Liam actually fucking makes him do small talk. And the bitch of it is, Mike almost finds himself liking it. There’s shit neither of them’s saying: Mike has no idea if Liam knows Rogers mentioned boyfriends, but he’s sure as shit not saying anything about them, and after the first couple times Mike shuts him the fuck down, Liam stops asking anything health-related.
Liam gets animated when he talks about the Red Wings, and not just about his teammates, but about the actual game. Detroit’s game is practically in a different league than Edmonton’s: they were knocked out in the first round last year, but that was an unexpected result. Liam’s got hopes, got his eye on the prize, got a spot on the third line of a team that’s stacked as hell right now, but may bump him up in the future, when they’re weaker or he’s stronger. He’s playing hockey, real hockey, not the shit they played in Edmonton, and if Mike wanted some validation for his choices, well, it’s right there.
It should make him feel better. It doesn’t, really. It’s not that he doesn’t want the kid to do something with his talent, to be happy, but it’s one thing to be satisfied with that, to know he’s done basically the only non-shitty thing he could have done for Liam, and it’s another thing to sit across a table from him and not touch him, besides the brush of their knees under the too small table, because he gave up the right to do that years ago, never deserved it in the first place.
Liam switches to water after his first beer, and Mike would argue, but it’s not worth it: the kid can successfully out-stubborn him any day of the week. Mike hits the bathroom after his second drink, and when he’s washing his hands, asking the mirror whether he’s losing his fucking mind, Liam comes in. It’s a damn good thing Mike was asking that question silently.
“Waiter’s going to think we ditched,” Mike says.
“Your coat’s there,” Liam says. “And I paid the bill.”
Mike pauses before going to the paper towel dispenser. “Heading back?” he asks, trying to sound casual. Maybe failing. Probably failing.
“Can I come home with you?” Liam asks.
“That’s a piss poor idea, Liam,” Mike says quietly.
“I don’t care,” Liam says. Of course he doesn’t. He never does. “Can I come home with you?”
Liam’s managed to keep his voice casual in a way that Mike couldn’t manage, but his body is a line of tension. He’s practically vibrating with it, from where Mike can tell he wants to bounce on the balls of his feet, to where his hands are clenched like he’s picking a fight.
“Don’t you have curfew?” Mike asks.
“Mike,” Liam says, and the whole facade’s suddenly gone. All that’s left is frustration and coiled up energy, and he looks like the same kid who tried to bluff his way through losing his virginity, to goad Mike into getting balls deep in him. Mike has little doubt that’s the way this is headed, and it is a piss poor idea, he knows he’s right about that. He just doesn’t know if he cares, overmuch, except for how he knows this is going to wreck him all over again.
That’s a problem for tomorrow.
“Get your coat,” Mike says.
“I didn’t bring one,” Liam says, and this place may be next to the hotel, but it’s January in Minnesota. Fuck, Mike doesn’t know how Liam survived without him.
“Of course you fucking didn’t,” Mike mutters, and Liam grins at him, unrepentant, the first grin Mike’s seen all night. He forgot how hard that grin hit him. Liam heads out of the bathroom, then, and Mike follows, because he can’t do anything else.
Chapter 19
Mike has to grab his coat on the way out of the bar, and when he gets outside, Liam’s waiting for him, arms tucked around himself. It’s ten fucking degrees, and Mike knows it may not be as cold in Detroit, but it isn’t exactly balmy during winter there either.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mike says.
“Takes one to know one,” Liam says through chattering teeth.
Mike offers his coat, and Liam looks sideways at him. All Mike has is a flannel shirt without it, but better him than Liam, who’s got nothing but a long-sleeved Red Wings shirt on himself.
“Take it,” Mike says. “I parked a couple blocks away.”
Liam takes it, ducking his head and pulling it on.
“You still haven’t learned that winter is a thing?” Mike asks, and reconsiders his life and his choices for at least the tenth time since he left the bathroom.
Liam grins at him, sunshine-y and shit-eating, and Mike rolls his eyes at Liam and at himself while he leads the way to his truck. The walk is a whole lot colder than the walk there, the wind cutting through his shirt, the crunch of his boots through the firm packed snow sending a chill through him. There’s no time to waffle about whether it’s a good idea or not to get in the truck with Liam when the truck is out of the wind and has heating. His concerns wait until he’s pulling out, looking sideways at Liam, who’s drowning a little in his coat, cheeks pink, face half hidden behind the fur ruff.
The radio’s on low, generic classic rock that Liam immediately takes offense to, of fucking course, fiddling with the dash. Mike considers smacking his hand away, but that’s too fucking familiar. It was practically routine in Edmonton, Liam messing with Mike’s radio until every station saved was some top 40 bullshit. Liam is constitutionally incapable of getting in a car without fucking with the radio.
Once the shit coming out of his speakers is up-tempo and bouncy enough for Liam’s liking, he leans back, giving Mike a slightly sulky look, like he’s upset Mike didn’t bother to stop him. As if that ever worked — Mike would slap his hand, Liam would pull back, and then twenty seconds later, there he’d be, fiddling a-fucking-gain. Mike’s trying to pick his battles, here, since he’s pretty sure he’s going back home to fuck his ex-...whatever Liam is, and that’s so much stupidity right there that he needs to draw the line somewhere, just for the sake of his sanity.
It should probably be uncomfortable. Neither of them are saying much of anything, unless you count Liam singing half-under his breath, noticeably off-key even at that volume. It’d driven Mike fucking nuts, Liam’s firm insistence on singing along to whatever crap he put on, not caring that he couldn’t hit the notes, like he’d explode if he didn’t get his restless energy out every way that he could.
It’s not that Mike likes it now — Liam’s voice would probably get dogs howling — but it’s familiar, feels like driving to practice again, Mike silent and Liam chirpy despite the fact he’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes. Or driving back, impossible to tell they’d been bag-skated by the way Liam kept on.
Mike pulls into his driveway, and Liam looks around curiously.
“It’s nothing special,” Mike says, because it isn’t: two-stories, three bedrooms, in a decent if not terrific neighborhood. He has plenty of money in the bank, but he wasn’t going to throw it around for a house that would only echo around him.
Mike parks in the garage — no use tempting snow and fate — and Liam fiddles with a sanding sponge sitting on Mike’s work table while Mike unlocks the door. “You even know what you’re holding?” he asks when Liam rubs his thumb over the surface, frowning at the grit against his skin.
“You’re such a guy,” Liam says, and when Mike gives him a pointed look for that idiotic statement, he throws the sponge at him, missing by a good foot.
“Stick to hockey,” Mike says, and Liam gives him the finger before following him inside.
It’s almost easy to ignore Liam behind him, padding quietly into the kitchen as Mike’s turning the lights on, because of course he’s a good Canadian boy, taking off his shoes right away. Mike won’t mistake that for presumptuous; Liam’s a fucking brat, but his mom forced some manners into her son. Keyword some.
“You want a beer?” Mike asks.
“I thought you don’t drink,” Liam says.
“I do actually have visitors,” Mike says. That’s mostly untrue, because he generally doesn’t unless they’re forced upon him, but his mom left s
ome beer the last time she was here, and it’s been sitting neglected in the back of his fridge ever since.
“I’m fine,” Liam says, kind of quiet, and Mike finally looks at him. He’s shucked Mike’s coat somewhere — probably the floor, unless he’s become less of a fucking slob since Mike saw him last. He’s standing closer than Mike thought he was, just far enough that Mike can’t feel him, and he’s got his bottom lip between his teeth. Mike can’t decide if he’s nervous or if he remembered what that would do to Mike, the knee jerk desire Mike always had to bite it for him.
Probably both. Liam’s always had Mike pretty well pegged, at least when it came down to the things that would drive him crazy, good or bad.
“You going to kiss me, old man?” he asks, and Mike wishes he’d kept the lights down low, because it looks like Liam’s never going to learn how to avoid spelling everything out on his face. Right now, it looks a lot like desperation.
“You want me to?” Mike asks, gruff.
Liam snorts.
“You’re not supposed to be the dumb one,” he says, and when Mike steps into his space he tilts his chin up, half helpful, half defiant. He’s got a challenging look on his face now, one Mike hasn’t seen much of, at least not off the ice, but when Mike raises a hand to thumb the edge of his jaw, defined, a scratch of thick stubble under his thumb that Liam couldn’t manage before, the expression drops as Liam’s eyes fall shut.
Mike swallows hard. He shouldn’t have this, he’s not supposed to have this, but his mother didn’t bring up an idiot, and she didn’t bring up an ingrate either, so he leans down, catches Liam’s mouth. It’s a little awkward until Liam shifts up on his toes to line them up better, the angle never quite right when they’re standing. It’s better on a bed, a couch, but Mike doesn’t plan on moving right yet.
Mike can taste beer bitter on Liam’s tongue, a punch in the gut. Another thing he can’t have anymore, but Liam’s fucked that all up. Liam fucks up every rule Mike ever sets for himself — it’s a hobby of his — so Mike’s got the taste of beer in his mouth and Liam’s fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt, before sliding under, his hand hot against Mike’s side.
It’s almost intoxicating in itself: the slide of Liam’s tongue against his, dirty, a prelude to something, Mike hauling Liam in closer, his hands on Liam’s ass. Mike gets a leg between Liam’s, and he can feel him, half-hard, hot, even through denim, Liam’s hips hitching forward into the press of Mike’s thigh. Liam’s hand drifts from its loose clutch of Mike’s side, his fingers sure, practiced, on the button of Mike’s jeans, and Mike pulls back, tries to put at least a grain of space between them.
“We should go upstairs,” Mike mumbles, half into Liam’s mouth, since Liam hasn’t taken his retreat without objection, tugging Mike back in even before Mike starts speaking.
“Or we could stay here,” Liam says before biting down on Mike’s bottom lip just hard enough to sting.
Mike pulls away properly then, ignoring Liam’s petulant look. “I’m too old to fuck in a kitchen,” he says. “And you have a game tomorrow.”
“You’re no fucking fun,” Liam says, and turns on his heel before going upstairs, like he has any idea where he’s going. Mike keeps back a couple steps, lets Liam open the door to the bathroom, the linen closet, pressing his lips together to keep from saying anything, until Liam finally lands on Mike’s bedroom and gives him a triumphant look.
“Good job,” Mike says, and Liam scowls at him before walking in, already stripping his shirt off, because he’s never really been one to waste time when he could be having sex instead. Mike gets started on his own shirt, because if he doesn’t, Liam will, and Liam’s never been all that careful with Mike’s clothes. Mike would rather not have to sew some buttons back on tomorrow.
Liam’s naked by the time Mike gets started on his jeans, the changes in him even more obvious when he’s stripped down to skin. He’d always been tightly muscled; lean belly, surprisingly broad shoulders, tight waist, but now he’s broader everywhere. He doesn’t have the awkward grace of a boy anymore, hard in places, soft in others, baby fat stubbornly clinging no matter what he did. He’s honed now, a weapon, though more of a club than a knife, despite his stature. He looks like a fucking hockey player. Not that he ever didn’t, but now it’s practically textbook.
Mike’s faintly embarrassed to stand in comparison to him, though it’s not exactly surprising that only managing light exercise means he couldn’t keep the muscle tone. Liam doesn’t look disappointed, at least, just impatient, scowling again when Mike pauses on his jeans, the button already helpfully undone for him.
Liam reaches for him the second Mike gets close enough to the bed to be grabbed. He pulls Mike on top of him, hard enough that Mike has to catch himself awkwardly on his elbow to avoid dropping his full weight on him. Mike’s had Liam beneath him hundreds of times, probably, but it’s different now. The way Liam fits against him is different. It feels like a bit of a sucker punch to realize that.
If nothing else, Liam’s mouth is familiar, the taste of beer gone, and Mike finds himself lost in that feeling, the reassurance of it, while his hands map a body that isn’t familiar anymore. Liam’s hard against him, silken hot now that the layers have disappeared, hips hitching again, searching for contact. Mike pulls back, just enough to see Liam’s eyes blown dark, the wet redness of his mouth, two more familiars. He’d be fine with Liam rubbing off against his thigh if he wanted — fuck, he’d be fine with anything Liam wanted right now, as long as he was somehow involved in it — but it’s always polite to ask, and he’s always been conscientious about that in bed, if nowhere else.
“What do you want?” Mike asks. He doesn’t know what he wants himself, beyond Liam. Got as far as getting his hands on him, and now that he has he’s overwhelmed with the options.
Liam ducks his face into the column of Mike’s throat, sucks a stinging bite into his skin. It’ll mark or it won’t. Mike sort of hopes it does, but it’ll probably fade before he even comes. “Fuck me,” Liam says.
“You have a game tomorrow,” Mike says, which is stupid, because god knows it never stopped them before, and if it ever messed up Liam’s skating, he didn’t let it show. Liam looks up at him then, sort of disbelieving, which is fair. Mike isn’t going to argue this if it’s what Liam wants; fuck knows he’s thought about it enough times in the last couple years, got off remembering the tight clutch of him, the way he’d make breathless wanting sounds, the way Mike could knock the words right out of him, press him down and just use him. He’d feel shitty after he came, usually, but it never stopped him from jerking off to Liam the next time.
“You not up to it?” Liam asks, a play so obvious he may as well show Mike all his cards, but Mike isn’t going to argue for the sake of arguing: he wants this too much to treat it like a game. He rolls off Liam, pulling the bedside table drawer open and taking lube out before hesitating. He’s got a couple condoms in there, but he’s pretty sure he’d just thrown them in with the lube when he’d moved in, that they’ve been around since him and Liam were still using condoms. He’s not sure what would sound worse: saying that he doesn’t have any condoms, or saying that his condoms are fucking expired, a pathetic portrait of life without Liam. Not that he’s been fucking pining, but it looks bad.
“I’m out of condoms,” Mike says, finally, because that’s the best possible way he can phrase it.
“I’ve got one in my wallet,” Liam offers.
“Seriously?” Mike asks. “Has no one ever taught you anything about condoms?” Mike’s pretty sure he gave Liam a lecture on proper condom storage, never mind anyone else.
“I put it in tonight,” Liam says. “It’s good.”
Mike’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean: whether Liam walked into that bar fully expecting to fuck Mike, some sort of, what, fucking catharsis or something, getting Mike out of his system, or whether Liam just goes through them often enough he doesn’t have to worry about the friction we
aring through the wrapper. Doesn’t really want to know which it is. Doesn’t think he’d like the answer either way. Fuck knows he isn’t going to stop regardless, not unless Liam says to.
“Get it,” he says, and Liam goes through his jeans, comes back with the brand Mike always uses, though, luckily, not similarly expired. He sprawls out on the bed, knees tucked up, and Mike can’t help but kiss the bony knob of his knee, hit by a wave of deja vu so fucking strong it’s staggering.
He can’t even count how many times Liam has sprawled out like this in front of him. He likes getting fucked any way — on his belly Mike can fuck him the deepest, hands and knees is a classic for a reason, and when he rides Mike he gets to control the pace and drive Mike insane — but his favorite’s always been on his back, legs hitched up around Mike’s waist or over his shoulders. He tucks a pillow under himself while Mike’s slicking his fingers, and when Mike slides down the bed he slings a leg over Mike’s shoulder, easy. His hips arch slightly when Mike slides a finger in him, cautious about it, though he barely has a chance to take a breath before Liam’s urging him for another finger.
He’s as reactive as he’s always been: those same quiet, hitching breaths, noises Mike still isn’t sure he knows he’s making, pushing back into the press of Mike’s fingers, heel knocking against Mike’s shoulder blade when Mike rubs over his prostate, insistent. Mike would be happy just lying between Liam’s legs, getting him off with his mouth and his fingers, still remembers every fucking trick to break him right open, to make him fucking scream, but Liam’s hot and tight around his fingers, tighter still when Mike gets a third finger into him, presses his mouth against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, Liam going tense at the rub of Mike’s beard against his skin, and all Mike wants is to get inside him.
Mike manages the condom one-handed, even if he has to use his fucking teeth to get the foil open. He’s pretty sure that’s not an appropriate way to use condoms, but he’s a fucking hypocrite, what’s new. He spills lube over half the bed, but it’s worth it when he’s pulling his fingers out of Liam just as he’s guiding himself in, the movement of Liam trying to keep Mike’s fingers in him pushing him right onto Mike’s cock. Liam opens easy, sweet, pulling Mike closer even as Mike’s pushing into him, and all Mike can see is the line of his throat as his head tips back, tendons standing out, hand white-knuckled on Mike’s bicep.
Thrown Off the Ice Page 15
