Mike doesn’t make him wait, pressing his mouth against Liam’s thigh while he slides a finger into him. Liam takes it easy enough that Mike doesn’t have to wait long before adding another, knows exactly what to do because Liam rewards every moment of pleasure with moans, and then, once Mike’s three fingers deep and rubbing against his prostate, by cussing Mike out for taking it slow.
“Patience,” Mike says, mouth curling into a smile against Liam’s skin.
“Fuck you, old man,” Liam says, “fucking fuck me.”
“You’ve got a dirty fucking mouth, Fitzgerald,” Mike says, and Liam actually growls at him.
Mike’s tempted, then, to slow down even more, have Liam come around his fingers, under his mouth, but he’s selfish, and Liam’s hot and tight, clinging around Mike’s fingers. There is no part of Mike that doesn’t want to be in him, get his teeth into him and his cock in the clutch of his body.
When he pulls his fingers out, Liam shoves his hips back, making a discontented sound. Mike moves up his body, kisses his shoulder. “Want it on your knees?” he asks, and Liam hesitates before shaking his head. “It’s easier that way,” Mike warns, but Liam twists under him until he’s sprawled out on his back. He’s flushed, eyes glassy and mouth bitten red, and Mike isn’t going to say no to seeing him like that, stoned with pleasure, as Mike buries himself in his body.
Liam’s so hard his cock is curving against his belly, and there’s a wet spot on the sheets he’s been dripping onto, untouched. Mike rubs his thumb under the head of his cock, and Liam practically kicks him. “Just—” Liam starts, and Mike doesn’t need him to finish the sentence, reaches out blindly, fingers catching on foil. He tears a condom off the strip, getting his jeans and briefs down just enough to get his cock out, grateful for the relief, finally, of not having his cock trapped.
He rolls the condom on himself before slicking himself up, and Liam watches him do it, eyes fixed on where Mike’s hand is wrapped around his cock, where he juts out of his jeans. Mike can’t keep his eyes off it either. It’s so much more obscene like this, Mike covered everywhere but there, while Liam’s naked beneath him, legs spread, slick and open.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Mike says, and Liam does, ankles tucked around Mike’s waist, his cock wet against Mike’s flannel shirt. Mike gets a hand around himself, guides himself forward, slow, until the head of his cock is nudging against Liam’s hole. He opens his mouth, but Liam cuts him off, psychic or just impatient.
“Just do it,” he says, and Mike isn’t going to ignore permission, not when he’s got Liam under him, lean and strong and fucking begging for it.
Mike fucks in slow. He can’t do anything else; Liam’s even tighter and hotter around his cock than he was around his fingers, the latex of the condom not enough to blunt the feeling. Liam takes it as easy as he took Mike’s tongue, Mike’s fingers, as pretty, his eyes falling shut and his mouth slack and open, red bitten, wet. His head’s tipped back, throat a long line that Mike wants to get his teeth in. He’s fucking beautiful beneath Mike, almost unbearably so.
The only reason Mike doesn’t give into the urge to bite him is the idea of Liam going home marked up and obvious, Rogers fretting like an old woman. He does mouth at his throat, though, tastes clean skin, salt sweat, the lingering bitterness of that Axe shit as he scrapes his teeth over where Liam’s pulse is pounding. Mike’s fighting so hard to keep this slow, to not just fuck into him, even if Liam could take it, even if Liam would probably fucking love it.
Instead, Mike inches in until he’s balls deep, Liam’s body hot around him, nails digging into Mike’s bicep through his shirt, a dull sting. It settles him, that small pain, and he forces himself to focus on that, ease himself in, while Liam’s eyes open, just slits, and he serves him a pretty impressive glare considering the fact he’s got Mike above him, around him, in him.
Liam knocks his foot against Mike’s back. Mike’s no idiot, and never one to ignore the permission he’s been given, so he moves, picks up a slow, even pace that he can’t sustain, not with Liam goading him on with words and looks and the way he takes it so well, every push of Mike’s cock getting a reaction.
Mike wants him. It’s insane how much Mike wants him, how desperately, how he can be in him, have the kid wrapped around him, and still want more. He’s not even entirely sure what it is he wants, exactly. Wants to take him apart and put him back together. Wants to wreck him, and is afraid he could.
“Please,” Liam says, “please,” and Mike doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he does his best to give it to him, to do it right. His hips are knocking against the curve of Liam’s ass, his fly probably scraping his skin, but Liam doesn’t complain, just pushes back into Mike’s thrusts, nudging the pace faster, harder, until it’s almost brutal, Liam’s hand braced against the headboard so he doesn’t slide up against the sheets. Mike is intent on tasting him everywhere he can: the hinge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the slick heat of his mouth.
The only friction Liam’s getting is where his cock is rubbing up against Mike’s shirt, and his expression goes from slack, stupefied pleasure into something edging pain before Mike gets his hand between their bodies, around him, a rough, quick pull on his cock that has Liam’s nails digging in harder, has Liam whining into his mouth when Mike can’t resist the pull of his lips. “C’mon,” Mike says, rough, caught, too far gone now to make himself stop. “Liam, c’mon.”
Liam’s breath hitches into something nearing a sob, and he comes with his teeth in Mike’s bottom lip, striping Mike’s wrist, the cuff of his shirt. Mike can’t hold on much longer, hips stuttering, rhythm gone as he fucks in, in, in, comes with Liam still panting against his mouth.
Mike stays in him as long as he can, face tucked in Liam’s throat, probably unbearably heavy now that he’s stopped holding himself up. Liam doesn’t complain, just lets his legs drop to the bed, one hand still in Mike’s sleeve, the other coming up to card through Mike’s hair. Mike would complain, but it feels good, and he doesn’t particularly want to move. He stays in Liam until he starts going soft, then pulls out and gets rid of the condom.
Liam’s a fucking mess, blotchy red all over, covered in his own come, slick with lube and dotted with beard burn from when Mike couldn’t help himself. There’s a red mark on his ass from where the button of Mike’s jeans must have kept hitting him, not that he’d said a word of complaint. He looks well and truly fucked, satisfied and still slutty about it, and if Mike had a better refractory period, he’d be getting right back into him, wishes he could fuck him bare and lick his come right out of him, get Liam to sit on his fucking face.
But for now those are all idle thoughts. Mike’s fucked out, and Liam looks half asleep already, drowsy and content. “You’re not napping here,” Mike warns, rolling onto his back beside Liam.
“Hm,” Liam hums, noncommittal. Sleepy sounding.
“No,” Mike says. “Go home.”
Liam rolls onto his side, tucks an arm around Mike’s waist, his nose nudging against Mike’s neck.
“Game tomorrow,” Mike reminds him.
“Mhm,” Liam hums, pressing a kiss against Mike’s skin.
“Ugh,” Mike says, and lets his hand settle on top of Liam’s where it’s curled around Mike’s side.
Chapter 4
After the first few weeks, Mike’s quit telling himself it won’t happen again, because it makes him a fucking liar every time. Pretending is pathetic when every ‘no’ leaving Mike’s mouth is clearly impotent, for show. Liam’s not buying what he’s selling, and Mike can’t blame him: he’s not buying it either. So in the exact same way Liam initially made himself a fixture at Mike’s side during team shit, he’s starting to become a fixture in Mike’s house, his bed. Mike isn’t sure how he feels about it — he’s trying really fucking hard not to think about it, frankly.
There is one ‘no’ Mike means, though, one rule that he stands firm on: shit doesn’t happen on the road. He doesn’t think that�
�s something he even needs to explain when they’re surrounded by nosy teammates and Liam has a roommate. It’s bad enough that Rogers has been eyeing Liam suspiciously since the first night he never came home, and his eyes have been getting narrower and narrower since Liam started making a habit of camping out on Mike’s bed and refusing to leave, curling his body around Mike’s and using him as a belligerent pillow. Mike can’t even remember the last time Liam stayed over at Rogers’ for more than one consecutive night, though he’s sure Rogers could tell him.
‘Not on the road’ shouldn’t be something he needs to explain, or, hell, something he needs to say more than once, but for some reason it is. It flares to life every time Liam pouts at Mike when he goes out to bars that Liam’s too young to get into, every time Mike hip checks Liam out of his way when he’s going back to his room and Liam’s hovering. It’s like he thinks Mike’s actually going to let him through the door when he knows that the second it shuts he’s going to have the brat all over him.
Liam seems surprised by Mike's insistence on this point, maybe because Mike’s been folding like a sucker the second Liam bats his lashes or starts stripping. But this shit isn’t a game to Mike like it seems to be to Liam. He’s too old and tired and paranoid to find it fun to sneak around, to play with his fucking career, his life like that. Liam may find the whole idea of it hot, the risk, the chance of getting caught with their pants down, seems to get off on it, but Mike managed to go years and years without a soul in the NHL knowing his dick is indiscriminate, and he doesn’t plan on that ever changing.
Still, Mike almost regrets his own rule when they go on a week-long road trip and Liam spends the whole time pouting at him. He's leaning in too close when they’re on the plane, following him everywhere like a shadow, sulking every time Mike brushes him off. By the end of the trip, Mike isn’t sure whether he’d rather strangle the kid or fuck him into the floor, but either way he’s in a bad mood when they get back from Vancouver with a loss and Liam is practically vibrating beside him on the plane, probably preparing to lurk in the bed of Mike’s truck so that he’ll accidentally take him home.
He gave Liam too much credit in assuming he’d actually put in the effort of hiding. When Mike gets to his parking spot, Liam’s waiting beside his truck, leaning sort of precariously against the cab, hips jutted out. He looks like a jailbait hustler.
“Fuck off,” Mike grunts, and when Liam glares at him, “Go home to Rogers and Lady Rogers, let them have a nice family dinner with you, and then come over. Fair?”
“Fair,” Liam mutters, and then, “but he already left, can you take me?”
Mike walked past Rogers and Jacobi in the hall less than a minute ago. Mike stares him down, and Liam barely flinches. Mike’s faintly impressed at how good he’s getting at lying. Must be getting practice at Casa Rogers.
Mike points back where he came from. “Go, brat,” he says, and Liam does. Maybe that’s progress.
Liam does, presumably, have a nice family dinner with Rogers and his fiancée. He shows up at Mike’s doorstep after dark, shivering in a hoodie, and Mike decides he’s going to buy him a goddamn coat himself if that’s what it takes.
“Get your ass inside before you get frostbite,” Mike says, and Liam follows him in, before shoving Mike up against the wall. Mike lets him.
Liam’s lips are cold, hands even colder against Mike’s bare skin. He warms up fast, though, and he’s hot, burning up, when he’s got his hands braced against Mike’s wall for balance, slowly sinking down onto Mike’s cock, thighs shaking from the effort of restraining himself, hair falling into his eyes. Mike steadies him with his hands around his hips, watches Liam fucking himself on his cock, taking his pleasure, brilliantly, horribly, beautifully selfish, chasing whatever makes him feel best.
*
Mike should have known, as annoying as Liam was on the last road trip, that that was actually good behavior from him. In fact, Mike is starting to realize, to his absolute horror, that Liam was actually on his very best behavior when he came to the Oilers, and he’s only letting his true brattiness show as time goes on.
Witness their trip to Calgary, a home and away, hardly even enough to merit the word trip at all. They fly in the day before a matinee game because — well, Mike doesn’t even know. Something about team bonding, something about being rested against the Flames. Something about management being fucking sadists, because god knows they’d all prefer to sleep in their own beds.
The point is that they stay over in Calgary, and Liam uses his dubious charms or his even more dubious wiles to scam Mike’s keycard out of someone and pop into his room, mischievous look on his face, while Mike’s winding down with Hockey Night in Canada, for a measure of relaxation that includes yelling at the Vancouver Canucks. Fuckers.
Winding down is even more difficult when Liam appears like a specter of Mike’s pain fucking personified, and Mike yanks his attention from where Vancouver’s managed to get the puck into the back of Winnipeg’s net yet again to where Liam’s standing around looking proud of himself.
“No,” Mike says.
Liam predictably doesn’t listen.
“Ben is being loud,” Liam says. Ben Morris is as quiet as Liam is loud, so Mike wouldn’t believe him even if he didn’t know Morris’ older brother plays for the Flames. Seems like half the games they play against Calgary, Mike and the elder Morris are dropping gloves, and Mike hasn’t lost yet, but Luke Morris has a knack for taking a piece out of him on the way.
More likely than not Ben isn’t even in the room he shares with Liam, is hanging out with his brother, maybe parents if they came down to watch their kids play each other. And yet Liam didn’t bat an eye as he said it before flinging himself beside Mike on his bed like he just lied his way into permission.
“Not kidding, Fitzgerald,” Mike says. “Get out.”
“Just for a little bit?” Liam wheedles.
“No,” Mike says flatly, getting out of bed.
Liam looks up at him pleadingly.
“I’m going for a drink at the bar so I can watch this game in fucking peace,” Mike says. “If you’re still here when I get back — I swear to god, Fitzgerald. I have one goddamn rule.”
Liam sits up, opening his mouth, but Mike doesn’t have the patience for this, for him. He shoves his shoes on, makes sure he has his wallet and his keycard, and goes down for a beer and the second half of the third. When he gets back there’s no sign that Liam was there at all, and Mike prefers it that way.
They lose to the Flames, and everyone’s in a foul fucking mood on the way home, a sullen silence settling over all of them. Mike’s no exception, and Liam is smart enough not to push him this time, instead goes to sit with Morris, the two of them sharing a set of earbuds, heads knocking, knees knocking, a two headed rookie monster.
Mike goes to the gym when he gets home, works out some of the energy he still has, the energy he didn’t work out on the elder Morris’ face, and he’s sore and spent but a little calmer after grilled chicken and a salad, a beer, and a long, stingingly hot shower.
Of course, the calm’s shattered when his doorbell rings. Mike’s whole body goes tense again, tight, and he goes to the door, lets it swing open, the cold air raising goosebumps on his wet skin. Liam looks tired, as small as he is, instead of as big as he pretends to be.
“Sorry,” Liam says, then stops, like he didn’t think of anything to say past that point, figured that would work like a password into Mike’s place. It doesn’t. Mike has some dignity left.
Mike feels as tired as Liam looks. The season is getting to all of them. Losing is getting to all of them. Running after a rogue, impossible rookie is starting to wear Mike down.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Fitzgerald,” Mike says, and Liam wilts so visibly that Mike almost feels sorry for him.
That night he goes to bed by himself. He gets to stretch out on the mattress, and Rogers seems pleased as punch that his rookie actually stuck around for the night, so everyone wi
ns. Liam follows him after practice, looking chastened, so Mike lets him climb up into the truck beside him.
Mike’s pretty sure Rogers thinks Liam is using hanging out with Mike as a painfully bad excuse to hide a secret girlfriend or something. That’s the only reason Mike’s been letting him come around as often as he has, to stay over as much, flinging his limbs all over Mike’s bed, all over Mike’s body, like any place Liam lays his head is suddenly his.
Mike makes them a late lunch, some of the chicken breasts from the day before shredded into a spring salad, while Liam watches him do it, sipping a beer, sitting at the table like a grown-up, for once, instead of his usual behavior: hopping on Mike’s counter and swinging his legs until Mike smacks him with the nearest kitchen utensil.
“Sorry,” Liam says when they’re almost done eating. He sounds sincere this time, but Mike doubts he really knows what he’s apologizing for, so young and self-centered that he couldn’t imagine that anything that gives him pleasure could possibly be a problem. It doesn’t matter. No amount of Mike attempting to explain it is going to get through his thick skull.
Mike makes him wash the dishes as penance, and Liam doesn’t complain when Mike turns on golf, just makes a face and suffers in silence for awhile, while Mike can barely contain his amusement at the way Liam’s eyes glaze over.
Liam manages to hold out almost an entire hour before he starts shooting Mike unsubtle, obvious looks, ones Mike pretends to be oblivious to until he thinks that Liam might actually explode from the frustration. He finally lets Liam drag him back to his bedroom when he runs out of patience himself — golf’s not actually his thing.
He gets the kid spread out under him, practically shaking with impatience, his hands in Mike’s hair and his cock pressed against Mike’s belly. He was hard before Mike even touched him, probably got hard on the couch, fidgeting, ignoring the TV to think ahead to when Mike would inevitably crack, take him down.
Thrown Off the Ice Page 4