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A towel whips across his backside, the heavy wetness leaving a sharp sting across his skin. It burns, even through his athletic wear, but Sid keeps his mouth shut as he finds his stall. The less he reacts, the quicker it’s over. He'd learned that lesson early on, after he’d mouthed back during his first year and nearly gotten a cock shoved in his mouth for his troubles—nonconsensually, because that’s an important difference.
Somebody whoops in the background at the abuse, probably Arnie ‘cause he can’t keep his mouth shut worth a damn—once he’d even hollered at the news of Dano’s wife’s passing, true story—and Sid grits his teeth. He thought they’d overlook his shootout miss for that block he’d put on Wilson, but it doesn’t seem likely. The boys are rowdy today, and Sid knows only too well what that means.
“Sidney put on quite a show out there, ain’t that right fellas?”
A chorus of deep approvals, more mocking than genuine, ripples across the room. “Too bad he couldn’t keep it together at the end, huh? Cost us the game.”
Cue the roaring laughter.
It’s almost routine by now, the picking apart of Sid’s game and the finger-pointing, also usually at Sid. Sid, the first overall pick, Sid, the youngest player on the team, Sid, the greatest talent to grace the sport of hockey since Wayne Gretzky last laced up his skates. Sid, the gay kid and the butt of every locker room joke.
He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps his posture straight and tries not to look down, even if it means he has to stare blankly ahead at the wall in the spaces between his snickering teammates.
“Think pretty face will give us a show here too?”
“What kind are we talking?”
“The kind you get at the strip club. No touching.”
“The Sidney special,” someone chimes. “Has a nice ring to it.”
“I got a Sidney special once. Not this one though.”
“You think we can get some kind of discount?”
Fucking hell. Sid shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to cover his stiffening dick with his towel. He hopes no one catches on, or he'll really never hear the end of it.
“Depends on how far he gets. Hey Sid, how much to drop your panties?”
“Shit, how big do you think he is?”
“Worth a hundred bucks maybe, if he lets us touch.”
"Dude, who's us?"
"A hundred? For something you get for free at the strip club? No way, man. Hey Evgeni, how much do girls go for in Russia?"
"Or guys," someone else calls out.
"Think he'll suck cock for a hundred?" They laugh again, but it's uneasier this time. It's clearly a joke, but Sid can tell it hits a little too close to home for some of these guys.
That snaps him out of it and he looks up from his laces, face burning red, and briefly locks eyes with the newest addition to their team across the room, whose eyes are blown wide, likely not understanding the words being said, but knowing enough to avoid getting involved, frowning at the mention of his name.
The Russian immediately flits his gaze away, looking down to fuss with removing his pads. Sid doesn’t blame him, can’t, not when he’d do the same damn thing.
If only.
He has no idea who leaked the pictures, it could’ve been anyone really, anyone from school who’d gotten their hands on them, photos of him and Jack drunk at a party, kissing. And it would’ve stayed like that, just kids doing stupid shit, if the organization hadn’t caught wind of it shortly after signing him, and brought him around the team to do the rounds.
An opportunity for team-building, they’d said. To be accepting and progressive. It’s been kept under wraps so far, an open secret internally, but Sid isn’t holding his breath. Sooner or later, one of these guys is going to talk.
Somebody wolf whistles. “Watch it Mud, you’re starting to sound like one of them.” The laughter returns, and Mud properly chastened, makes to leave the room for the showers, but not before pointing a finger at Sid.
“I better not see your faggot ass in there until I’m done, you hear me kid?”
Sid doesn’t bother explaining to Mud that him being just only a smidgen taller than Sid and not all that more built does not make him a particularly attractive target in Sid’s homosexual opinion, and only nods, happy to sit a little longer in his own sweat if it means they’ll leave him alone.
Eventually, the shit talking dies down as the weight of another lost game settles over them, and they filter out of the room one by one in various stages of undress, those not so bothered by Sid choosing to go only with a towel, and those more conservative leaving with their shirts still on.
Evgeni, the new kid, they’re going to have to find a nickname for the poor guy, leaves too in the mix, with his shirt on and a towel wrapped around his waist, seemingly confused about the proper locker-room-to-shower dress etiquette in the NHL, leaving Sid blessedly alone in the empty room.
He sits for a while in the comfortable silence, alone with his thoughts, and he replays the game in his head. It doesn't take him long, most of his analysis having been done already in real time, but he finds the post-game review worth it anyway. When that's done, the guilt of those missed shots slowly subsiding as he logics his way through the practical steps to improvement, what remains then, is the issue down there.
He plays with the edges of the towel covering his crotch and debates whether or not his teenage libido is enough to get the job done before the guys come back, and if it would be worse for them to come back to him jerking it, or to him still rocking a full hard-on. As expected, the urge to relieve the sexual frustration proves too great for his self-control and all it takes is another cursory glance around the room to confirm he's truly alone for him to reach under the tight elastic waistband of his pants and grip himself, pulling his dick free.
The touch alone nearly sends him over the edge—the guys had keyed him up so much that it wouldn't take much more for him to come—and thoughts of him stripping on a stage in front of a rowdy crowd full of hockey players soon replace his very important takeaways from today's game.
Fuck, he definitely isn't thinking of Mud, but Drew and Bez, yeah, they would do. Sid's not mature enough yet to consider the implications of getting off to his older and very straight teammates, his mind singularly focused on seeking release and chasing that euphoric high, and neither is he particularly concerned about getting caught once he's gotten started, so the light stays on and the towel hangs precariously off his thighs as he works himself with reckless abandon.
He strokes himself hard and fast, using the precum at the tip as lube. It's far from enough, and the friction almost hurts, but the roughness only makes him harder, and he imagines that it's not his hand, but somebody else's, bigger, tougher, like a bear—
"Sid?"
His eyes fly open. He hadn't even realized he'd squeezed them shut until the brightness of the room pierces through and he has to squint for a second. Shit. He scrambles to cover himself, but without the restrictive material of his compression pants to press his boner down, the lone towel leaves little to imagination.
Evgeni lingers awkwardly at the doorway, hair still dripping wet from his shower. By the looks of it, he'd rushed through it, and Sid thinks he can still make out some soap suds scattered across his broad shoulders. He hopes it isn't because of something the guys said or did. Gay or not, he's still captain-hopeful and he'd be damned if the gross behavior extended to the new guys.
"Sorry, I- I was just um- " Sid blushes, feeling immediately the heat rise in his cheeks, but he hates backing down in any situation. He quickly adjusts himself again so that it's not so obvious, more out of courtesy than trying to cover up what he was doing because there's no way Evgeni hasn't put two and two together. "You can come in."
If Sid's red, then Evgeni's edging on purple with how flushed he looks. He rushes in, tall frame ducked as he makes his way past Sid to his own stall. Sid watches him dress with mild fascination at how someone so gangly can still move with such awkward grace. It distracts him for a while, from the mess yet to be resolved under his towel, and he's ready to shove himself back in his pants and pray no one looks at the half-chub there until he makes it to safety under the cold spray of the showers when Evgeni sits down next to him, in Biggie's seat.
Sid doesn't know if all Russians are this forward, but it makes him squirm. They haven't really spoken, not really, if you can count Sid talking at Evgeni while he listens, only half understanding and mostly bewildered, as proper conversation. But here he is, fully dressed, sitting next to Sid who's still got his pants half down under the towel.
"Want know," Evegni says carefully as he picks the words out from his growing mental catalogue of English words. "Okay? You?" he tacks on, remembering belatedly that English requires a subject.
It takes Sid a beat to realize he's asking about earlier, when the guys were laughing at his expense. Guess he shouldn't be surprised that that kind of locker room harassment is cross-national. Sid shrugs. He's clearly been worse.
"Used to it," he says simply.
Evgeni nods before he frowns. "What mean, fag-got?"
Sid blanches. "Bad word," he says. "Better not say it. But it means that I like guys."
"Like, guys?"
"It means I want to have sex with guys," Sid clarifies plainly, feeling it's better to establish the truth sooner than later even if it turns an already awkward situation even more awkward.
"Oh." As predicted, Evgeni struggles to find an adequate response to that revelation.
"Well, the guys are probably finishing up," Sid's voice trails.
Sid doesn't expect Evgeni to break out in a mischievous grin. "No soap."
"What do you mean, no soap?"
"No soap," Evgeni repeats. "Took all." He points to his shower bag on the floor. Sid sees at least four bottles of shower gel in there, and he can't help from grinning too.
"You took their soap?" he asks incredulously. "Why?"
"Russia, we do. Bad guys."
"What, you take soap from bad guys so they stay smelly?" Sid's not sure Evgeni fully understands him but he's nodding. "That's the silliest thing I've ever heard." He doesn't even care if it's true or not, he's just glad he's got a teammate in his corner for once.
"Smile big," Evgeni says approvingly, appraising Sid.
Sid feels self-conscious of his smile, of his lips stretched over his teeth. "Thanks, G." The nickname slips out, and he doesn't even know where it comes from.
"G?"
"Yeah, that's you. G for Evgeni."
Evgeni twists his face in confusion. "I not think Evgeni have G."
"Too bad. You're G now. Geno too, if you like it."
Geno takes a second to think on it before nodding. "I like. Better than Jenny."
"Definitely better than Jenny," Sid agrees.
By now, his boner's mostly died down so it's easier to shove himself back into his pants, which he does, with little finesse or care if Geno sees. Geno politely averts his eyes anyway, face flushing again, and Sid is silently thankful. He's all about team-bonding but there are certain lines you don't cross.
"Sorry," Geno says.
"For what?" If anything, Sid's sorry for putting on a show, inadvertently, for Geno.
Geno points his chin at Sid's crotch. "You not finish, right?"
Now it's Sid turn to blush. "Ah, no. I didn't, but it's okay. I'm okay, really."
Geno looks at him thoughtfully. Sid can't tell what he's thinking behind those big brown eyes. Without meaning to, his eyes flicker down to Geno's hands, which are also big and-
"Next time I help."
Sid nearly tumbles out of his seat. "What?"
"I help," Geno repeats, like that helps at all clarify what he means.
"You want to help jerk me off?" and just in case Geno doesn't understand what jerking someone off means, Sid mimes the motion with his hand, pumping a loose fist up and down in the air.
Geno nods seriously, like this is a serious matter, and not at all breaking multiple rules of teammate conduct. "I'm like guys too."
"Oh." Now it's Sid's turn to sit in stunned silence.
"Can help. If want."
Sid studies his teammate's face, flushed but earnest, ears red to the tips. He can't get over how big his eyes are, and how young he looks even though he knows Geno's older than him.
"Okay," he finally says, even though he shouldn't. But he could really use a friend, in any capacity, and if Geno's offering, who's he to say no?
"Okay," Geno repeats with a small smile, almost a little shy, and that's all the time they get before loud voices down the hall filter into the room and Sid has to preemptively think of an excuse for why four of the guys mysteriously lost their soap besides, "your weird Russian teammate."
Geno gives him a wink before gathering his own things, and he slips out the door before the rabble arrives. Sid checks his pants again, relieved to see that no evidence of his hard-on remains besides a small dark spot easily covered by a towel.
"Oy, pretty face, your turn."
Sid sighs to himself and gets ready for his shower.