Despite Mike’s reservations — and he has plenty — they settle back into a routine sooner rather than later. A routine that looks a hell of a lot like the end of last season, as if the summer never happened, as if Liam hadn’t had some little twink’s hands—
Mike’s not thinking about it. Mike doesn’t like the guy he becomes when he thinks about it. Liam dropped the Canadian kid, so there’s not even any reason to think about it.
If Mike thought Liam’s ardor might have cooled with time — well, it hasn’t. He’s still hanging around Mike’s place constantly, even though he has his own place now. It’s a waste of rent for the amount of time he’s spending in it, but no fucking way is Mike mentioning that, letting Liam invite himself to live with Mike full time.
Mike can’t get jealous, because he swears every time they’re in the same room Liam orbits around him. He supposes that’s mutual, to a certain extent. Even when Liam’s halfway across the room, Mike tends to know where he is, and that’s only partly because he never shuts the fuck up.
They’re wrapped up in each other, and Mike knows it, knows it’s not good, something he needs to put the brakes on, but he doesn’t know how to. Doesn’t even want to, if he’s being honest with himself.
He fucking hates when he’s being honest with himself.
*
Sometimes it strains Mike’s credulity that none of them have figured out what’s going on. Mike’s seen guys on rosters who are close, some who practically live in one another’s pockets, may even live together, but nothing quite like the living, breathing shadow that Liam Fitzgerald is determined to be. It doesn’t help that they sit beside each other in the locker room, so he can glue himself to Mike before and after games, like he’s doing right fucking now, hovering while Mike and Jacobi talk the chances for the Vikings season, which Mike knows Liam doesn’t give two shits about.
Liam keeps nudging his knee, a silent ‘pay attention to me’, and when Mike ignores him to continue his conversation with Jacobi, Liam cracks.
“Mike,” he whines.
“Don’t interrupt people’s conversations,” Mike says without looking at him.
“But Mike I have something to say,” Liam presses, and then, as Mike knew was inevitable, “Pay attention to me.”
“Aww, it’s like watching a chihuahua pester a rottweiler,” Jacobi says, and Liam sputters with indignation before throwing his jock right at Jacobi’s head.
“I mean,” Mike says, as Jacobi flails away, yelling about being poisoned, “He’s not wrong.”
“You’re just happy he called you a rottweiler,” Liam sulks. “No one’s calling you a chihuahua. You don’t understand my pain.”
Honestly, the more he bitches about this, the more he sounds exactly like a yappy little dog, but Mike’s not stupid enough to say that out loud. His expression would be priceless, but Liam in a snit is exhausting, and Mike would rather Liam not throw anything at him, especially anything that reeks of post-game sweat.
“Like if I’m going to be a little dog,” Liam says, as if he’s read Mike’s mind. “At least make me a fucking terrier or something. Those little guys are cool.”
Terrier honestly works. Fucking tenacious little shit that never runs out of energy? Sounds like Liam.
“Pomeranian,” Mike says, and probably deserves the ball of tape Liam throws at him in retaliation.
*
Well, if Mike’s being honest — and he really fucking hates being honest — it’s not like none of them have caught on.
Rogers hasn’t said anything to Mike about what he’s got going on with Liam, thank fuck, but judging by the looks Mike’s gotten, somewhere between disappointed and concerned, he knows things are back on between them. Mike’s pretty sure Morris knows about them too. Would make sense, considering him and Liam share a room. The former rookie two-headed monster is still attached at the hip during team shit, especially since Mike’s foot remains firmly down about Liam hovering around him on the road outside of team events.
Liam’s lack of subtlety has gotten even worse since they started fucking around again, and if the Oilers weren’t collectively oblivious as a bag of fucking rocks with the exception of Rogers and maybe Morris, there’s no fucking way Mike would still be getting away with this.
Scratch Morris possibly knowing. Morris definitely knows. He’s always been a bit of a skittish motherfucker — Mike’s still flat out amazed his brother’s an enforcer, because Morris the younger is more the type to cringe at a raised fist than throw himself into the fray — but now he practically quivers whenever Mike meets his eye.
“Quit scaring him,” Liam exasperatedly tells him after he witnesses the quivering for himself, Morris warily watching them from across the room like he’ll bolt if Mike makes any sudden moves.
“I’m not doing anything,” Mike says.
“Except being you,” Liam says.
“Because god forbid I be myself,” Mike says.
“Maybe you should smile more?” Liam says.
Mike swears he hears a squeak when he bares his teeth at Morris.
“You knew what I meant,” Liam chides, but he looks more amused than anything.
Honestly, though, the other guys are so unobservant that if Mike bent Liam over and fucked him in front of them they’d be asking if that was some kind of new wrestling move. Mike’s been asked repeatedly whether his pick up game’s dried up, since he wasn’t adverse to picking up before — women, always women, for safety, though in hindsight he doesn’t think anyone would have noticed if Mike had been picking up men in front of them either. Heterosexual until proven otherwise seems to be the rule with these guys.
“You could fuck me in front of everyone if you wanted,” Liam says hopefully when Mike wonders aloud how he got on a team with so many dumbasses.
“Pipe down, you little exhibitionist,” Mike says.
“You’re no fun,” Liam says.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “It’s no fun until you add a little sexual deviancy.”
“Oh come on,” Liam says. “You say that like you don’t participate in sexual deviancy all the time.”
“Well,” Mike says. “Fair enough.”
*
It sneaks up on him, which is impressive, because when it hits him, it hits him like a brick.
Mike has to check the game schedule before he books an upcoming dental cleaning — you get slapped with a fee one time because you booked an appointment for when you’re out of town, and you learn quick — and finds himself staring. It’s been over a year since Liam got called up to replace Steinberg, sat his gorgeous ass down and refused to let anyone budge him off the roster. Almost a year exactly since Liam put his hand on Mike’s thigh like a dare and Mike took him up on it.
A fucking year.
Last time Mike was with someone for a year — not that he’s with Liam, and not that it wasn’t interrupted by the off-season, so he’ll revise that to ‘fucking the same person exclusively over the space of a year or more’. That feels better. Last time — last time was Jess, when Mike was the same fucking age as Liam is now, and isn’t that a goddamn trip. Jess moving to Milwaukee with Mike when he went to play with the Admirals, the two of them playing a really shitty version of house. Jess, who was a lot like Mike. She had a temper that ran hotter than even his, which is impressive, because his was awful. Still isn’t great, but he’s gotten a better handle on it in the intervening years.
They fought as much as they fucked. More, even. Mike remembers, suddenly, that whenever his mom asked about her, her voice was carefully neutral, the kind of neutral that meant she didn’t approve. He doesn’t think he noticed it at the time, too caught up in the way they had their hooks in one another.
It ended ugly. Those things usually do. Hooks hurt when you remove them, hurt worse when you tear them out.
He doesn’t want it to be like that with Liam. He doesn’t know what it is he’s doing with him, but he doesn’t want it to be that.
Liam texts to say he’s coming
over right after Mike gets off the phone with the dentist’s receptionist, and Mike goes to unlock the door, heads to the kitchen to consider the contents of his fridge. There’s not much to work with, but Liam’s not picky. Pasta tonight, and he’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow.
He still feels — unsettled, he guesses the word would be. He can’t think of another one. He’s half considering texting Liam to tell him not to come over when Liam clomps in. Mike winces as he listens to various winter accessories drop onto his floor — the boots, loud, then his coat, quieter, and potentially gloves, hat, though who the fuck knows if Liam bothered to wear them.
“What’s up with you?” Liam asks as he makes his way into the living room, always too perceptive at the worst fucking times.
“Nothing,” Mike says. “I’m getting a beer. You want one?”
“Sure,” Liam says. “But not that gross shit.”
That ‘gross shit’ is a craft beer that tastes twice as good as the piss Liam prefers, but Mike’s efforts to improve Liam’s palate have thus far been completely wasted. He gets himself the good shit, gets Liam a Molson, because he refuses to splurge on good beer for him if he’s just going to prefer the swill.
Mike drinks half of his in a few long swallows, brings another out with him, along with Liam’s.
“What’re we celebrating?” Liam asks.
Mike shrugs, hands Liam’s beer over.
Liam knocks his bottle against Mike’s. “To winning three straight games?”
It’s probably one of the first times the Oilers have done that since Liam came up. Might be one of the first times since Mike came over from the Islanders, even. The Oilers are a fucking mess.
“Sure,” Mike says. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Don’t think you need the excuse today,” Liam says.
“Judgy little shits don’t get more beer,” Mike says.
“Not judging!” Liam says. “Just wondering what happened between practice and now.”
“Nothing,” Mike says. “Scheduled a dentist appointment. That’s about it.”
Liam grimaces. “You know what, you deserve a beer just for that,” he says.
“Scared of the dentist, Fitzgerald?” Mike asks.
“The only people who aren’t are masochists,” Liam says.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “But you’re kind of a masochist, kid.”
“Well,” Liam says. “Fair. But only like, in a sexy way. You don’t see me like, moaning when I block a puck.”
“I think you cried last time, yeah,” Mike says.
“Fuck off, I did not cry,” Liam says.
Mike finds himself grinning. “Could see the tears in your eyes.”
“Not on my cheeks, though, ergo—”
“Oh, ergo,” Mike says. “Kid’s pulling out the Latin now.”
“I thought that was Greek,” Liam says.
“If that’s the set up to a shitty ‘it’s all Greek to me’ joke, I swear—” Mike says.
“What?” Liam says with a grin.
“I’m kicking you out of my house,” Mike says.
“Nah, you wouldn’t do that,” Liam says, and the saddest thing is that he’s right.
“C’mere,” Mike says, and then, when Liam kisses him, “Christ, wash your mouth out, you taste like Molson.”
“I taste Canadian,” Liam counters, both truth and a really shitty pun considering the beer he’s been drinking.
“Apparently Canadians taste like shit,” Mike says.
“You like the taste of me just fine,” Liam says, and considering Mike ends the day with both hands on that incredible ass, Liam’s hands insistent in his hair as Mike eats him out, he might be right about that.
Chapter 13
A lot of shit gets said in bed: ideas hotter in theory than practice, ideas that should probably be put into practice — and usually are — lavish fucking praise Mike probably wouldn’t dole out if his cock wasn’t down Liam’s throat but means every word of nonetheless. Liam’s got a filthy mind, Mike’s got a filthy mouth, and that works for them really fucking well, the two of them goading each other, pushing for harder, faster, more, ratcheting things up.
If there’s anything the both of them come back to more than Mike fucking Liam without a condom, Mike can’t think of it. It makes its way out of their mouths all the fucking time. It’s an idea so hot it’s practically incandescent.
It’s also a stupid fucking idea.
There’s potentially unsafe and then there’s definitely unsafe. Mike’s hardly a fucking paragon of safety first: his entire career is predicated on him trying to punch people in the face harder than they’re punching him in the face, obviously he can’t call himself a safety first person without sounding like a fucking hypocrite. He still tries to be, with Liam.
A shit-ton of what they do carries some risk if they fuck it up. Mike doesn’t tie Liam up right, he might cut off his circulation, leave behind bruising or red raw skin, and fuck would he not enjoy the conversation he’d have with Rogers if Liam came into practice bruised up and obvious. Well, beyond the marks that are undeniably sex related, and that Rogers has studiously avoided looking at ever since he went red and bashful the first time he saw them, like the finger marks on Liam’s hips broke his protective, vanilla brain.
Mike fucks Liam too rough before a game, Liam might not be able to play as well. Mike hits him the wrong place, he’s looking at damaging something other than skin. Everything carries an element of risk, but Mike’s careful not to cross those lines, makes sure he knows what he’s doing so he can hurt Liam the way he wants to be hurt without actually injuring him.
This is a whole other kind of unsafe. And yes, again, Mike’s sex life isn’t particularly safe, but this is something he’s never budged on, at least when it comes to penetrative sex — he’s sure docs wouldn’t be particularly impressed with his record for oral.
It’s common fucking sense to use a condom with people you don’t know well. Mike can count on two fingers the amount of times he’s been exclusively fucking one person for long enough that the STI tests would be able to logically clear him, and hey, it’s not like he’s one of those guys who bitches that it doesn’t feel right or whatever. He’s sure it would feel better without, but he’s never really prioritized his pleasure over not knocking someone up or getting himself syphilis, so he’s a goddamn boy scout about it.
That said, if he denies that he’s wanted to fuck Liam bare from the start, watch his come trickle out of him, fuck it back in with his fingers, lick it out of him — well, he’d be a fucking liar, and Liam would call him on it in a second, because every single fucking thought he’s had he’s said out loud when he’s been balls deep in Liam. Liam’s dirty mind is contagious, and when he starts spinning stupidly hot ideas, Mike’s mouth fucking follows. Still, it’s something he’s fine keeping in the realm of fantasy.
That feeling is apparently not mutual.
*
Liam brings it up in the middle of a Cutthroat Kitchen marathon, of all things. Mike thinks most unscripted TV is trash, and this is absolutely not the exception, but apparently if you add food he’ll watch it.
“It’s not safe,” Mike says, without looking away from the TV.
“Yeah, but it kind of is when you’ve been exclusive for like…six months,” Liam says, then, “Fuck, don’t look at me like that, I’m just stating a fact, Mike.”
Mike’s not looking at him like anything. Mike’s not — Liam didn’t use boyfriends, or anything similarly asinine, and he’s got a point — since Liam ditched the little off-season boyfriend he had, neither of them has been fucking anyone else, so sexual exclusivity is, as Liam said, a statement of fact. Still, put like that — six months, nearly an entire fucking season of Liam spending more time at Mike’s than his own place, of set routines and that fucking sexual exclusivity, it paints some pretty, domestic picture that Mike doesn’t particularly want to think about.
“Can you save the ‘we’re not boyfriends’ until
after you agree to come in me?” Liam complains when Mike doesn’t say anything.
Mike doesn’t even know what to answer first, there. He decides he’s going to steer fucking clear of the former, because he’s not particularly interested in a fight right now, especially about that, which he doesn’t want to talk about in the first place. Liam looks like he’d be happy to give it a go, too, and the last thing Mike fucking needs is Liam in a snit and sulking at him across the locker room until he gets bored of being pissed and ends up back in Mike’s bed.
Mike mutes the TV.
“We both need to get tested first,” Mike says.
“Have you fucked anyone?” Liam asks. “Since like — me? I mean. Like. The first time we fucked.”
It’s an easy question to answer, but Mike’s reluctant to say it. Liam has a brilliant and alarming talent for landing on every fucking subject Mike doesn’t want to talk about. In general, but he’s in especially fine fucking form today.
“Mike?” Liam says.
“No,” Mike admits. “Not since — no.”
“I haven’t fucked anyone but you,” Liam says. “Ever, so. We’re good.”
“Right,” Mike says. “You’re telling me you hit ‘boyfriend’ status with someone without blowing him? Doesn’t sound like you.”
“We didn’t do anal,” Liam mutters. “So whatever.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t exactly make you the Virgin Mary,” Mike says, then, “Humor me. Mostly because it’s the only way you’re getting what you want.”
“Fine,” Liam says, sighing dramatically.
“Can we go back to watching TV now?” Mike asks.
“You’re addicted to this show,” Liam says, and Mike doesn’t dignify that with a response, just turns the sound back on.
*
Mike knows he’s clean. He got tested less than six months back and, as Liam annoyingly pointed out, hasn’t fucked anyone but him in that time, but since he’s making Liam get tested, he does the same. He gets the expected all clear, thumbs up, good to go, and after that he can’t stop thinking about fucking him bare, not just when Liam starts mouthing off about it in bed, but during random, quiet moments. Fixated.
Thrown Off the Ice Page 10
