Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jon will admit that he has the tendency to be a little petty on the ice, especially when it comes to their division rivals. It’s not something he’s proud of, really, but god, is it fun.

Now, he’s not the showboating type. Doesn’t really score enough goals as a defenseman to be the showboating type, to be fair, but it’s never been his bag anyway. When he does score, his version of celebrating is more of a nod in the direction of whoever sent the puck his way and getting back to business. He doesn’t think he’s better than anyone else, even if he does think that he and most of his teammates do a lot more than people give them credit for. So he’s not really into showing off.

But if an easy shot is sent into the offensive zone and the opposing goalie completely misses what should have been a clear save? Well, Jon’s not above a bit of sportsmanlike trash talk. After all, what good would a rivalry be without it? He’s just doing what’s expected of him.

Melanie sends the puck into the offensive zone, a blind throw just in an attempt to clear it away from an overworked Tim for a few seconds. It works a little better than she intends it to.

As it sails across the ice, Gerry and Sasha start skating hard to make sure it doesn’t get turned right back over. Jon uses his speed to skate ahead of them, placing himself in front of the net for a screen, just in case. It’s not likely that this shift will end in a goal, considering they currently owe their puck possession to a desperate clear, but Melanie has been known to do the impossible before and Jon still has a job to do—he can’t just decide not to do it because a certain outcome is unlikely.

And besides, it’s not like the tides have never turned for no reason before. Hockey tends to run on a series of whims that no one can be certain whom is in control.

Sasha catches up just as the puck gets to the blue line. Unfortunately, so does one of the opposing defensemen, sending a sneaky elbow her way just as she gets a stick on the puck. She tumbles to the ice, whistle unblown.

It’s enough, though. As Gerry chases after the defenseman, casually plastering him to the boards, Jon watches as the puck flies right into the net, seemingly in slow motion. The angle of Sasha’s stick as she’d gone down had elevated the puck just enough to send it sailing through three men and the goalie with little effort. In the end, it bounces off the knee of an opposing skater right in front of the net and leaves the goalie scrambling to look for it as it slides in behind him.

It leaves the opposing goalie looking like he has no idea where he is as Gerry hauls Sasha up from the ice and into a hug to celebrate. Jon doesn’t even have to work that hard on his screen.

He knocks his stick against the goalie pads of one Martin Blackwood as he skates off to join his teammates in their surprised post-goal group hug. “Nice save.”

It’s a bit much, he knows that. If anyone deigned to say the same to Tim and he’d caught wind of it, Jon would probably be auditioning for a spot in the penalty box right after. But Martin Blackwood has been on his ass all night—all for the past three seasons, really, if you wanted to be accurate—goading him from across the ice any time anything went wrong, and Jon figures turnabout is only fair.

If Jon had wanted to feel bad about it at all, that feeling disappears as soon as he takes his next shift and misses a block that leads directly to a goal. As he skates back to the bench, Martin Blackwood is on the other side of the ice, waving cheerily at him.

Yeah, unspoken rule of treating goalies with respect be damned, Jon’s going to do his best to make the man’s job hell for the foreseeable future. He’s been doing alright with it so far, he thinks.

It might be a bit harder to keep up, however, when Jon finds himself running into Martin at a restaurant following that night’s game.

Somehow, blissfully, Jon has managed to avoid any sort of interaction with Martin Blackwood outside of games for the past three seasons. It’s nice, he likes it that way. Martin Blackwood only exists to get under his skin at the other end of an ice rink, and Jon doesn’t really need to meet him in real life or get to know what he’s really like underneath the rivalry and all the padding.

As far as Jon is concerned, he knows everything he needs to. Martin Blackwood has a weak glove hand, it’s easier to beat him at the net if you go for the wraparound, and he is the most annoying goalie that Jon, personally, has ever met. Most goalies are too busy keeping their eyes on the puck to really put much effort into rattling the opposition, but not Martin. No, Martin waves cheekily at Jon from across the ice any time he botches an easy play. How he can pay that close attention to what Jon is doing from sixty meters away and still be ready to make a save when the puck comes back in his direction, Jon will never know, but he does know that he resents him for it.

Jon also resents him for choosing the same restaurant to eat at after the game, even though it’s right across the road from the arena and is known for being frequented by all teams, both home and away, during the season. Especially on a day like today, when they’d just finished an afternoon game and everyone needed a place to refuel before heading home for the night.

It’s really nothing out of the ordinary at all. There’s been plenty of times where they’d shared a table with a couple of people from the team they’d just played against. Hell, Melanie is at the bar cuddled up next to Georgie Barker right now and not an hour ago they’d been arguing with each other over who really deserved the penalty when they’d crashed into each other late in the third. Jon had overheard Tim joking with Oliver Banks at the entrance when they’d arrived, even after Oliver had scored two goals on him.

It was fine. Normal. Expected, even. They’d been tossed around different teams so many times that they’d practically all played with each other at one point or another and a lot of them had become friendly. Jon knew he was still friends with Georgie, even after their romantic relationship had deteriorated when they’d been traded to different teams, and he’d always been partial to Oliver, back when they’d come up together in juniors.

But Jon had always taken rivalries a little too seriously. Something that he is ashamed to admit may have had a little bit to do with the falling apart of his and Georgie’s relationship, the much larger reason being that they simply didn’t fit. Not in that way, at least.

Georgie catches his eye from across the room and lifts her glass in acknowledgement, giving him an exaggeratedly put-upon little nod that Jon knows translates into I’m mad that you won, but you played well so good game, I guess. He smiles, returning the gesture with a roll of his eyes. They do fit exceptionally well as friends, he likes to think.

That’s just it, actually. Georgie and Oliver get a pass because Jon had been friends with them first. He can bypass the rivalry when they’re around because he knows them, and as frustrated as they may make him on the ice sometimes, it’s easy enough to put that away, because they are ultimately playing a game, and Jon cares about them as friends more than he cares about winning a game.

Martin Blackwood gets no such pass. Jon doesn’t know him at all, has know idea what minor league team he’d come up from, had never crossed paths with him in juniors. All Jon knows is that Martin was presumably created in a lab specifically to mess with his head. So he would, ideally, like to avoid him. Which, until now, he’d been doing great at.

It’s really a wonder he’d never run into him at a post-game dinner before, especially considering how often the restaurant they’re in is frequented by pretty much every team in the league when they’re in town. Jon’s not really thinking about statistics, though, when Martin Blackwood himself runs into him while they’re both trying to get back to their respective tables.

Jon’s first thought is that Martin looks different outside of all the padding, which, duh. Jon looks different under his own helmet, with his shoulder guards giving him a deceptively bulky look. Martin wears about ten times more, helmet obscuring his entire face rather than just the top two thirds. Of course he looks different, but Jon’s never seen him without all of his gear piled on and it startles him just the same.

His second thought is that Martin is smiling, which, what the fuck?

“Oh!” Martin says, adjusting his glasses (another thing that makes him look different than he does on the ice, and Jon spares a thought to consider that he must wear contacts during games). “Sorry, I wasn’t looking. Good game tonight, eh?”

Jon’s brain stalls. “Mm,” he responds in placid agreement. He is inclined to agree—they had won, after all, thanks to Sasha’s accident of a goal—but why in god’s name is Martin the one bringing it up? He’d lost. To them. To the team with the longest losing streak in recent memory. To the team that recently set a record for lowest point total in a season.

When Jon had derisively commented nice save on a sloppy goal and purposely sent snow flying in Martin’s direction as he skated off to share the goal celebration with his teammates.

They weren’t friends, not in the way that Jon was with some of them, what game could he possibly have been playing?

For some reason, Martin’s smile gets wider. “I’ll let you get back to your team,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of a table currently occupied by Gerry and Tim. “Really good job out there tonight, Jon.”

Jon heads back to his table in something of a haze, taking a moment to consider if what he’d just experienced was some sort of new-age psychological tactic designed to knock him off his game.

*

From that point on, Martin Blackwood keeps managing to surprise him.

The next time they see each other, it’s a road game. Being in enemy territory puts everybody on edge, desperate more than ever to pull a big win out of thin air if only so they can make the opposing team look like fools in their own home. That energy might have something to do with the predicament Jon finds himself in sometime during the second period.

He’s skating towards the net, puck on his stick, when it happens. Jon can’t find an opening for a good pass, so he does what he almost never does: tries to take the shot. When an opposing defenseman catches him poised to throw the puck into the net, she crashes into him from behind, sending Jon careening into the net and colliding with Martin Blackwood.

There’s a reason Jon doesn’t usually try to score.

Because you’d think that would be enough for the referees to blow the play dead. Jon is in the net getting very up close and personal with Martin Blackwood in a way that he’d never expected to. Jon doesn’t usually make a habit of crashing the net, and it’s for a good reason. It’s pretty cramped in there.

And yet, for some reason, the referees haven’t deigned to blow the whistle. Jon knows this because the puck is still loose and everyone is still scrambling and he feels it slam rather painfully into his calves. He groans, trying to roll over and out of the way, but everyone is too close. Jon can’t get up to move because everyone is shoving him deeper into the net trying to score, and Martin can’t freeze the puck to stop the play because Jon is practically on top of him.

As the scramble continues, Jon feels himself being wrestled into a position that seems less convenient than his current one.

“Would you blow the damn whistle already!” Martin yells, pulling Jon close to his chest and covering the back of his head with his glove hand. Jon feels a stick knock into his shoulder and instinctively curls inward. “Christ, stop shooting the puck! This is your man!”

Finally, Jon hears the sound of the goal knocking over and the whistle blows. Still, Martin keeps a protective arm around his shoulders until the puck is retrieved and he is safely out of harm’s way. Jon rises, brushing snow off his legs. “Thanks,” he says.

Martin nods, knocking his blocker companionably against Jon’s shoulder. “Yeah. Tell ‘em to aim for the net next time instead of your head.”

It sticks with him, long after it happens. Long enough that Jon doesn’t even consider chirping at him when Sasha scores on a breakaway and Melanie follows that up with two more goals in quick succession. Long enough that Jon is still thinking about it once the game ends and Jon and his teammates leave the ice to a chorus of booing. Long enough that Jon makes a point to catch Martin in the parking lot before he leaves, waving Tim off when he asks where Jon is off to and reassuring him that he’ll catch up with them all at the hotel later.

Of course, Jon doesn’t consider exactly how big the parking structure at the arena is. He’s also not sure if there might be a separate structure for athletes or not—he’s not one much for driving, not even at home games, so he’s simply never had to think about it. By the time he realizes that he has no idea how he’s going to find Martin when he’s not even sure if he’s at the right parking lot or not, he’s staring out into the near-empty, dimly lit structure, wondering if using the lift would make it easier or harder for him.

He’s just decided to hell with it, why not try the lift, when he hears a ruffling of fabric behind him and turns to see Martin.

Well, if he can’t strike any luck on the ice, at least he finds it here.

If you can call this luck. Jon had actually been counting on the search taking a little longer, so he could plan what he was going to say. He hadn’t really thought that far. If he’s being honest, he hadn’t even thought about why he wanted to come out here and talk to Martin in the first place. Jon just sort of felt like he had to.

And now here he is. Standing in a dark parking garage. Staring. Looking like a complete fool.

Martin looks about as confused as Jon feels. “Jon? What are you doing out here?”

What is he doing out here indeed. He should have left as soon as he arrived, really. Should’ve gotten over himself as soon as the game ended and just left for the hotel with the rest of his team like he was supposed to. So Martin had done the bare minimum of human decency and kept Jon from experiencing grievous bodily harm in the form of taking a slapshot to the face at close range, literally anyone else would have done the same. He can’t think of a single other person he would track down at the end of a game for doing the same thing, so what had possessed him to do exactly that for Martin?

“I, uh,” Jon starts, stuttering his way through an answer. “I just wanted to say thanks again, actually. For earlier. Things were moving kind of fast there, and I didn’t feel like I got the chance to properly express how much I appreciated it.” He tries not to cringe as he speaks. Christ, what does he think he’s doing, giving a post-game interview? He’s talking to a fellow hockey player. Martin hardly cares how articulate he is. And yet, Jon finds himself relying on muscle memory as he for some reason feels a sort of nervousness that is usually reserved for the nights that he is unlucky enough to find a circle of cameras huddled around his locker.

Just like the last time they’d seen each other off the ice, Martin throws a bright smile in his direction, sending Jon reeling. What is it about this man…

“Yeah, of course,” Martin responds, smile still firmly in place. “I mean, I wasn’t just going to sit there and watch you get hurt, and you know how long it takes the linesmen to do anything about stopping play when it matters. I swear, if the post hadn’t been knocked over, we would’ve been there for another ten minutes at least.”

Jon feels his lips twitching at the corners, involuntarily trying to match Martin’s expression. He pulls them back down. “Yes, probably,” he replies instead. “I doubt they would have even blown the whistle if I had gotten hurt.”

Martin laughs then, and Jon is hopeless to do anything but respond in kind. There’s just something about the sound that feels contagious, something that makes the echo of it bubble through his chest until it escapes his lips without much input from his brain. It’s not even like what he said was that funny, just an unfortunate truth about the career they’ve chosen, and yet here they are anyway, two bitter rivals smiling at each other in a carpark because Martin had started it and Jon’s brain apparently didn’t have any say in the matter.

Maybe mind control was real. That could explain it.

Jon catches himself before it starts to get awkward. “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “I—thank you. Again.” He stops himself from wincing. “I would’ve hated being laid up with an injury for something so stupid.”

And he should really end it there. Thanks so much, glad I got to skip the concussion that would have come from that, I really have to run. That’s all this conversation needs to be. And yet, something compels him to continue.

“I feel like I owe you a favor, really,” he says before he can rethink it.

Martin shakes his head before Jon is even finished speaking. “Honestly, you don’t,” he insists. “I just didn’t want to see you get hurt, is all, it’s not a big deal.”

Alright, Jon, Jon thinks, that’s it now. Cut it there and leave.

He doesn’t, of course. “No, really,” Jon insists right back. “I just—I would feel better, I think, if there was some tangible way for me to say thank you.”

Martin smiles again, looking for some reason like Jon is the most amusing man in the world and Martin is happy to be in his presence. “Well,” he says, dragging out the one-syllable world in a way that Jon suspects is intended to sound hesitant. It doesn’t work; Martin doesn’t look nearly as hesitant as he sounds, not in the slightest. “If you wanted…what time does your plane leave tomorrow?”

Jon blinks, unsure of where the question is leading. “Three fifteen, I believe,” he answers.

The smile on Martin’s lips grows. “Perfect, then. What would you say to getting lunch with me tomorrow? To say thanks. You can pay, if you want, but just the company would be enough.”

Without really thinking, Jon nods in agreement. Martin looks delighted when they part ways.

How in the hell had Jon come out of that with a lunch-date with Martin Blackwood?

*

Jon has a surprisingly good time at lunch the next day. All the way up until he has to load onto the plane with the rest of his meddling teammates whom Jon loves dearly but whom he also really hates so, so much.

He should have expected that they’d be all over him for it. Hell, Jon’s surprised Tim didn’t try to wind him up about it sooner, given that he’d seen Jon run off after the game to try and rendezvous with Martin. It had come as quite a shock, actually, that Tim hadn’t immediately started questioning him as soon as he’d made it back to the hotel.

But of course, they all wanted to present a united front. That’s one thing he’d forgotten to account for; as much as his friends love to tease him to no end for just about everything under the sun, they find it much more entertaining when they can join forces. Especially when they’re going to be confined together in an airplane for the next few hours while they do it.

“I heard,” Tim starts, “that someone had lunch with the enemy this afternoon.”

Jon aims for sounding nonchalant when he answers. He misses by about three meters. “Yes?” he says, wincing when he poses it as a question instead of an unbothered statement of fact. “I was being nice.”

Melanie snorts. “Since when?”

“Since he saved me a concussion when someone,” Jon responds, cutting his gaze pointedly in her direction, “was trying to knock my brain out of my head.”

“Okay, I was not aiming for your head,” she counters, “I was very clearly shooting towards your legs in case I missed.”

“Either way,” Tim interjects, “you had lunch with him. I can’t believe this, does our rivalry mean nothing to you?”

“You literally saw a movie with Oliver, like, the moment we arrived in town.”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s different. I’m not convinced that he’s out to get me just because we play on rival teams. You think Martin’s personal life mission is to make your life hell.”

“No,” Gerry refutes, “Martin’s too nice. I played with him once in the all-star game, before I was traded. I think Jon’s just overcompensating because he doesn’t want to admit that he likes him.”

Jon very pointedly unravels his headphones in front of the three of them and pops the buds into his ears. He doesn’t like Martin. Martin had just been nice to him and Jon wasn’t so consumed by his petty grudges that he was going to let that pass without acknowledging it and appropriately passing on his thanks. That’s all.

Sure, Jon had had fun, and sure, he wasn’t exactly expecting to enjoy himself, but was that really so weird? Jon could have fun outside of getting revenge on the ice. That was allowed. There’s nothing else to it. Nothing at all.

It’s something he has to start rethinking sooner than he’d like to admit. Because they have to play Martin again not one week later and Jon suddenly becomes very unsure about it all indeed.

One instance does not a pattern make, but every pattern does start with one instance. Which is to say, Jon’s not quite sure what the protocol is now, when he sees Martin. They’re still division rivals, that much is clear, but Martin had saved him from getting brained on the ice and Jon had repaid him with lunch and surprised himself by actually enjoying the company. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to ask him to lunch again, or just wave in his direction during warmups, or what.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to think too hard. As soon as morning skate is over, Martin catches him in the parking lot and offers to treat him. When Jon agrees, it takes him up until he arrives at the doors to the café they’d chosen to realize that he’d never even considered refusing.

Martin is already there waiting when he walks in.

Jon can’t help the smile that instinctively spreads across his lips, even as he’s left wondering what the hell made it appear in the first place.

He actually finds that it stays in place all afternoon. Try as he might, he can’t get it to fade. And he does try, once, makes the conscious effort to melt his features into something more neutral, but it just has the unfortunate side effect of twisting his lips to the side in a way that only makes him smile wider. Jon’s never been good about hiding a smile, even worse at hiding a laugh, and the effort to do so only makes it more obvious.

If Martin notices, he doesn’t let on. It’s nice of him, Jon thinks. If anyone else were in his position, they might have never let it go. He can practically hear Melanie. Would it really kill you to let yourself have fun, Jon? I mean, I know it’s been a while, but…you’re not going to explode if you do, right?

Nice. That’s not a word Jon would have initially applied to Martin when they first met. Annoying, yes, pain in his ass, absolutely, but nice? Not a chance. Here, though, now, with Martin offering to trade plates when Jon finds that what he’d ordered doesn’t taste nearly as good as it had sounded, putting forth a valiant effort to look like he enjoys it any more than Jon had when Jon finally accepts the trade, it’s the only word that comes to mind.

Well, that and the very long list of synonyms that Jon’s brain is all too helpful to provide, but he’s not going to embarrass himself by reciting them all.

Jon doesn’t know what it is. Martin smiles, and Jon smiles back. Martin speaks with his hands and Jon finds himself cataloguing the way his fingers move, clumsy and yet still somehow elegant, freckled knuckles winking in and out of view. Martin leans in to tell a story and Jon reciprocates the gesture. Jon hangs on every word he says, both the mundane anecdotes and the more exciting ones, and he can’t help but laugh when Martin makes a good-natured dig about the way he’d played the night prior and he feels so blissfully warm when Martin catches on to his dry humor and starts laughing at his jokes and Jon can’t stop hoping that he can do it again, can’t stop searching for a gap in conversation to say something that will prompt a snort from Martin’s lips so that Jon can see the way his smile lights up his face, the way the creases at the corners of his eyes get deeper and his glasses start to slip from his nose and oh. Yeah, okay.

That’s what it is, Jon understands, finally. I just like him.

What do you know? Sometimes Gerry can be right after all.

Things shift a little, after that. Not a lot, it’s not really all that different unless you look closely, but it shifts. The competition is still there, Jon’s never met a rivalry he didn’t like, but it’s more fun now. It doesn’t quite get under his skin like it used to. He’d compare it to something more like what he has with Georgie, but even that’s not quite right.

It’s more like…well, Jon’s not overly familiar with the concept, but it feels a whole hell of a lot like flirting.

He throws a risky elbow during a game and gets caught immediately, not even bothering to argue when he’s sent to the box. As he skates off, he catches a movement in his periphery and turns his head to see Martin jokingly blow him a kiss from the opposite end of the ice.

Later, during a lull where the linesmen have to stop play to fix a hole in the ice, Jon skates up behind Martin and hooks the blade of his stick around his ankles, tugging gently. Not too hard, not to be mean, just enough to make Martin stumble a little in front of the net. Jon skates away casually, throwing a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Martin’s mock glare peeking out from underneath the cage of his helmet.

Both instances leave him feeling oddly warmed all the way through.

Gerry catches him, once. It would probably be more accurate to say that Gerry catches him often and immediately over the course of the game, but he only brings it up once.

“This probably isn’t any of my business,” he says, leaning into Jon on the bench so no one overhears.

“You’re right,” Jon agrees, knowing that it’s not going to do anything to stop him from making it his business anyway.

“But,” Gerry continues, “you look happy. We were just messing with you, before, but this is…it’s different now, I think. Real. And I think you figured that out before we did. Just wanted to say I’m happy for you. Whatever it is you’ve got going on, it looks good on you.”

Jon knocks their shoulders together in a silent thank you. He doesn’t want to voice the sentiment, lest he give away how giddy he feels about it all. Gerry just nudges him back with a teasing smile. Like he knows anyway, without Jon having to say anything. He usually does.

And Jon knows this means he’s going to catch hell for it all later, that the friendly teasing will soon reach a fever pitch once everyone catches wind of what’s really going on, but he also can’t bring himself to care. Oddly enough, he actually finds himself looking forward to it.

*

It’s probably much too soon to take a beach trip together, especially considering that, you know, Jon has just barely figured out that he likes Martin. And they’ve never talked about it. And, as much as he expects that the feeling has probably been mutual on Martin’s end since the very beginning, Jon still isn’t entirely sure of what his intentions are.

He tries to tell Tim as much, but. Well, Tim is Tim. Once Jon had let Tim and the rest of them in on his recent revelations, there was really no stopping him. He’s already extended the invitation to Martin to join them on their annual trip during the all-star break, and Martin has already agreed, and Jon is already in hell.

The kind of hell that you can end up having a good time in, whichever one that may be, but hell all the same. Because somehow Tim had thought it would be funny to pair them up in the same hotel room and like, yeah, Jon isn’t going to argue about it because he would have suggested that arrangement anyway, if he’d been allowed to, but it’s the principle of it.

Which can actually fuck off, now that he thinks about it, because now that Jon is there, sharing an umbrella with Martin while the rest of his friends attempt to drown each other in the sea, he gets the distinct pleasure of knowing what Martin looks like without a shirt, all soft belly and freckled shoulders, lightning strikes of stretch marks peeking up from the edge of his waistband. And you know what, maybe Tim gets a pass, just this once.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to get over himself before Jon starts to make conversation. “So,” he says, closing the book in his hands over his thumb to keep his place, “how did you manage to not get chosen for the game this weekend?”

“Oh, I did,” Martin answers, “I’m just not going.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, delighted. “You know you’re going to get fined for that, right? They hate it when you skip the all-star weekend.”

“Maybe if they didn’t make it feel so much like pulling teeth, I wouldn’t want to skip,” Martin counters, rolling his eyes. “We get paid entirely too much anyway, I’m not worried about it.”

“Oh yes, getting singled out as the best goalie in the league for three years in a row is just terrible,” Jon teases, knocking his shoulder against Martin’s to make it clear that he’s joking. “Don’t worry,” he continues before Martin can retaliate, “I will personally send a letter to the commissioner explaining that you had no choice in coming along on this outing, then he can’t fine you.”

Martin snorts, flicking a small bit of sand in Jon’s direction. “My hero.”

It’s a joke, Jon thinks, when the statement hits him in just the right way. He lets it go to his head anyway. It’s his mid-season vacation, he’s allowed some indulgences.

Martin inclines his head towards Jon’s book, still bookmarked by his thumb. “What’s so interesting that you’re not out there with the rest of them?”

“Oh, if you want to join them, you don’t have to—”

“Jon,” Martin cuts him off, “that’s not what I asked. I like being with you.” Like being here with you, Jon’s brain edits, but Martin doesn’t sound like he’d misspoken. “Just wanted to know what you chose for company.”

What he’s chosen for company, beyond the comforting warmth of Martin sitting beside him, is a zoological take on extraterrestrial life, which he’s afraid might come off as a bit dry for a bit of light beach reading. Martin doesn’t seem to think so, though, when Jon explains.

“Do you mind if I read over your shoulder?” he asks.

Jon startles. “I—sure.” He flips to the beginning, waving off Martin’s insistence that he doesn’t need to abandon his progress just because Martin had gotten curious. Haven’t been able to pay very much attention with you sitting this close to me, anyway, he thinks. “I don’t mind,” he says instead. “It always makes more sense the second time through.”

He waves Martin closer, very deliberately not thinking about it when it means he has to lean into Martin’s chest a little to make it work.

“You can turn the pages whenever you’re ready,” he says.

Martin huffs out a laugh, taking hold of the book. “You were one of those kids that had a university reading level before they were even out of primary, weren’t you?”

Jon debates rubbing a handful of sand in his hair. He settles for elbowing Martin in the side. “Just turn the pages, Martin.”

It’s lovely. Jon gets to lean his head against Martin’s shoulder and Martin’s fingers brush against his own every so often and Jon does not learn a single thing about zoological takes on extraterrestrial biology. Can’t really make himself focus, for as much contact as he’s making with the man beside him.

Maybe Martin does, tough, if their page count for the day is any indication. Maybe he can tell Jon all about it when they return to the hotel room. He’d like that, he thinks, even if it would mean making a fool of himself by admitting that he was so absolutely taken by Martin that he could hardly pay attention to anything else.

Sadly, that plan gets thrown by the wayside when Martin comes face to face with the unfortunate truth that he sunburns very, very easily. Jon can’t quite be upset about it though, not when it means he’ll get to run his hands gently over Martin’s shoulders for a couple minutes while he rubs aloe over the burn.

Back in the hotel room, Martin winces as he pokes at the reddened skin around his ears and neck. “God, I’m brown, don’t I get to be exempt from sunburns?”

Jon snorts, reaching into his bag for the bottle of aloe he’d packed. “Trust me, Martin, the sun doesn’t care how dark you are.” He scratches at a slightly irritated patch of skin around his own elbows as if to demonstrate and settles in the middle of the mattress, waving Martin over to sit in front of him. Once situated, Jon begins gently smoothing the gel over the skin of his neck. “I’m sorry, I should have reminded you to reapply your sunscreen after we’d been there for a while.”

“Not your fault,” Martin says, “you’re not responsible for me.”

No, Jon thinks, unbidden, but I’d like to be.

Thankfully, instead of lending a voice to the thought, as he is often wont to do, he simply squeezes Martin’s shoulder. “Finished,” he says, tossing the bottle back into his bag. “Just let it dry for a few minutes.”

Martin voices his thanks, remaining unnecessarily still at the edge of the mattress like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll tumble neck first into the carpet and rub all the aloe right off. It’s oddly endearing.

“You can move, Martin,” Jon reminds him, trying and failing to hide his laughter. He gets a pillow thrown at him for his troubles. “Do you want to watch something?” he asks, gesturing towards the television as he makes himself comfortable against the pillows. “It’s still a bit early. I am going to have to ask you to relax though—” this time he doesn’t try to hide the laughter in his voice “—you’re very tall, and if you keep sitting stock-still at the edge of the bed, I’m going to need you to narrate everything for me.”

“Very funny,” Martin says, sounding very much like he doesn’t think Jon is that funny at all. “If I get sunburn gel all over the hotel sheets, you’re reapplying it for me.”

Like that’s a hardship.

Martin scoots backwards, settling in but making sure to hold his shoulders just slightly above the mattress. He doesn’t hold out for very long. Sleepy from sun exposure, Martin drifts off practically before Jon can even decide on what to watch. In just a few minutes, he is fully melted into the mattress, cheek pressed against Jon’s shoulder and aloe leaving the slightest stain on his shirtsleeve. Jon is selfish enough not to move him.

He is also, apparently, selfish enough not to move himself. When he wakes, it’s with the sun streaming through the blinds he’d forgotten to close and Martin’s nose practically tucked into the collar of his shirt, along with the startling realization that he’d never made the conscious decision to actually fall asleep in the first place. Martin shifts, blinking awake, and Jon becomes aware of a few more things.

First, that one of his hands is pressed just over Martin’s heart, the other trapped under Martin’s hip where Jon has his arm slung around Martin’s waist. Next, that Martin is just as entangled with Jon as Jon is with him. One leg is hitched over his thigh and the other is slotted between both of Jon’s own. His left hand is balled up against his own chest, the right reaching out to grab a fistful of fabric at Jon’s collar. The last thing Jon registers is that Martin is looking right at him.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep. Martin releases his grip on Jon’s collar to remove his glasses, reaching over Jon to set them on the side table, and settles right back into Jon’s hold without a hint of hesitation. Jon winces slightly as he becomes aware of the indentation that the hard plastic frames had left in his skin.

“Hey,” Jon responds in kind. “Is this…?”

Martin nods at the unspoken question, snuggling closer and letting his eyes fall closed once more. “Yeah,” he sighs. Jon gets the distinct impression that he is seconds away from falling back into a deep, deep sleep. “S’perfect.”

So are you, Jon thinks. Martin’s breathing evens out and the weight of his arm over Jon’s torso becomes heavier. That works for him just fine. He twists around a little, just enough that he can nuzzle his face into Martin’s curls. A late morning wasn’t really in the plans for the second day of their trip, but Jon is more than willing to push a few things back if it means he gets to spend a few more minutes like this.

*

>>Martin: I watched that documentary you mentioned the other day
>>Martin: you know the ice guardians one
>>Martin: it was really good?
>>Martin: *!
>>Martin: sorry not a question lol
>>Martin: it was genuinely really good
>>Martin: I am horrified for you now though
>>Martin: I know that’s not really your thing but if you ever decide to be an enforcer I’m breaking up with you
>>Martin: I refuse to date someone with soup brain
>>Martin: brain soup?
>>Martin: is it bad that I want soup now

Jon smiles as he scrolls through his messages after morning skate. One thing that Jon has learned after getting closer to Martin this season is that Martin has a horrible tendency to send multiple messages in a row rather than condense them all into one. It’s a habit that Jon has never felt particularly fond towards, except for how he finds himself ridiculously charmed by it now because it’s Martin.

When he reaches the latter half of Martin’s messages, his heart skips a beat. They haven’t really talked about what they are yet, haven’t had the time, but the idea that they have something that could be broken up leaves a fluttery sort of warmth in Jon’s chest.

<<Jon: I promise I’ll make sure my brain doesn’t turn into soup, Martin. The documentary was rather educational in that regard, actually. I may be considering a change in career paths entirely.

Martin’s reply is immediate.

>>Martin: nooo you can’t do that!
>>Martin: I lied I’d definitely still love you if you had soup brain
>>Martin: who else am I supposed to have an on-ice rivalry with it wouldn’t be any fun without you

Jon rolls his eyes. He knows exactly where this one is going.

<<Jon: I should never have told you about that.
>>Martin: no no no I love that you take it so seriously
>>Martin: I for one just thought it was a fun flirty thing
>>Martin: but I do love that you practically wanted me dead for it

His cheeks warm, delighted that his initial suspicions had been right. That, after Jon had made some personal realizations, what had happened between them on the ice was, in fact, flirting. It would make him want to swoon, if he weren’t so acutely aware of the fact that there were other people in the room.

<<Jon: Okay I did not want you dead, I was just appropriately annoyed at what I incorrectly assumed was an attack on my character as a defenseman.
>>Martin: you know what actually
>>Martin: maybe you should change career paths
>>Martin: I’m getting big lawyer energy from this

Just as Jon is about to respond, Tim pops up behind his shoulder.

“Okay, I’ve been letting you have your moment,” he says, “but you haven’t looked up from that screen for a good twenty minutes. Care to share?”

Jon snaps to attention, locking his phone and tucking it back into his locker. “Nothing to share,” he lies, willing himself not to blush.

“Mhmm,” Tim responds, sounding very much unconvinced. “Is it Martin?”

The heat rises to his cheeks. So much for avoiding that. “If I say no, will you believe me?”

“Absolutely not.” Fair. “So it is, then?” He nods. Tim’s teasing grin settles into something softer. “I’m glad he makes you look like that.”

“I feel very luck to have him,” Jon admits.

“He’s very lucky to have you.”

All told, they don’t rib him for it as much as Jon thought they would have. Gerry’s already given him the sweet, supportive talk, but that’s always been Gerry’s way. He’ll tease you relentlessly over just about anything, but he’s a softer touch where it counts.

The rest of them, however.

Jon loves his teammates, he really does, and he knows they love him too, but…well, none of the rest of them had a single instinct against giving Jon hell. Giving each other hell, really, Jon wasn’t the only one it applied to. It was simply their love language of choice.

They seem to notice that something is different this time, though. Make no mistake, Jon is sure they’ll do a hard reset in a couple of days and go right to cracking jokes at his expense, but the grace period is something he appreciates.

Just before Jon leaves for the day, Melanie catches him at the door. “Hey,” she says, tapping her knuckles against his shoulder. “Good for you.”

Jon inclines his head, smiling softly. “Thanks, Melanie.”

As he steps out of the arena doors and into the afternoon sunlight, Melanie calls out. “I’d also just like to say that I know you’re going to call him as soon as you get home, but I’m going to be nice and not laugh at you for it until tomorrow because I really am happy for you.”

Jon denies that a response, mostly because she isn’t wrong in the slightest.

It’s not as soon as Jon gets home, he does take the time to shower and change his clothes first. He also pretends to pay attention to some lazy crime drama on the television for a few moments purely out of spite. All told, he lasts about twenty-three minutes which, he would like to note, cannot be considered “as soon as he gets home,” thank you very much.

Although, Jon is self-aware enough to admit that, had Melanie not mentioned it, those twenty-three minutes would have looked a lot more like twenty-three seconds.

Martin answers on the first ring and Jon can’t help but fall against the couch cushions in his delight, hugging a pillow to his chest and smiling dopily at the ceiling.

“I didn’t really mean you should become a lawyer,” Martin says in greeting. “I’d miss seeing you all the time. You definitely have to stay in hockey, I’ll make my peace with nursing you through your inevitable head trauma.”

Jon flushes when he thinks back to their earlier conversation. Love. Date. Both words that Martin had applied to Jon, without any sort of prompting.

They still haven’t said anything official about it, though, and that’s the sort of thing that bothers Jon. Not a lot, mind. Jon’s not going to throw a fit just because Martin isn’t actively calling him his boyfriend, although he would be inordinately pleased if Martin did start calling him that. He does rather enjoy the back and forth they have going on at the moment, however vague and unlabeled it may be, he just also thinks it would be nice if they had something more concrete to work with.

Which is probably why, without any input from his brain, he says, “Would you like to go on a date sometime?” He pauses. “Preferably soon.”

Martin’s smile is audible when he answers. “I’d say right now if I didn’t have a game tonight,” he answers. “I’ll be in town next week though, right? If that’s soon enough for you.”

Jon is much too excited about the prospect to feel embarrassed.

An excitement that is sadly cut short when his stomach growls rather violently. He groans in protest. Martin laughs. “That wasn’t at you,” Jon clarifies. “I want it on the record that I am embarrassingly receptive to that proposal.”

“Right,” Martin responds, voice suddenly very soft. “You’re adorable when you do that, you know?”

Jon feels rather a lot like someone is strangling him at the moment. “Hmm?” he manages.

“When you get all flustered and you don’t know what to say so you put on your media voice,” Martin answers. He lowers his voice a bit, in what Jon assumes is an imitation of his own. “I feel very good about going on a date with my boyfriend, yes,” he intones. “I think it has an extremely wide margin for success.”

It wouldn’t be wrong to say that Jon squeaks in response. He’s not going to say he squeaks in response, but it wouldn’t be wrong to say that.

Martin continues on, likely delighted by how he’s rendered Jon speechless. “I’m embarrassingly receptive to that proposal as well, if that makes it any less embarrassing for you. If it helps further, my plans for after you hang up mostly include me dancing around my living room for a solid half hour. Maybe more, I haven’t decided yet.”

It does. It really does, except for how it makes Jon sound even more embarrassing when his voice wavers as he tries to speak through the lovestruck grin that appears with Martin’s words. “That might be sooner rather than later,” he says. “It’s just that I think my stomach is trying to stage a mutiny.” Jon very deliberately does not mention anything about how Martin’s reciprocation makes him feel, lest he combust on the spot.

“Ah.” Martin’s tone seems to indicate that he sees right through him. “You sure it has nothing to do with you being absolutely smitten with me?”

Jon bites at the inside of his cheek, considering. How much is too much, he wonders, this early on. They’re having fun, or at least Jon assumes Martin is, but is there a limit to what he gets to say? Is there some sort of timeline, some rule against being too earnest in your feelings for someone well before you’ve even had a first date?

Then he remembers again. Date. Love. Boyfriend, even, don’t think he didn’t catch that. Martin evidently has no qualms admitting to the things he thinks about Jon, comfortable enough to just casually drop in small reminders here and there. Why should Jon be afraid to do the same?

“Maybe a little,” he allows.

“So I should let you go then?”

Jon chews on his lip. In for a penny, he supposes. “I don’t want to hang up,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

Martin sounds unbearably fond when he responds. “So don’t.”

An involuntary shiver runs across Jon’s shoulders. “Gross, mouth sounds.” Martin laughs, loud and bright. Jon delights in the sound. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

For the rest of the day, Jon feels…well, he doesn’t want to sound cliché, but there’s nothing to do for that. He feels like he’s walking on air. Floating all through his house, caught in a hazy, daydream sort of feeling.  He has a date. With Martin. In a week.

Martin called him his boyfriend. (Imitated Jon calling Martin his boyfriend, whatever, Martin is calling them boyfriends.)

Which shouldn’t leave Jon feeling half so exhilarated as it does, considering it had been in the making practically since that first time Jon had taken him out to lunch under the guise of saying thank you for not letting him get hit in the face with a puck. But, god, is it thrilling just the same.

As Jon gets ready for bed, his phone dings to indicate a message. He finds himself smiling as he reaches for it.

>>Martin: goodnight jon
>>Martin: I’ll see you next week <3
<<Jon: Goodnight, Martin. I’ll call you tomorrow.

He tries not to let himself feel too self-conscious as he follows Martin’s lead, sending off a quick <3 in a separate message before powering off his phone for the night.

*

“Jon, you do not have to pay just because we lost, it’s fine.”

“I know we’ve established you never cared about the rivalry half as much as I did, but I am not nearly as good at compartmentalizing as you are, so please just let me pay for dinner.”

Martin rolls his eyes, taking a moment to thank the waiter for showing them to their table before he sits down. “Fine,” he relents. “But I’m paying for it when we win next time.”

Even as he blushes at the thought of a next time, Jon snorts at the idea. “I can assure you I have no intention of allowing that to happen.” Martin flicks at his wrist in response, tangling their fingers together immediately afterwards.

“This is nice,” he says. His thumb sweeps out, tracing a soothing path across Jon’s wrist.

Jon’s spine turns into liquid. He’s not quite sure how to respond without making a complete fool of himself; he decides to lean into that. “Yes, I think it has an extremely wide margin for success,” he says, putting on an overdone imitation of what Martin calls his “media voice.”

Martin, in the middle of taking a sip of water, chokes a little as he laughs. Despite the choking hazard, his voice is softer than anything when he responds. “Adorable,” he whispers.

For that, Jon pinches the skin between Martin’s thumb and forefinger. It’s not that he objects to it—not really, not with the way it makes a gentle warmth spread over his shoulders like a soft, comforting blanket, or the way it causes his heart to start up an irregular rhythm in his chest, hard enough that he feels like his ribs might break from the inside out. No, it’s just that the sight of Martin leveling him with those warm, adoring eyes of his, sweet-talking Jon without a single stutter or hesitation about it—like he had spent his entire life waiting to do exactly that and now that he had it, he would settle for nothing less—well, that was liable to send Jon into something of a state. A warm, blushing, stuttering, squeaky state. And he would really, really like to be able to take Martin on more nice dates, the quality of which might leave something to be desired if he makes a complete fool of himself in the only nice restaurant he knows and can therefore never return.

It’s self-preservation. It’s Martin-preservation. And that might just be more important.

Although, with the way Martin simply squeezes his fingers and scratches lightly at his palm in retaliation, gaze as soppy and besotted as if Jon had just written him a sonnet rather than pinched his hand, maybe he wouldn’t mind it so much.

Martin doesn’t let go at all, actually. Not when Jon pinches him in protest, not when their waiter comes back for their order and shoots them both a knowing grin. Not even when he catches Jon sneaking a bit of food off his plate, preferring instead to tug on Jon’s arm playfully, causing his elbow to land square in the middle of his own plate when it catches him by surprise. Not even when Jon’s hand starts to get a little sweaty, becoming uncomfortably damp and warm and overall just gross. Jon doesn’t mind. He’d never even entertained the thought of letting go.

It’s like his arm is an extension of Martin’s. Like all it took was spending a few hours together in an explicitly romantic setting and that was it. Jon was hooked. He never wanted to be anywhere else except for right here, leaning across the table until the corner started digging into his ribs, Martin holding onto his disgusting, sweaty hands with an expression so tender and lovestruck that Jon can hardly believe it’s directed at him.

There’s nothing Jon can imagine that would be better. Except for maybe the next time. Or the next, or the one after. A couple months—maybe years, if he’s in the mood to be honest and hopeful—down the road, when there’s been so many times that he can’t even keep track anymore. Only problem is, Jon doesn’t quite want this night to end.

Outside on the sidewalk, a few feet away from the restaurant, Jon gets an idea. Maybe their date doesn’t have to end. “What time do you have to leave tomorrow?”

“Sometime around one, I think,” Martin answers. “I’ll have to check to be sure, but it’s definitely not until later.”

Jon nods, trying to act like it was just a passing curiosity. A casual answer to a casual question.

Martin, bless him, catches on like nothing. “Why, did you have something in mind?”

With a flush in his cheeks, Jon asks, “would you want to stay at mine tonight? Not—not like that, I’m not asking for that, this is only our first date and—well, actually, I’m never going to ask for that, and I hope that’s alright, but that’s probably a conversation for later, and…would you want to? Stay?”

He doesn’t notice that he’s got his eyes squeezed shut until Martin places a gentle hand against his jaw, silently asking him to look up at him. “I’d love to stay with you tonight, Jon,” he says.

Jon swallows. He thinks he can hear his heart beating in his ears. He knows he’d said it was a conversation better suited for later on, but— “You, um…you heard the bit about…?” A nod. “And you’re—that’s okay?”

Martin’s eyes go soft. A small, sweet smile starts to curl up at the edges of his lips. Jon starts to feel a little melted. Sweeping his thumb over Jon’s cheek in a gentle caress, Martin speaks. “I adore you,” he says. “You’re asexual?” Jon nods. Martin’s smile grows, and Jon has never seen something so stunning. “Every single thing I learn about you makes me love you more. This, too. I wish you didn’t have to feel so nervous, telling me, but…I get it.” He drops his hand away form Jon’s face, reaching out instead to grab Jon’s hands with his own. “Jon, I’ll only ever ask you to love me. And only in the ways you’re comfortable.”

Embarrassingly, Jon feels his eyes start to sting. He blinks. Wills the tears not to fall, clears his throat. “I adore you,” he echoes.

Martin doesn’t quite crack in half with that, but Jon can tell it’s a near thing. Maybe if the mood hadn’t turned into something so tender and personal, he would have. Jon wonders if he can get him to look like that again, without him hiding it. Later, he thinks. Sometime in the morning, after Martin’s finished snoring into Jon’s neck, when they’re still blinking the sleep out of their eyes and Jon can properly catch him off guard.

I adore you, he’ll say, words whispered against Martin’s hairline, and Martin will wrap his arms tight around him, rolling them over until Jon is laying across his torso, and Jon will look down into the most dazzling sight he’s ever seen: Martin’s wide, happy smile, bright enough to rival the sun peeking through the cracks in the blinds.

For now, Martin squeezes Jon’s hands and asks, “should we get to bed then?” And Jon, more enamored than he’s ever been, lets Martin lead them home, tucked against his side the whole way.

They barely part the rest of the night except to get ready for bed. Even then, it’s not by much. A hand on Jon’s elbow when they trade-off in the bathroom. Arms around Jon’s waist as he brushes his teeth. Jon’s forehead between Martin’s shoulders while he washes his face in the sink.

Neither of them hesitates when the blankets are turned down. Martin defers to Jon first, letting him choose his side, before following quickly behind him, sliding under the sheets and staying very much not on his own side, not that Jon minds. He curls around Jon’s form like he’s never slept anywhere else. An arm around his waist, legs intertwined, the top half of his body draped over Jon’s own, creating a sweet pressure that makes Jon melt directly into the mattress.

“Alright?” Martin asks, words landing in the hollow of Jon’s neck.

Jon hums. “Perfect.” The ghost of a kiss gets pressed against his collarbone in turn.

I adore you, he thinks. As he drifts off, he knows that the sentiment is being directed back at him.

*

Jon knows they never had a chance at reaching the playoffs. His season would have been over two days from now anyway. That being said, he didn’t exactly expect his season to end two days early because he’d been shoved into the boards legs first.

There’s a crack so loud that Jon doesn’t want to believe it came from him. He doesn’t want to look down, either, just in case. He can’t tell what happened, but given the immediate, shooting pain, he assumes something must be broken. A leg, most likely, from the angle he entered the boards at. He hopes it’s not sticking out of his body, he’d greatly prefer if his bones stayed inside, broken or no, but he can’t know for sure unless he looks and, god, he really does not want to look.

He certainly can’t feel it, he knows that much. Or, well, he can, it hurts rather a lot, actually, and he can feel that just fine, but he can’t move it. Not that he should be trying, he’s sure he’d catch a lot of grief from the trainers if they caught him trying to get up on his own right now, but he thinks they should appreciate the initial diagnostic that Jon is running for them. No, he can’t move it, yes, it hurts like hell, probably, something is broken, how bad? He’s actually too scared to check, and could you please do that for him.

Jon becomes aware of some movement fluttering around his head and that’s when he realizes that he’s spent the past couple of minutes not registering much of anything other than the snap of his bones and the subsequent pain of said snap. He’d spared a couple of thoughts towards hoping he hadn’t nicked an important artery, and the obligatory guilt towards whoever will have to fix the ice when he’s rushed off on a stretcher, so he knows he hadn’t passed out. He knew the terrible brightness of the stadium lighting and the blistering cold of the ice at his back and the shouting, both from the stands and the ice, even though he could barely hear it over the roaring of his blood in his ears.

Blood. Christ, he hopes there’s not too much to clean up.

Obviously, he hopes there isn’t any, because that would mean that his bones are still firmly inside his body, where they're supposed to be, but he’s being realistic. He’s not entirely sure what the correlation between pain levels and blood loss is, but if it’s in any sort of positive direction, he’s certain there’s going to be at least a little left on the ice.

The fluttering movement around his head turns into a hand. Martin’s hand, Jon realizes, once his face comes into view. He’s torn his helmet and his blocker off and is now hovering over Jon, careful not to touch but for a few gentle fingers sliding against his jaw.

“Jon? Jon, love, are you alright?”

His heart stutters. Apparently, he’s not in so much pain that he can’t properly appreciate the endearment. That’s nice to know.

Jon tries to muster up a smile, but it turns out to be more of a grimace. “M’rtin?” He growls a little when the name comes out a bit slurred. Takes a deep breath, tries to loosen his jaw so that he can properly form words. “Martin, please, you’re going to make us look bad,” he tries to joke. It probably falls a little flat, with how he has to gasp for air every couple words or so, but he keeps going anyway. “I’m still trying to make the rivalry look real, remember?”

“Shut up, Jon,” Martin says, attempting a sarcastic laugh and ultimately failing. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon assures, and he hopes he’s right. He’s still up, still alert. That has to count for something. “Probably miss the rest of the season,” he tries joking again. This time, Martin smiles a little. Jon counts it as a win, even when he has to take a sharp breath as another intense burst of pain spreads through his leg while the medical team prods at it to take a look. He hadn’t noticed their arrival, which is a little troubling, but he supposes he is in a bit of a daze at the moment. He can at least focus on Martin, though, and that’s promising if nothing else is.

“We weren’t going to the playoffs anyway, though,” Jon continues, shaking his head a little to clear it. “I’ll be good as new to kick your ass by October, I promise.”

“Someone won’t,” Martin grumbles, looking across the ice. Jon knows it must be whoever had leveled him out, likely being held in the box so no one tries to start a fight while Jon is actively being tended to.

Despite his situation, Jon laughs. “You can’t go after your own teammate, Martin.”

Martin bristles in a way that Jon has never had the pleasure of seeing from him before. Usually so calm and affable, Martin looks downright murderous. “The hell I can’t, I’ll—”

“Martin,” Jon says, insistent enough to drag Martin’s eyes back down to meet his. He softens considerably when they make eye-contact. “It was a shit hit, but those happen, okay? Someone else will take care of it. I know Gerry’s been gunning for a fight all night, he’s going to start swinging as soon as they let that guy out of the box. Just worry about your game.”

“I’m worried about you,” Martin counters. “I can’t come with you, how am I supposed to—”

“Focus on the game,” Jon repeats. “I’ll be fine. I’m still talking, I can still feel everything…I’m okay. I’m going to be very upset if you lose by six goals just because you were worried about me, I want a fair win tonight, alright?”

A laugh falls from Martin’s lips, one that sounds like it would much rather be a sob. “You’re infuriating,” he says, and Jon can hear the fondness dripping from the words. It dulls the pain, a little. Just enough for him to take a deep breath to steady himself when the medical team lifts him onto a stretcher.

Martin squeezes his hand before he gets carried off the ice and Jon gathers just enough strength to squeeze back. Before all his energy leaves him completely, he lifts a hand into the air, giving the crowd a shaky thumbs up.

They tell him he needs surgery when he gets to the hospital and, yeah, he could have guessed. He’s really only surprised that this is the first time he’s had to get major surgery for a hockey injury. Maybe Martin was right. Maybe he should become a lawyer instead. His brain isn’t soup, which is a plus, but breaking a bone is much more painful than he’d anticipated. He knows he’ll remember why it’s worth it, once he starts to heal, but at the moment? Who the hell invented such a dangerous sport where the main component was moving around on shoes made of knives. Terrible game theory.

When Jon wakes up from the anesthetic, there’s a hand laying gently over the top of his own. Slowly—infuriatingly so, if he’s being honest—his brain comes back online enough to move his fingers. They twitch a little, at first, and Jon curses how clumsy he feels before the hand on top of his moves to weave its fingers between his, doing all the hard work for him. Luckily, by the time the hand in his has successfully twined their fingers together, the fog in his bones has dissipated enough that he’s able to squeeze the fingers gently.

He realizes his eyes are closed and he blinks them open, squinting against the harsh lighting until details start to come into focus and he can see the owner of the hand, Martin, looking down at him with an oddly stunning mixture of worry and love and genuine care. Jon wants to reach out, wants to rub a thumb over the wrinkles in Martin’s brow until they get smoothed away, until he can dissipate the worry with his touch, but his limbs aren’t quite up for the effort, at the moment. He settles for squeezing his fingers again, tugging as insistently as he’s able until Martin takes the hint and leans down, bringing his face closer to Jon’s own.

Jon shakes his head—just slightly, afraid of making himself dizzy. He’s not sure if that’s a consequence of anesthesia, but he’d rather avoid it, just in case. “I need you to come closer than that,” he says, and then immediately coughs when his voice comes out rusty from disuse. Martin moves like he’s going to get water, which Jon does appreciate but he’s trying to get him closer, not farther away. Jon tugs on his arm again, a little stronger than before, trying to convey without words that he’d much rather Martin stay right where he is. He clears his throat and tries again. “My head feels like it weighs way more than it should right now.” This time his words are still a touch scratchy, but he finds that it’s not so bad that he can’t continue. “I need you to come much closer please, I can’t sit up on my own at the moment.”

Martin looks equal parts amused and confused as he leans closer, until his nose brushes against Jon’s. “This better?”

“Mm, not quite,” Jon responds. “Turn your head for me please?”

Jon’s a little cross-eyed, trying to look at Martin this close up, but he still registers the twist of Martin’s lips as he tries not to laugh. Martin complies, turning his head to the side until Jon has him right where he wants him. Jon struggles to get closer, huffing out an annoyed sigh when his body still won’t cooperate.

This time, Martin lets the laughter burst from his lips. “Jon, if you want me to kiss you, you can just—”

“No, no, no,” Jon protests, “just come here.” He can just catch Martin rolling his eyes before he complies, leaning in so close that Jon can no longer pick out any of the finer details of Martin’s features. Finally, blissfully, he’s able to land a kiss, soft and fleeting, against the corner of Martin’s mouth.

Martin gives a funny little exhale when their lips meet, close enough to a whimper that Jon thinks he’s going to count it as such, and Jon wonders how quickly he can get him to do it again. As it is, he’s already starting to feel tired, so he files that thought away for later.

“Thank you,” Jon says, lips brushing against Martin’s cheek as he speaks. “For being here.”

Martin pulls back then, just a little, just enough to lock eyes with Jon. “I’ll be here as long as you are,” he promises.

Jon feels hopelessly charmed by the assurance. But he always has been a bit of a bastard, and so instead of voicing his appreciation, he asks, “what time is it?”

There’s definite confusion in Martin’s face as he turns to check the clock, but he does it anyway. “One-twenty-seven? In the morning.”

“You have a game tomorrow.”

“Christ, leave it to you,” Martin says, shaking his head in exasperation. Jon feels quite pleased with himself at his reaction. “It’s not until late,” Martin continues, leaning back further so he can appropriately shoot Jon a look, “and if they want to healthy scratch me for missing morning skate, that’s their problem. I’m staying.”

Quite honestly, Jon is still surprised that Martin didn’t throw everything to the side and leave in the middle of the game to follow him to the hospital. It doesn’t come as much of a shock that he’s willing to give up a start to stay with Jon until he’s allowed to leave. If Jon’s letting himself be vulnerable, he’ll admit that he’s selfish enough not to argue.

Turns out, recovering from a season ending injury kind of sucks. And Jon’s only just begun this particular recovery. Everything hurts, and he still can’t quite move because of the anesthesia, and he kind of hates that he can’t finish out the season, even if it is only one more game. He knows the others will be there to see him soon, but they have other things to take care of in the meantime, and right now Jon just wants to be held. Or, as close as he can get to being held without compounding the damage done to his leg. He just wants to be cared for, for a moment, without any expectations, and if Martin is offering then Jon would feel stupid refusing.

“Thank you,” he says again, hoping he doesn’t sound quite as emotional as he feels.

Martin leans in again, until his forehead is pressed up against Jon’s temple. He brushes his lips against Jon’s cheek. “I love you, Jon,” he says. “You’ll be alright.”

*

As Jon gets further along in his recovery, it starts to feel a lot less life-ending and a lot more like a general nuisance. It still aches, from time to time, he still lets out a string of curses whenever he accidentally bumps the brace against a cabinet while struggling to figure out how to get around the layout of his house on crutches, and he still misses being on skates like he would miss his own rib, if it were taken from him, but he no longer feels like the world is ending just because he had to have what the doctors assured him was a very easy, routine surgery on his femur.

It would probably help the missing hockey bit, a little, if he stopped keeping up with the playoffs, but he can’t bring himself to do that. Normally, he’d be taking every opportunity he could to keep his focus off the postseason, where he knew Martin and the rest of his team were doing their best to win their third trophy in six years. If things were normal, he wouldn’t even have to worry about it. He could ignore the playoffs, like always, keep himself from missing skating so much, and take a little pressure off from his recovery in the process. The whole thing would be marginally less of a nuisance.

Fortunately, thankfully, things aren’t normal. Jon wouldn’t mind if the nuisance grew tenfold, for the simple fact that it means he has Martin.

The day before the playoffs had started this year, Jon had sent Martin a text. If we’re not there to beat you, you’d better win every game. And, much less self-conscious than he’d used to be, after everything, followed up the message with what anyone else would consider an embarrassing string of different colored heart emojis as good luck, but Jon was in love and he didn’t much care what anyone else would consider embarrassing.

And it worked. At least for the first round.

So for about a month, Jon had to pay extremely close attention to the postseason. It was almost obsessive, really. Tim had made fun of him for it, when he’d dropped by while Jon had the game on once.

I cannot believe you’re rooting for them just because Martin’s your boyfriend.

So you’re not?

I didn’t say that. I just think it’s funny that you’ve done such a complete one-eighty from last year. Did I just hear your phone go off with a goal score notification? Jon, the game is right there.

The good luck hearts start to wear off about halfway through the second round, much to Jon’s disappointment. Maybe he should have sent them more often? Once before each game. Or maybe just before each new round? Either way, it was too late to test. By the time Martin and his team get one loss against them, three more follow in quick succession.

The first thing Jon does after Martin’s second-round exit is call him. Four times, actually, because he’d forgotten to wait until the media left, and then he’d miscalculated how long that would take, and then he’d forgotten that Martin would need to get home first, but…they talked for a long time, that night. A little bit about the game, but mostly just about anything else. What Jon is doing for dinner, how his leg is treating him. Jon spends a lot of time trying to make Martin laugh and feeling distinctly proud of himself whenever it works.

It isn’t much different from any of the other times they’d talked while Martin was still playing and Jon was laid up at home, really, except that now Jon isn’t wishing him good luck and singing his praises over a job well done. Jon feels more upset about that than he would if it were himself getting knocked out of the playoffs. Martin deserved this one. He’d been on his game all season, all postseason too, if you want to be accurate, there was no reason he shouldn’t have gone all the way. Something had just…fallen apart.

One thing that doesn’t come up, and not for any sort of deliberate avoidance, is the fact that Martin would end up in his living room the very next afternoon.

So, when Jon opens his door to see Martin standing on his doorstep, suitcase in hand, the day after his second-round exit, he’s a little surprised.

Rest assured, though, he is the furthest thing from upset. He’d wanted to propose it to Martin anyway, the idea of staying with him during the offseason. He just hadn’t wanted to jinx his chance at a trophy, and when it became clear that his chances at a trophy this year were nonexistent anyway, Jon had thought it was much to soon; that it would have felt like rubbing salt in the wound if he reminded Martin that he was now abruptly at the beginning of his own offseason.

Evidently, he needn’t have worried.

“Hi,” Martin says, toeing at the edge of Jon’s welcome mat.

A gentle smile crawls across Jon’s lips. “How are you doing, love?”

Martin snorts, crossing the threshold into his living room. “How am I doing,” he echoes. “I lost a hockey game. Your leg is broken.”

“Yes, and I think we both know who got the shorter end of the deal,” Jon jokes.

Shaking his head, Martin leans his suitcase against the couch and reaches out. “Can I hug you?”

Jon gestures with his crutches. “As long as you don’t hug with your legs, we should be fine.”

“You’re a riot,” Martin says flatly, rolling his eyes. Jon does his best to lean in while still keeping his balance, using Martin’s steady grip around his shoulders to help keep him upright. He can’t do much in returning the hug, not when he has to keep hold of his crutches, but he tips his head forward, nosing against Martin’s collarbone and sighing when he feels Martin’s chest rise beneath him as he buries his face in Jon’s hair and inhales deeply.

“I missed you,” Jon admits. They’d talked every day, sure, but it wasn’t the same. Even during the regular season, Jon had never had to go as long as a month without getting to see him.

“Can I tell you something?” Martin asks, his words landing somewhere in the tangle of Jon’s hair. Jon hums in response, a wordless go ahead. “I’m probably not as upset about losing as I should be. Because I get to be here with you.”

Jon’s never felt any particular ill-will towards his crutches until this very moment. They were helpful; they helped him walk on his own, even with the bulky brace limiting his range of motion on one side, and he was grateful he had them. But at the moment, he would quite like to reach out and squeeze Martin against him, grabbing fistfuls of his t-shirt to haul him as close as he possibly could, and that is one thing that he very much cannot do while he has the crutches in hand. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of balancing on one leg, without the aid of the crutches to help distribute his weight, and he isn’t so keen on trying right now, even after his doctors have assured him that he should be able to start putting weight on his broken leg in as little as two weeks. There should be nothing much to worry about, if he stumbles a little, especially with Martin holding onto him, but he still doesn’t want to risk it. He isn’t going to push himself.

“Could you hold me a little tighter?” he asks instead, glad that the flush in his cheeks can’t be seen in this position. “It’s just, I can’t really—”

Martin obliges before Jon has to finish explaining himself, crushing Jon as close to him as he dares without jostling his injured leg in the process. Jon lets out a pleased sigh in response to the added pressure. “I’m glad you came, I didn’t know how long I should wait until I could ask you to stay with me for the offseason.”

“You never have to wait to ask me to stay,” Martin responds. “I’ll always say yes.”

At the end of the night, Jon runs into a little trouble convincing Martin to share the bed with him instead of just crashing on the couch.

“Martin, I am not letting my boyfriend sleep on the couch—”

“Jon, your leg is broken—”

“I am not made of glass—”

“I’ve seen your x-rays—”

“I’m supposed to be able to start walking on it in two weeks, Martin, you won’t—"

“Jon, you cling in your sleep,” Martin says, as if this is news to him. “I’m going to roll over right onto your thigh in the middle of the night and you’re going to need two more surgeries to fix it.”

“So stay on my right side and don’t move your legs,” Jon suggests, as if the solution is obvious. To him, it is. He’s had it worked out since about the second day after he’d come home from the hospital, actually. “I haven’t had a decent sleep since I got home, and I’m afraid the only thing that will help is if my boyfriend acts as my own personal weighted blanket.”

Martin stalls for a moment, considering. Jon waits with bated breath, which he knows is a little dramatic, but sue him. He’s missed his boyfriend, and he would very much like to fall asleep in his arms tonight after spending a month apart. That’s perfectly normal and reasonable.

“Fine,” Martin relents. “But if you so much as breathe a little weird, I’m moving my things to the living room.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but ultimately accepts his terms. “Deal. Can I ask you to kiss me, or are you afraid that’s going to set my recovery back by two months as well?”

“I shouldn’t, for that,” Martin responds, but Jon can tell it’s an empty threat. Sure enough, Martin leans in closer, settling his hands over Jon’s shoulders. “Sit down, please.” Jon cocks his head to the side, confused. “You’re not the only one who wants to feel his boyfriend’s arms wrapped around him,” Martin clarifies. “Sit down.”

Jon catches on, shuffling over until he’s perched on the edge of the mattress. He passes the crutches off to Martin, who leans them against Jon’s bedside table for easy access. Hands free, Jon finally gets to reach out, wrapping his arms around Martin’s waist as Martin leans down to meet him. When their lips meet, Jon feels close to bursting. When they part, Jon hears just the slightest bit of a whimper, identical to the one he’d heard from Martin all the way back in the hospital. He can’t help but grin in delight, even as it causes his teeth to knock rather painfully against Martin’s when he moves back in for another kiss.

*

On Jon’s first game back after his injury, he’s feeling lighter than ever. He’d hit a couple snags during physical therapy, a few setbacks that made him curse the league, his skates, and the ice, not necessarily in that order, but eventually he started seeing more and more improvement until, finally, he’d been allowed on the ice again and suddenly he wasn’t cursing much of anything at all.

If feels great to be on the ice, even better to be starting in a game, and Jon thinks that, somehow, the months of rehabbing have made him a better skater, even when they had kept him off his skates for so long that he thought he might forget how to skate entirely.

He can hardly believe his luck that his first game back is against Martin. Jon had felt the slightest bit of resentment that he’d had to sit out the first eight matchups of the season while they made sure he really was up to the pressure of a full-contact game, but he might forgive the process for the way he gets to skate onto the ice during warmups to the sight of Martin doing his stretches at center ice.

It’s a bit dramatic to say he hasn’t played a game in months, when most of those months occurred during the offseason, but he hasn’t played in months. And he gets to spend his first game in months flirting with Martin in between plays in the most juvenile, exaggeratedly taunting way possible. It’s a dream come true.

He skates over to Martin nearly immediately, something he’s sure Melanie won’t hesitate to laugh at him for later, dropping onto the ice to join him in his stretches.

Martin brightens under his helmet when he notices him. “You are playing tonight! Last I heard, you were a game-time decision.”

“Well it is game-time,” Jon notes, dodging out of the way of the elbow Martin sends his way.

“I was going to tell you I’ve missed you since the season started,” Martin says, “but I think I’ll take it back.”

Jon can’t help but grin. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the same. Over the course of the offseason, he’d grown so used to having Martin around, waking up with him in the morning and switching off on who cooks breakfast, that by the time Martin had to leave for pre-season training, Jon had sort of forgotten how to live alone. Falling asleep on the phone could only do so much.

“Well if you won’t,” Jon says, teasing. “I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t think you’ll be saying that when we win tonight,” Martin responds.

“When we win,” Jon corrects, “I’ll be sure to cook you a very nice dinner to make up for it.”

“When you lose, I’ll make sure to kiss it better.”

“Shouldn’t the loser be the one cooking?”

Jon, caught up in Martin, finally becomes aware of his surroundings. He looks up to see Gerry, the voice behind the comment.

“Jon feels guilty when he wins,” Martin explains, “because he’s a sore winner.”

“I am not.”

“No, you are,” Gerry agrees. “But I’m glad you’ve found a way to make up for it.” Martin, the traitor, laughs right along with him. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I’ll have to steal Jon away for a couple hours. I promise to return him to you in one piece later, but for now I do need my d-partner to actually focus, so…” He grabs at Jon’s arm, hauling him up from the ice with an apologetic grimace. “Love you, Martin, see you after the game!”

Jon is too hopelessly thrilled with how easily everyone has accepted Martin as a regular part of his life to do much to protest. It’s not like he won’t be with Martin all night in some capacity anyway. In fact, he’s quite looking forward to the first stop in play with both of them on the ice, when he’ll get to slide up next to Martin, lean against his shoulder, and tell him something stupid about how his skates are untied, just to get him to look before Jon skates away, laughing.

And then, in just a few short hours, he’ll get to have Martin back in his house like he’d never even left. He’ll pull out his mother’s old recipe for khoresh bademjan, because Martin has never been too shy in letting him know that it’s what he makes best, and because Jon has absolutely no intention of letting Martin leave the ice tonight with another win on his stats sheet. Martin will bully him into letting him help, and Jon will oblige with only a cursory argument against it, always keen on choosing the option that allows him to spend more time with Martin within his reach. While the stew boils, he’ll pretend to protest as Martin grabs him by the waist and lifts him onto the counter, but he’ll melt readily into his embrace once he’s seated. He’ll promise himself he won’t forget to keep an eye on the pot, only to fall quickly into a haze when Martin trails soft, teasing kisses along his neck, unaware of his surroundings until he hears the sizzle of the pot’s contents boiling over.

It tastes better when some of it burns onto the stovetop, Martin will insist, in an attempt to cover for how delighted he is with how quickly he can reduce Jon to a distracted mess.

Next week, Jon will get to do it all over again, this time as he learns the ins and outs of Martin’s kitchen, where he keeps his pans and what spices he has on hand. Which burner doesn’t heat quite as evenly as the others. And then three more times over the course of the season, each time switching off who stays with who, finding a home for himself in Martin’s place while Martin settles deeper into the home he’s already made for himself at Jon’s. Each time, he’ll wake up with Martin snoring on top of his chest, to the feeling of Martin’s curls tickling his nose, to the sound of Martin mumbling to himself as he comes awake, his first coherent sentence always a sweet, syrupy good morning, love.

Jon thinks this might just turn into his best season yet.