Archive of Our Own

Jack would never say it to Noah's face, but sometimes he likes to ask about Noah's skating just to take his own mind off things. Not often, and obviously he actually listens because he cares, but on a night like tonight, sprawled across his bedspread with one knee drawn up to his ribs and his laptop perched on a corner of the bed, it's a relief to push down the itching frustration of a 7-4 shitshow and just focus on Noah brooding about backchecks. He scrolls down his Twitter feed, trying to remember the play Noah is describing, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

"Hold on," he interrupts, stretching back across the bed and scrabbling at his phone. He swipes the screen and squints at a text from an unfamiliar number.

Hey it's Connor

Did LaCouvee get a new phone? He's about to text back when his phone buzzes again.

McDavid

can we talk?

"What is going on with your face right now, Eichs." Noah chortles from the laptop.

"Uhhhh," Jack says after a pause. "I dunno." He slowly types out, how did u get my number?, feeling like his eyes are burning holes into the phone screen.

sorry, reino gave it to me

"Dammit, Sammy," he mutters, baffled. He sits back on his heels.

"Who are you talking to?" Noah's voice rises with interest.

Jack waits a beat to see if McDavid will send another message. "McDavid," he says slowly, lips pulling over the syllables. "He texted me?" Jack was literally read a quote by a reporter this afternoon of McDavid saying he wouldn't text, so he doesn't know what's up with this bizarre turnaround.

"I thought you didn't have each other's numbers."

"Following my press?" Jack snorts. "Yeah no, we didn't. He got it from Reino, I think they're tight."

"What's he want?"

Jack finally looks up, putting down his phone to curl his fingers into quotes for Noah. "'To talk,' apparently."

"Huh." Noah chews on that. "Shady," he offers.

"Maybe." McDavid's texted again, another polite request to talk. Can he call?

Jack glances at the clock on his nightstand, glowing red digits reading just past 2 a.m., and heaves a sigh before he brings his phone to his ear. "Hey," he says. "Um, I have morning practice tomorrow, so..." Movement crackles against his ear, and Jack is abruptly reminded that he can probably count on one hand the number of times he's spoken to McDavid without anyone else with them as a buffer. Now he's sitting in the dark in his bedroom, taking a phone call - it's not even Skype or FaceTime, something where their environments would layer between them; all his focus is narrowed to a single, intimate point.

"Sorry." McDavid's voice is as low and quiet as he remembers. "I forgot about the time difference. I just, uh, had something I wanted to talk to you about. Sorry this is kind of weird, but after - there was a scrum this morning, and I had an idea. About us. Um, for the both of us. I hope it's okay Sam gave me your number."

Jack is hit with the feeling he usually gets whenever a reporter asks about his relationship with McDavid, meaning that he mouths 'What... us…' to himself. Into the receiver, he says, "Yeah, it's fine. I'm not really sure what you're talking about though," and can't help adding, "So I guess we don't not text anymore?"

To his credit, McDavid doesn't sound embarrassed when he laughs. "That's actually what my idea was about. You know they asked me to respond to your interview for like, three months? Like to you saying we're not friends. They asked me about it the next day and I thought, there's no way I'm gonna fan that flame, but they kept asking and today I was like, fine, I'll cut that off. But as soon as I answered I knew I made it worse."

Noah is sending endless rows of question marks over the Skype chatbox. Jack stares at them and wishes he had any clue. "Right," he says when it feels like McDavid is waiting for a response. "Definitely feel you there."

"You have to be more sick of it than I am." Direct and factual, like he's not implying anything. Well, Jack's not insulted.

"Yeah, what can you do. Comes with the territory and all that."

"They've been riffing on Crosby and Ovechkin for like eleven years. Can you imagine answering questions about how much we don't like each other for the next decade? Because I can't and I really don't want to."

Did McDavid really fish for his number and call him just to vent? Jack minds less than he thought he would; it's kind of nice, hearing McDavid have feelings and echo his own thoughts on the subject, but kind of redundant at the same time. He looks at the clock again. "Sorry - did you want to ask me something? It's kind of late."

McDavid exhales loudly. "Yeah. I wanted to ask if you want to pretend to be friends."

Jack doesn’t see Sam the next morning until everyone is out on the rink for warm-ups, so he barely has time to fix him with the evil eye before they're wheeling down the ice at Coach’s signal. He dutifully finishes his laps and, when the whistle blows for stretches, darts around Bogo to snag the spot next to Sam.

"So," he says, keeping his voice low but casual. "You gave McDavid my number?"

Sam doesn't blink. "Oh, yeah. He asked me yesterday. Not a big secret or anything, is it?"

"It's cool." Jack concentrates on his lunge. "Did he say what he wanted it for?"

"He said he wanted to get to know you a bit before the World Cup." Sam twists over his opposite knee and looks at him. "Connor's a good guy."

"Yeah," Jack says. "It's just a little out of the blue, that's all."

It is a good reason; he forgot they would probably play together in September. Jack didn't think McDavid would announce his idea to anybody else - That sounds bad, he had said right afterwards last night, I just mean that I get what you said - but Jack was curious how much he had told others. Like, there's nothing wrong with not being friends, you know? But if we act like we are, I think they'll back off a little.

Jack has been in the fanatic public eye for the better part of three years now, but it had to be the weirdest proposition he's ever received. McDavid had gone on a little more, about the way the media spun candy floss mountains of drama from every sliver of discontent between Sid and Ovechkin. Best friends in the league aren't hounded like that, he pointed out, listing off Tavares, Gagner, Subban, and Stamkos, and MacKinnon and Drouin.

Those aren't exactly the same, Jack had told him, and McDavid agreed. Still, it makes for much weaker headlines if there's nothing that can be construed as antagonistic to report. I'd rather compliment you or whatever than field ten minutes of follow-up questions about bad blood, even if that's more boring, McDavid admitted during their call, with a self-conscious chuckle that made Jack blink.

In the end, he said he would think about it.

There's nothing really for him to lose. All McDavid suggested was that they stop trying to distance themselves from each other and act friendlier. When Jack explained it to Noah after hanging up, Noah thought it was worth a shot. Wear down the media's interest and maybe it can finally be about his own hockey. Jack just couldn't bring himself to agree right away, reluctant as always to comply with the unwanted relationship between them.

Of course, that means he ends up being the first to give it a try, completely spur of the moment two weeks later. McDavid hasn't contacted him since that first night aside from a text that simply said anyway let me know. The journos have been quiet too, and Jack supposes neither of them are eager to test the charade.

It's not until midway through their California road trip that McDavid is brought up again, by sheer virtue of the fact that, what, they're in the same state? The question is about their parallel game schedules, whether Jack will be measuring their results against each other after Buffalo's loss to the Ducks, and Jack just wants to ask who the hell gave this guy a press pass.

Instead, he lifts his chin and says, "That's definitely not at all a thing. We haven't talked about it at all. We've been talking, uh, you know, a bit - or I mean, a lot. We get along well, actually. Mc - Connor - is great. Hope he does well in those matchups. Obviously he will." The corner of his mouth twists and Jack has to consciously make sure his face doesn't betray how hard he's cringing inside. He hasn't sounded this awkward since grade school. Matt is looking over from the next stall.

He wraps up the interview as quickly as he can and strides out of the room with his eyes fixed straight ahead. Sam catches up to him halfway down the hall.

"Want to go out?"

"Ehhh." This time Jack lets his face grimace as much as it wants.

Sam slings an arm around his shoulders. He's the same height as McDavid, if official profiles can be trusted. "I want to hit the hay early tonight, so just for drinks. It's San Jose."

Yeah, they don't often get liberal West Coast anonymity. "Fine, alright. Game tomorrow though."

Sam pinches Jack's tricep. "I know, keener."

True to his word, after they get cleaned up at the hotel, Sam takes him to a quiet, dark bar that is more diner than dance club. They eat in a booth, and Jack stays picking at the remainder of their nachos while Sam heads off to the bar. Within a few minutes, Sam has a drink in hand and a dark-skinned boy with curly hair at his elbow. Jack scoffs fondly.

They figured out they were the same about this after a few times rooming together on the road and a drunken conversation about Risto's mouth that they soberly promised the next morning never to repeat in case Risto punched them (if only because that was often the guy's first reaction to anything). Compared to Sam's stories of the WHL, Jack doesn't have the most experience with men, but he'd had a few chances in development camp, plus, obviously, college.

Two drinks in, he slides out of the booth and joins Sam to order his third, arm deliberately brushing against a tall blond.

Four drinks in, he's twirling a tiny butch on the small dance floor in front of the bar, laughing and making eye contact over her head with a bearded man in rolled sleeves.

After his fifth drink, he and Sam bundle themselves safely into a taxi. Jack is happy and loose and relaxed, reveling in the freedom of a few hours of unguarded, no-expectations flirting. There are two texts from McDavid on his phone and he opens them carelessly.

thanks for giving it a shot :)

tho good thing ur competing for the calder and not an Oscar lol

Jack laughs out loud and impulsively hits call. McDavid picks up on the first ring.

"Hey." McDavid sounds surprised, voice a little gravelly like he's already in bed.

"Did you watch the interview?" Jack shouts into the phone. "Is it awful? I was so embarrassed!"

"Yeah, I did." A rustle that sounds like bedsheets, and Jack imagines McDavid wrapped in blankets half a state away. "Are you…drunk?"

"Sorry," Jack says, not sorry at all. "Do you think they believed me? Was my face red? Redder."

McDavid huffs a laugh. "I dunno. You kind of looked like you were having a really bad day."

"I was," Jack proclaims. "No, hold on, I was having a fine day, and then the guy asked some dumbass question about you and then I started having a really bad day. No offense."

For some reason McDavid keeps laughing. "Sounds like you're having a good time right now."

"Yeah, I’m with Reino. He's great. Truly excellent."

"Say hi for me." McDavid pauses. "I gotta go, but. Thanks again, Jack. Don't forget to drink water."

"You’re welcome, mom." Jack’s mouth really is dry. His lips feel like Play-Doh and he smacks them together. "Connor," he amends. "Good night."

Sam is squinting hazily at him when he hangs up, scrunched up against the back of the car seat with his chin on his chest. "You guys are really talking a lot, huh?" He sounds approving and Jack automatically grins back, warm and pleased.

Jack doesn’t get to see the interview for himself until after they’ve taken the Sharks in a 3-1 win and boarded their charter to L.A. Noah sends him the link along with LMAO.

what the fuck, he automatically sends back. He shifts in his seat and casually tilts his screen away from Ginner beside him.

It's a short clip, but Jack feels his cheeks heat up almost immediately. What had been an attempt at a smile looks more like he's baring his teeth, one side of his mouth tugged unpleasantly to the side and his brows furrowed. He looks remarkably uncomfortable, like the last place he wants to be is in front of those cameras saying Connor McDavid is "great." The accompanying blurb beneath ignores his answer and highlights their "rival" West Coast run.

u look like ur being tortured

like ur getting ur teeth pulled lol damn jack

Jack shuts the video off and bites his index knuckle. His call to McDavid was a funny memory this morning, but now it's embarrassing to think that McDavid saw this footage and thanked him for it. In a way it's not a surprise: Jack has caught trouble before, letting himself show a little too much, getting into misunderstandings about his resting face. He doesn't put much of a rein on his expressiveness.

ur not that good at lying, Noah tells him while Jack gnaws the skin off two cuticles. maybe u need to actually like things about mcd before u start saying u like him.

To be perfectly clear: Jack does not dislike Connor McDavid. He doesn't know enough about the guy to form a real opinion besides "extremely good at hockey," and a lack of friendliness doesn't equate to animosity. Relationships that simply do not exist can't be bad; in fact, it is precisely the ghost created between them by everyone else that is the problem. If they had been let alone, Jack wouldn't have thought twice about reaching out to Connor during draft weekend or the rookie showcase, asking him to grab a bite or play a round of ping pong like he did with the rest. Instead, he shied away from making anything about them real, like if he gave the ghost weight, it would have power, a body.

It reminds Jack of a book his mom described to his dad the last time he was home, about a couple whose marriage became the third person in their relationship, suffocating the space between them. The connection between him and Connor sometimes feels bigger than Connor himself, obscuring him from Jack's view; what joins them is what keeps them apart.

Not that he and McDavid are married. He omits that part when he asks McDavid to dinner. They have their first NHL matchup in a couple days, and the blogs are running fever-hot with anticipation. Jack had to turn off his Google Alerts.

"My family's coming up so I'm having dinner with them, but I can meet you for a bit right after the game? Maybe grab a quick bite in the stadium?"

"Sure, I'll come to the visitors' dressing room. Oh, there'll probably be reporters around -"

"That's perfect, right?" McDavid says. "It's good if they catch us."

"Right." Jack blows out a breath. "See you then. By the way, I can't believe you acted so nice about that crap interview."

"I get a lot of practice acting nice." He can hear McDavid's smile through the line. "Good luck."

The game, which was so hyped that even Jack felt an extra buzz under his skin, is garbage almost from the moment they step on the ice, and the fact that McDavid nets both of Edmonton's goals stings no matter how much Jack doesn't want it to. He showers and dresses, replaying the last overtime rush over and over in his head, picturing the different ways he could have flipped the puck, gotten it in. Does his time with the reporters, and then grabs two chocolate milks from the lounge. Sam catches his eye, and he shrugs uncomfortably.

"Gonna say hi to McDavid," he mumbles.

The hallway outside the visitors' room is busy with staff and a few Edmonton journalists. Their brows lift when they see him take a position outside the door, their hands reaching for their smartphones. Jack shifts, resisting the urge to take off.

At least he doesn't wait long. McDavid's face breaks into a smile when he sees Jack and he goes in for a quick hug. Jack pats his back and takes half a step back before remembering he's trying to foster a sense of closeness. He moves forward again and their knees bump. McDavid looks slightly confused, but he keeps smiling. His face is freshly scrubbed, pink at the cheeks and forehead where the skin is irritated, and his damp hair sticks up. Jack hasn't seen him this close in more than half a year, and he forgot how disarmingly mild McDavid appears, features rounded by baby fat and a placid brow. Entirely different than from across a faceoff circle - during the game, McDavid had barely acknowledged him, jaw set tight and eyes dark and hard under his visor. Jack realized then that their matchup must have bothered McDavid as much as it did him, and a newfound kinship unfolded in his chest; most of the time, he feels like the only frustrated one.

He asks, "D'you want to find a stairwell?"

"Actually, I can't," McDavid says sheepishly. "Dylan came up for the game - we weren't sure if he could make it, but now they want to go right away. There's a reservation or something." He glances over his shoulder, shifting on his feet, and immediately Jack feels like an intruder. The chocolate milks are heavy and slippery with condensation in his hands.

"That's fine," he says quickly. They were supposed to talk about the plan, hash it out a little to be more convincing - but it's probably better that they don't talk after that loss, anyway. "Um, we can just text later. It's not that complicated."

"Sorry, I know we barely get to see each other."

Jack is a little dumbfounded. "It's fine? You barely get to see Dylan and your family. Call me and we'll figure it out. Just watch out for the time zone, please."

McDavid laughs. "No promises." He waves to someone over Jack's shoulder, and Jack turns to see a bemused Strome glancing between them.

"Hey, Stromer."

"Long time no see." Dylan clasps his hand and they bump shoulders. He looks at Jack like he's waiting for an explanation, his brows raised. "Didn't expect you out here."

"I was just leaving." Jack turns back to McDavid, pushes a chocolate milk into his hands. "Here. Good game." After a beat, he gives the second one to Dylan, and gets the fuck out of there.

As expected, the next day both of them are named to the Team North America roster. Jack is pulled for a quick sound bite on NHL Network, gets lobbied a few questions about playing with McDavid at the World Cup that he tries to respond to enthusiastically.

"You and Connor seem pretty friendly lately, which is a bit of an evolution from what was said a couple months ago. What inspired the turnaround?" They're mostly referring to the gossip about yesterday's postgame meetup, though Jack knows that McDavid's recent mentions of him have made a positive 180 as well.

Jack starts with a bland smile, wondering when they'll stop harping on an answer from, actually, four months ago. "Yeah, we realized there was a chance we'd be teammates in September and decided to be a little proactive, get to know each other beforehand. It'd be amazing to win a medal as the young team, especially at the first World Cup in twelve years."

"Do you think the transition to teammates will be difficult? Especially considering the results of the game last night?"

Jack shakes his head and goes for a laugh. "Not at all."

They don't meet again for the rest of the season. Jack suggests what Noah said, that they learn more about each other so they're not pulling shit out of their asses when they play it up in public, and they take turns texting each other questions that gradually evolve from confirmations of what they knew about each other's careers to random quizzes pulled from the Internet.

"I don't know what Nicholas Sparks movie I'd want to star in," McDavid will say, and Jack, phone squeezed between shoulder and ear, will stop halfway through making a sandwich or folding laundry and threaten to call quits on the whole charade: "Don't even tell me you haven't seen any Nicholas Sparks movies."

Matt catches him a few times and teases Jack about it, but eventually he starts looking like he's not quite sure what to make of them. Once in a while he seems like he wants to ask something, but then he'll shake it off and settle on cautious amusement. Jack figures the less said, the better.

The calls turn into video chats by the end of March, once or twice a week, "Because I'm pretty sure I'm getting an ear infection," Jack complains. "I've never made so many phone calls in my life, it's archaic." They text often, though there's technically less to update each other on with the season wrapping up and neither of their teams going to the playoffs. Jack always thought Connor would be able to relate to him better than most people due to their shared circumstances, and it's refreshing to actually be able to tap into that rapport now, like turning another spigot and relieving the pressure on a dam.

Speculation for the Calder is rampant, but the attention on them is less focused than Jack expected at the start of the fall. Maybe most of that is because they aren't the leading contenders they were anticipated to be, between Connor's injury and Panarin and the other talent this year, but it also feels like the reporters are cooling off with every cheerfully dull answer they deliver, becoming slower to counter and prod for details, publishing fewer comparison pieces.

Something's working, at any rate, and the attention they do receive is much less grating. Jack isn't bristling over headlines like "POWER DUO: NEW SYNERGY FROM MCEICHEL FOR WORLD CUP OF HOCKEY"; oddly enough, if there's anywhere for new grievances to be found, it's in his personal life.

He notices it slowly, from Matt at home, from Sam and a few other members of the team. Once in the locker room after practice, Hudson leaned over when he was texting Connor his results from a "How Well Do You Speak Canadian?" BuzzFeed quiz and asked, "When are we gonna meet her, Eich?"

"Your mom," Jack replied, distracted. "What are we talking about?"

"You've met him," Sam called from across the room. "It's McDavid. He's always texting McDavid."

Hudson looked surprised. "I didn't know you and McDavid were close."

"They've been going steady for a month," Sam joked, but there was something assessing in his gaze that made Jack uneasy.

"Jealousy's not a cute look, Sammy," he said, and to Hudson, "We're friends, we're just prepping for the World Cup." It wasn't a lie; they spend a lot of time discussing each other's play.

Even Strome has been weird. Last week he sent Jack a cryptic text consisting solely of a string of question marks. Jack had looked at it, sent one tentative question mark back, and never received a reply.

Maybe it makes sense for everyone to feel a little out of balance, and Jack's the one who got used to things too quickly. If someone said a month ago that he would be friends with Connor McDavid, he wouldn't have deigned to reply. Unlike the rest of them though, Jack knows the truth, and he figures this just means their plan is working.

The big milestone is the World Cup. So far their line has been that they're readying themselves to play on the same team, and there's been a sense of anticipation from media and friends alike to see that come to fruition. Jack can't say if anything about their efforts will actually translate onto the ice, but the World Cup is when all eyes will be on them as a pair. It will be their chance to solidify the "friendship," make a big show of it with front-page photos and quotes so that it's embedded in the public memory. After that, they'll only have to drop a comment here or there when asked - it's not like other cross-team friendships are constantly being promoted - and on a personal level, they can return to how it was like before and leave each other alone again.

Jack hasn't really thought that far yet. He's mostly focused on wrapping up for the offseason. Locker clean-out day is always a little wretched, but at least Buffalo ended on a win. Connor is going to Russia in a month, and they'll both be busy with their families before that, so there'll be minimal communication until deep into the summer. They probably won't meet until training camp in September.

He packs up all his stuff at the Moulsons', and they do one last big farewell dinner. Jack spends the evening sprawled on the floor with Georgie and Mila until Alicia collects them for bed. His flight to Boston is in the morning, and after that, his rookie year will be officially over.

"You can visit us whenever you want," Matt tells him.

Jack heaves a sigh and allows himself three more seconds of lying on the carpet before he needs to get up and help Matt unload the dishwasher. He throws his arm over his eyes. Maybe five seconds. "Yeah, I know." He is excited about living with Sam next year, getting out of a family nest and all that. He pokes at his phone. There are two messages, one from Noah that says is it weird I'm gonna miss blake, which makes his chest twinge, and another from Connor wishing him a good summer.

good luck at worlds, he sends back with three USA flag emojis.

"I'm gonna hold you to it," Matt says. "Don't leave me alone with Bogo."

Summer is at once golden and perfect. Jack goes home first, then makes a trip to Boston while all his school friends are still in town. It's a city he never stops missing, though he forgets how fiercely deep the ache runs until he's walking down the familiar streets with everyone only a T ride away. He makes a point of sending Connor snaps of the sun-dappled trees and buttery lobster rolls, even though St. Petersburg in May is plenty warm, and Connor retaliates with a selfie with Sam on an expensive-looking boat at sunset, elaborate and brightly coloured onion domes soaring behind them. Jack stares at the picture and can admit he feels a little FOMO.

The funniest thing about being back is how far his ruse seems to have traveled even to his college buddies. In the beginning they ask after Connor with knowing grins that make Jack's ears redden, but they don't seem to suspect anything and he plays it off as coolly as he can manage. They bring him up again the first time they hit the bars, and again Jack shrugs it off, keeping his confusion over their interest to himself. He picks up a little during his visit, both girls and boys, and that seems to quiet them down.

Even Charlie, when he meets up with him and Noah after Worlds to train, politely inquires after Connor and tells Jack he can invite him to come down and work out with them if he wants. "Uh, he's in Toronto," Jack says. Connor just sent him a video of Dylan almost dropping 300 pounds on his foot that morning. "But thanks, I'll let him know?"

"Jack's up to date," Noah says. "He sent Connor so many more snaps than me."

"You're from Boston and you've been to my house," Jack says. "What do I need to snap you for?"

"Friendship isn't about necessity." Noah sniffs. He isn't making a veiled jab, preoccupied with adjusting his stationary bike, but Jack thinks of Connor anyway.

Later though, Noah follows him to his car and hovers until Jack rolls his eyes and throws Noah's bag in the trunk too.

"I know the - whole scheme, what's up between you and McDavid," Noah begins once they pull out of the parking lot. "But you know you can tell me anything, too. I won't like, make fun of you."

"Dude, you're the only one I've told. Probably the only one who knows, unless Davo's told Stromer. He's probably told Stromer."

"No, I mean." Noah licks his lips, frustrated. "Yeah, Strome knows. Which is why I told him he was being crazy and that I'd confirm it after I saw you in person, but he's right, isn't he?"

"You've been talking to Strome? Wait, right about what?" Jack squints absently at the road. "You know you sound pretty crazy right now."

"You and McDavid," Noah says, flushing. "You're - dating."

Jack almost runs a red light, slamming on the breaks with the nose of the car already too far out and jerking them both from their seats. "What?" He shrills, yanking on the shift knob and reversing out of the intersection. Thank Christ the street is deserted. "That is crazy. That is so crazy, Hanny, what the fuck?" He can't even pretend Noah is joking, because Noah's doing that thing when he's anxious where he can't stop licking his lips, his brow knitted tight. "Stromer thinks I'm dating his best friend? Stromer thinks I'm dating Connor McDavid?"

"It's cool if you are!" Noah bursts out. "No one cares. You know it doesn't have to be a secret, right? We're your friends."

"Great, thanks!" Jack snaps. "Good to know for when I actually secretly date someone! What the fuck, you said Strome knows about the whole fake friends thing? If he's so convinced, why doesn't he just ask Connor?"

"He did and Connor denied it, but apparently he wasn't very convincing. He figured you'd be easier to crack."

"Jesus." Jack's hands are tight on the steering wheel. "Thanks for springing this on me while I'm driving, by the way."

"Sorry." Noah pauses. "Just the way you talk about - anyway I thought you might be too proud to admit it, you know, if you guys really were dating. If you say you aren't, I believe you."

Jack is silent for a moment. His mind is churning, flicking back through months of memories that are suddenly tracked by uncomfortably similar conversations. "Well," he finally says, feeling like his throat is stuffed with dry cotton. "Thanks for the misguided support. Very mature of you, Hanny." And: "I didn't even know McDavid was into guys."

"Fuck off." Noah sounds relieved. "And um, yeah, he's pretty…into them. Just guys, I think."

"Maturity only surpassed by eloquence, huh prep school?"

"Fuck off!"

The next morning Jack tries to pretend nothing happened, but he can barely meet Charlie's eye for the first two hours. Did he also - ? Was his offer because - ? Jack doesn't want to think about it. It's mortifying to imagine this entire time, everyone thought - just abstractly picturing it makes Jack's face flame up and his stomach twist hot and heavy, and he thanks god that he's already bright red and pouring sweat from sprints. He's overthinking it. How many people would jump to that conclusion? He's not exactly closeted, but he's discreet. It's probably just crazy fucking Strome, and Noah, who's so suggestible sometimes. Jack takes a few deep breaths and pours the last half-inch of his water bottle over his face. He tells himself he's getting rattled over nothing.

The part he keeps going back to is Noah saying Strome already brought this up with Connor. It gnaws at Jack like a flea: what Connor must have thought, how Connor never let on in all their conversations. But it's not like Jack would have gone out of his way to mention it either - no, that's not right. If someone thought he and Noah were dating, he would've shared it for sure, thought it was the funniest joke. He's not sure what's different here, why it makes him squirm and want to duck for cover. Maybe because his relationship with Noah is safe and well-charted, and they know exactly who they are to each other.

"You're quiet," Connor notes when they FaceTime later that week. "Something on your mind?"

Jack rubs his face to disguise the pink that flushes the tops of his cheeks. "Nah, just tired." The video quality washes out Connor's face but light still catches in his eyes, slate blue and concerned under furrowed brows. It's nice, being able to chat regularly again; Connor didn't reply much when he was in Russia, and Jack had felt a strange impatience kick up every time he looked at his quiet phone.

Abruptly, he sits up. "You wanna hear something funny," he says, abdominal muscles clenching.

"Shoot."

Jack opens his eyes wide and leans in close, like he's carrying out a dare. "...Hanny asked me if we were dating."

Nothing. Then an amused intake of breath, and Connor's mouth curves in the gentlest laugh Jack has ever heard. "Did you ask why it took so long for him to catch on?"

Jack snorts despite himself and admits, "No, I almost killed us in traffic."

This time Connor's laugh startles out of him, loud and delighted, the kind that always makes Jack feel good about himself. "And I thought Dyls had no chill," Connor says. "He asked me the same thing, y'know. I think they're insecure about getting replaced as best friends."

"Best friends?" Jack drawls, raising an eyebrow. "We'd need a whole phase two for that."

Connor looks thoughtful. "Does that make dating phase three?"

Jack settles back against the headboard of his bed, slouching until the pillows are positioned perfectly at his back. "You'd have to take me out to dinner first."

September arrives at a crawl, the days leading up to Jack's flight to Montreal stretching out long and slow like molasses. Anticipation builds from the moment he finally embarks the plane, a slow fizz of adrenaline that has Jack's ears ringing with imagined crowds and his nose stinging from the memory of ice and rink rubber. He can't fucking wait to skate, and for the umpteenth time in the past few days he thinks about playing with Connor - not about their scheme, but just the game. They won't be on the same line, he knows, but the thought still makes his chest swell. When his Uber pulls up at the hotel, he takes the stairs two at a time and strides right into someone's suitcase.

"Whoa!" A hand grabs his shirt just in time to keep him from faceplanting on the carpet. Jack does an awkward imitation of a pirouette to untangle himself and looks up into Connor's smiling face. He's gotten a haircut since they last FaceTimed and he looks tanner in person, warmer. Jack is beaming when he gathers his balance enough to wind his arm under Connor's and hug him in greeting.

"How's it going? Did you just get here?" He spots Dylan Larkin waiting in line to check in at the front desk and waves at him before pulling back to take another look at Connor.

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago." Connor points at the suitcase at their feet and jokes, "Falling pretty hard for me, eh?"

It's a terrible line with even more terrible delivery and Connor knows it, his half-smile a little self-conscious, but Jack is looking at him with his blood pumping and his senses stuffed with desire, every bit of his awareness tuned and waiting to be plucked like a harp's string, and he swears to god the wires cross in his brain, mixing his yearning and elation for the tournament, from the summer, as amplified by the suspicions of his friends - every anxiety coalescing together in a moment of dawning horror and clarity, so blunt and blinding it hurts.

Fuck me in the ass was Jack's first thought downstairs in the lobby, and now, standing in the doorway of his shared room with Connor, he thinks it again. Fuck me in the fucking ass.

"Well," Connor says, staring at the single queen bed. "That's not very original."

"We need to call someone to fix it," Jack says numbly.

"I can't remember the last time I got pranked with this," Connor continues. "Like, maybe my first or second year in the O? They did it to me and Dylan once. Jokes on them, we used to share a bed every time Dyls slept over because he was afraid of the dark." He turns to Jack and Jack sees his face is slightly pink. It's a small relief that Connor isn't as unruffled as he sounds. "Don't tell him I told you that."

"I'm calling the front desk." Jack drops his bags and goes for the bedside phone.

"Eich, you know if we squeal they'll never let us hear the end of it."

Jack's hand falls an inch from the receiver. Yeah, he'd never think to do anything but stick it out in any other case. He rubs his thigh, annoyed at himself. "Dibs on the side farthest from the door."

"Ugh, fine. You better not kick."

They take turns washing up and go back downstairs for dinner. Jack toys with the idea of staying out of the room long enough for Connor to fall asleep, but they have curfew and it would be really obvious with everyone else going to bed early to sleep off their flights.

He finds Larks in the dining room and waves Connor off with Ekblad, who escorts Connor to what looks like the Canadian summit table.

"How was your summer, D-Boss?"

"Thought you liked being original with your chirps, Jack," Dylan shoots back.

Jack shrugs cheerfully and follows Dylan to an empty table. They order their food, and Jack makes a show of raising his water glass to congratulate Dylan on his season. "I know emojis are worth a thousand words, but you deserve an in-person toast."

"Aw Jack, don't be embarrassing," Dylan says, though he looks pink and pleased. "Save some of that energy for later, you're too excited."

Internal crises aside, Jack can't dispute that. He's still eager for the tournament, and thrilled to play with Larks again for the first time in years. He chatters through the rest of the meal, and it's not until they've both polished off their plates that he thinks of the hotel room situation again.

Dylan brings it up. "By the way, Eich." He drops his voice and glances around them. "The stunt with the bed - that has nothing to do with you and Connor, okay? No one knows about you guys."

Jack hits his front teeth on his fork tines. "What?"

"It's not a jab or anything, if you're worried. They just did it because you guys are the big shots. Like I said, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who even knows you're together. Maybe Eks, but." Dylan shrugs.

Jack faintly wonders how many more of these conversations await him, and if Connor is getting his equal share, because otherwise this is just not fair. He looks across the room, but Connor is laughing into his pasta, a bit of tomato sauce on his chin, while MacKinnon and Ekblad stand on either side of him and act out something that involves a lot of chest-thumping and probably no earnest reassurances against homophobia. Jack drinks his water.

"How do you...know," he says carefully. At this point he is genuinely curious. He's going to kill Strome and Noah if it turns out they're even slightly responsible.

"Fasch kind of said something during Worlds when I mentioned being surprised that you guys were getting friendly in the news," Dylan says. "Don't be mad at him though, I mostly put it together myself. It's probably because we've been friends for a while, but you're not that subtle, Jack." His face splits in a grin. "Especially when you got in today. Couldn't keep your eyes off the kid, huh?"

Jack drinks more water, hiding behind the glass. He is used to getting in trouble for being too expressive, and used to being accused of letting everything show on his face. Half the time, it's other people reading him wrong and misunderstanding. The other half, it's his own honesty getting the better of him.

"If anyone does give you trouble though, let me know," Dylan says seriously.

Jack doesn't know how to respond. We're not dating? We were pretending to be friends? He could simply say that they're just friends and it wouldn't be a lie, but it feels strangely sour on his tongue when the truth is becoming steadily more complicated. He's not sure Dylan would fully believe him anyway. Noah was right about him being too proud. "Thanks," he finally says. "I appreciate it, bud."

In a stunning refusal to be cowed, Jack gets ready for bed so early that he's showered and under the covers before Connor has even unzipped his suitcases.

"Oh," Connor says. "Sure, I don't mind sleeping early."

Jack, sitting against the headboard with his hands in his lap, studies the pattern of the hotel comforter. He fakes a yawn. "I'm just, um, pretty tired. You can keep watching TV or whatever."

"No, it's a good idea. Get an early start tomorrow, set a good example." Connor mumbles the last part to himself. He disappears into the washroom, and for half a minute Jack considers pretending to be asleep when Connor gets back out. Then he grabs his phone, disgusted at himself, and resolutely makes himself comfortable.

He doesn't want to let his realization change how he acts, but Jack is a little worried that his behaviour is already a problem. If Noah and Dylan saw through him so easily, he has to wonder how obvious he is to Connor. The possibility that Connor already knows how he feels and is too polite to say anything gives Jack an immediate case of the goosebumps. But Jack didn't like him when they first started talking, and Connor has acted the same all this time. No matter how hard Jack strains to remember instances of Connor pulling back or cooling off, he can't. His responsiveness, interest in Jack's opinions, kindness - everything has remained constant.

He sends Noah a text that he half-hopes doesn't get read just as Connor comes out of the washroom, holding a tank top close to his chest and a tub of muscle rub.

"Sorry," Connor says, edging sideways to the end of the bed. "Trained a bit too hard a couple weeks ago." He sits facing away from Jack and reaches behind himself carefully.

Jack winces in sympathy, the slowness of Connor's motions belying his injury. He hesitates, then reminds himself of his vow to act normal and says, "Do you want help?"

Connor stops dabbing the cream on his lower back and peers at Jack over his shoulder. "Um, actually, sure. It's kind of an awkward spot to get at."

Jack's phone flashes with Noah's reply, and he glances at it before crawling over the bed and taking the tub from Connor. Connor leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. His back is pale and freckled, not as broad as a lot of other players Jack's seen, but densely muscled. Jack scoops cold cream onto three fingers and taps Connor with his other hand. "Here?" He's close enough that his breath raises the tiny hairs at Connor's nape, and Jack feels his face heat.

"Yeah, kinda that whole right side," Connor murmurs.

"Okay. Let me know if it hurts," Jack says. He's done this for countless teammates, and the motions feel no different, massaging the greasy ointment in steady circles on warm skin. The room is brightly lit, and Connor barely moves aside from the rise and fall of his breath. Jack glances up the knobby ridge of Connor's spine and imagines his fingers following the path of his eyes. "Larks thinks we're dating."

Connor is startled into a laugh. "Really? Eks too. He congratulated me at dinner and said he always thought you were a good kid even if you sound like a dick sometimes."

"What the hell, Ekblad," Jack says, offended, though his heartbeat quickens. "No one's said anything like that about you. I guess you make a better impression on the in-laws."

"Marriage would be like, phase one hundred," Connor says. "And we'd get asked about each other every single day until we died."

He is so calm about all of it, Jack thinks, working the muscle rub up high where his fingers slide along the last ridge of Connor's ribs. He wonders if Connor was as blindsided as he was when he realized where their deception had led them, or if he had already known. Jack didn't recognize what he was seeing until it was pointed out to him, but he has always had a deliberate blind spot for Connor, always dragging his feet even though he already knows his destination.

Connor's thighs are trembling, and Jack realizes he's leaned too close, his mouth open over the curve of Connor's shoulder. His nose is filled with the smell of hotel shampoo and soap. He sits back on his heels and takes his hands off Connor's body.

"I guess we're better at pretending to like each other than I thought," he says, and Connor stiffens.

They go to bed in silence, exchanging good nights before Connor turns away on his side. The bed is wide enough that they don't touch, though it's almost uncomfortably warm under the covers. Jack looks at Noah's text again, then tosses his phone out of reach and turns off the bedside light. He curls towards the centre of the bed, a few careful inches of space between them, his forehead bent towards the back of Connor's neck.

it's not just u, jack

remember, strome suspected it first

The first practice is held the next morning. Their exhibition game against Team Europe in Quebec City is only a few days away and the coaches are anxious to run lines and see who clicks. Connor ends up on the other end of the ice from Jack for most of it, fooling around with Ekblad and Gaudreau between drills, and it makes something uncharitable twist in Jack's chest. He knows there's no way he and Connor are faking it at this point, but seeing Connor with his "real" friends brings up the insecurity of their arrangement. Jealously, he wonders if there are sides to Connor that he hasn't been shown, that Connor would have kept guarded from a person with whom he has such an inorganic relationship.

"Okay, if you keep looking like that I'm going to start giving you a hard time," Dylan hisses to him on the bench. "It's been an hour, dude. Some of us won't see our girlfriends for a month."

Jack grabs him in a headlock, and they wrestle until Murray wades over and holds them apart with a blocker.

He does his best to ignore Connor after that, until practice ends and they file back into the locker room. Their stalls are close enough that Jack has a clear view of Connor without being obvious, and he keeps half an eye on him as they strip off their gear to see if there are any worsening signs of the back pain from yesterday. Things were normal when they woke up in the morning, though Jack had to carefully extricate his foot from where it had ended up between Connor's calves. Connor was smiley, no sign of the weirdness from the night before, and they did three rounds of rock-paper-scissors for first shower (Jack won).

He dresses and goes to refill his bottle at the water cooler. Connor taps him on the arm as he passes by. "Can we talk after?"

"Uh, sure," Jack says, suddenly nervous. Maybe things aren't as fine as he thought.

He tells Dylan that he wants to check on something about his stick and to go ahead to lunch, then loiters in one of the smaller equipment rooms until everyone has left. Connor joins him a few minutes later. Jack is vividly reminded of the first time they spoke this privately, eight months ago over the phone. Connor held all the cards back then too.

"Sorry, had to shake a couple guys off." Connor blows out his cheeks and rakes his hair off his forehead. "I'll get straight to it. About what you said last night." He holds Jack's gaze, eyes dark and steady. "I want us to be friends. Like, for real. I'm not pretending to like you and I don't think you are either, and it'd be nice to be friends without all this bullshit."

It's not what Jack expected, and his stomach swoops even as relief floods the rest of his body and his lips turn up. "I'm not pretending to like you either," he says, and is rewarded with a brilliant smile. He swallows with some difficulty, thinking about leaving it there, and also thinking about Connor taking the initiative to approach him, then and now. Thinking about being honest using his words. "Actually," he says. "I really like you. As much as Stromer and Hanny and Ekblad and the rest of them think I do."

Before his eyes, Connor turns an immediate, amazing shade of deep pink.

"Oh my gosh," he says, and it's so comical Jack can't help but laugh. "Don't laugh!" Connor says, and Jack covers his mouth. Connor socks him in the shoulder, but he also clumsily takes his hand, which Jack counts as a good sign.

"You know this is a headline they'll never let go of," Connor says rapidly. "I mean, yes - yes, I really like you too - but this is definitely going in the opposite direction of what we wanted."

"Well, what can you do," Jack says, pulling Connor a little closer. He wonders how long they can keep the single bed before the rest of the guys get suspicious. "I guess it comes with the territory." Maybe they were never going to get away from all the attention, but at the very least they can have some of it on their own terms.