***
September, 1984
Patrick thought the whole idea was stupid. And since he was the wise, mature age of 18, if he thought something was stupid, then it was. No ifs ands or buts about it. He ought to have refused to go at all. And he meant to, spending a good solid hour after practice rehearsing his speech. But somehow, annoyingly, it didn’t go as planned. Just when he was about to voice his list of objections to Lemaire, something in the other man’s eyes told him it would be useless to do so. Patrick didn’t even have to ask his coach to realize grimly that though the whole idea was stupid, and moreover entirely a waste of time, he would be going whether he liked it or not.
So, grumbling quietly to himself every mile of the way on this September Friday, he glared at the road as it stretched on toward the remote cabin where the team unity weekend would take place.
And to make things worse, if they could possibly get any worse, the driver of his car was Chelios. Somehow when everyone was split up into carpools, and as he himself was staring stubbornly into the distance and wishing it was all over, he ended up with the black-haired, irritatingly superior young defenseman as his driver.
The first half of the trip to the remote cabin in the approximate Middle of Nowhere, Quebec, was sickening. In the front of the car with Chelios was Robinson. As soon as Patrick realized the two were going to be in the same car with him he groaned inwardly. Robinson had made it his business to instruct the young American in everything a good defenseman should be, and Chelios took to his role as student with an admiration bordering on worship. Listening to the two of them hold a discussion (Larry instructing solemnly as Chelios lapped up advice like a dog) was like being under the dentist’s drill with no novacaine. The two sat talking happily in the front of the car, and scrunched against the door of the rear passenger side seat, the young goalie brooded.
“Patrick, do you know how big this cabin is?” whispered Claude, who was sitting next to him in the back seat. Patrick turned to him mostly out of instinct in responding to French; he didn’t particularly care for conversation right now. But as he was making eye contact with the worried-looking rookie, he figured he might as well answer.
“No,” he said curtly. “I’d imagine it’s big enough for all of us. Unless they plan to make us sleep outside with the bears,” Patrick finished with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
Claude frowned and considered this. “If there are enough rooms for all of us, we can share one, yes?”
Patrick sighed.
“Whatever you say, Lemieux,” he said, resuming his intense stare out of the window. Claude was apparently satisfied with that response and was silent. Patrick knew he should probably be nicer to the inoffensive young man; they were both in the same boat, so to speak. They were the same age and from the same province. They were both rookies on a team of legend and hungry to find a permanent place on the roster. But Patrick was in no mood to be nice.
It was just so ridiculous that he was here at all, going out to some damp dank cabin in the woods, and for what? Team unity? When he would more than likely not play a single game for the team all season? What was the point? Claude should be asking these questions, too, Patrick thought with sudden vehemence. He shot a glare at the young man who was now resting his head back against the seat, eyes closed. Unlike others, HE was content to simply go where he was told, and his only worry was where he would sleep. Patrick sighed heavily and continued to mentally add to his list of things wrong with this whole idea.
If the first half of the trip was sickening, the second half was intolerable. Claude had long since dozed off, and now Robinson was snoring away in front of him. The only ones awake were the scowling rookie goaltender and the cocky defenseman in his sophomore season. Chelios drove in silence for a bit, glancing now and then at the two young men in his backseat in his rearview mirror.
“So, you’re Patrick… how do you pronounce your last name, by the way?”
Patrick realized he was being addressed and looked sharply away from the window. His brain took a few moments to repeat what Chelios had said, and to process his French reply into English.
“Roy,” he said. “My name is Patrick Roy.” He hoped that would be the end of the conversation.
“Okay,” Chelios said. “I’m Chris Chelios. But you already know that,” he added loftily. Patrick ground his teeth together. Chris glanced at him again and appeared to hesitate.
“Je ne parle pas très bien le français,” he added slowly. “So it’s English for me.”
“Ah,” Patrick replied. “Ne t'inquiète pas, je comprends assez de ta lange dans tout sa laideur pour communiquer avec un idiot comme toi.” [Do not worry, I understand enough of your ugly language to communicate with an idiot like you.]
Chelios frowned at him in the mirror. “I’m sorry?”
“I know enough of English to understand you,” Patrick repeated an edited version of his statement in his thick French-Canadian accent.
Chelios nodded, and was quiet as he switched lanes. Robinson snored during the intermission.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Chelios said finally. “You’re that hotshot goalie everyone’s talking about. They say you’re going to be great.”
I am great now, Patrick thought silently. “Thank you,” was all he said.
“This weekend is going to be a lot of fun,” Chelios went on cheerfully. “We went last year and it was great. You don’t have to worry, I’m sure you’ll catch onto the teambuilding exercises quick.”
Patrick couldn’t stop himself from sniffing derisively. Chelios was talking as if he was a vet, and that was just barely the case. He had been a rookie last year, and moreover a 21-year old rookie at that. There was probably a good reason the man had gotten a late start, Patrick thought contemptuously, and it wasn’t his place to speak as if he were the adult and Patrick the child. Patrick let a deliberate pause linger in the air before he gave his response.
“Ah,” he said again, and left it at that.
Chelios looked at him carefully in the mirror. Patrick looked back, careful to keep his expression neutral. Chelios either decided Patrick didn’t know enough English to talk comfortably, or he wasn’t in the mood to talk at all, because he simply shrugged, and drove on in silence. Patrick was more than happy not to have to speak to him anymore, and resumed wishing to God that he was out of this car and that it was Monday and that this was all over with.
Soon, but not soon enough for Patrick’s liking, the car’s wheels crunched onto a dirt track that led off the main road. It wound through the woods for a bit, and the jostling, rocky ride brought the other two passengers awake. Claude yawned, and checked his watch.
“It will be dark soon,” he said in English. Then turning to Patrick and switching to French, he asked “Are there really bears around here?”
“How the hell should I know?” Patrick snapped. Claude looked hurt, but simply opened his car door as the vehicle came to a halt. Patrick climbed out as well, happy to escape the confined space. They were parked in a dirt lot that was some distance from an enormous, sprawling two-story building. The word “cabin” had been used lightly, Patrick thought, wincing as he stretched his tired legs. In reality it was a huge wooden house, almost as big as a dorm building. From the amount of windows it appeared that there were at least six rooms on the second floor alone, and first floor stretched for a considerable distance. He hoped Claude would stop asking about bears once he saw that.
They pulled their bags from the trunk as several more cars pulled into the lot. Soon the entire roster and many of the prospects stood chatting animatedly, hefting their bags onto their shoulders and making their way toward the building. As they entered the foyer, they were faced with an elegant staircase that swept its way upward.
“Okay,” Bob Gainey said, taking authority as a captain should. “There are four beds to a room, and rooms both upstairs and down. Everyone go put your shit in one of them and then we can get something together for supper.”
A few of the guys made for the stairs, and Patrick did as well, with Claude behind him. Some of the seasoned veterans, Gainey, Robinson, and Guy Lefleur among them, wandered into the rest of the house downstairs, with Chelios tagging along behind. Patrick sniffed at him again before the staircase turned out of sight.
He refused to admit to himself that he’d admired the flex of the young defenseman’s muscles as he walked, and the view of his ass as he left the room.
~~~
Supper was loud and boisterous. Even Patrick laughed from time to time at the jokes and good-natured insults flung across the table. The conversation varied from the 75th anniversary of the team to who had fucked so-and-so after such-and-such game. Patrick refrained from taking part when it got to that.
He hadn’t heard a male name mentioned in the long (and more than likely exaggerated) list yet, and he wasn’t about to be the first to volunteer one. He’d been with women before, yes indeed he had, but that was not where his interests ended. Patrick had realized in his teens that he was equally as attracted to men as to women. He hadn’t gone any further than mutual masturbation with any of the boys he’d met secretly, not yet. Patrick planned to go much further than that when the right opportunity presented itself, and he didn’t consider anything wrong with it. He knew enough not to mention it, however, since there were many men who would see something VERY wrong with it, and some of these on his own team.
He looked up at one point to see Chelios looking at him. Patrick looked back calmly, wondering what the hell his problem was.
“Chris!” Steve called out; Steve Penney, who would most likely start most of the games in net that season. Chelios snapped his eyes toward the older man. “What about you, jeune chiot? I am sure you have had your share of les filles, yes?”
Patrick, who was still watching Chris’ face closely, was probably the only one who noticed the tiny flicker of emotion before the young man (or young pup, as Steve called him) answered. For just the smallest moment after being asked, a certain look came into Chelios’ eyes, and his face froze into a polite smile. It couldn’t have been longer than one or two seconds, but Patrick marked it sharply. He recognized the look that had been there so briefly. It was panic.
And then it was gone, and Chris laughed a lazy, arrogant laugh. “You know it, man,” he replied easily, before going on to talk about how this blonde and this brunette and some of her friends had done a little of this and a little of that and could you believe she knew how to make her body go that way? The rest of the guys laughed, but not Patrick. He watched Chris calmly, and a suspicion began to grow in his mind. A small one, but a suspicion nonetheless.
And in the midst of the laughter, when Chris glanced back at him, and there was guilt underneath the smile in his eyes, Patrick’s suspicion was confirmed.
~~~
Patrick came awake with a gasp. He’d been having a nightmare, something about butterflies, he couldn’t remember for sure as he gripped the sheets and looked around the room. It was the second night of the unity weekend, Saturday night. The day had been spent doing team-building exercises, which Patrick found had been pretty easy. He understood the teamwork concepts behind each, and though he still thought it was pointless for him to be there, he admitted to himself that it really wasn’t that hard to do. Chelios had been right.
Patrick lay back down and thought about the young defenseman. That flash of understanding at dinner Friday night hadn’t left his thoughts. He wondered for the hundredth time was he correct in assuming that Mr. Badass Gritty D-Man was into guys.
And if he was, would he be attracted to Quebecois goaltenders.
Patrick scowled into the dark. It was highly annoying to be thinking thoughts like this, and about that asshole Chelios of all people, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He’d spent free moments during the exercises today watching Chelios discreetly. The smile that would light his dark features, the lazy grin that was annoying and sexy at the same time. His strong arms, and, once he got warm enough to take his shirt off, the firm muscles of his chest and back and stomach. Patrick found himself wishing, to his rage, that their house in the woods was near a lake, so he could watch him in the water.
Patrick sighed. He couldn’t very well lay there and keep thinking about these things. He’d inevitably get hard and start more intense fantasizing, and he just wasn’t in the mood to jerk off in the same room as three of his teammates. It didn’t help that he kept thinking that, once or twice, he’d looked up to find Chelios looking back at him. Then he’d blink and Chelios would be looking, laughing elsewhere. Wishful thinking, that’s all it was, and it needed to stop immediately, Patrick decided. He decided to get up and get something to drink. Walk a bit and clear his head.
He crept carefully down the hall, where the snores sounded from behind closed doors, and down the wooden stairs. He by-passed the main room and headed for rear of the house, where the kitchen and dining room were located. On his way, a light caught his eye. He stopped, turning toward one of the side hallways. It wasn’t the one that led to the bedrooms; it was the hall leading toward the library and sunroom. Patrick frowned and decided to investigate. Maybe someone else couldn’t sleep, and he’d have someone to talk to.
As he went down the narrow hall, bare feet padding on the chilly wooden boards, he noted that the light was not electric. It was instead the soft orange glow of a fire. It must be coming from the library; other than the main common room, it was the only room in the house that had a fireplace.
Patrick found the door to the library cracked open, a small bar of light escaping down the hall. He peered inside, not touching the door. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the rows and rows of bound spines all the same color of shadow, for the fire was low and the flickering light did not reach them. There was an empty table and chairs one the darker side of the room, and a low sofa situated in front of the small, square fireplace, upon which the modest fire burned. On the hearth was a full-size, real-life bearskin rug, with head and claws and everything. Claude had squeaked when he saw it the first time, Patrick remembered with a grin.
On the sofa was a figure with dark hair. He was sitting facing the fire, and from the doorway Patrick could only see the back of his head. He pushed the door open slightly and there was a small squeak. Patrick winced. The figure turned quickly at the sound.
It was Chelios.
Patrick was not really surprised. He would be the only other one up. Fate was such a bitch sometimes.
“Hello,” Chelios said. His face very alert; there was no drowsiness in his expression. He’d probably been up all night.
“Hello,” Patrick answered. He stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“Come in,” Chelios said after a pause. “Have a seat.”
Patrick couldn’t think of a reason why he should not, and his body was moving before he gave the okay. He sat down next to Chelios on the small sofa. The other man wore an old threadbare t-shirt with a bull on it, some sort of sports team Patrick assumed, and flannel pants. His feet were bare. Chelios’ hair shone in the dim light, and his dark eyes reflected the golden red flashes of the fire.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
Patrick shook his head. “I was going to get water… maybe help.”
Chelios laughed. “Never helps.”
Patrick looked at him. “What do you mean, Cheli?”
“Chris,” Chelios corrected him, looking carefully at the fire. “My name is Chris.”
“Chris,” Patrick repeated softly. Chris turned to look at him, and Patrick held his breath for reasons he did not know.
“I mean, getting up to get a glass of water only gets you up and moving and more awake. Trust an insomniac on that one.”
Patrick was not sure what his last statement meant, but he relaxed a bit at the low, raspy sound of the other man’s voice.
“Why are you awake?” he asked.
Chris shrugged. “Oh, I have trouble sleeping sometimes.”
“Why?”
Chris looked at Patrick in surprise and amusement. “I couldn’t get you to say more than two words to me on the way here, why are you so interested in me now?”
Patrick shrugged. “Do not got anything else to do, yes?”
Chris laughed quietly. “Good point. Keep it down, though, people are trying to sleep.”
He sat in silence for a minute.
“I worry about things,” Chris said finally, in a low enough voice that Patrick had to lean in a bit to hear him. “And sometimes I don’t know if I fit in playing hockey here.”
Patrick thought about this. He thought he might know what the man really meant, but decided to play dumb. It would be fatal to make a mistake by assuming.
“You play well,” he said finally. “People like you. Why you would not fit?”
“There are reasons.” Chris said firmly. His voice was a bit harsh. Patrick looked closely at him. Chris’ eyes flickered from Patrick’s eyes to his lips, and then just as quickly flickered away. He flushed and turned back to the fire.
Patrick could tell himself he was tired and had imagined it. He could tell himself that the red in Chris’ cheeks was from the fire. But he’d be lying. Suddenly a wave of confidence swept Patrick. Confidence and something else. He smiled inside. This weekend might not be a waste of time after all.
His eyes slid down Chris’ body, tracing the slight curve of his hip and the lines of his abdomen. Just above where his pants lay low around his waist, Patrick saw the hint of a tattoo. He knew what it was from hearing the guys talk about it; it was an Egyptian ankh, the symbol of immortality. Patrick had the urge to lick it, to see if it tasted differently from the rest of Chris’ skin. He was fairly certain that he’d get his chance to find out.
“I still cannot sleep,” he said, trying to make sure his English was just right. “What should help me do you think?”
Chris looked at him sharply and Patrick flashed a grin. Chris lifted his eyebrows.
“Well, I know one thing that helps…” Chris smiled at Patrick, a bit unsure. “It’s not for everyone, though.”
“Show me,” Patrick demanded, lifting his chin with a challenge in his eyes. He’d found a way to kill two birds with one stone; he’d eliminate these silly thoughts about Chelios… about Chris, and relax himself enough to sleep at the same time.
Chris looked at him carefully and sucked in his breath. His eyes searched Patrick’s. Patrick held his gaze calmly and let Chris see for himself what was there. Chris apparently found what he was looking for, because a slow grin danced its way across his face in the light of the fire. In one quick motion Chris leaned in and hungrily pressed his lips to Patrick’s.
Patrick kissed back hungrily, groaning a bit as their mouths opened together. He was instantly hard, and slivers of fire ran through his veins. The t-shirt and sweat pants he wore were suddenly too much, far too much, and he pressed up against Chris, vaguely thinking somehow that if he pressed closely and tightly enough, they would no longer be in the way.
Chris broke the kiss with a gasp and pulled at his shirt. He lifted it over his head in shifts, because he kept darting in to kiss Patrick while he was doing it.
“Gotta be quick,” Chris whispered. “And quiet. Can’t get caught.”
Patrick nodded, it went without saying. He pulled at his shirt. The instant his chest was bare, Chris’ mouth was at his nipple, nipping lightly with his teeth and sucking. Patrick almost cried aloud at the sensation; he’d never had a man do that before. Even as Chris kissed his way downward toward his navel, he realized that he’d never had a man do a lot of things before. Patrick’s next thought was that this was going to be much more than another guy reaching down his pants and stroking his dick until they both came. This was going to be a whole lot more.
Even as he realized this, Chris was pulling down his sweat pants, and Patrick shivered in equal amounts of nervousness and desire. Chris had just bared the tops of his hipbones when he grinned up at him.
“On the rug,” he whispered, tugging at Patrick’s waist. They slid down onto the soft, thick fur. “Always wanted to do it on a rug in front of a fire.”
He lay Patrick down on his back, and giving a low, throaty laugh. He pulled down Patrick’s pants and stripped them from his legs. Patrick wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and his stiff cock was so hard it pressed against his stomach once it was freed.
Patrick tried to say something but gasped instead as Chris’ lips touched his cock. Chris teased his skin with his tongue, circling the head and licking at the precum he found there. Patrick had been blown before but never like this. Chris was different, felt different. The scratchy stubble rubbing at his skin as Chris dropped kisses along his shaft turned him on beyond belief. As Chris finally stopped teasing and took his whole cock into his throat, Patrick shuddered and was certain that he wouldn’t last more than a minute of this stimulation.
And suddenly Chris was at this side.
“Shussh,” he whispered, placing quick little kisses on his lips. “Too loud.”
Patrick was still panting. “What?”
“You were moaning,” Chris informed him. He grinned. “I know I’m good but if you wake someone up, it’ll be kinda tough to explain.”
“I was not moaning,” Patrick protested, but in truth his memory of events once Chris took his cock into his mouth was a bit fuzzy. It was quite possible that he had been moaning, and Patrick felt a little embarrassed. He hadn’t thought Chris would affect him this much.
“Were, too!” the unconquerable defenseman replied gleefully. Chris had rolled onto his back next to him on the rug. The firelight played over his skin as he wriggled his way out of his flannel pajama pants. Patrick’s eyes widened a bit as Chris’ erect cock sprang into view.
“It’s kind of a turn-on, that we might be caught, don’t you think?” Chris laughed quietly again, a wicked laugh that sent pleasurable chills up Patrick’s spine. Chris rolled on his side and kissed Patrick, both moaning a little as they came into contact with each other’s bare skin. When they pulled back Chris’ eyes burned hotter than the fire.
“Need to be inside you,” Chris whispered huskily. “Can I?”
Patrick nodded eagerly. Chris had sucked him, it was only fair that he return the favor. He was intensely curious to see what he tasted like. Chris smiled at him in response.
He grabbed his shirt with the faded bull on it and placed it on the rug. Patrick wondered what that was for, and while he was wondering Chris pulled at his shoulders. Patrick was rolled over onto his stomach, his cock pressed down onto the shirt. The rest of his bare skin settled into the softness of the rug. Confused, he put his head on the side, one cheek against the tickling fur.
Chris was sucking a finger into his mouth, and after a few moments he let it out with small pop. With a grin, Chris put his hand on Patrick’s ass, and slid the finger into the crack.
Suddenly Patrick realized what Chris was up to, and his eyes widened in fear.
“Wait, Chris, no, no,” he stuttered. “Don’t!”
Chris looked up at him sharply. “What’s wrong?”
“I… I mean, I do not… I never…” Patrick bit his lip and felt a blush rise in his face.
It was Chris’ eyes who widened this time.
“Oh, shit… I knew you were young, but…” Chris stopped.
“I want this,” he continued simply. “I want you. I can make you feel good, so good you won’t believe you could feel so much. If you let me. Will you let me?”
Patrick bit his lip again, and his cock throbbed hotly from where it was trapped between his body and Chris’ shirt. His balls twitched at the promise in Chris’ voice. He took a deep breath, and nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
Chris smiled again, and bent slightly. He pressed his lips to the small of Patrick’s back. “I’ll go slow,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you. Promise.”
Chris rose to his knees. Patrick’s eyes were drawn to the trail of precum shining in the light of the fire on Chris’ stomach, and he whimpered. Chris pressed his finger against Patrick’s ass again, while his other hand rubbed Patrick’s back in small circles, soothing him. Eventually, Patrick relaxed enough for Chris to press his finger inside. There was pressure, and though Patrick squirmed uncomfortably, his cock strained at the feeling. Chris was moving his finger in circles, stretching him.
There wasn’t pain until Chris added another finger, and slowly began to scissor. Patrick bit his lip, and closing his eyes tightly, burrowed his face into the rug.
“It’s okay,” Chris’ breathing was heavy as he murmured. He continued to stroke the younger man’s back. “Relax, it’s okay.”
Patrick was unconvinced, and was on the verge of asking him to stop. He felt suddenly embarrassed to be in this position, with a man he barely knew putting his fingers in his ass. Patrick turned his head, and opened his mouth to voice a complaint.
And that’s when something extraordinary happened. Chris’ fingers were deep inside of him, and as Patrick was about to speak, they brushed a certain spot. Patrick didn’t know what the place was that had just been touched, but whatever it was lit a fire of nerves from deep in his gut to the tip of his cock. His hips bucked backward, trying to get Chris deeper to touch that spot again, and instead of saying “stop” he said-
“Again!” Patrick moaned. “Again, fais ça encore, oh please..!”
“Shit,” muttered Chris shakily as he pulled his fingers free. “You’re gonna make me come before I even…”
He trailed off and Patrick was suddenly aware of Chris’ thick cock pressing against his stretched opening. The nervousness was back, but not the fear. Patrick’s body was alight with sensation, and he realized that magical spot inside of him was going to be touched again, but this time with the head of Chris’ cock as it thrust inside of him. Patrick squirmed, rubbing his cock against the shirt beneath him.
He heard Chris spit, and his ragged breathing as he coated his cock. And then more pressure and more pain, as Chris slowly pushed into him.
Patrick hissed, and bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. Chris stopped with only an inch or so of himself inside, and reached beneath them. He put his hand under Patrick’s cock, so that it would rub against his palm beneath their weight. Patrick moaned, pressing himself down onto Chris’ hand. Chris’ breath was coming in gasps above him, and a hot kiss was planted at the back of Patrick’s neck as he slid in a bit deeper. At last he was completely buried inside of him, and the intensely intimate union was something Patrick had never before experienced.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chris was gasping. His body trembled. “Christ, Patrick, you’re so hot, so fucking… tight...”
Chris angled his hips slightly and pushed forward. Patrick muffled his moan into the rug as what he imagined would happen did: Chris’ cock touched that sweet spot inside of him, and his hips, acting of their own accord, bucked backwards. He fought not to come.
“Oh, Chris,” Patrick moaned. “Do it again, mon dieu, encore, j’a besoin de tu…”
Chris knew enough French to hear “my god, again, I need you,” and was more than happy to comply.
He began to thrust slowly, making sure to hit Patrick’s prostate every time. The younger man was writhing beneath him, murmuring and moaning in French. Chris moved a little faster, trying desperately not to come until after Patrick.
“Harder,” Patrick urged. Chris grinned tightly. He was a fast learner in more things than hockey it appeared.
Patrick’s skin was hot from the heat coming from the fireplace, but no fire burned more fiercely than that in his groin, and ricocheting through every inch of his body. He floated in the fire, arching back into every thrust, reveling in the sweet pleasure Chris was giving him. At last he could revel no more, and with a hoarse cry he lost it, shooting jet after jet of come onto Chris’ hand, his own stomach, and the shirt beneath him. Patrick realized through his orgasm that the shirt had been placed there for just that purpose.
Chris was whimpering and moaning, muffling himself against Patrick’s back. Patrick heard two odd words ripped harshly from his throat; they sounded like zestos and tentomenos, and he had a notion they were Greek. Chris thrust sharply, roughly, and then cried out. He collapsed onto Patrick’s back, shaking, his cheek pressed against his skin. Patrick felt Chris’ cock moving inside of him. He felt strangely hot inside, and realized that he was being filled. His cock twitched a few more times in response and he moaned softly.
“My hand,” gasped Chris suddenly, and pulled it from beneath Patrick. He fell onto his back with a soft thud, and grimaced as he flexed it.
“Fell asleep,” Chris whispered, and Patrick giggled. Chris gave him a mock glare, and then set about licking the come that was there. Patrick watched him, and shivered as another small aftershock of pleasure rippled through him. Suddenly he remembered his urge from earlier. He rolled to his side and sat up, using the shirt to clean what come was on his stomach and chest, and bent toward Chris’ groin. He put his tongue against the tattoo and licked roughly.
“Ooh,” Chris shivered. “I like that.”
Patrick grinned. “What did you say? Before you come?”
Chris blinked. “I said something?”
Patrick laughed, trying to keep quiet, and did his best to repeat the words.
“Oh,” Chris blushed. “Zestos, hot; tentomenos, tight. I guess I went into Greek for a bit.”
Patrick smirked. “That good, yes?”
Chris arched an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you didn’t know what I said already. Or do you not know enough of my ugly language to communicate with an idiot like me?”
Patrick’s mouth dropped open. “You…”
“Oh yeah, I understood you,” Chris laughed shakily, passing a hand over his eyes. He smiled at Patrick for a second, and then sat up quickly.
“We should get back,” he whispered. His eyes had suddenly become anxious. “We don’t want to get caught like this… you know…”
Patrick did know. It was not the sort of thing that would likely be accepted by the rest of their teammates. Neither of them could afford to get caught doing something that would jeopardize their careers at this stage. Patrick hadn’t earned his ice-time yet. Chris was still making his place on the team.
Both of them quickly pulled on their pants, and Patrick his shirt. He clutched the bulls t-shirt to him and smiled at Chris.
“I will clean this,” he said. “I will get it back to you.”
“Okay,” Chris said. He paused, eyes flickering over the young goaltender’s frame. “Patrick, I don’t…”
Patrick nodded. Chris didn’t have to say anything. What had just happened was something neither of them would forget, especially Patrick. But that didn’t mean it was the start of something permanent. Between them they spoke three languages, but none of them were needed at this moment. Both men read the truth in each other’s eyes and understood.
“Goodnight, Chris,” Patrick said.
“Night, Patrick,” Chris replied. “Go. I’ll put the fire out.”
You already did, Patrick thought. He smiled, and Chris smiled back.
Patrick left him then, slipping through the door and hurrying up to his room. He crept in quietly, hoping he would not need to explain why he had been gone and why he had another shirt with him and why above all he smelled like sex. But no one was awake, and Patrick slid in between his sheets. The whirling thoughts and excitement at what had just happened were losing ground to weariness, and soon Patrick was falling into an easy, dreamless sleep. After first making sure, of course, that Chris’ shirt was in his bag with the rest of his dirty laundry. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he’d give the shirt back in a day or two, and then the echoes in his memory whispered zestos, tentomenos as his consciousness slept.
As it turned out, he did get the shirt cleaned as soon as he got home, but he didn’t give it back until nearly twenty years later.
***
