That wasn’t his job. First liners are half off-limits as it is, the refs always faster to call shit done to them, the league more stringent about enforcing the repercussions, and if Mike didn’t break his nose he’d be surprised. Coach Mulligan is going to come in and tear him a new asshole, and then he’s going to get suspended, he knows he is. He can’t stop thinking about the startled, unprepared look in Davidson’s eyes when Mike first drew blood, how quickly it curdled into fear.
“Mike?” he hears, quiet, almost tentative, and he looks up. Liam’s mostly cleaned up, nose splinted, though he’s still got some blood on his face.
“Hey,” he gets out.
“Jesus Christ, your hands,” Liam says, takes an aborted step forward before he stops. Mike’s hands are a mess. He looks like he’s been guts deep in someone.
“You should see the other guy,” Mike says weakly. It’s a bitter fucking thought.
Mike gets dragged into medical by his best friend the sadist doctor; hisses his way through disinfectant and gauze. The little fucker got him with his teeth, but considering those teeth may well have hit the ice, Mike doesn’t think he gets to be too indignant about it. Liam hovers even after they attempt to shoo him from the room, first earnestly, then with weary acknowledgment that his stubborn ass isn’t going to move. Liam has that effect. He’s already got the start of a dark bruise coming up above the bridge of his nose, is probably going to have two black eyes when he wakes up tomorrow.
A broken nose for a broken nose. Poetic justice.
“You good, kid?” Mike asks through gritted teeth. Bites his tongue too, because he should avoid cussing out the man who controls his access to drugs.
“Fine,” Liam says. “The hell did that guy do to you?”
There are TVs everywhere around here, but Mike wouldn’t blame Liam for getting distracted by having his nose set. It’s not on Mike’s list of favorite procedures, far worse than the salt and burn shit they’re doing with his knuckles now. There’s no point lying about it, though. First guy through the door is going to snitch, and if not the first, then the second, and so on.
Mike scrubs a hand through his hair and gets a scowl in response, even though it isn’t even the hand they’re focusing on. Fucking doctors.
“Figured he’d like a nose to match yours,” Mike says. “I think it looks better on him, though, honestly.”
Liam’s quiet for a minute. “Did you break Davidson’s nose?” he asks, finally.
“It’s very likely,” Mike says.
Liam looks at him, doesn’t say anything. Liam silent is uncommon enough to be unnerving, and for once Mike can’t even start to read him. “Okay,” he says, finally.
Mike gets absolutely reamed out. Mulligan makes sure to do it in front of the whole team too, for maximum embarrassment. Mike deserves it, he knows he does, so he takes it, digs his nails into his palms and ignores the way the cuts on his knuckles pull, tight and sore. He doesn’t defend himself. There’s nothing defensible about it.
Liam comes home with him. Mike doesn’t even bother to argue, just feeds them sandwiches and anti-inflammatories before they hit the sack. Liam moves around in his sleep, and Mike isn’t much better, so he installs himself on the couch, leaves Liam the bed, despite Liam’s protests. If he smacks Liam in the nose in the middle of the night he’s going to feel even worse about himself tomorrow.
Mike wakes up stiff and sore, his couch not comfortable enough for a full night’s sleep, stumbles to the kitchen to make coffee, and Liam comes out of Mike’s room when it’s almost finished percolating. He looks worse today, sporting some pretty extensive bruising around his eyes, the full raccoon look. Still, he leans sleepily against Mike’s shoulder and makes himself a nuisance while Mike’s trying to pour them coffee, so he’s clearly at least mostly okay.
“Rogers know where you are?” Mike asks when Liam is at least halfway to conscious.
Liam looks up to give him a sarcastic look.
“Rogers know you’re safe?” Mike clarifies.
Sarcastic turns to exasperated, but Liam nods. Mike rewards this newfound ability to think of other people’s feelings with toast — he’s too fucking bagged to make anything more involved today.
It’s an off-day, so they eat their toast at the table and then migrate to the couch with their mutual gripes, mutual soreness. Liam quickly figures out the position that is the most intensely, annoyingly cuddly, and also avoids hurting his nose. Mike tolerates it, but he puts his foot down when Liam tries to make him watch cartoons. He may be fucking a kid, but he sure as hell isn’t becoming one.
He gets a call from Player Safety around noon, and takes it, stoic. Suspended for two games. It could have been worse. Hell, North Stars fans are probably going to whine about how fucking unfair it is.
Liam’s quiet when Mike’s on the phone, well-behaved, like Mike never sees him. He stays quiet even after Mike’s hung up, keeps his eyes on the muted newscast.
“You broke his nose,” he says, finally.
“Yeah,” Mike says. If he hadn’t, it would have been one game. A brush off entirely, maybe. The game misconduct for instigation and a slap on the wrist, maybe a fine.
“You broke his nose for me,” Liam says.
Mike could argue: it’s his job, he’s meant to stick up for his teammates, his entire purpose is destruction, retaliation.
Except he can’t say he was just doing his job with a straight face: Mulligan’s royal takedown made that as obvious to everyone else as it was to him that he took shit personally and he took Davidson down too hard. That it was a fuck up. That he lost his shit because he saw Liam bleed. He knows that, and Liam knows that. Liam didn’t ask a question, he announced a statement of fact.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
*
Liam is a baby about his nose. He follows Mike around his house asking whether it’s time for more painkillers or not, whining about his stupid splint getting in the stupid way, and how he can’t breathe through his nose and everything in his life is terrible.
When Mike tells him he’s broken his nose twice and Liam’s being a fucking drama queen it shuts him up for all of an hour before he’s back to complaining about how tragic his entire existence is. Mike has no sympathy. Mike had to send Liam home the night before just so he could actually sleep in his own fucking bed without worrying that he was going to smack Liam’s nose in the night.
The team’s down in Dallas for a quick jaunt, and in the meantime Mike has to deal with even more Liam than usual, what with Mike’s suspension and Liam’s injury. They don’t leave the house once while the Oilers are away. Liam puts on clothes for a total of five minutes when he’s on delivery guy duty, but other than that, he’s basically become a nudist in an attempt to sway Mike from the no-sex policy he’s enforced since Liam’s face met glass. It doesn’t work, but the view’s nice.
Mike’s had worse suspensions.
Once the swelling goes down a bit and Liam looks less like a startled raccoon, Mike drops the no-sex policy, and the final day before they have to return to practice is primarily spent in bed. Liam can breathe through his nose now, but Mike won’t kiss him, no matter how loudly he complains, instead pays attention to things he’d ordinarily skip over. The way his sides are slightly ticklish, though he tries to hide it. The soft insides of his thighs, the way they hold bruises, biting kisses, just long enough that Mike can see his mark all over him. The way he shakes every time Mike sucks a kiss against that spot at the base of his throat.
Mike takes his time because there’s no reason not to: he’s not eighteen, he isn’t petrified at the thought of delaying gratification. Liam has resorted to cursing Mike’s parenthood, nationality, home state, and the size of his cock by the time Mike finally gets his mouth around him, sucks him off as slow and easy as he’d done everything else, even when Liam gets his hands in Mike’s hair, tries to make him move. After, Liam’s sated and wrecked, his skin a map of where Mike’s been, what he’s spent his time
on, blotchy red from sucking bites and beard burn. He looks like Mike’s.
It’ll fade.
They go to sleep sore in better ways, Liam tucked up against Mike’s chest in what he’s deemed the safest position, while Mike drapes an arm around his waist, mouth against the vulnerable nape of his neck.
Chapter 8
When Mike wakes up early to banging on the door, he doesn’t really know what to expect. He nudges Liam off of him, gently at first, then harder when he remains stubborn deadweight. Mike finally gets himself free, somehow without waking Liam up, then pads downstairs while rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Darryl Rogers is a nice guy. A good old Alberta boy. He eats dinner with his parents once a week, thinks up surprises for his fiancée even though everyone mocks him relentlessly for it, takes in rookies and trade-ins like he’s running an orphanage. He was dubbed Teddy Bear at some point, and it stuck, because he’s pretty squishy, but he’s still big, broad. He looks almost more like a linebacker than a hockey player; the kind of defenseman you don’t want to go through because you may just bounce off him.
Darryl Rogers is also currently standing on Mike’s porch with a murderous expression on his face.
Mike considers closing the door on him and dealing with this when he’s wearing pants and has been awake more than two minutes. Also maybe after he shoves Liam out his back door so he can pretend he isn’t harboring a teen delinquent.
Instead he says, “Hey,” cautious. He makes sure not to open the door more than a crack, because it’d be just his fucking luck if Liam decided that was the moment to come downstairs.
“Where is he?” Rogers asks.
“…who?” Mike tries.
“I will go through you, Brouwer,” Rogers says, and Mike meekly gets out of his way. He knows how to pick his battles, and Rogers on a protective tear is not something he wants to deal with at seven in the morning. Or ever.
Mike hears footsteps padding down the stairs and prays to every single deity he doesn’t believe in that Liam put on boxers. Please. He’ll do anything.
“Mike?” Liam says, as he comes into the hall. He’s wearing boxers and a shirt of Mike’s, thank god. No one’s going to mistake that for Liam’s shirt, but it’s better than the alternative. Mike doesn’t want to gamble on whether the marks he left on Liam last night have faded.
Liam stops short when he sees Rogers. “Shit,” he says, succinct.
“Get dressed, Liam,” Rogers says. “We need to talk.”
“Did you stalk me?” Liam asks. “Are you serious? I’m a fucking adult!”
“Yeah, because you’re clearly making great adult decisions here,” Rogers says.
Mike is vaguely offended. He may be a shitty decision, but it’s not buddies to say so.
“Get dressed,” Rogers repeats.
“Fuck you,” Liam says, but he retreats to Mike’s bedroom, hopefully to get dressed, because Mike really needs Rogers to leave his house so he can properly evaluate just how fucked he is. In the meantime, it’s just him and Rogers in the hallway, Rogers stone faced and Mike feeling more and more uncomfortable that he’s just in his underwear. He may have a bite mark on his chest, but he’s not going to look down to confirm that; if it’s there, he sure as hell doesn’t want to bring any attention to it.
There’s pretty much nothing he can say, unless he wants to go the whole “hah, teenagers, am I right?” route, but he suspects that Rogers might actually hit him if he rubs his face in the fact that he’s been busy despoiling his rookie. His teenage rookie, to be precise.
God, Mike is so fucked right now.
Liam comes out of Mike’s room, back in yesterday’s clothes and spitting mad, and Mike wonders if it’s too late to say that it’s not what it looks like, claim they were just having a sleepover. Guys sleep over at each other’s places all the time. Maybe not in the same room, and maybe not stripped down to their skivvies, but Mike could think up an excuse for that. Unfortunately Liam’s mutinous expression tells Mike it’s too late to make excuses. The fucking brat is probably going to spill incriminating details purely to piss Rogers off.
When they leave, first Rogers, and then Liam, who keeps sending Mike looks that Mike thinks are supposed to be apologetic, Mike gratefully closes the door behind them. They have practice in three hours, so it’s a stay of execution at most, and Liam is probably currently making the situation considerably worse — he’s gifted at that — but still. Mike has three hours to consider escape plans. He is currently leaning towards running to Duluth and hiding in his mother’s house. Rogers wouldn’t kill a man in front of his mother, he’s too nice for that.
The only reason Mike can summon up the will to go to practice is because it’s not optional, and Mulligan scares him more than Rogers does. Mulligan would hunt Mike down in Minnesota, and he would kill a man in front of his mother, so Mike makes the smart choice, bites the bullet, and goes.
Liam’s quiet, sullen on the ice, which is uncharacteristic enough that everyone notices. Mulligan actually asks him if he’s suffering any complications. Mulligan sounds concerned. That’s strange enough to get Mike’s attention despite the fact he’s doing his level best to stay the fuck away from Liam and Rogers. He can’t put this off forever, he knows that, but he can delay with the best of them.
The delay ends when Rogers corners him in the locker room after Mike gets out of the shower. Mike looks around to make sure there are people nearby, reassures himself that Rogers wouldn’t kill him in front of their teammates either.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Rogers huffs.
Rogers is a smart guy. Mike likes him. Shame that probably isn’t mutual right now.
Rogers waits for him to get dressed, close enough that Mike can’t make an escape, far enough that it isn’t that weird. Other than the fixed stare. That’s pretty fucking weird.
“Do you know what you’re doing, here?” Rogers asks, when Mike’s in street clothes.
“No,” Mike says, completely honest. “I have no fucking clue.”
For some reason that seems to be the right answer.
“Come get a drink with me,” Rogers says. It’s early afternoon, but they both probably need a drink right now, and frankly now’s not the time to argue with him.
They take separate cars, so theoretically Mike could just not show up, but Rogers is being more understanding than he needs to be, more understanding than just about anyone would be. It’s better not to antagonize him further. Mike gets there before him, orders them both a beer. He resists immediately draining his, because he thinks he needs to be sober for this conversation, unpleasant as the thought is.
Rogers sits down across from him. Doesn’t say anything, just stares. He usually has just about the friendliest face in the world, so him staring shouldn’t be as fucking effective as it is. Mike drops his eyes to the table.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Rogers finally asks.
“Yes,” Mike says without hesitation. “Pretty much.”
“How long has this been going on?” Rogers asks.
Mike hesitates. There’s no way Rogers hasn’t asked Liam the same question, and no way to know whether or not Liam lied. Mike figures it’s going to have to be the truth. “A few months,” he says.
Rogers doesn’t react, so Liam told him the truth. Mike has got to break him of that habit.
Rogers lays his concerns. It’s all shit Mike knows down to his bones: Mike’s too old for him. Liam’s young, idealistic, has turned it into something else in his head. Mike’s a dick and Liam’s going to get hurt and it’s going to be his fault. He can’t disagree. There’s nothing to argue.
“I’m just trying to look out for Fitzy,” Rogers says.
“I know you are,” Mike says. “I like that you are.”
Rogers is quiet for a minute.
“You’re really fucked, huh,” he says finally.
“I really am,” Mike says miserably.
“He thinks he’s in love with you,” Ro
gers says.
Mike exhales, slow. “He’ll get over it,” he says.
Rogers takes a sip of beer. “If he’s not coming home you make sure I know about it. He’s shit at remembering to text me.”
Mike nods.
“Break his heart and I will kick your ass,” Rogers warns.
Mike nods again.
“Fuck everything,” Rogers says, raising his beer.
Mike will drink to that.
*
When he gets home, Liam’s sitting on his front step.
“Would have thought you’d have figured out how to break in by now,” Mike says.
Liam gives him a miserable look. “What did Roge say?”
“You’re not grounded,” Mike says. “Your dad didn’t take the car away.”
“Mike,” Liam huffs.
“It’s fine,” Mike says. “He’s fine. Mostly. He hates me a little right now, but you can go home without him killing you.”
“Why can’t I just stay with you?” Liam asks.
Mike stares at him. “Because I’m not a fucking lunatic,” Mike says. “And I would become one if I had to deal with you all the fucking time.”
“I’m here all the time anyway,” Liam says.
“And I’m already one day away from killing you,” Mike says, sitting down on the stairs beside Liam. Liam leans his head on Mike’s shoulder, and no amount of shrugging will make him get off.
The kid thinks he’s in love with him, but the season’s up in a couple weeks, and the off-season is a whole other thing. He’ll get over it, and Mike will get over him. Eventually.
Mike wraps his arm around Liam’s shoulder. “Not your boyfriend,” he reminds him.
“Says you,” Liam mutters, and Mike graciously ignores him, just turns his head, face pressed to Liam’s hair.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, and when Liam reaches out, Mike helps him up.
Chapter 9
For twenty-nine teams, locker clean out is the most depressing day of the year. It’s an admission of a season’s failure. An acknowledgment that the roster isn’t going to be the same the next time you enter the room, that you may not be one of the guys returning.
Thrown Off the Ice Page 7
