Thrown Off the Ice

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  So yeah, Mike’s not a good fucking person.

  “You okay?” Mike asks after a moment.

  “All good,” Fitzgerald says, and his smile is like fucking sunshine.

  *

  Mike doesn’t know if Fitzgerald is psychic or just getting even stupider with bravado, because right around the point where Mike realizes he sort of wants to break him, the kid starts flirting with him. It’s easy to ignore at first, as easy as it had been to ignore Fitzgerald latching onto him in the first place, at least right up until he started following Mike around so often the team started calling him Mike’s duckling.

  This is Fitzgerald’s forward offensive all fucking over again. Fitzgerald sits closer and closer, and if he keeps it up the team’s probably going to start calling him Mike’s lap dog. They’re a bunch of oblivious idiots most of the time, but the fact that Fitzgerald’s muscling into Mike’s personal space on a near constant basis is going to get noticed. Mike should honestly stop it there, take him aside and tell him to quit sitting so close, that he likes his personal space and he wants it to be acknowledged.

  He doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell Fitzgerald to back the fuck off. He’d like to think it’s because he knows Fitzgerald’s harmless, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t even close to the reason.

  The first sign of danger is Fitzgerald all fucking over him, though that might be an exaggeration. It’s knees nudging, arms brushing, nothing huge, probably just a malfunctioning sense of personal space, the way Fitzgerald sits with plenty of others. No big deal, except Mike lets him. That’s the fucking problem.

  But then, sometime after Mike notices the proximity, Fitzgerald starts talking to him all drowsy eyed, taffy slow instead of the manic pace he usually goes at. Mike finds himself vaguely worrying for a couple days that Fitzgerald’s wearing himself out. He knows the schedule’s rough, the games rougher, how big an adjustment it is when you get to the pro level.

  “You feeling okay?” Mike asks, when Fitzgerald doesn’t get his pep back.

  “Fine, why?” Fitzgerald asks.

  “Dunno,” Mike says. “You sick or something?”

  “No,” Fitzgerald says, scowling fiercely, stomping off in a teenage sulk, and Mike remains confused for the rest of the fucking day until he puts it together. He’s not stupid, and Fitzgerald’s not subtle: Fitzgerald was attempting fucking bedroom eyes. Fitzgerald’s got some fucking ridiculous seduction plan and he’s using it on Mike, because — Mike honestly has no fucking clue why he’s using it on Mike.

  Of all the people to flirt with on the Oilers, Mike is possibly the worst choice. Hell, even the married guys would probably be a better bet. Mike fucks guys sometimes, but it’s not exactly something he advertises, and his very appearance should scare Fitzgerald right off. Mike’s got eight inches and probably a good sixty pounds on him. Mike beats the shit out of people for a living. And there’s Liam Fitzgerald, flirting with him like it’s a good idea.

  Mike doesn’t know what this is to Fitzgerald, doubts it’s anything genuine. It’s probably just him pushing at another limit, bored with the last line he crossed, seeing how much he can get away with. Fuck, for all Mike knows the rookies have a bet going on how far Fitzgerald can take it before Mike smacks him down.

  Fitzgerald’s intention is irrelevant anyway, because Mike doesn’t rise to the bait. He stoically endures Fitzgerald’s clumsy passes, pretends he doesn’t even notice, dimly amused by how much that seems to piss Fitzgerald off, makes him redouble his efforts. Mike doesn’t know if Fitzgerald thinks he’s upping his game or what, because all his attempts are so bad that Mike thinks he got them from Cosmo or from a virgin’s idea of what seduction is, or something. Hell, he may still be a virgin. Mike is an awful person.

  Mike is an awful person because that doesn’t make any difference to him: not the potential virginity, not the age, nothing, because as clumsy as Fitzgerald’s attempts are, they’re cute. He’s cute.

  Fitzgerald still has that doe-eyed innocent look about him, but Mike’s seen him on the ice, seen what he can do, and he knows the kid’s as vicious, deep down, as the rest of them. He’s got big blue eyes and hair constantly falling in his face and an ass that’s spectacular even compared to the average hockey player, and Mike wants him so much his teeth hurt, but Fitzgerald has no clue what he’s playing with, so Mike keeps his goddamn hands to himself.

  The point is, Fitzgerald does his pseudo seduction, Mike puts him in the ‘no, not ever’ box, and that’s it. Or it would have been if Fitzgerald had just left it the fuck alone.

  Chapter 2

  The Oilers win at home the night Mike fucks everything up; a blowout that nets Fitzgerald a goal and an assist and Mike his first goal all season, which puts him in a pretty good mood. Hell, it puts the whole team in a good mood, the rout strewing around points for most, with eight goals between them.

  A win like that calls for the sort of team celebration that’s gotten less common as the season’s advanced and the Alberta freeze has sunk into their bones. Most of the team fills tables at their customary bar that night, and when Fitzgerald squeezes in beside Mike in a booth, a spot he can’t take without pressing himself against Mike from knee to hip, Mike just smiles at him, full of good, goal scoring cheer.

  They order a couple pitchers for the table, Rogers looking critically at Fitzgerald when he pours himself a pint.

  “He’s eighteen, Roge,” Mike reminds him. “He’s legal.”

  Rogers rolls his eyes but doesn’t press the issue, and Fitzgerald beams at Mike like he just defended his honor or something. Mike shouldn’t have said anything. He doesn’t need any more reminders that Fitzgerald’s legal, if just barely.

  Fitzgerald may be pressed up against him, but it’s easy enough to ignore him at first. Mike talks over the game with Rogers, who is an actual adult, while Fitzgerald chatters away with the rest of the rookies.

  Fitzgerald, of course, cuts through that relative peace sooner rather than later. His hand lands on Mike’s thigh under the table when he reaches for the pitcher, and Mike grits his teeth, suddenly hyper aware of how close they’re sitting, the heat of him.

  Fitzgerald doesn’t take his hand back when he’s finished pouring himself a refill, and after a minute, Mike pointedly does it for him, pours himself another drink of his own. He thinks he needs to be drunker if he wants to be able to deal with this brat.

  He’s mid-swallow when Fitzgerald’s hand creeps back, and when he’s done coughing he glares at Fitzgerald, who gives him this angelic look in return, looking so fucking proud of himself.

  The other rookies cleared out to play pool while Mike was distracted, and Rogers fucked off to have some sort of leadership meeting with the captain and the other As, so Mike doesn’t even have an escape route, someone to throw Fitzgerald at so he can fucking run. He’s been so good, it just figures that he’d be punished for it.

  “You know what you’re doing, kid?” Mike asks gruffly. Fitzgerald grins, no hint of anything fearful in him, which just illustrates the fact that he’s too young to know any better, too innocent to be doing anything with Mike.

  Mike checks that no one’s paying attention to them, then gets a hand on Fitzgerald’s chin, jerks his head up so he’s forced to look Mike in the eye. Fitzgerald swallows, and Mike can see the first shadow of doubt in his eyes, long overdue.

  “The fuck are you thinking?” Mike asks. “You think you’re safe from me just because you’re on my team?”

  Fitzgerald finally pulls his hand back, rubbing his chin — Mike was maybe too rough, but at least the message seems to have gotten through. Except then he gets this look on his face, stubborn, mulish, and Mike has the sinking feeling that any lesson Fitzgerald learns rolls like water off his back.

  “If you don’t want to, you can just say so,” Fitzgerald says, sulky.

  And fucking great, now he’s made it explicit. Fitzgerald’s goddamn lucky Mike isn’t the kind of guy who’d spread that around the locker room, the f
ucking league. What the fuck makes this kid think this is the kind of behavior he can get away with, even with his own teammate? Especially with his own teammate.

  “I didn’t say that,” Mike says, and Fitzgerald’s eyes snap to meet his, a little wide, like he didn’t expect that. And of course he didn’t: he was being an idiot teenager and playing chicken with his enforcer, like that was a safe or sane way to spend a night off.

  Mike looks back, steady. He waits for the nervous laugh, for Fitzgerald to disengage, make his excuses, go find some less dangerous thing to do with his time, like standing in traffic or playing hockey.

  Fitzgerald doesn’t do any of that. The only sign of nerves is the way he licks his lips, which Mike can’t help but watch. He’s always licking them. They’re wind chapped, but still pink, and now shiny with his spit.

  “Yeah?” Fitzgerald asks, more a breath than an actual question.

  Mike raises a shoulder, shrugs. He can’t help but wonder what Fitzgerald would look like, spread out on his sheets, the compact strength of him straining against the brute force of Mike. The way those pink lips would look around Mike’s cock.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” Fitzgerald asks, steady, like this is a line he’s practiced, looking at himself in the mirror and trying to look faintly bored. It doesn’t work, despite his tone, because Fitzgerald’s practically vibrating under his skin.

  Mike should say no. Should tell him to go fool around with boys his own age, his own size. Should tell him to knock it the fuck off and find someone who doesn’t play hockey, who doesn’t care if he does, like every other closet case in the league. But Fitzgerald’s flashing his big blues, and his hands are shaking, just enough for Mike to notice, and Mike isn’t a saint. He isn’t even a particularly good person.

  “You go ahead,” Mike says finally. “I’ll settle the bill.”

  Fitzgerald nods, jerky, and scrambles out of the booth, doesn’t even bother to say goodbye to anyone as he hightails it out of there. Mike rolls his eyes, finishes his drink in a few swallows, Fitzgerald’s in a few more, then goes to pay for them both. He makes sure to actually say his goodbyes to the team, and gets a couple cracks about getting too old for the nightlife for his trouble.

  Fitzgerald’s waiting for him outside, shivering a little in a jacket that’s too thin for prairie winter. “What took you so long?” he asks, sounding petulant and all of the eighteen he is.

  “Social graces,” Mike says, and ignores Fitzgerald’s confused look. “You still staying with Rogers?”

  Fitzgerald nods.

  “Let him know you won’t be home tonight or he’ll worry,” Mike says, and he can see it finally hit Fitzgerald properly that this isn’t going to stop unless he puts an end to it himself.

  Mike doesn’t know what he’d prefer, Fitzgerald stupid and brash and young and coming home with him, or Fitzgerald being smart and going back inside, warming up, huddling close to Rogers, who’ll take care of him, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid like clumsily attempt to seduce any other man practically twice his age, twice his size.

  “He won’t care,” Fitzgerald finally says.

  “Text him,” Mike says, not a request, and Fitzgerald does while Mike hails a passing cab. Fitzgerald scrambles in while Mike gives the cabbie his address. He sits on his own side, not all over Mike like before. If Fitzgerald’s changed his mind and expects Mike to make him a glass of warm milk and read him a bedtime story before tucking him in on the couch he’s going to be fucking pissed, even if it would be for the best.

  Fitzgerald clambers out while Mike’s paying, rubbing his arms as he waits. “You need a better coat,” Mike says, and Fitzgerald rolls his eyes.

  “I’m Canadian,” he says.

  “Well, I’m not,” Mike says mildly. “But I’m pretty sure Minnesota’s plenty experience. You need a better coat.”

  “You’re not my—” Fitzgerald starts, then visibly stops himself.

  “Your what?” Mike asks. “Your dad? Is that what this is? Daddy issues?”

  He’s turned away to unlock the door, so he can’t see Fitzgerald’s face when he spits out, “Fuck you.”

  Mike lets the door swing open, but doesn’t move inside, keeps his back to Fitzgerald when he says, “Let me call you a cab. And in the future, play with nice Canadian boys your own size.”

  “Fuck you,” Fitzgerald repeats, grabbing his shoulder, and Mike lets Fitzgerald turn him around, figures he’ll let Fitzgerald think he can get a blow in if that makes him feel any better.

  Fitzgerald doesn’t hit him, though the way he grabs Mike’s coat to haul him in is almost as violent. He has to get on his tiptoes to kiss Mike, and that’s with Mike cooperating, leaning down the remaining inches. His lips are chapped, like they looked. He kisses inexpertly, too much tongue, more enthusiasm than skill, and Jesus, they’re still outside.

  Mike pulls back, Fitzgerald already looking kind of wrecked as he pulls him inside, shuts the door behind them.

  “Last out,” Mike says. “You want to stop this, you stop this now, kid.”

  “I don’t,” Fitzgerald says breathlessly. “I don’t want to.”

  “You done this before?” Mike asks.

  “Yeah,” Fitzgerald says, that petulant look right back on his face.

  Mike leans in, gets his mouth against the sharp jut of Fitzgerald’s jaw, his ear, which has gone rosy pink because the kid can’t help but blush, caught out.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Mike says, against the shell of his ear, and Fitzgerald shivers, hard, hand balling into the back of Mike’s coat.

  “No,” Fitzgerald gets out finally, and then, right back to the bravado, “and I bet you like that, don’t you?”

  “I prefer having sex with someone who knows what they’re doing, actually,” Mike says, and looks away from the flash of hurt he sees on Fitzgerald’s face to shrug his coat off, hang it up.

  “And you’ve done it?” Fitzgerald asks, “With guys?”

  “Yeah, Liam, I’ve done ‘it’ with guys,” Mike says, “did you pick me to have your little crush on because you thought I would be safe, would never take you up on it? Is that it, Fitzgerald?”

  “Fuck this,” Fitzgerald spits, turns towards the door, and Mike catches his sleeve, pulls him in, easy. Fitzgerald looks up at him, defiant, but his mouth is trembling. He looks like he can’t decide whether to be scared or hurt or angry, so he’s trying all of them on at once.

  “Christ, you’re just a kid,” Mike says, and lets go.

  “I’m not,” Fitzgerald says, and then, when Mike won’t look at him, louder, “I’m not,” getting his hand in Mike’s shirt. “You want to fuck me, so fuck me.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” Mike says, but he’s not going to say no. He’s given him an out, he’s given him a dozen outs, and Fitzgerald hasn’t taken him up on a single one of them, so he’s done trying to talk the kid out of having sex with him, done sabotaging himself so he can feel a little better about his morals. Because Fitzgerald looks young, a little lost, still dressed all the way up to a coat and hat, but he’s looking at Mike like a challenge. Mike’s competitive, he won’t deny it — they all are — and if Fitzgerald wants Mike to fuck the challenge out of him, he’ll do it.

  “Why don’t you show me,” Fitzgerald says. Or, Christ, Liam, if Mike’s going to have him. Mike’s rarely known the last names of the people he’s fucked, so it’s way too much irony to only refer to him by it.

  Mike’s a good host, so he will show him. He’ll give him everything he asks for and then some.

  “Chuck your jacket,” Mike says, wincing a little when Liam takes him at his word and lets it hit the floor. “You want a drink?”

  “I want you to fuck me,” Liam says, like now that he can actually say the words he doesn’t plan on stopping.

  “Yeah, we established that,” Mike says. “That’s not what I asked. You want a drink?”

  “Okay,” Liam says, taking his hat off, fiddling wi
th it a little, hair mussed out of shape. Mike grabs them both a beer, comes back to find Liam bending down to get a better look at his books.

  “Yeah, I read,” Mike says, dry, and Liam almost smacks his head on his bookshelf, straightening himself up. “Haven’t lost all my brain cells yet.”

  “I didn’t—” Liam starts.

  “Calm down,” Mike says, handing him a can. Liam accepts it gratefully, taking a big gulp like a beer’s going to give him all the liquid courage he needs. It isn’t, not one beer anyway, or the pint and a half he had at the bar, but if it makes him feel any braver, who’s Mike to tell him otherwise?

  “I’m not going to fuck you,” Mike says. Liam’s got his mouth full, so he gets a glare instead of a protest. “You ever given a handjob?”

  “I’m a virgin, I’m not new,” Liam says.

  “Blow job?” Mike asks, and Liam swallows, doesn’t say anything.

  “You want to?” Mike asks, and Liam nods, sort of jerky.

  “Come here,” Mike says, and Liam does, doesn’t protest when Mike takes the beer out of his hand, putting it on top of the bookshelf along with his own. He looks at Mike vaguely questioningly, like he expects Mike to shove him down on his knees in the middle of the living room. Mike doesn’t, though it’s tempting, just curls his fingers around the fragile nape of his neck and leans down, catching Liam’s mouth with his.

  Liam kisses him back with sloppy enthusiasm until Mike slows it down, eases up, slick brushes of lips until Liam catches a clue and follows his lead. When he’s got him how he wants him, Mike lets the kiss deepen, fucks the kid’s mouth like he wants to fuck him. Like he’d love to fuck him, but he’s not that far gone, not yet.

  He keeps thinking ‘next time’, as if that’s an option, even close to guaranteed. Liam’s eighteen and has the corresponding attention span of a puppy. Mike’s going to get his pretty lips around his cock tonight and then maybe Liam will take his advice and find a nice Canadian boy to take him apart in all the other ways. Not that they’d have the first fucking idea what to do with him.