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Trevor Moore gets called up to the Toronto Maple Leafs on December 23rd 2018, but Mike doesn’t realize how much of a problem he has until mid-February.
Mike wasn’t too happy about the call up at first. Moore had already got called up in November for the California trip, and Mike opted not to play him. The kid was doin’ ok, but… he’s only 5’10. There are just other guys in the lineup that Mike was more comfortable playin’. Guys he felt should be out there instead of an un-drafted 24 year old who’d never played an NHL game. You gotta earn that spot.
But now Mike needs to play him. And hey, he’s playin’ good for Mike’s team. Doin’ real well. Workin' real hard. He even got an assist in his first game. And in that game Mike noticed something about Moore when he dug in to hold onto the puck along the boards. He’s got a huge can.
There’s somethin’ about the way the kid sticks out his butt to bounce a guy off a check that just makes Mike… feel things. He honest to god cannot stop staring. He’s so distracted he almost forgets what line to send out next.
Christ, the keister on that kid. He gets so caught up that he mentions it in a press conference. More than once. It’s like he has no control over his mouth, Jesus. He coached Sidney Crosby, twice. He should be immune to this kind of thing.
Crosby was never gritty like this though. That’s the only way to describe it. Moore is buzzin’, always goin’, but he’s heavy too. It’s not just his bucket, it’s the way he uses it.
Mike usually likes big guys. Or. No. That’s not it. That makes it sound like—
He usually likes coachin’ guys like Goat, is what he means. He’s a big man. He’s 6 foot 5, 230lbs every time he steps on the ice, y’know?
And he’s not too fond of young guys either, usually. He’s most comfortable when he can throw Ron and Patty out to look after Willy or Mitchy or Kappy or whoever. Although Moore isn’t actually so young, he just looks it.
He’s always tenacious on the puck. Mike wonders if he’d be tenacious on his dick. He thinks he would.
“Mike, what’s wrong?” Asks Darryl, cutting off his thought process. He’s in the middle of a meeting with the development staff. Fuck.
“Nothing. Do we know the status of Rosen’s foot?” The guys go back to talking. They’ve had a lot of injuries lately. Mike should be focused on that. But instead he sighs with relief as the attention of the room shifts back away from him, and his attention shifts back to a particular set of glutes.
He’s lucky his face always looks the same. He heard Enzo calling it ‘resting Babs face’ once. All the guys thought that was real funny until they noticed Mike standing right there in the door of the locker room.
So—the season goes on. The PK is good, ok, fine. The power play is better, but not enough. They keep losing.
Some nights Moore plays great, some nights not so much. His butt looks the same no matter how he plays though. And Mike’s fixation is getting worse.
The locker room is becoming a problem. Despite what some people think, not every guy’s walkin’ around with his jewels hangin’ out all the time. Ok, Ron is, but Mike’s used to that. But Moore doesn’t need to be naked to distract Mike. His rear end is eye catching in compression shorts—it looks so round and firm.
‘Bend over.’ Mike thinks. ‘Bend over so I can imagine what you’d look like bent over my desk.’
“Hey, can I talk to you in your office for a second?” Asks Moore after their game against Philly.
Mike freezes. Moore’s noticed. Moore’s noticed, and now he’s fucked. He walks slowly back to his office, conscious of Moore’s eyes on him from two paces behind. His adrenaline spikes when Moore carefully closes the door behind them.
“Ok, I know this is probably stupid, but. Are you mad at me?” He looks terrified, and like he’d rather be anywhere else, but it’s important enough to him that he’s pushing through. God, Mike loves having this kid on his team.
Also, Jesus Christ this is a fuckin’ disaster.
“No. No, kid you’re doing great.”
Moore does not look reassured. “Am I not playing well? I can’t tell. I know you talk to the other guys. And—sometimes I feel like you’re glaring at me, or—” he bites his lip and pauses. “I’m sorry, I know this is super inappropriate.”
Mike sighs. “It’s ok. This is a stressful time of year for everyone. It’s ok. We’ve all just gotta dig in and work hard. You’re doin’ great, just keep workin’.”
Moore stares at him, long and hard. “Well. If you need me to do something different, just tell me.”
Mike stares back and says, “I will.”
Moore turns to leave, and Jesus, if he isn’t the definition of ‘hate to see him leave, love to watch him go.’ He’s wearing grey sweats now, and they somehow make his butt look even bigger—soft and pillowy.
Mike wants to grab it, smack it, rub his dick between the cheeks. He doesn’t, obviously.
They finally get to the playoffs, after a hellish last month of the season; in game one of the Boston series, Moore checks Zdeno Chara, knocks him over, and Mike gets an erection on the bench. It’s not the first time that’s happened—adrenaline does strange things to the body—but it’s definitely the most humiliating.
When he heads to the locker room to say a few words after the game he can barely speak. Moore has his back to the door, and he’s only wearing a towel. Mike’s mouth goes dry. He can see water glistening on the naked curve of Moore’s lower back.
“Alright boys,” he clears his throat, “one down, three to go. Lets get to work.”
They get to work, but it’s not enough.
Mike starts giving Moore less minutes, Patty more. He can’t be distracted. They need to win.
They go back to Boston and work even harder, and it’s still not enough. Game seven and it’s not enough.
They fly back to Toronto for locker clean-out.
Mike gets in his car and goes home to his wife.