They’ve been there less than an hour when Liam starts peeking up at him. He probably thinks he’s subtle, but since Mike may or may not be keeping an eye on the game and Liam isn’t subtle even sober, it’s embarrassingly obvious.
Not long after, maybe fifteen minutes, Liam comes to sit beside him. Mike takes a sip of his beer, keeps his eyes forward.
“Are you seriously on your first beer?” Liam asks incredulously.
“Second,” Mike says.
“I think I might be drunk,” Liam says.
“You don’t say,” Mike says, finally looks at him, takes him in. Liam is flushed, mussed. Painfully pretty, though he’d be indignant if anyone ever called him that to his face.
“Can you give me a ride home?” Liam asks.
Mike keeps his eyes on him, waits until Liam’s eyes drop. “Kid —” he starts.
“Please?” Liam asks.
“Go wait outside,” Mike says. “I have to settle my bill.”
Deja fucking vu.
*
Mike doesn’t see Liam outside the bar when he leaves. He hopes, for a minute, that means at least one of them has regained their fucking senses, but when he reaches his truck, Liam’s leaning against the door.
Mike doesn’t say a word, just climbs in, lets Liam give him directions to his new place. It’s sweet looking, on a quiet street. There’s no way in hell Liam found it without help.
“There you go,” Mike says, pulling to a stop outside Liam’s door.
“Come in?” Liam asks.
Mike closes his eyes. “Please don’t do this,” he says.
When he opens them again, Liam’s looking at him, wide blue eyes, lip between his teeth.
“Come in,” Liam says, and Mike follows him inside.
*
Liam’s place is the sort of place typical to young hockey players everywhere — big, masculine furniture, a TV everywhere a TV may be needed and places they definitely aren’t, a tangle of cords leading to consoles and controllers, and pretty much nothing else.
Mike doesn’t pay much attention to it. Doesn’t have time to, because Liam drops any sort of pretense once they’re inside, reaching for Mike. His mouth is bitter with vodka, stinging. Mike’s entire tour of the house is comprised of quick glances while they’re stumbling in the direction that Mike presumes leads to his bedroom, Liam stubbornly trying to ignore the fact that kissing and stripping are mutually exclusive activities.
They manage well enough despite that, well enough that Liam’s naked by the time they hit the bed. Mike fights with his jeans while Liam grabs lube from the bedside table, a condom from his discarded pants, like he fucking planned this.
Mike’s perfunctory with the prep, just enough that Liam won’t get hurt, on his back while Mike watches his fingers slide in, easy, Liam as greedy for it as always.
“Hands and knees,” Mike says, when he’s rolling the condom on himself.
“Mike,” Liam says.
Mike doesn’t say anything, just waits. After a second, Liam rolls onto his stomach, and Mike tugs him up, curls a hand around his hip as he guides himself in. He waits for Liam to adjust, just enough, and then he presses his face against the muscled line of Liam’s back and fucks into him. There’s nothing nice about it, just hard and fast and brutal, the kind of treatment Liam always asked for but never really got, Mike too cautious to give it to him.
Right now Mike doesn’t give a fuck.
Liam put on some weight in the offseason, Mike can tell. His body’s more defined, the wiry youth of him replaced with the tight hard body in front of Mike. He feels different under Mike’s hands, and it’s fucking stupid to resent that. His ass is still familiar at least, still perfect, the way it looks and the tight clutch of it around Mike’s cock.
Liam’s making noise, breathy, enough for Mike to know he’s enjoying himself. He always does. Get a cock in him and he’ll do fucking anything. Mike wonders if he’s the same way with his boyfriend. Probably. Wonders if he played coy at first, or if he was as easy as he was for Mike that first night, as desperate, a little virgin trying on slutty.
He’s not a virgin anymore, obviously, and he picked up some tricks on the way. Mike wonders if Jonathan appreciates the fact that Liam trained himself out of his gag reflex, Mike holding him down so he could feel him swallow around him, watch the tears slip down his cheeks. Wonders if Jonathan’s a big guy. Wonders if he could hold him down, make Liam take it the way he wants to take it. Liam wants to be put down hard, but more than that he wants to fight against it and fail, wants someone who can make him.
He wonders if Liam told him how he liked it, told him he wanted to hurt, that sex was always better when it hurt a little, that he’d keep begging for more even if he’s had enough because if it wasn’t too much it wasn’t good enough. Mike doubts it. A kid Liam’s age? He probably whispered sweet nothings in Liam’s ear and held his fucking hand.
Mike told Liam to find himself a nice Canadian boy his own age before they ever fucked, but even then he knew they wouldn’t know what to do with him. Wouldn’t know where to fucking start.
He looks at broad expanse of Liam’s back, wonders where this kid’s touched him, wonders if he’s been as deep in him, if he had the same fucking view, Liam tight around him, head tucked in his arms, the flex of his muscles under his skin whenever his prostate gets nailed, the huff of noise he’s never been able to repress, never seemed to try to.
Mike’s never been that kind of possessive asshole, never spouted that ‘I want to be your first and only’ crap, thinking that if someone’s been touched by anyone else they’re spoiled goods. He thinks it’s disgusting, insecure bullshit people peddle so they don’t have to compare their tiny dicks and zero knowledge of foreplay to someone who might actually know what they’re doing. And yet right now he’s fucking furious that some fucking Canadian kid has had his hands all over Liam. That there aren’t even any marks so Mike can see, can replace them with his own. He wants to mark his territory like a fucking dog. It’s pathetic.
He’s going too hard, he knows he’s going too hard on the kid, fingers digging into his hips hard enough that he’s going to leave bruises, hips slamming against Liam’s ass hard enough that he might get bruises himself. Liam loves it, though, pushes back into it, breathlessly begging for it, breath hitching into this sweet soft moan when Mike gets a hand around him. He’s always so fucking responsive, and Mike wonders if he moaned as loud for that kid, as much. Was as sweet beneath him, took him as well, like he was made for it, like you get him on his back, get your fingers in him, your cock, and he could take as much as you gave him and more. Always more. Liam wants so much.
Mike gets a hand around Liam’s cock, jerks him hard and fast until he’s coming against his sheets, Mike’s hand, and Mike can close his eyes and lose himself just for the length of time it takes to come in Liam, balls deep, mouth open against Liam’s shoulder blade.
He pulls out as soon as he’s finished, gets rid of the condom, gives himself a minute. He’ll catch his breath before he goes, that’s all the time he needs.
Liam rolls onto his back, stomach streaked with semen, mouth bitten red, flushed and sweaty and gorgeous as always. Familiar.
Mike rests his elbows on his knees, tries to remember where he shucked his shirt. After the living room, he thinks.
Liam reaches out, fingers brushing Mike’s hip. “Come here,” he says, quiet.
“You want to cuddle, you save it for your fucking boyfriend, Fitzgerald,” Mike snaps.
Liam pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. “What—” he starts, then, resigned, “Roge.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. He stands, grabbing his jeans and pulling them on, rough. Fuck underwear, he needs to get out of here before this turns into a fight.
“You didn’t even want to be my boyfriend,” Liam says indignantly, sitting up.
“You’re right,” Mike says. “Congratulations, that finally sunk into your skull. Do you want a prize?”
Liam doesn’t answer, and Mike takes that as his cue to go, stopping only to pick up his shirt.
Mike’s managed to get his shirt and one shoe on when Liam comes into the hall, and Mike half considers legging it without the other shoe just so he doesn’t have to deal with whatever bullshit is about to come out of Liam’s mouth.
“Why are you mad at me about this?” Liam asks. “You don’t want to be my boyfriend, congratulations, I found some idiot who would take me and you still get to fuck me. How is this not fucking perfect?”
“He know that’s what he agreed to?” Mike asks.
Silence is a pretty telling answer.
“I’m not interested in being your dirty little secret,” Mike asks. “Go find someone else to fuck behind his back.”
Mike finally gets his other shoe on, gets to his truck without Liam running after him like some overwrought hero, which is a plus. His door sticks when he tries to get it open, and he punches it twice, tries again. Metal’s more unforgiving than anything he punches for a living, and his hand throbs as he shoves the key into the ignition.
He’s pulling out of park when his phone buzzes against his hip, and he pulls it out.
There’s a text from Liam, apparently pulling the technology age equivalent of running across the moors. im in love w u, it says, and Mike rests his head against his steering wheel, exhales.
You’re really not, he texts back, and drives his sorry ass home.
Chapter 11
There’s an off-day between the unofficially mandated Oilers drinking night and their next officially mandated Oilers obligation, but Mike still shows up to it hungover and bitter. He turned his phone off after he got home from Liam’s, ignoring two more texts, then went straight to the hard liquor. His phone’s still off. If there’s an emergency, someone’s shit out of luck. He needed a day.
He’s had one. That’s all he gets. Today’s more media shit before the preseason gets underway, and Mike’s lucky enough that hungover and bitter is the attitude he gives off all the time, or the media would be on his fucking ass for his attitude. It doesn’t suit Liam so well. Mike’s not sure about the hungover part, but he hasn’t cracked a fucking smile since interviews started, and the media’s started to exchange concerned looks, to say nothing of the actual team.
When Mike finally gets a minute, he goes to escape from the scrum, interrupted by Rogers’ hand landing on his bicep. Mike looks down at Rogers’ hand, then at Rogers’ face, the plastered on concerned expression.
“I like you,” Mike says. “But I swear to god, if you say anything about him to me right now I’m going to punch you in the face.”
Rogers looks hard at him, as if gauging Mike’s sincerity, which is absolute, then lets go of Mike’s arm. Mike walks away, then keeps walking, right out of the building and to where building staff are standing the required nine-meter distance from the door to smoke. Something about his expression gets a cigarette and lighter mutely handed to him. He fucking needs one, so he stays outside with them, a little cold in his shirtsleeves but not willing to go back inside quite yet.
No one’s really clamoring to talk to him, but Mike has a professional reputation and a pair of fists and fuck-all else, so he goes inside after the cigarette is nothing but ash and filter. Liam’s attempted to meet his eyes a couple times, is trying again as soon as he gets back, but he’s young and skilled, and the future is just about all the Oilers have to their name right now, so he hasn’t been able to escape the press.
Mike can’t avoid him forever, but he hopes he can avoid him long enough to figure out something he can say that isn’t just, ‘you’re a fucking infant, what the fuck do you think you know about love?’. He doesn’t think that’ll get him anywhere. Hell, Liam will probably have a smart fucking response to it.
He manages to get through the day. Even better, he manages to get through the day without talking to Liam or succumbing to the throbbing behind his temples he woke up with and that no amount of aspirin could wipe out. He goes home, where he’s got a fridge full of food and a cupboard full of alcohol, a turned off phone and a door that locks. He doesn’t see the harm of spending another night with those things. It’s not exactly a sustainable habit, but it’ll do fine until he has to play.
Mike’s halfway through his second beer and suddenly invested in a marathon of Cutthroat Kitchen when there’s a knock on the door. He ignores it, and when the knocking continues he turns his TV up, because he still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say, and he’s a fucking coward. He knows he is. He’s accepted it.
Mike mutes the TV when the knocking morphs into a scratching sound, and when that scratching becomes kind of ominous he goes to the front hall, yanks the door open to Liam crouched on his porch with a fucking paper clip.
“Are you seriously trying to break into my house right now?” Mike asks.
Liam frowns and stands. “You always told me I should be able to by now.”
“I didn’t mean you should do it,” Mike says.
“Well how else am I supposed to talk to you?” Liam asks. “You turned your phone off. Even Roge couldn’t get through.”
Of course he got reinforcements. Of course he told Rogers. And now Mike’s going to see Rogers’ concerned face every time he walks into the locker room. Fuck that.
“One minute,” Mike says. “I’m giving you one minute.”
“I’m in love with you,” Liam blurts out.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “You told me that. I’m pretty sure I responded.”
“I want you to say it to my face,” Liam says, jaw set. He’s miserable looking, more downtrodden than Mike’s ever seen him, and for a minute Mike wants to believe him. For a minute he almost does.
“You’re nineteen,” Mike says. “You have the attention span of a fucking goldfish. You couldn’t last four months without getting your dick sucked. And you’ve decided that you love me, because what? I’m the first one who had their dick in you? I couldn’t shake you the fuck off?”
“You didn’t want it to be anything,” Liam says, low. “You didn’t want to be with me, and now you’re mad because I found someone who would?”
“I think you don’t know shit about what you’re talking about,” Mike says. “Minute’s up.”
“No,” Liam says.
Mike rolls his eyes, reaches for the door.
“You keep calling me immature,” Liam asks. “You’re the one who can’t have a fucking conversation without running away.”
As chirps go, it’s pretty transparent, but that doesn’t mean it’s not effective. Mike drops his hand, waits. Hopes his face conveys how little time he has for this shit.
“Do you want me?” Liam asks, quiet.
“Don’t be fucking obtuse,” Mike snaps.
“Do you want to be with me?” Liam asks.
Mike closes his eyes. “This isn’t black and white, Liam,” he says.
“You’re the only one making it complicated!” Liam yells.
Jesus fucking Christ, Mike is a shitty neighbor. He’d bring Liam inside, but he doesn’t trust himself right now. He doesn’t know if he’d throw a punch or kiss him at this point, and they’re equally disastrous.
“Do you want to be with me?” Liam presses.
“Look,” Mike says. “You have your little crush on me, and that’s fine, that’s great. You’re a great fuck, you’re a good kid, you’ll be a good boyfriend for someone. You’re going to get over this idea you got into your head that you’re in love with me, and both of us will move the fuck on, and we’ll probably both be happier. But right now, you need to get over this. And you need to let me get over this.”
Liam looks up at him, eyes hard, lips a firm line. Christ, he’s shaking. He’s shaking like a fucking leaf, like he’s scared, and Mike gets it, because his heart’s in his throat. He’s never wanted to run from a confrontation more, but Liam called him on his cowardice, and he can’t prove him right. He can’t be that too.
“You d
idn’t answer me,” he says, and the look on his face says he isn’t going to leave until Mike does. That if Mike closes the door he’ll break it down or he’ll try until the fucking cops come.
“The answer’s irrelevant,” Mike says.
“You can’t say it, can you,” Liam asks, with a bitter little laugh that’s so incongruous coming from him. “You can’t even fucking say it. You’re such a fucking coward.”
Mike bites his tongue.
“You called me,” Liam says. “You were drunk, I guess. You called me at four in the morning, and you told me you kept thinking about coming to see me, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. That you thought about it all the fucking time. You don’t remember that, do you.”
Oh, god.
“And then you didn’t call me after that, not once,” Liam says. “And you didn’t come. I kept waiting for it. But you didn’t.”
“Liam — ” Mike starts.
“Please,” Liam says. “Can’t you just tell me? Just once?”
“You might want me now — ” Mike starts, then, “You’re a child.”
“You haven’t even given me a chance,” Liam says.
Mike looks at him helplessly.
Liam takes a step forward, curls his fingers around Mike’s wrist. “Please,” he says.
“Don’t ask me to do this,” Mike says, but when Liam takes another step forward, face pressed into his chest, his hand comes up, automatically cups the back of his head.
“I will,” Liam says. “I promise. I’ll stay.”
“You can’t promise that,” Mike says.
“I can try,” Liam says, muffled into Mike’s chest. “And I love you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mike says, but he can’t make himself let go.
BLOWING IT WIDE OPEN (2016-2020)
Chapter 12
Thrown Off the Ice Page 9