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Wyatt loses a game of rock paper scissors, and Mav makes him untie his skates for him in the locker room. It’s not the first time he’s untied a teammate’s skates for them, surely won’t be the last, but it is the first time that the teammate has been so…giggly about it.
It’s also the first time that Wyatt’s boyfriend‘s watching it happen from across the room, eyes dark with emotion even as he plastered a smile on his face that might fool anyone else watching, but that Wyatt knows is fake.
Mav clears his throat to get Wyatt’s attention and pats the bench on his other side. Wyatt goes easily, and Tom’s disappeared from sight by the time Wyatt pulls Mav’s other skate into his lap.
“T'es dans marde, ” Mav sings under his breath.
Wyatt smiles beatifically as he wrestles the knotted mess Mav’s made of his laces.
God, he hopes Mav’s right.
“Had a good time at skate today, did you?” Tom asks, crowding Wyatt against the wall of his own apartment like he owns the place. One hand rests on the wall next to Wyatt’s head; the other finds its way to Wyatt’s hipbone and rests there, burning hot even though the cotton of Wyatt”s shorts, fingers twitching like Tom can’t decide if he wants to pull Wyatt closer or shove him against the wall.
“Scored a sweet goal on Otter, so yeah,” Wyatt agrees, playing dumb.
Tom’s fingers dig into his hip briefly, a reflexive move more than anything. Wyatt resists the urge to press into the touch—he’s not about to lose the game they’re playing before Tom realizes it’s started.
“It wasn’t anything to write home about,” Tom shrugs.
Wyatt bites his lip to conceal a smile. The way that Tom watches the movement is a nice bonus. “Mav thought it was sick,” he pushes.
Tom’s eyes go dark again, anger flitting across his face and gone again so quickly that Wyatt would have missed it if he wasn’t watching for it. He moves forward, using his hand on Wyatt’s hip to push him against the wall. It’s not the shove Wyatt had kind of been hoping for, but it’s a clear indicator that he’s gotten Tom close to the end of his rope.
Good.
“Is that what you two were giggling about in the locker room earlier? Your goal? Acting like little kids with your own secret language?” Tom drawls, his voice carefully neutral.
Almost there , Wyatt thinks.
Tilting his head back so that he’s looking up at Tom though his lashes, Wyatt blinks innocently. “And other things, yeah,” he agrees, shifting so that his hands come to rest on Tom’s waist. “What’s wrong? Are you jealous?”
“No,” Tom lies through gritted teeth. Wyatt can see the muscles in his jaw jumping. He wants to lean up and bite, leave his mark on Tom for everyone to see, almost desperately.
“You are,” Wyatt shakes his head, letting his lower lip jut out just a little. “You’re jealous of Mav.”
Tom strikes like a rattlesnake, grabbing Wyatt’s wrists and yanking them up over his head to keep Wyatt pinned in place. “Why would I be jealous of Mav when I'm the only one who gets to have you like this?” he practically snarls.
Wyatt opens his mouth to respond, but Tom slams their mouths together, stealing both Wyatt’s words and oxygen in a kiss that feels more like Tom is trying to devour him more than anything. Wyatt melts against him, swaying forward into Tom’s body heat despite Tom still pinning him to the wall.
“Oh,” Tom laughs breathlessly when he pulls away from Wyatt, ignoring the way that Wyatt whimpers at the loss. “Have I not been paying enough attention to you lately, guy? Is that what this is all about? If you want me to fuck you? Fuck you up? All you’ve gotta do is ask, baby,” he murmurs, dropping one hand from Wyatt’s wrists to sweep down the side of his ribs instead.
“More fun this way,” Wyatt admits. It’s true: Tom’s a possessive bastard at heart, would probably gladly keep Wyatt tied to his bed for all eternity if it wouldn’t potentially cause an international incident, but he also has an ironclad control on his basest desires. Yeah, he’d fuck Wyatt up in the best way if Wyatt just asked nicely—he’s done it before, will surely do it again, because the way Wyatt wants him is basically a craving at this point—but it’s better when he can get Tom to let go and take what he wants instead of what he thinks Wyatt needs.
“Gonna be the fucking death of me. On a game day too,” Tom shakes his head, but his hand snakes down and grabs Wyatt’s ass in a way that only means one thing: Tom’s about to give him exactly what he wants.
“You love it,” Wyatt retorts, pushing forward until Tom has no choice but to let go of his wrists or risk them both toppling to the ground in a graceless heap. He tries to brush past him, stalk off to his bedroom and hope Tom follows, but Tom grabs his fingertips at the last possible moment and hauls him back in.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“My bedroom?” Wyatt asks.
“We’ll get there,” Tom promises, voice heavy with want.
Wyatt could argue—it is a game day, as Tom pointed out—but. Well. This is exactly what he wanted, after all.
“Hey,” Tom says, grabbing Wyatt by the shoulder as he tries to leave the ice after pre-game skate. The smudges under his eyes belie the exhaustion that clings to him like a second skin these days, not having a chance to really rest between getting called up for Four Nations and then joining the team for a brutal road trip immediately afterwards, but his eyes are sparkling in a way that lets Wyatt know he’s plotting something.
“Yeah?” Wyatt asks.
Tom slips a hand out of its glove and holds a fist in Wyatt’s direction. “Rock, paper, scissors,” he says, mouth curling in a smirk.
“Really?” Wyatt laughs incredulously.
“Really,” Tom confirms. “Come on, guy.”
Tom throws paper a full second after Wyatt throws scissors, and he makes sure that their social media coordinator is watching, camera at the ready, when he stands in front of Wyatt’s stall to untie his skates for him. He’s not subtle at all. Wyatt loves him for it.
(When the video is posted to social media afterwards, the music added to the background hides the sound of Mav cackling at them. It’s a shame, really.)