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Joey wakes up in pretty significant discomfort. It’s too hot. Scratch is heavy, and he’s decided Joey is his mattress. He’s also not helping the ‘too hot’ thing. And Joey aches. A lot.
He catalogs his pains while he tries to summon the will to get up: he’s sore absolutely everywhere except for his right arm, and that’s only because it’s gone completely numb under Scratch’s weight. He extricates it slowly, partly because of the soreness but also the way the light’s falling tells him it’s early, and he’d feel like a dick if he woke Scratch up just because he had to piss, since they don’t need to be anywhere until —
Holy shit.
“Scratch!” Joey says, shaking Scratch’s shoulder.
“Mm?” Scratch says.
“Scratch,” Joey says. “We won. Scratch. We’re winners.”
“Mm,” Scratch says agreeably, and then rolls over, turning his back to Joey.
“Fine,” Joey says. “Be an ingrate.”
“Sleep,” Scratch murmurs, and by the time Joey gets back from the bathroom he’s completely dead to the world again, wrapped around a pillow in lieu of a Joey.
“Rude,” Joey says.
Scratch’s sleeping face is far too innocent considering that’s Joey’s big fluffy pillow he’s wrapped around, not his own dumb flat one. They have different pillow needs, and in hindsight, maybe Scratch arriving one day with a special Scratch pillow was a moving in sign as well as a merciful end to Scratch bitching about his neck hurting every single morning.
Joey grabs his phone to turn all five of the upcoming alarms off, and sees a truly dizzying number of notifications for texts and emails he didn’t read last night, far too busy drinking and hugging his incredible teammates and yelling whenever the elation became too much to contain within him, which was often.
He figures with Scratch sleeping now’s as good a time as any to read and reply, so he makes himself comfortable, propping himself up against Scratch’s back since he no longer has a pillow to lean on.
It’s weird, but apparently it doesn’t matter if it’s the thousandth permutation of the same congratulatory message, if it’s from a former teammate he didn’t really like, or some dude he thinks he went to elementary school with but isn’t positive, reading the messages does not get old.
He replies to most with a big smiley, because it’s quick and also very accurate, as he is also smiley. He adds a ‘thanks!’ or ‘I still can’t believe it!’ to accompany the smiley for the very few people he regularly talks to — well, he talks to plenty of people regularly, but most of them weren’t sending him congratulatory messages last night because they were busy celebrating with him — reiterates an invitation to Owen to come out today in case he thinks Joey just meant it in the ‘hey come join us if you want’ way and not the ‘Owen you’d better come I need to give you a victory hug!’ way that Joey meant it.
Scratch sits bolt upright in bed, toppling Joey from his comfortable perch.
“Hey,” Joey says. First Scratch steals his pillow, now he knocks Joey off his Scratch pillow. It’s cruel. He’s cruel.
“Money,” Scratch says. “We won. We won the Cup. The Stanley Cup.”
“I know, I told you that like—“
He is rudely interrupted by Scratch’s mouth on his. This Cup Winner version of Scratch is very inconsiderate.
Joey pushes him away by the forehead. “Teeth.”
“Brush mine or put yours in?” Scratch says.
“Both,” Joey says.
Scratch dramatically sighs, but if he’s trying to seem put upon, he kind of ruins it with the skippy little dance he does on his way to the bathroom.
“You’re adorable,” Joey calls after him, because it seems like something Scratch should be made aware of.
“Thanks Money, I try my very best,” Scratch calls back.
*
It is a beautiful afternoon. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and all is right in the world.
Okay, it’s actually a dogshit humid ass day. It’s over 90 degrees, it’s muggy as fuck, and the weather report says they’ll probably hit 100. It’s frankly disgusting. Joey feels like a rotisserie chicken on a spit in hell. The only thing that makes it even remotely tolerable is that it was worse in Tampa Bay. And only marginally.
“Are you humming?” Shithead asks, sounding utterly disgusted with him.
“Why wouldn’t I hum?” Joey says. “On this beautiful spring day.”
“How is it still spring?” Pebble moans. “Why is it hitting 37 in spring? Who allowed this?”
“I want to die,” Bilbo whimpers.
“That’s the spirit,” Joey says, and claps him on the back.
Joey thinks he may have just accidentally committed manslaughter, because the sound Bilbo makes when Joey’s hand makes contact is horrifying.
“Oh no,” Joey says. “Did I kill you? Did you get your dying wish?”
Bilbo’s only response is a drawn out groan.
“Please tell me that’s the hangover and you don’t have like, seven broken ribs or a cracked vertebra or something,” Joey says. There isn’t a man among them who’s unscathed right now, but some are more scathed than others, like, concerningly scathed, and it’s honestly hard to keep track who’s dealing with what at this point.
“Ungh,” Bilbo says, which Joey decides to take as ‘hangover’, just for his own peace of mind.
“Painkillers?” Dik-Dik says, pulling a bottle out of his pocket.
“Are you dealing drugs?” Joey sputters.
“It’s ibuprofen,” Dik-Dik says with an eyeroll. “I figured it’d come in handy, between the hangovers and the injuries.”
“I have Advil if you want that instead,” Pebble pipes up.
“A damn pharmacy right here,” Joey says.
“Advil is ibuprofen, Boulder, just more expensive,” Dik-Dik says, then, “What, you aren’t hungover, Money?”
“Nope,” Joey says, and half a dozen men loudly tell him to go fuck himself while he smiles serenely at their hungover asses. Scratch was so smart last night, and Joey will happily reap the benefits with smug superiority today.
“Get the fuck outta here with that smug fucking face, Munroe!” Dik-Dik says, and is joined by a chorus of ‘get out!’.
“Sorry I can hold my drink,” Joey says, and has to jog away to avoid the projectiles coming at him for that. The bottle of Advil just misses him.
“Hello Money,” Scratch says as Joey tucks his nose into the curve of his spine. “Or extremely creepy person.”
“I can be both,” Joey says. “You’re all sweaty.”
“It’s fucking hot out,” Scratch says. “In case you haven’t noticed.”
“Mm,” Joey says. “Don’t go over there, they’re mad at us because we’re not hungover.”
“There’s definitely some glaring in our direction,” Scratch says. “Were you smug?”
“I was very smug,” Joey admits. “Bilbo’s not the one with the broken ribs, is he?”
“Please tell me you didn’t elbow him in the ribs,” Scratch says.
“Oh fuck, is he?” Joey says.
“No, that’s Dik-Dik,” Scratch says. “Think Bilbo fucked up his collarbone.”
Thank fuck. Joey’s clap on the back probably hurt like hell, but it didn’t do damage. Joey makes a little note in his head to get Bilbo an apology drink later. Not that anyone’s paying for drinks — well, someone presumably is, but it’s not them — but it is the apologetic thought that counts.
That explains Dik-Dik’s stash of pills too. Ribs are a bitch — you can’t do anything for them except take painkillers and be very very careful. Joey can’t stand rib injuries. Thank fuck he got through the postseason with his only injury being ‘I kind of hurt everywhere does that count’.
The Scouts assure him it does not count when he wanders back to ask. Maybe Joey shouldn’t have asked the dude with the broken ribs, the collarbone guy, and the guy in a walking boot. That was probably foolish, in hindsight.
Joey ducks the underhand lob of ibuprofen. They really need to stop throwing medicine at him. Clearly they all need it.
“Crap throw, Dik-Dik,” Joey says.
“I have two broken ribs,” Dik-Dik says flatly.
“And generic?” Joey says. “Generic? You make three million dollars and you’re using generics for broken ribs?”
“They’re chemically identical,” Dik-Dik says. “Why should I spend more money just for a brand name?”
“I’m going to find you better drugs,” Joey says, and ignores the scandalized look of a woman with a lanyard while he goes to hunt for the Advil Pebble threw at him earlier.
*
Joey only has to check that Owen’s coming twice. He says only because he’s sent at least a dozen texts to his family, who keep responding with ‘we’re coming after brunch’ and ‘yes we’re still eating brunch’ and ‘stop interrupting our brunch’. Joey can’t believe his family has turned into afternoon brunch people. Also that they’re prioritizing brunch over him. That’s hurtful.
He’s about to text Owen again to tell him to let him know when he’s nearby — he’s on a guest list, but the security looks like kind of a crapshoot right now, so Joey doing a ‘do you know who I am, sir’ may be necessary if they hold Owen up — when the man himself arrives.
“Owen!” Joey bellows, and wraps his arms around him. “I won a Cup. Did you see I won a Cup?”
“You’re so sweaty, what have you been doing?” Owen asks, laughing as he shoves Joey off.
“Mostly just existing in hundred degree weather,” Joey says.
“Fair enough,” Owen says. “Congratulations, Joey. I’m so happy for you.”
“Do you want a drink?” Joey asks. “How about a hat? I’m gonna — Rosie! Get this man a drink and a hat!”
“I don’t need a hat,” Owen says. “But a drink would be great.”
“Too late, Rosie’s already on it, you’re getting a hat too,” Joey says. “Where’s your grandma? I specifically told you to bring Maggie.”
“My aunt’s dropping her off in a bit,” Owen says.
Rosie arrives with a 2021 Stanley Cup Winners hat and three different beverage choices. He’s Joey’s favorite rookie by far. Is he also the only rookie who was in the lineup all the way through the postseason? Yes. But regardless. What other rookie would willingly perch himself by the drinks and the hats so he could hand them out like a volunteer rather than a Stanley Cup winner? What a kid.
“I really don’t pull off baseball caps,” Owen says when Rosie hands it over to him. He takes a bottle of water as well, giving Rosie a smile that has Rosie beaming back before disappearing to go foist drinks and hats on other people. “But judging by your expression you’re making me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Hats are for winners,” Joey says.
“I didn’t win any—“ Owen starts.
“Hat,” Joey demands.
Owen puts the hat on. He’s such a liar: he looks great in it.
“Owen, hey,” Willy says from behind Joey’s shoulder. “Like the hat. Looks good on you.”
See? Owen looks so good in hats he gets compliments the second it’s on his head.
“Tate,” Owen says. “Congratulations on the Cup. I’m really happy for you guys.”
Joey is torn between stepping back and giving them privacy, because there was some tone happening right there, and standing in front of Owen like a human shield to protect him from Willy. They’re both infuriatingly close-mouthed about whatever went on, has gone on, is going on — Joey doesn’t know if it’s past tense or not because nobody’s told him — but clearly something is. Was. Whichever.
“Do you want privacy or a human shield?” he asks Owen. “Because I’m versatile.”
Owen laughs. So does Willy, but it sounds fake. That’s a fake Willy laugh. Apparently Joey knows the difference.
“Where’s your other half?” Owen asks Joey. “I haven’t seen him, which is kind of unusual.”
“I — do not know,” Joey says. So obviously they have to rectify that.
Joey realizes only after he’s located Scratch for Owen that Owen didn’t want privacy or a human shield: he wanted an exit from that conversation with Willy, and finding Scratch provided that. He grabs Owen’s arm, and Owen and Scratch both blink at him.
“Do you need me to kill Willy,” Joey says. “Or like. Do you need Trigger to kill Willy.”
Trigger likes Owen more than he likes basically everyone, so Joey’s pretty sure he’d agree. Though he does have that hang up about killing their leading scorer. Joey’s not sure if the Cup would make him more or less likely to waive that anti-killing rule. On the one hand: Cup has been achieved, so do they really need him anymore? On the other hand: harder to go for a repeat if you kill your own leading scorer. Definitely a dilemma.
“I’m good, Joey,” Owen says.
“You sure?” Joey checks.
“I’m sure,” Owen says. “But thank you for the offer, it’s very sweet in a disturbing way.”
“That’s Money for you,” Scratch says. “Very sweet in a disturbing way.”
“He called me creepy earlier today!” Joey tells Owen. “Look at you two on the same wavelength.”
“I said if it was someone else burying their face in my back that’d be creepy,” Scratch says. “You’re the sole exception. Well. Probably have a niece and nephew exception too, but they’re, you know, tiny. Don’t think they’d reach. Plus they’d probably giggle the whole time, kind of a giveaway.”
They are truly very giggly children. Scratch is right, that would not be a stealth operation.
“What about like, Trigger,” Joey says. “Trigger’s not allowed?”
“A, he would never,” Scratch says. “And B, even if he somehow had a personality transplant, he’s still like two inches taller than me. Don’t see how that works without him snapping his spine.”
“Hmm,” Joey says. “Point. Why are you grinning?”
“I can’t grin?” Owen asks.
“You’re grinning in the ‘ScratchnMoney are doing that thing again’ way,” Joey says. He’s familiar.
“Well, you are,” Owen says.
“I’m gonna go see if Trigger can do it,” Scratch announces, and wanders off.
“Is that the weirdest excuse to leave ever or,” Owen says.
“Oh no, he’s going to get supporting evidence,” Joey says. Scratch likes to be sure of things. That leads to fun sometimes, and other times it leads to calling the fire department. Always a toss-up.
“A true scientist,” Owen says approvingly.
Scratch establishes that Trigger could not have given him the same hug even if he wanted to. And he did not want to, was extremely reluctant to hug a sweaty Scratch, but eventually gave in once Scratch told him the purpose of the exercise was to prove Joey wrong. Joey learns this all from a matter-of-fact Trigger — down to the proving Joey wrong bit, the man is not shy about it — after they’ve been gathered to do a bunch of Wholesome Stanley Cup Winner things for the team before their unwholesome asses are loosed upon greater Kansas City.
And they are going to be loosed. Joey imagines there are a fair number of dudes who believe in hair of the dog, or at least have figured they may as well enjoy themselves for awhile before suffering some more.
Joey tells himself he’ll be a model of moderate behavior, since this is the whole family-friendly portion of things. Plus there’s going to be way less family-friendly stuff scheduled for later, which means he needs to pace himself or he’ll be snoozing by then. But it’s stupid hot, and when it’s hot you need hydration, maybe in vodka soda form, and you also sweat a lot, and sooner rather than later Joey is not a model of moderate anything, except maybe sunburned. Definitely moderately sunburned. He put on sunscreen and everything too. It’s not fair.
“Your fault,” he tells his dad as Casey does the back of his neck for him. He can reach, but his arms hurt. Well, more his shoulders. He thinks he might have burnt them through his Stanley Cup Winner shirt. They did not spring for quality, there. Offensive.
“My fault,” dad says, Stanley Cup hat bobbing. He’s burnt too. Joey came by it honestly. Casey isn’t, but that’s likely only because Casey is a responsible person who brought the sunscreen she’s currently applying, since she has the exact same complexion as dad and Joey.
“I ache,” Joey says. “Everywhere.”
“Is that code for ‘get me another drink’?” Casey asks, wiping the rest of the sunscreen on Joey’s forehead.
Joey wrinkles it. “Obviously,” he says.
“Do your face and I’ll get you a drink,” Casey says.
Joey whines.
“Do it,” Casey says, and Joey continues to whine as he puts sunscreen on his face, his dad helpfully informing him when he needs to blend it in more, while Casey gets him another drink.
*
It’s hot. It’s hot, and it’s full of giddy people, and Joey is hot and giddy and he is drunk before they get to the club. He’s got a sunburn and he kind of needs a nap and like, food, he has not had food, food is good, but you know what? It’s fine. It’s all good. Joey is feeling no pain.
There are cameras around — well, there’s always cameras around, literally everyone has one on their phone, but practically everyone’s taking pictures right now. And literally the first guy to come out in the league was outed because he kissed his boyfriend after a Cup, which is pretty much the ultimate cautionary tale, considering Joey’s currently, you know, chilling with his boyfriend after a Cup.
Joey’s out to the world, but Scratch isn’t beyond friends and family and the team. He doesn’t particularly want that to change, and Joey does not blame him: if he had a choice he also would not be out to the world. But like, Dik-Dik just slurped tequila off Rosie’s six-pack — Joey thinks it’s unfair for a rookie to have abs like that, honestly, he calls shenanigans — so Joey’s pretty sure him wrapping his arms around Scratch is not going to raise any eyebrows, even if there are pictures. He’s sleepy and Scratch is all — big. A pillar of support.
Joey sneaks a kiss into where Scratch’s neck meets his shoulder while he’s at it. He tastes like sweat and beer, and he makes a hilariously squeaky noise.
Joey does it again, but less to be romantic and more to be annoying, hopefully get another little squeak.
“Stop,” Scratch complains, but doesn’t do anything to shake Joey off.
“Sleepy,” Joey says. “Sleepy, Scratch.”
“Do you want to —“ Scratch says.
“More drinks,” Joey decides. That’ll help.
*
Joey wakes up sweaty and sore absolutely everywhere. Everywhere. Even the air around his face kind of hurts.
“Nngh,” Joey says.
“He lives,” Scratch says. He sounds chirpy. Joey resents it.
“No,” Joey denies, and buries his face in the pillow. It hurts. It all hurts.
“Bunch of fan things today,” Scratch says.
“No,” Joey whines.
“Aspirin and water by the bed,” Scratch says. “Twenty minutes until we’ve gotta go.”
“Take pity,” Joey beseeches him.
“You did this to yourself,” Scratch says. There is a distinct lack of pity in his voice.
Joey squints one eye open. “How bad was I?” he asks.
“You told Shithead you loved him,” Scratch says. “And then you tried to fight him. That’s when I figured it was time to take you home.”
“Did I have a good reason to fight him?” Joey asks.
“It’s Shithead,” Scratch says, which means ‘obviously’, and Joey sits up, mollified.
“Aspirin, water, shower, clothes,” Scratch says. “I’ll make you some peppermint tea for the road.”
“That’s too many things to do in twenty minutes,” Joey says. “Too many.”
“I have faith in you, Money,” Scratch says solemnly, and Joey groans and reaches for the water.
*
“Well well well,” Dik-Dik says.
Joey rolls his eyes, then immediately regrets it. Pain.
“Look who it is, Rosie,” Dik-Dik says. “Not so smugly unhungover today, are we Money?”
“I could be,” Joey rasps.
“You’re wearing sunglasses,” Dik-Dik says. “We’re inside. Ibuprofen?”
“Seriously man, spring for the brand name,” Joey says.
“No,” Dik-Dik says, holding the bottle out, and Joey sighs and takes it.