps, feeling Dylan shift his leg back and oh --

“Let me,” Dylan says, reaching up for leverage and it’s all heat now. There’s nothing lazy about the way Dylan fucks into him. He’s holding Connor down with every press inside, having him in short, hard thrusts that make Connor clutch at Dylan’s shoulders and cry out. It doesn’t take long after that for Connor to come. He can’t stroke himself with his bum collarbone like this, so he just squeezes down and listens to the sound of Dylan fucking him until he comes -- easy and slutty and it rolls over him.

It’s probably the meds or the fact that he’s already come three times today but Connor’s orgasm hits him in waves. Not as intense but longer, crashing into him in stutter-stops that feel exaggerated by Dylan’s desperate hips. Connor hears himself say Dylan’s name over and over again -- but it’s such background to the slickness between him and the intensity of his prolonged orgasm. It hits him again when Dylan comes on a curse, hips slamming into Connor. He’s drenched from his own orgasm between them and now Dylan keeps driving into him.

“Yeah, yeah keep going, please,” Connor says because it still feels like he’s riding the last of it, chasing the lingering feeling and the sound is enough to get him squeezing between them to get a hand on the top of his dick without pulling too much on his shoulder. He chokes a little on a sob, fingertips slipping and pressing on his own dickhead too hard but Dylan’s working him over -- soaked inside and out with the sloppy sound of his cock riding the length of Connor until he’s bottoming out.

“Fuck -- holy fuck,” Dylan says. “Jesus, Davo -- that, we fucking shouldn’t --"

Connor clenches down around Dylan’s rapidly softening dick inside of him. He feels drenched.

“Sorry,” Connor says, smiling a little and feeling himself blush. “I like the sound of --" He can’t bring himself to say it but Dylan pulls back and pushes back in, just a little and it squelches a little. Connor moans and squirms just a little.

“Like that?” Dylan’s super sensitive and clearly this is painful for him but Connor just nods, panting. Dylan does it again and Connor can feel lube and come dribbling out of him. It’s fucking disgusting and Connor’s never been more satisfied in his entire life. He wants to turn over, exposed and leaking and let Dylan put his mouth there. He wants to be fucked again but it’s just not possible.

Dylan pulls out because he has to and Connor feels himself leaking against the sheets. He clenches and relaxes, feels more drip out. Dylan looks down between Connor’s legs, up at Connor and then back to his own dick -- it’s shiny, covered in slick come and lube. It’s such a contrast against his dark skin.

“We’re going to have to revisit this,” Dylan says, gesturing to his own dick and Connor’s stretched, dripping hole. “Because I’m fairly certain this is the definition of vigorous -- something we’re not supposed to be doing but I’m like, ten seconds from eating you out and I hate the taste of that lube. Right now, I don’t even fucking care. You look -- Davo. You should --"

Connor smiles, suddenly shy, twisting around to see the clock and regretting it when his shoulder throbs. It’s almost three -- and that’s definitely the longest they’ve ever fucked. And he’s basically broken, which means he’s going to ache all over for days and not in the good way. Marner would say, that’s a problem for future Connor but Connor’s not that dumb. He’s pretty dumb, considering but not that bad.

Dylan’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure out how they can make it work. But Connor thinks that trying to fuck for a fifth time in one day might send them both to the hospital.

“Sorry,” Connor says but Dylan just catches him when he tries to sit up and kisses him.
“Fucking don’t be sorry, Davo,” Dylan says. “Jesus -- you’re the fucking best. I love you so much. You getting so hot for it -- goddamn, Davo. The sound, I can’t believe you’re such a perv.”

They make out again, because how can they not. It’s gross, because there is lube and come everywhere but Dylan’s warm against him and Connor will never be thankful for being hurt but he’s happy to have this -- happy that his is one thing he hasn’t fucked up yet.

“Okay, I need to shower,” Connor says because now that he isn’t in the middle of a marathon fuck session, he’s kind of grossed out and he’s going to feel fucking terrible.

“In a minute.” Dylan says before pulling Connor up to him so that they can kiss more. Eventually they make it into the shower and Connor makes them get dressed in actual clothes just in case they get any ideas. Connor feels a little sex stupid and slow with the painkillers, but Dylan makes them some late lunch by himself. Connor lets himself settle into the couch, Dylan joining him with a bowl of grapes that he lazily feeds to Connor and himself.

He finishes applying the antiseptic to his chest and takes some more pills. He’ll reapply a bandage before the boys get here, but it feels good to let it air out, so he opens up his phone instead.

The group chat has dissolved from confusion around the word ‘boyfriend’ to a nasty fight about who has the most disgusting socks, detoured for a few moments about Yak’s latest strange, and is now on the topic of what they’re ordering on the pizzas. Nuge is attempting to institute a SurveyMonkey poll without much cooperation from anyone except Ebs and there’s a sidebar conversation about how much Cam loves pepperoncini.

It’s moments like these that Connor thinks he can do this.

Dylan’s wrapped around him, warm and reading over his shoulder, while he fucks up Hallsy’ Netflix suggestions by clicking on random things. He facetimes Brinksy while Connor is taking the survey for Nuge and sure, Connor’s shoulder is absolutely fucked but for the first time since he got here, it’s starting to feel a bit more like Erie -- like a team and not just the NHL. He doesn’t know if that makes sense. the Oilers have been good guys to him, sure, but it hasn’t felt like home or team since he arrived. Maybe it’s the pressure or the secrets he’s been keeping -- maybe it’s a dozen other things or none of them at all. But here, sitting with Dylan on Hallsy couch with his phone lit up with his teammates and Dylan holding his hand while he bitches to Brinksy about everything… this is something he didn’t even realize he was missing.

“Do you have a wicked scar?” Brinksy is asking. Connor shakes his head, pulling down his shirt. He’s swollen -- not helped by a truly ill-advised boning session and he blushes when he thinks about it. And then feeling his face turn the color of a tomato when he thinks about the bite marks all over his neck. Looking over, Dylan is smirking, taking the phone from Connor and saying, “it’s not that bad. It’s just swollen because we fucked like five times today. As evidenced by Connor’s neck and my sore balls.”

“Ew! Pervert. For fuck’s sake Dylan,” Brinksy shouts. “You’re like my parents! Stop sharing that shit.”

“Oh whatever, I had to listen when that girl let you eiffel tower her with --"

“That’s different! You use Connor like a fucking chew-toy.”

“Graphic details, bud -- too fucking graphic. Also, you’ve still got my dick-pic saved to your phone. Don’t fucking front,” Dylan says and Connor falls asleep like that, slumped on Dylan’s shoulder, Brinksy squawking in the background. He feels lighter than he has in months, even with so much work ahead of him. It might be the drugs or the orgasms but Connor falls asleep with only a nagging bit of worry on his mind, warm and wrapped up with Dylan.

Connor doesn’t know why he thought this was going to be such a big fucking deal.

The boys arrive in waves, while Connor’s finishing up his laundry and packing. Dylan alternates between helping, trying to figure balance their joint bank account (because Stromer insists that budgeting is essential, even though they’ll both be earning an NHL salary soon) and playing Luke’s PS4, which literally only gets used when the team is around, since they mostly play cards when it’s just the three of them. But Connor isn’t the only one nervous when Hallsy and Luke come home, Ebs trailing behind him. Dylan’s even put a bit of gel in his hair -- trying to tame the fluffy way his hair goes when it’s this long.

“Watch out,” Luke says, coming in the front door with a grin. “Ebs and Hallsy are --" A disgruntled scream (Ebs) comes from the hallway and more cursing. Connor rolls his eyes -- way to make a good impression. “Hi, I’m Luke -- and I’m really sorry for what you’re about to see.”

Dylan shakes his head and looks confused before he says, “Well, I guess I owe Hallsy since I --"

Luke shakes his head. “Nah, nothing you’ve ever done will be this ridiculous.”

Then Ebs and Hallsy storm in, yelling at each other, slap fighting and talking over each other all at the same time.

“ -- whatever, you suck a fuck non --"

“ -- you’re mom is a fucking non --"

“ -- I’m going to kill you, fucking shit --"

Connor looks at Luke, who shrugs and says, “It started as an argument about juicing, man. I don’t even know. It’s Nursey fault and Ference is probably behind this because Hallsy doesn’t think composting is essential to saving the whales or some shit.”

Connor doesn’t even have time to analyze that before Nursey and five other guys are coming into the condo and Hallsy pulls Ebs into a headlock.

“Um, well, I wish I could say this was abnormal,” Connor says, gesturing as all the guys greet Hallsy and Ebs casually, kicking off their shoes and walking around them. Except for Nail and Eric, who both give Ebs a friendly ball tapping. “But this is pretty tame actually.”

“Yeah,” Luke says, coming to stand next to Dylan, nudging his shoulder against his. “This is nothing compared to --"

Nursey comes over, clasps Dylan’s hand and says, “Don’t, Luke. Don’t even bring it up.” Luke shrugs and Connor relaxes a bit. When everyone just shakes Dylan’s hand and spreads out over the condo like normal, it makes him forget why he was worried about this.

“You’re a sight for sore fucking eyes,” Cam says, bringing Connor in to gently hug him. “Good to see you, bud.”

Nuge comes by and says, “Careful, Cam. He’s not cleared for contact, even dat goalie love,” only to have Luke snort and Hallsy say, “I can smell the sex candles burning! There was more than goalie love in this house.”

Connor fights the blush but it’s useless, Ebs is already whooping and hollering. Dylan looks like he’s just met a colony of Brinksys and doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it.

“That’s not --" Connor says but then stops because Hallsy is pointing to the counter, where Connor did light candles. “That’s your weird thing,” he settles on.

Hallsy frowns. “That’s house rules, McJesus. You smell up the condo with sex then you have to light a candle.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “I just lit them because I thought it would be nice. We have company.”

Hallsy squints. Ebs looks confused. Nail gyrates his hips and says something in Russian that doesn’t sound appropriate and Connor doesn’t even speak the language. His team is a bunch of social idiots.

“Why don’t you just get ceiling fans?” Dylan says and Luke shrugs before replying, “Hallsy doesn’t like air blowing on him.”

Everyone scrambles to make a blowjob joke and before Connor realizes it, they’re all fighting over pizza toppings again (the SurveyMonkey results were skewed and Nursey is demanding a recount). No one bats an eye at Dylan, who is playing Mario Cart with a few of the guys and keeps finding Connor across the room and winking at him. It’s fine. Normal even. Well, not Dylan’s winking because he looks ridiculous and not smooth at all, but the rest of it. Some of the guys give him weird looks or give Dylan a wide berth but it could just as well be because he’s not team as it is that he’s Connor’s boyfriend.

The only one who seems bothered is Leon, who came in alone and has stuck close to Nuge during introductions. He didn’t even speak up when someone (wrongfully) suggested pineapple on a pizza. Connor has seen Leon lowkey shank someone over fruit on pizza.

Connor gets a drink of water, takes half a painkiller and gets his shit together.

“Hey,” Connor says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Can you drive me to pick up the pizzas?”

Leon looks at him, gaze serious -- always so serious. “Not delivery?”

Beside him, Nuge rolls his eyes. “Hallsy doesn’t like delivery people knowing where he lives because of a weird sushi incident.”

“Sushi?” Leon says.

“It happened like rookie year and it involves seaweed and chopsticks in unpleasant places. Whatever you do -- don’t ask Hallsy about it. He cried last time but that could have been the Boiler Makers. Still, do you want to take that chance?”

So fucking weird.

“So, is that cool?” Connor prods again and Leon looks at him for a beat too long before he says yes and goes to put on his shoes. Connor loops back around to the living room to tell Dylan where he’s going and is brave enough to get a kiss, soft and barely there.

“You’re going to make me lose,” Dylan says. “Stop distracting me.”

“You fucking SUCK MY SWEATY BANANA BALLS. Eat shit, Peach,” Eric says and Connor looks up from Dylan’s lips to see Peach fall dramatically off the road.

“Sorry,” he says but Dylan smiles, looking very self satisfied and not at all like he’d just plummeted to his Mario Kart death. Beside him, Klef puckers up and leans forward for a kiss. Connor laughs, because this reminds him of Erie, and gives Dylan another kiss -- this one against his smiling mouth -- before backing away, leaving Klef pouting.

“I thought you were giving us all a little smooch,” Klef says. “Blatant favoritism.”

Connor leaves them all behind, cheeks pink and flying high. It’s a far cry from how awkward it is when he hands Leon his keys to the truck and settles into the silent cab.

“You didn’t reply to my text,” Connor says, once they’re out of the subdivision and on their way. Leon is staring at the road.

“Didn’t have anything to say, Connor,” he says but it’s not mean, just honest. Most of the time, Connor likes that Leon calls him by his first name. He likes the way it sounds, the vowels different with Leon’s barely-there accent. Usually, it makes Connor smile because it feels familiar. Here, it feels intentional and a little cold.

“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about Dylan.”

Leon takes a left turn, eyes sharp and on the road. He says, “Are you sorry? Or just sorry now everyone knows?”

“I am sorry,” Connor says, weighing his words with as much care as Leon. “I should have told you.”

“Me? Or team?”

Connor sighs and says, “Everyone but -- Leon, I should have told you about Dylan before -- when we started to talk about living together next year. We’re… close and I’m sorry I disrespected that.”

Leon makes a series of turns and pulls into the pizza parking lot. He taps his large hands on the steering wheel and finally turns to face Connor. His face is impassive, which is hard for Connor because he doesn’t feel like they’re on even ground. But Leon is still turning toward him, still meeting Connor’s eyes with his own and there is a steadiness there.

“You said you had something to tell me. Just apologies?”

Connor shrugs but doesn’t break eye contact. “I mean, yes -- but also, Dylan and I are,” Connor pauses. Then he tugs his necklace over his shirt and thumbs it purposefully. Leon watches the movement. “We got married last summer.”

Leon’s eyebrows raise, eyes round and wide, and Connor almost laughs at the face he makes. He’s never seen HD be surprised before.

“It’s kind of a secret? So please don’t say anything. I don’t want the team to know yet. Cluing them in about Dylan and I is something that should have happened when I got here but us being married is different,” Connor continues when it’s clear that Leon isn’t going to say anything. “That’s what I wanted to tell you -- I just think it would be nice to live together next year and Dylan’s important to me. It’s important that you two get along and like, know each other and shit.”

Leon nods. “He is your husband -- so I would hope he’s important.”

“You’re my best friend here,” Connor says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Leon looks thoughtful before he says, “I accept your apology.”

They don’t hug because HD isn’t that kind of person. But he pays for the pizza before Connor can even think about it and makes the workers load the car so that Connor doesn’t have to. When they get settled, Leon says, “I will make friends with him.”

Connor smiles. “Thanks.”

“But first, please tell me about Hallsy’s dumb sushi story.”

So Connor does.

Connor gets to the rink early because he’s nervous. The trainers want to see him and everytime he goes into their office, he’s afraid they’re going to tell him he’s not going to play tonight. They don’t say that -- they just check up on his range of motion and make sure he’s seeing the massage therapist after morning skate. It’s dumb but Connor feels like he’s back in school and waiting for the teachers permission to go outside for recess.

When he gets out there’s a message on his phone.

He walks down and over to the ice -- there’s plenty of guys here early for skate but none of them are on the ice yet. A few of the coaches are, someone's got some cones they’re hauling around and Connor watches them from his place by the tunnel.

He pops in his headphone and listens to the voicemail, fishing the familiar tin can of salve out of his sweat pockets and rubbing some into his palms.

”Oh babe -- oh my fuckind god, Davo. You’re so lucky I married you before because I can’t believe you went on national television and admitted that you were grumpy! The whole NHL now knows that you’re a child that has been a nightmare for the last few weeks. A toddler! Except no one stole your blocks -- just hockey and you’re a terrible inpatient child. Hahaha. You stupid fuck. I love you so much. You’re going to be great. Just, smile a little, okay? You’re scaring the city of Edmonton. They think you’ve lost your ability to experience joy and I don’t want to have to do an interview and tell them that you regularly experience joy when my dick is involved. Seriously -- Brinksy and I are taking that interview with us to the grave. Such a grumpy old married fuck. Anyway, I love you. Don’t fall down and break anything in morning skate and I’ll talk to you tonight. Don’t forget to call me when you’re done -- I’m going through ass-on-tap withdraw, so don’t open your Snaps until you’re alone, okay, Davo? Because my dick -- GO FUCK YOURSELF BRINKSY. I WILL LEAVE DAVO SAPPY SEX VOICEMAILS IF I WANT TO YOU PIECE OF TRASH. ON FIRE. TRASH ON FIRE. I got to go -- Otters for life, babe.”

Connor listens to the message again, watching guys move on and off the ice. Someone checks in on him, lets him know his skates are sharpened and by the time he listens to the message for a third time, HD has come to stand next to him. He’s in his leggings and under armour, clearly was getting ready before he noticed Connor wasn’t there and came to look for him.

Leon looks ridiculous with his socks on under his sandals. He’s Connor’s favorite piece of Eurotrash. Well, second favorite, because Leon’s got a cat named Wolfie that hates every single person who isn’t Leon and Connor loves her -- she’s beautiful and dangerous and every time she bites and scratches Connor, he’s convinced they’re one step closer to friendship. Leon seems doubtful but he doesn’t stop Connor from trying. Technically, Wolfie is Connor’s favorite piece of Eurotrash but Leon is surely a close second.

“Ready, Connor?” Leon says, not looking at him but at the ice. It looks a lot bigger when they’re on the side lines. When they step onto it, all Connor can see is lanes -- small spaces to squeeze pucks and bodies into. But from here, it just looks enormous. He can hear Hallsy messing around with the sticks in the hallway behind him and it must be ready for him to get dressed and ready. It’s optional skate but Connor hasn’t missed one since he’s been cleared to skate and tonight, he gets to play. He’s been craving the ice and will take whatever he can get. They’ve been helping him stay sane since he’s been back in Edmonton -- away from Dylan but closer to playing again.

Connor craves Dylan and hockey simultaneously -- an infinite loop of desire but he can half both. Everything is going to be alright.

“Ready for Oilers hockey?” Leon says again, shoulder checking into Connor a little. He smiles because he can and they share it -- giddy again with the knowledge that they’ll play together tonight.

“Yeah,” he says, pressing back against the bulk of Leon, solid as ever.

“Let’s go Oil.”

Chapter Text

Dylan adjusts the brim of his hat and quickly ducks into an equipment room. Tim is there but Dylan just holds up his phone and tucks himself into the corner. Tim ignores him, which is just as well because Dylan can’t believe he’s still ducking into secret spaces because of Davo and he’s not even here to suck his dick.

Dylan’s got a few minutes before he really has to be anywhere.

Somewhere along the line, he stopped counting the year from January to December -- everything starts in September and hopefully runs until June, the summer months lost to jubilee or rueful, painstaking vows to be better. Dylan’s year is the hockey year. Admittedly, his year hasn’t been great. Getting sent down a second time to Erie was the most embarrassed he’s ever been. Even fucking Marns, who still weighs 150 soaking wet, made an NHL team that went to the post-season. The first round, sure -- but he still made the fucking team. Meanwhile, Dylan’s back in the O.

There’s been a lot more downs then there have been ups.

But the past few months haven’t been that bad, once Dylan got his head out of his ass and stopped being a bitter asshole. Marner was quick to forgive and him and Chych are working their way back to normal. And Davo? Hell, even the worst with Connor is still better than nothing.

In the training room, Dylan thumbs open his texts. Outside, he can hear the guys make their way to the locker room. He knows Brinksy has a flask he’ll pass around and they’ll probably shot-gun some beers in the parking lot for goodluck. Dylan doesn’t have a lot of time. Which has been the theme of the past few months. Between their respective playoff runs, Dylan feels like he hasn’t had more than ten seconds to talk to his husband in weeks.

The last five texts he’s sent to Davo have a read receipt in the corner and Dylan’s eye twitches.

About to go on stage for this, I wish you were here.

He considers just sending that but he doesn’t want Davo to think he’s guilting him. So he adds a hasty: you could have helped me write my captain’s speech, ya dick.

The read receipt is instant. But there aren’t any dots to indicate Connor’s replying. Dylan weighs the merits of embarrassing himself with Tim in the room but he needs to be in the locker room in a few minutes and he absolutely doesn’t have time to be fighting about this. Besides, who the hell is he kidding anyway. Tim probably has some serious NDA knowledge about half a dozen NHL players at this point in his life. Tim has seen some shit.

Davo picks up on the second ring, voice even but Dylan’s not dumb.

“You can’t still be mad about this,” Dylan says, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“I’m not,” Davo lies. “I’m not.”

Dylan sighs and leans his forehead against the cool brick of the wall. His shoes are a little scuffed and he really should have shined them before taking off today.

“Babe, he’s not even talking to me properly,” Dylan says, for what feels like 100th time in the past three weeks. Then he adds, “It’s been weeks.”

Surly silence.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“No,” Davo says. Dylan bangs his head against the wall and screams internally. Connor McDavid is the most stubborn human being on the fucking planet and Dylan questions his sanity because although this is all ridiculous, part of him is a little turned on by Davo’s tenacity. Always has been. Dylan considers this a personal character flaw of his own.

“Great, I’m so glad you asked,” Dylan says, barreling on. “I think, it’s absolutely okay for you to still be pissed at Chych but I don’t think you are. I think you’re upset about going out in a series you should have won, feeling really guilty about your role in that as a leader and you’re channeling your repressed Captain feelings into being pissed at Chych.”

“Fuck you,” Davo says, quietly.

“Davo--”

“He kissed you,” Connor snarls, bitter and possessive and still soft in a way that Connor always is. Dylan misses him fiercely, every damn day. “He flew to your playoff game, like some hot-shot NHL star and tried to sweep you off your feet. So fuck him! I’m allowed to be fucking pissed. He’s not allowed to touch you -- fuck him.”

If Dylan didn’t have somewhere to be, he’d be incredibly turned on. But as it is, he’s only slightly turned on by Davo’s fierce loyalty and possessiveness. The rest of him is just annoyed.

Behind him, Tim starts whistling and rustling in a bag as loudly as possible. Dylan appreciates him- maybe Dylan should have married Tim instead.

“Davo, babe. You are also a hot-shot NHL star and there was no sweeping to be had. I’ve already been quite happily swept. He kissed me, I let him down gently -- as to try and salvage a friendship with a future teammate and then I won all the things, while happily be your hus -- you know what. We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

“Yeah well,” Davo says, still pouty and pissed. “He’s a fucking jackass. You know who isn’t a jackass? Max Domi. You should be friends with Max. He’s captain material.”

Dylan prays for strength. They’ve not had good timing -- Dylan playing in Hershey the same night that Davo gets knocked out; locker clean out wrecking Davo the day Dylan played for the championship.Now, Connor’s still in Edmonton instead of Erie and Dylan’s about to go face a crowd full of people and pretend he’s not fighting with his husband about a few illicit kisses that he didn’t even get to enjoy. Chych is hot -- there is no reason that Dylan couldn’t enjoy those kisses, except for he’s pathetically gone on Davo and so he has to double down on love because it’s broken his dick.

People other than Davo used to get Dylan hard. Really, that was a thing that happened.

“Max is absolutely a nice guy. You know who also is?,” Dylan says. “Chych is also a nice guy. He stole a kiss -- and who can blame him, I’m a goddamn catch! You’ve stolen thousands of kisses and will continue to have exclusive rights for the rest of our life so don’t you think you’re being a little… petty?”

It was actually more than a few kisses because Chych was very confident that Dylan was a sure thing and the resulting awkwardness and turning down was enough embarrassment to last Dylan a lifetime. But Connor doesn’t need to know that -- all he needs to know is that Dylan wasn’t interested then, isn’t interested now and it’s very likely that he won’t be interested in the future. He’s still fucking smitten with an asshole who lives thousands of miles away -- loudly loving him in all the best ways, even when he’s being a grouchy dick. Sure, Davo’s sophomore season has gone incredibly better than his freshman one but there is a quiet confidence about him that brings men and women to their knees for him. Publicly, he attributes it to his teammates and growing into captaining a hockey city team. Privately, he wears his ring like it gives him literal super powers.

Dylan tries not to swoon, because dignity and shit. But Davo’s love is a drug.

The line is silent for a few more seconds before Connor growls in frustration and tries to strangle himself with a pillow. At least, that’s what it sounds like.

“I’m not running off into the Arizona sunset with him or Max Domi,” Dylan says, teasingly. “I’m too busy wishing you were here -- you irrational, jealous jackass.”

“Ugh, stop letting pretty boys kiss you,” Connor says, making ‘pretty’ sound like an insult. “You’re fucking married.”

Dylan really needs to go. “If I let pretty boys stop kissing me, our sex life would be very weird.”

“I’m not pretty.”

“You are the prettiest,” Dylan says, sappy and honest and really fucking done fighting. “Davo--I’m serious. I don’t want to fight about this anymore.”

“Sorry,” Davo says, not sounding sorry at all.

Dylan listens to him breathe for a bit on the phone and then acknowledges that he really does have to go.

“I need to go,” Dylan says, reluctantly. Davo’s spent the last few days being violently pissed at everything -- a level of grumpiness Dylan hasn’t seen since Connor broke his collarbone -- or trying to engage Dylan in phone sex at inappropriate times. The amount of times Dylan has had to jerk off in semi-public areas is untoward. He’s a pervert and he’s easy when it comes to Davo’s soft begging but he’s hit some pretty low lows the past couple of weeks in terms of weird places he’s had to wipe his jizz.

“Hey, Dyls?” Connor says, when Dylan’s just about ready to hang up on him.

“Yeah, babe?”

“I’m really proud of you,” Davo says, meaning it with the whole of his heart. Dylan can’t help the smile that breaks out. “You did a great job. I knew you could do it -- best captain Erie’s ever seen.”

“I learned from the best,” Dylan replies. “Maybe you know him? Blonde, athletic, Captain of bossy bottoms --”

“Hey!”

“I really do have to go. They’ll start the ceremony without me,” Dylan says. “Raddy and Brinksy brought three flasks and nothing is going to stop them.”

“Better go supervise,” Connor says, wryly. Which is fair -- Dylan doesn’t so much supervise as participate and then make sure none of them get caught. “Text me later?”

“Of course. We can figure out when you’re coming to Windsor.”

“Dylan, I am sorry,” Davo says. “I’m still pissed at Chych but I’m sorry for being such an ass lately but I’ll be there soon, eh? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Dylan feels himself go perfectly still. Tim stops whistling, as if he can feel the doom in the air.

“Davo, please tell me there will be no romantic gestures tonight.”

Silence.

“Davo--”

Connor clears his throat. “Of course not.”

“Davo, you didn’t--”

“Didn’t you say you had to go? Look at the time. Okay, love you, bye!”

Dread fills Dylan for the five seconds before he realizes he’s really fucking late and runs off to the locker room. He gets a smack on the head from coach and one of the PR interns is stapled to his side, just in case he sneaks off again, so he can’t even take a few sips of the flask that’s being passed around.

He keeps an eye out for a choir singing anthems of love; large bouquets of flowers or like, skywriting. But of course, that’s ridiculous because Davo is a sentimental sap but he’s not unoriginal. (If he was going to send a choir, it’d definitely have Taylor Hall in it -- scowling his way through a Whitney Houston ballad for sure.) The entire ceremony goes off without a hitch -- even Dylan’s speech is okay -- until the very end.

Because Connor McDavid is a jealous man, but still kind of a softie.

What did Davo do? He fucking commissioned a huge stature of a wooden otter -- hand carved and slightly phallic looking to be presented with fanfare. It has to be wheeled out onto the stage because it’s fucking ginormous.

Slightly phallic might be an understatement.

Dylan’s face is flaming because he knows, just by looking at it, that Davo did this. It’s weird and sweet and just -- exactly like Davo. He thinks he’s saved because everyone is working hard to look like they actually care about this weird, backwoods Canadian art-piece but no one is looking at him like it’s his fault. The MC is waxing about it poetically -- calling it as triumphant as their playoff run. Dylan tries to keep smiling and pretend that he thinks it’s weird just like everyone else and not, sweet and kind of hot.

That is until they announce that an “anonymous benefactor” donated it and then the MC turns back and fucking winks at Dylan.

Dylan closes his eyes and prays no one sees it.

Instantly, Brinksy leans forward and says, “Davo sent you a 6-foot wooden dildo shaped like an Otter”. He sounds like he’s in awe, like no one has done something so amazing, ludicrous and embarrassing ever and Alex aspires to be like him everyday.

Dylan flushes and shakes his head, ready to deny it until he dies. Brinksy continues, “seriously, if you turn it a little -- it’s like it’s tail could go straight up your ass. Like all the way up there -- do you think your ass can take it or is that just wishful thinking on his part? Have you been practicing? Because you said that you --”

“Would you shut up?” Dylan growls because there are cameras and he will kill him.

“I’m just saying!”

“Stop saying anything,” Dylan whisper screams out of the side of his mouth and then takes the microphone and walks up to the podium to talk nicely about the wooden otter. Snidely, he thinks that this is all Chych’s fault. If Chych hadn’t stuck his tongue down Dylan’s throat, this could have been just a small wooden otter statue or like, a singing telegram or a baby. Instead, it’s a huge statue of Connor proclaiming his love and simultaneously telling the world that his dick is bigger than everyone else’s -- both metaphorically in the hockey sense. Also in the sense that Davo and him had worked through that sex-list very extensively while his collarbone was repairing and then made sure to try everything again during the summer.

That is to say, Dylan cannot probably take the otter tail up his ass but he sure can take Davo’s dick like a champ.

The otter shines in the lights from the stage -- the stain oiled down and sleek looking. Dylan feels like crying and also jerking off. This is his life now. Forever. Only Davo -- only fucking Davo would manage to fit secret, yet OBVIOUS romantic gesture and unintentionally phallic gesture of our homofabulous sex-life into one moment. It’s impressive really.

Dylan should have said no. He should have said no to marrying Connor so that Davo would use proposing as a grand romantic gesture instead of coming up with the most bizarre and Davo like shit. Dylan’s really only to blame.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates wildly -- which means too many of his friends are watching this.

While posing for pictures with the giant otter, it’s tail awkwardly pressed against Dylan’s cheek, he cries internally. Davo’s going to make them put this on the porch at their cabin. Dylan can see it now. Behind the camera man, Brinksy sticks his tongue in his cheek and gyrates his hips -- then helpfully points to the Otter’s tail, as if the team didn’t understand the joke.

In his pocket, a text comes through that just reads: Otters for life, followed by an eggplant emoji and a heart.

It’s not from Mitch Marner. Although, that’s a good of guess as any. Connor’s gotten better at sexting but it’s still a limited skill.

Days later, Dylan scores four goals and three assists in Windsor, has a very publically emotional reunion with his husband before sneaking off to plough Davo over a massage table. He takes him back to the hotel and does it all over again, getting inside Connor as many times he can before they pass out because winning still makes him horny as hell and just being around Connor makes him feel high. The next morning he gets a notification from the Canadian Post that a very large package was delivered to their cabin in Muskoka and that someone was going to have to sign for it, because there just wasn’t enough space to keep it at the post office for more than a few days.

He’s so annoyed at being right, he rolls over and takes out all his romantic frustration on Davo’s dick.

Otters for life is damn right.