Ballad Of A Broken Bromance
by imp

Ballad Of A Broken Bromance

imp

Summary

Jeff's used to playing with Richie; they've done it since they were 17. He signs a contract with Philly thinking he'll win a Cup there, with Richie. Then they're traded away from each other - and it turns out, that's just the beginning. The sweep, the trade, the SECOND trade, and what happens after.

Notes

None

Chapter 1

They go out together all the time; it's almost easier when there's at least two of them. Richie usually picks the girls, and then sees if they have a friend. Jeff doesn't mind. It's easier like that, and anyway, they're always fucking hot, and always up for sharing a hotel room, or fucking in adjacent rooms. One of the perks of being in the NHL.

They're in Toronto now, finishing up a road trip. Jeff's tired as fuck but he still turns when Richie says, "Her."

"What, do you have a nose for it?" Jeff says, but he finishes his beer.

"Hey," Richie says, smiling at the girl.

She raises her eyebrows. "Buy me a drink."

Jeff can tell from the look on Richie's face that he likes her. He kind of likes them predatory, actually. "Tell me your name first," Richie says.

"Marissa." She looks over at Jeff. "And yes, I have a friend."

"Well, I'm in, then," Jeff says.

She smiles a little and says, "So, about that drink...?"

"Call me Richie," Richie says.

"And this is Andie," Marissa says, motioning a girl over.

"Buy you a drink?" Jeff says, aiming for the kind of sleazy that always gets him laid.

"Buy me two," she says.

Hell yeah. They're on tonight.

Later, Jeff pushes Andie up against the wall of their hotel room and kisses her. She's got ridiculous tits, and these lips that make him want to be more of a kisser than he usually is. Richie's getting Marissa naked on the other side of the hotel room. They're gigglers, for sure - they keep looking at each other and laughing - but whatever, Jeff doesn't care. Not when he can skim a hand down her front and make her skirt ride up just a little, curling his hand around her thigh and kissing her neck.

"If we get on the bed I can fuck you," he says.

She laughs a little, breathy. "What makes you so sure I'm ready to go?"

"You will be by the time I'm done," Jeff says, and bites her neck very gently.

She moans - he's not sure if it's fake or real, but who cares? - and says, "Okay, yeah."

When he pulls away, she strips her shirt off and says, "Get going, cowboy."

Jeff glances over at the bed. Richie's sitting on it now, with the girl in his lap, kissing her and grabbing her tits. She's rocking against him, obviously into it.

And, Jesus, he turns back to Andie and she's moving to undo her bra. "Not yet," he says. "Come here." He pulls her over to the bed and kisses her hard, moving so she's in his lap and then rolling so she's lying down, legs splayed. It's a good look on her.

"You're so fucking hot," he says, and rubs a hand between her legs. She's wearing lace panties and they catch a little, but judging by the way she's moving against his hand she doesn't care.

He glances over at Richie. He's lying down now - he likes them on top. She's grinding down on his dick, doing something that makes Jeff kiss his girl again and slip a hand into her panties. He wants her on his dick already. He wants to fuck her into the mattress.

He finds her clit and just goes for it, kissing her neck and fingering her. She's pretty wet, and it doesn't take her too long to say, "My bra, can you -"

"Whatever you want," he says, even though it's a lie. He reaches back and unhooks it for her. Then just gives himself a second to stare at her tits.

"Hell, yes," he says, and takes one in hand, licking her nipple and kissing her everywhere he can reach. He keeps up with his fingers on her until she's wet as hell, then says, "Lift your legs up."

Richie's girl is naked and kissing her way down his body. If Richie gets head - well, Jeff knows how fucking dumb he looks when he's getting head. Jeff doesn't get how girls could fuck him after seeing him like that. But Jeff doesn't want to get head, he wants to fuck this girl, and watch her come. Richie can do what he wants.

He gets her underwear off and then slips a finger inside her. And, fuck, she arches her back and her tits are right there so he has to kiss them again, fucking her slowly with a finger. When she says, "I'm not going to break," and tilts her hips, he stretches her more with another finger, fucking her steadily and rubbing her clit.

Richie's girl is on him now, and his hands are on her tits while she rides him. She's playing with her own clit, which, that's really fucking hot, he kind of wants Andie to do that. Richie turns his head, though, and looks over at Jeff and Andie, so Jeff ducks his head and sucks one of her nipples, tilting his fingers until she says, "More, yeah, right there, fuck."

Once she's practically begging for it he pulls away, grabs his condom out of his wallet, and tosses his pants, underwear, and wallet on the floor. He climbs back into bed and kisses her deeply, handing her the condom.

It's not like he's a slouch in the size department. She can put it on.

She laughs a little and does it, then spreads her legs and tilts her head. Jeff can hear Richie groaning - his sex noises are as fucking dumb as his face, honestly - as he grabs her thigh and slowly presses into her.

Her pussy is fucking amazing, and he has to close his eyes before he braces himself above her and thrusts hard. She squeals a little, but she arches her back to meet him, which, hell yes. He likes girls who like being fucked. He pushes her into the bed and fucks her hard, getting a hand down to play with her clit as he does it.

Richie's making noises that mean he's close to coming now, and Jeff closes his eyes and tries to hold on. He wants to get her off - and yeah, she's tightening around him and making noises that he's pretty sure mean she's close, and then she's moaning and coming around him, and he gets to fuck her even harder and keep pressing against her clit. She likes that, grabs his ass and pushes him even harder, until the mattress is squeaking and he's kissing her and coming.

She shudders under him as he gets his shit back together, and, wow, that's her hand between them. That's a little embarrassing. But whatever, she got off twice, and now she's looking over at Marissa and giggling.

Richie's fingering her still, even though he's come. Jeff watches his hands as he gets her off again, then rubs the small of her back as she comes down from it.

"Get it, girl," Andie says, and she and Marissa laugh.

"We’re going to head out," Andie says after a few minutes.

"Cool," Richie says. He kisses Marissa, then leans back.

When they've left, Richie says, "I'm fucking beat." He puts his boxers back on and rolls over, turning light off the on his side of the bed.

"Yeah, goodnight," Jeff says, and copies him.

They have morning skate the next day, so Jeff and Richie wake up early for room service, like they usually do. "Want my eggs?" Jeff says when he's eaten as much as he feels like.

Richie shrugs. "Sure."

Jeff passes them over, then steals the last of Richie's sausages. They're sitting at the hotel table together, like they always do if there's space. Jeff drinks his coffee and then says, "We've got a couple hours."

"TV?"

Jeff shrugs. "Sure."

They close out the regular season with a win, and then they're going to the playoffs. It's hanging over everyone's head what happened last year, how close they got. None of them say it, but all of them are thinking about the likelihood that they'll get there again.

The night before their first game, Jeff texts Richie. Beer at ur place?

Sure come over, Richie answers right away.

Jeff grabs some beer and drives over. Richie yells, "Door's open," when he knocks.

"What if I was a Mormon or something?" Jeff says, coming in.

"Whatever, man," Richie says. "Oh sweet, grab me one, will you?"

Jeff brings both their beers out to the living room. "Here we go," he says, lifting his beer.

That's as much as they'll talk about the playoffs. Richie nods and clinks his bottle against Jeff's, and they drink.

"You should leave early," Richie says as they watch ESPN.

"I know," Jeff says. "I'm not going to sleep over, man."

Richie grunts.

Jeff can't stop thinking about the playoffs, though. There's no way he and Richie are going to talk about it, because that's just not how they work. They didn't even talk about it after losing to Chicago last year, which, shit, that's a memory that still stings. But he can't stop thinking about how they could really do it this year – or they could flame out and embarrass themselves.

"Hey, man," Richie says, "calm down."

"I'm calm," Jeff says right away.

"Your knuckles are white."

Jeff loosens his grip on the bottle. "Yeah, well."

Arnold has been lying on his bed near the TV, but now he gets up and walks over to Jeff. "Hey, buddy," Jeff says, scratching behind his ears.

Arnold nudges him, then climbs up on the couch between Jeff and Richie. He curls up with his head in Jeff's lap, tail thumping against Richie's leg.

Richie scratches Arnold's back as they watch TV. "Mavericks could go all the way," he says after a few minutes.

Jeff doesn't know much about basketball. "Sure."

Richie sighs. "Seriously, Carts, you're even making Arnold nervous with your bullshit."

"What if –"

"No," Richie says. "We're one of the best fucking teams in the NHL, all right? We already proved we can do anything. You and me, we're going to do it."

He'd never say "win a Cup", not right now. Jeff can only just think it. "Right," he says finally.

"Good," Richie says like they've settled something.

A few minutes later, Jeff leaves.

The first round is nothing special. Going to seven games against the Sabres isn't ideal, but they get through it, and send Miller and the rest of them packing. Then they drop the first game to the Bruins.

"Fucking Bruins," Richie says after that game. All the disappointment is right there in his tone.

Jeff wants to go out and punch someone, fuck someone, or both. Instead he says, "I'm sleeping at your place."

"We can't get trashed."

"I know, jackass," Jeff says. "It's better than going out and finding some chick to bang. It's the playoffs."

It's as close as he's going to come to admitting he wants some company. Richie shrugs. "Sure."

So he ends up on Richie's couch, drinking his Gatorade and watching Richie channel-surf. "You could always fuck up Krejci's wrist again," Jeff says.

"Funny."

"No, I'm kind of serious."

"Yeah," Richie says. "It wasn't on purpose the first time."

Jeff snorts. "Yes it was."

"I didn't mean to fuck it up that bad."

"Like you're sorry?"

"Well," Richie says, "no."

Sitting there, Jeff can feel himself unwinding. Richie's apartment is nice and familiar. He doesn't have to fake how comfortable he is there, and Richie's one of the only guys who really gets how antsy Jeff gets during the playoffs. Not that everyone else isn't antsy, too, but Richie's his best friend. They work.

"Go to bed," Richie says just as Jeff starts half-drifting off on the couch.

"Did you put the sheets on?"

"No."

"Asshole," Jeff says, but he doesn't really mean it. He goes upstairs as Richie clears their bottles off the coffee table.

He jerks off that night. It's a little weird, because his sheets smell like Richie's detergent, but he needs the release. The game fucking sucked, and it's bringing back the creeping fear of elimination that he remembers way too well from last year's series. Once they got past the Bruins they were fucking flying, but he doesn't have any delusions about how this series could go. And he's got a bad feeling about it. It's even worse because he can't even play anymore, because of his fucking foot. Everything he's feeling, he can't even get out on the ice.

So he loses himself in jerking off, thinking about that time with Richie and the girl – Amy? No, Andie – and Richie's girl. The end of the season, when they were gearing up for the playoffs, and how intense it had been. He thinks about the girl Richie'd fucked, his hands all over her awesome tits, and how Andie's pussy had felt on Jeff's dick. Fuck, he wants to do that again. But not yet, not until they've made it through this playoffs run. Not until they've won.

When he finally falls asleep, he doesn't dream.

But they don't win, and they don't win, and they don't fucking win. The locker room gets quieter and quieter, and Richie – he's never been the loudest of guys, but he completely shuts down. Jeff's getting drilled by the media and he doesn't even have to put up with a fraction of the shit Richie has to deal with. He has no idea how the guy's still standing.

More and more, Pronger's taking over. He's the one dealing with the media and not ducking questions, he's the one dropping the "Let's go, boys", and he's the one mopping up after Coach loses his shit at them.

They have six intermissions, three more games, and hours in between that Jeff barely remembers, because they're mostly him working his ass off interspersed with him trying not to panic and do something stupid. It ends up not mattering. The buzzer sounds, the score is 5-1, and the Bruins have fucking swept them.

"Come back to my place," is the only thing anyone says to him. It's Richie, obviously, standing there with his hair wet and his hands clenched at his side. Jeff just nods. He doesn't trust himself to talk right then.

After they deal with the media – giving sound bites has never been this hard before, in Jeff's entire career – they walk out to their cars together. There's nothing to do; they'll clean out their lockers in a few days, but until then, all they can do is follow their usual routine after a game.

When Jeff gets to Richie's, Richie is already inside. He parks his car and then goes in. Richie's standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at the next yard.

"Hey," Jeff says. His voice sounds too loud.

Richie doesn't turn around. "Hey."

Jeff's stomach is twisting. He knows exactly what Richie'll do if left alone: he'll punch a wall and go sulk in a dark room, probably watching some shitty TV. That's what he did last year. But Jeff's the kind of guy who makes shitty decisions when he's fucked up from losing, and right now he feels like going out and doing something really fucking dumb. "Let's go out," he says. His voice sounds too loud even to his own ears.

"Now?" Richie says.

"Yeah." He can feel himself starting to get reckless and he really doesn't care. "Now."

Richie stares at him for a second, then shrugs. "Sure," he says. "Let's go."

They change out of their suits – Jeff keeps a change at Richie's, for times like this – and hit the sidewalk. They stop at 32°. The first thing Jeff does is walk in and start a tab, ordering him and Richie two shots each. "To start," he says, holding his up in a sarcastic tribute.

Richie nods and holds his up too. "Let's do it."

Half an hour later, Jeff's well on his way to trashed, and Richie's hitting on everything with two legs. He doesn't want to get so drunk he has whiskey dick, since apparently Richie's decided they're picking up, but he also wants to forget the fucking game that just happened.

"Cartsy," Richie says, coming over with a leggy blonde. She's more Richie's type than Jeff's, but she's hot and smiling up at him. "This is Jessica."

"Nice to meet you," Jeff says. "Buy you a drink?"

She laughs. "Sure, why not."

After just a little bit of talking they discover she's a chemistry graduate student who likes cats and Entourage. Jeff's never met a hockey player who didn't like Entourage, so they even have something to talk about while they're busy getting drunker. It's only been about forty-five minutes before Richie says, "Why don't we get out of here?"

Which is when it occurs to Jeff that there's only one girl.

"Both of you, huh?" Jessica says consideringly.

Which. Jesus. But Jeff's drunk enough that it actually seems like a good idea. "Sure," he says. "Why not?"

Jessica walks between them on the way to Richie's. She's leaning heavily on Richie, but that means Jeff can brace a hand on her lower back, stroking her skin with his thumb. Richie keeps glancing over at him, but Richie's hard to read at the best of times, and right now, some serious shit is going down. Jeff doesn't even try to figure out what's going on in his head.

They get back to Richie's and Jeff puts an arm around Jessica as they go up the walk. When they get inside, he kisses her, pulling her close. He's definitely, definitely into this.

"Let's go to my room," Richie says quietly.

Jeff feels tense, hopped up in spite of all the alcohol. "Lead the way," he suggests, keeping an arm around Jessica.

They go up to Richie's room like that, but when they get there, Richie grabs Jessica's wrist and tugs her close, kissing her. It's a dirty, messy kiss, and Jeff watches the way she arches into it, stepping closer. Shit, she's hot.

Richie tugs her shirt off, then takes his off too, which is what clues Jeff into the fact that he's going to be naked along with Richie. Right, because that's how threesomes work.

When he's down to his boxers he moves in behind Jessica and starts kissing her neck. "Bed?" he says, and she nods, lying down and pulling him down on top of her.

It's easy to touch her tits from here, but then the bed moves and Richie's settling in on the other side of her. Jeff's not sure what to do, so he leans back and lets Richie kiss her, but keeps his hand on her tit. It's weird watching her press harder into the kiss when he plays with her nipple, and it's even weirder when he leans down to kiss her tits and Richie's right there.

Richie says, voice low, "Eat her out."

The way Richie says it, it's not a suggestion. "Sure?" Jeff says.

"Yeah," Richie says. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Jeff looks back at Jessica. Jessica says, "Hey, I'm not complaining," and shimmies out of her pants and underwear. She spreads her legs like it's no big deal, looking at Jeff expectantly.

Jeff swallows and kisses her. It's easier, from there, to kiss his way down her body, before licking her slowly.

He's not that into eating girls out like this. He's - it's kind of embarrassing, but he's into eating girls out when they're pushy. He's into girls making him do what they want. But this is pretty good. Richie's making out with her, and when Richie plays with her tits, she shudders and rocks her hips a little. Jeff likes that; he likes having to move with her, and he likes when she presses against him, rocking her hips against the fingers he slips into her.

He sucks her clit, and licks her, and fucks her with his tongue along with his fingers. She moans into Richie's mouth, and - shit, when Jeff looks up, Richie's playing with her tits. He's into this more than he expected, not desperate for it, but still hard as he gets her off.

And when she comes, shaking and whimpering, Jeff's turned on enough that he kisses her thigh and thrusts into the mattress a little, just trying to get the edge off.

"Here," she says, tugging him up. "Let me -" She fumbles his pants open and then jerks him off, fast and hard, exactly what Jeff needs. Jeff drops his head into the curve of her neck and thrusts against her, not even thinking. He's close, but he's not there yet, not quite there.

Until Richie says, "Come on, Carts," impatiently like Jeff's fucking up something on the ice. Jeff groans and comes, embarrassingly quickly, flopping to her side as soon as she comes too.

Then Richie's on her, all over her the way he tends to get with girls. He kisses her ear and says, "Get on top, babe," getting up on his knees so they can switch places.

It feels weird to be lying next to Richie, though, so Jeff sits up and watches as she slides down on Richie. Richie loves this, Jeff knows; he puts his hands on her hips and she does all the work while Richie watches her, eyes half open, playing with her tits and guiding her with hands on her hips.

She comes again when Richie rubs her clit, and then Richie comes, too, eyes flicking shut and a guttural groan wrenched out of him.

Jeff doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he lets it out. Jessica slumps down onto Richie, saying, "Hell, yeah."

He feels like maybe he should leave or something. Jessica's all curled into Richie and they're kissing lazily, and it's weird. But just as he's thinking he'll go to his usual guest room, Jessica says, "Hang on," and rolls over to kiss Jeff, too.

And Richie watches them, just like he did when Jeff ate her out.

"I'm going to go," Jessica says after an hour of lying around and kissing occasionally. "This was fun, though."

Jeff thinks about asking for her number, but something holds him back. He has no idea if they'll be doing this when things aren't so fucked up. "Yeah," he says. "Totally."

She gets dressed and then grabs her purse. "I'll walk you to the door," Richie says abruptly, standing up and grabbing his boxers and jeans.

Jeff thinks he should probably offer too, but he doesn't. He has no idea what the etiquette is post-threesome. It occurs to him, though, as soon as they leave, that it's weird to just hang around naked in Richie's bed. So he gets up and gets dressed, then follows them down to the lobby.

Richie's closing the front door when he makes it down. "She was nice," he says, and once again Jeff is stuck having no clue what he's actually thinking.

"Yeah." But Jeff's sobering up, and remembering the fucking sweep, and he doesn't want to talk.

"I'm going to go to bed," Richie says.

"Right," Jeff says. "Uh."

Richie rolls his eyes. "Stay here," he says, his tone implying he thinks Jeff's a dumbass.

"Sure," Jeff says, and goes back upstairs before things can get even more awkward.

When he wakes up the next morning, his head is pounding and for a few minutes he doesn't think about anything except how bad he needs aspirin. Then he remembers the threesome he had the night before and flops onto his side, staring off into space.

At least it was hot, he concludes after a few minutes of thought. He'll find out if things will be awkward with Richie when he manages to drag his ass down to the kitchen.

After lying there for a few more minutes, the pounding of his head trumps his desire not to move, and he gets up and stumbles downstairs. Richie's in the kitchen, drinking orange juice and staring out the window again.

"Hey," Jeff says. His voice is rusty; it's more like a croak.

Richie jumps. "Hey," he says, turning around. "There's Red Bull in the fridge."

"Thanks." Jeff goes to grab some. It's the sugar-free kind – not that it matters, he thinks, since the damn season is over.

"Jessica was nice," Richie says.

"Yeah." Jeff takes a deep pull of the Red Bull. "Aspirin?"

Richie tosses him the bottle.

They sit down at the kitchen table together, in unspoken agreement. Jeff lets his eyes wander as he does. Richie's house is nice but he's never bothered to decorate it, either by himself or by getting a decorator. It seems kind of bare.

"We have to clean out our lockers tomorrow," Richie says. "I got a text."

Jeff probably has one, too. "Cool," he says.

"Sucks," Richie says.

Jeff shrugs. "Yeah."

"Want to stay in and get hammered?"

"It's the middle of the day, Richie," Jeff says, even though his first instinct is to say yes.

"We've done crazier things, Cartsy," Richie says.

Jeff shakes his head. "I have to get back to my place. Call my mother."

"Right," Richie says, and turns away.

Jeff finishes the Red Bull and then says, "Later, man."

"We'll hang tomorrow," Richie says.

"Sure," Jeff says, and pulls out his phone, calling a taxi.

He just kind of hangs out the rest of the day, trying not to be too crazy about the Bruins and absolutely not turning the TV over to the NHL Network. When five o'clock hits, he grabs a beer and checks his phone for the first time since they lost.

He's got a ton of text messages, most of which he ignores. His mom texted him and called twice, though, so Jeff knocks back the rest of his beer and calls her.

"Hey."

"Oh, sweetie."

Jeff winces. "Mom…"

"I know, I know, but as far as I'm concerned you're still my baby boy."

"I'm fine," Jeff says. Aside from the threesomes and everything. "Seriously, I'm okay."

"Right," she says. "You did all you could, you know."

"I could have –"

"No," she says firmly. "You did everything you could."

"Right," he says, because he doesn't want to have this argument. "Sure."

"Try not to do anything too stupid, okay?"

He winces. "Um, yeah."

"…what did you do?"

"Nothing," Jeff says quickly. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Do that," she says. "Love you."

"Love you too," he says, and hangs up.

They clean out their lockers the next day. It's a media circus, and Jeff knows they're not actually vultures, but that's what it feels like. He does all the usual bits, and tries not to do something stupid like lose his mind at a reporter.

When he's done dealing with the media, he finds Richie and says, "Going home?"

Richie shrugs. "Not for a couple days."

"Let's get hammered, then."

"I thought you had better things to do."

"I did," Jeff says. "Yesterday."

"Right," Richie says. "Okay, cool."

Jeff's kind of worried he'll make them go to a bar, but Richie's next words are, "So I'll pick up some vodka. You bring whiskey."

"Sounds good," Jeff says, and they walk off to their cars together, not saying anything.

Jeff just picks up Jack Daniels, because if he's getting wasted just to get wasted there's no way he's drinking decent whiskey. Richie's already home when he gets there, but he answers the door before Jeff has a chance to knock. "Hey," he says. "Come in."

"Like I need your invite," Jeff says, pushing past him.

"I lined up the shot glasses."

"Awesome."

Things get a little fuzzy after that. Richie hands him a shot of vodka, then another one, then a massive glass of whiskey. They're just getting trashed, nothing fancy.

"Man," Richie says as they drink. "I really thought - I seriously thought maybe this year, you know?"

"Yeah," Jeff says. He takes a sip of whiskey. This might end with him puking in Richie's bathroom, but whatever, he's had worse nights. "Me too."

"I just, I don't know." Richie laughs bitterly. "I just didn't think it would be like this. Fucking... fucking Bruins."

"Fuck 'em," Jeff says. He slumps back against the couch, kicking his feet out until they're touching Richie's ankles on the coffee table. Richie keeps his coffee table way too close to the couch, because he's fucking short. "Fuck all of 'em. I hope... I hope fucking Marchand drowns in his own puke. Is what I hope."

Richie laughs. It starts small, then turns into legitimately hysterical laughter. "Yeah," he says. "Fuck yeah."

Jeff's not really used to seeing Richie look like that. It's kind of terrifying. "Drink some more," Jeff says, taking a long pull of his whiskey.

"Oh, believe me," Richie says, and downs half his glass in one go.

It's kind of great. Just, also kind of scary.

After they get hammered, Jeff says, "Not going home," and lurches to his feet.

"Guest," Richie says. He gets up, half-runs past Jeff, and goes upstairs. Jeff rolls his eyes and follows.

He leaves early the next day, and doesn't see Richie before Richie leaves for his home up in Canada. Jeff would like to, but it doesn't really matter; he'll see Richie in the fall. He spends most of his time going to the gym and just chilling, recovering from the playoffs and ignoring the entire world of sports. He figures he'll go down to Sea Isle eventually, but right now he's going to relax, enjoy the part of summer he can justify taking before he has to get really serious about training.

He gets the call at nine in the morning. He's gotten back from his morning run and is wondering if it'd really be breaking his diet that badly to have a latte or something when his phone goes off, so he grabs it and says, "Hello?"

"Jeff, son."

Jeff blinks. "Uh. Yes?"

"It's Paul."

Oh, right, Holmgren. "Hey," he says. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Actually, there is. There's a few things I need to discuss with you."

Normally if the Flyers want to do some promotional thing they'll call in Jeff's agent, but whatever. "Sure," Jeff says. "What's up?"

"If I recall correctly, we spoke to your agent regarding the signing of Bryzgalov."

"Sure," Jeff says. Who wasn't following that signing? And he does remember a conversation about how the Flyers weren't talking to anyone.

"To do that, we needed to make some tough decisions about pieces to move."

"Right."

"You've been traded, son. To the Blue Jackets."

Wait. "No," Jeff says, because it's the first thing he thinks. "I - but -" He thinks of Richie, who he didn't even bother to say a decent goodbye to, and it's like a brick has been dropped in his stomach. "No," he says again.

"I'm sorry," Holmgren says, "but it's the best thing we can do for the future of the franchise. You understand that, Jeff."

"I have to go," Jeff says, and hangs up.

He doesn't care how much sense it makes; he grabs his keys and pretty much runs outside. He drives, and he keeps driving. He should go home, he knows that, but instead he parks in a gas station and texts Richie with shaking hands. u heard?

theyre talking about it on nhl network, Richie texts back. jim called. i might get traded too

Jim, Richie's agent, who would definitely know. They can't trade Richie too. Can they? Jeff doesn't even fucking know at this point. He types out a couple texts, ones that start with i thought we'd and what about being together and then erases all of them because they sound like things a fucking pussy would say. Finally he texts back, keep me posted.

Twenty minutes later, Twitter says that Richie's been traded to LA, and Carts is ignoring his phone in favor of driving down the shore as fast as he can go. He'll go to his house, where he doesn't get wireless, and he'll - what? Watch NHL Network and cry? Do something, at any rate, that doesn't involve doing any of the interviews his phone is blowing up for. He bets his agent has called too, and shit, probably his mother, but he can't stomach the idea of talking to anyone right now. Even - maybe especially - Richie.

They were supposed to have their whole fucking careers together, and now Jeff's going to live in a fucking Ohio shithole. He's been to Columbus; it's a nothing city in the middle of fucking nowhere. And Richie will be in LA, half a continent away.

He makes it to his front room before he throws his keys down on the floor and sinks down next to them, leaning against the door, forehead resting on his knees. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Later, he's not completely sure how he makes it to the kitchen. He knows he pulls the beer out and drinks one, then throws it against the wall. It doesn't even shatter, just thunks dully, denting the plaster before falling to the ground. Fuck that shit, Jeff thinks, and opens another one.

He keeps his phone on, out of some bizarre sense of masochism. He's pretty sure his voicemail is full by now, and he's got two hundred new texts. He doesn't check them, though, just hits them so the notification screen will go away and then puts the phone back down on the table.

For awhile he just drinks beer and watches his phone buzz. He feels dead inside. It doesn't matter how dramatic that is, it's fucking true.

And he hates this house. Great, fine; he'll be leaving it soon anyway. He hates this house, and he hates the fucking Flyers organization for suckering him into signing that contract and then trading him. He wants to pound them into the ground - and yeah, he has to hit something, so he goes over to the wall and tries to put his fist through it.

It hurts, but not enough, so he switches beer hands and then punches with his other hand. Now his knuckles are bloody, which suits him just fine. He goes and rinses them off, then grabs another beer.

It's not like when he and Richie got trashed after losing to the Bruins. Then he had Richie, and the assurance that, at the end of the day, he and Richie would have seasons and seasons to fix shit. This is... Jeff doesn't even know what this is. It's the end of the line for him. He's going to fucking Columbus, and there's nothing he can do about it, and he's going to be playing for the Blue Jackets and he'll only see Richie occasionally. That's the end of it.

His phone finally dies after ringing and buzzing off the hook for hours on end. He thinks he has a spare charger here, but he doesn't care that much if he doesn't. He ends up slumped miserably on his couch, staring at the ceiling and drinking as much as he can.

Hours later, the room is spinning and he's on the verge of messy, puke-drunk. He throws the last beer away and eyes the liquor cabinet. But no, even he knows that won't be worth how he'd feel when he wakes up tomorrow, so he tosses the rest of his empties in the trash and throws an arm over his eyes. Maybe when he wakes up, things will be less shitty.

Fat chance, he thinks bitterly. He falls asleep half-laughing to himself, sounding even more insane than he feels and not caring in the slightest.

Things aren't better when he wakes up in the morning. For starters, his head is pounding. And his phone is dead still - obviously - so he has to get up and find his spare charger. Once he does that and swallows some aspirin, he sits at the kitchen island and thinks about his options.

The first one is obviously to go out, talk to the media, and play nice. Hockey's a business, he knows that; he shouldn't, according to the media and probably his agent, be hiding away and refusing to talk to people. But he doesn't want to talk to people, and he doesn't really see why he should, considering how thoroughly they all screwed him over.

Maybe he could talk to Richie, and Richie could talk him into talking to people. But he knows Richie'll be making nice, because regardless of what the Philly media says, Richie does try to act like a goddamn adult about this shit.

Yeah. Maybe Jeff'll call Richie later. But fuck his agent, and the Philly media, and Columbus. Everything and everyone in Columbus. Fuck it.

He can't just get hammered again, even though he wants to, because all he has left is hard liquor. So he flops down on the couch with a Nalgene full of water and turns the TV on.

He can't watch the NHL Network - they'll probably still be talking about the trade, or will bring it up at bad moments and make Jeff throw something - so he turns on Spike TV instead. It's some dumb adult cartoon, and he watches it and doesn't laugh or even really pay attention.

It's over. He has to get rid of the house, and move all his shit. He's done in Philly. Fuck.

The rest of the day passes with him nursing his hangover and trying not to do something stupid like get hammered and cry. He goes to bed early, at barely ten, and sleeps for twelve hours. When he wakes up, he actually checks his phone.

He deletes most of the texts - he'll deal with people later. He replies to the one from his mom, promising to call later, and then opens up the ones from Richie.

There are only two: I'll see u around I guess and but u have 2 talk 2 the media at some point.

no I don't, he sends back, and pockets his phone.

Right, okay. He's going to... he'll work out. And then he'll call his mother. And he won't call his agent, because he can't think of anything to say that isn't, "Go fuck yourself."

He drags his ass into the gym and hops into the stationary bike. He's probably going to half murder himself in the mood he's in, but he doesn't give a fuck. He starts pedaling, going faster and faster and turning the resistance up, trying to get lost in it. The TV's on the news, which is great, because Jeff doesn't give a fuck about riots in the Middle East right now, but it's nice that someone else's life sucks more than his does.

Okay, fine, that's dramatic. He doesn't care.

He spends two more days in his house, mostly being left alone by everyone. His mom thinks he should talk to the media, and he's still getting calls that he assumes are requests for interviews, or at least a quote or something, but he's not going to talk to anyone. At one point he texts his agent to let him know where he is, but that's the extent of what he does. And five minutes after he does that, even, he regrets it, because Barry might try to track him down and make him play nice.

Fuck playing nice. Playing nice would've been not trading him.

On the fourth day, though, someone knocks on his door. Jeff's been showering like a human after every workout, so he doesn't have a problem answering the door. And if it's four PM and he's on his fourth beer, well, whatever.

He squints at the guy standing there. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rick," the guy says. "Nash?"

It takes a minute for it to register. When it does, Jeff says, "Fuck off," and slams the door closed.

Fuck Columbus. In the ear.

Nash doesn't go away, though. He stands on Jeff's front porch and knocks and knocks, and goes from knocking to pounding and shouting, as Jeff sits in the living room and tries to ignore him. Finally he opens the door again and says, "Seriously, I'll call the cops. Watch me."

"No, you won't," Nash says.

Jeff pulls out his phone and hits 9. His thumb's moving to 1 when Nash reaches out, grabs his phone, steps inside, turns his phone off, and closes the door behind him.

"Fuck you, man," Jeff says. He thinks about punching him, but it probably wouldn't do any good. Nash is a little taller and a lot broader. Flabbier, Jeff thinks meanly.

"Columbus really isn't that bad."

"Oh, really?" Jeff crosses his arms. "Fascinating. Tell me another one."

"It's not," Nash says. "I mean it."

"Please explain to me how Columbus can be anything but a black hole of suck, dude. Come on. Bring it."

"Can we sit down or something?"

Jeff wants to say no, but he's had a lot to drink and isn't totally sure how long he can keep standing. "Fine," he says, and goes out into the living room to sit down.

Nash sits across from him, in a chair Jeff knows for a fact is uncomfortable as hell. "Management's here too, but I told them to stay in the hotel," Nash says. "This is a nice place."

"Nicer than anywhere in Columbus," Jeff says, taking another pull of beer.

Nash sighs. "I know you didn't want to be traded."

"That's a hell of an understatement. Good job."

"Okay, I know you'd rather be punched in the balls every day for a year than be traded. Good?"

"Try five years."

"Right," Nash says. "But you were traded."

Jeff doesn't have an answer for that, so he drinks more and doesn't say anything.

"But you were."

"Fuck you, I know I was."

Nash nods. "So..."

"So what?"

"So, you need to come to Columbus. Trainers need to evaluate you, you need to get settled. There's press stuff for you to do."

"Fuck you, man."

"Jeff -"

"Get out," Jeff says.

Nash shakes his head. "They told me to get you to see that Columbus isn't that bad."

"And you haven't even brought up the nightlife. Probably because there isn't any."

"Well, actually -"

"Don't even start."

"You have to let me talk, Jeff. We're going to be on the same team. It's a team I captain, and believe in."

"These are sweet lines you've been fed, dude, but you need to give me my phone back and get out of my house before I start throwing shit."

He half doesn't expect it to work, but Nash tosses him his phone and then stands up. "I'll be back."

Like he thinks he's the fucking Terminator or something. "What part of 'get out' is tripping you up, man?"

And then he leaves. Finally.

Jeff goes to get another beer. One day, he thinks. When Nash comes back tomorrow, he'll listen. He'll go to fucking Columbus. He has to; he's not so far gone as to think he can somehow just not report. And it'll be easier for him if he plays nice and doesn't make everyone hate him right off the bat.

Right now, though, he has a case of beer to finish.

He crashes early, wakes up even earlier, takes aspirin, and cleans up the house a little. He's still going to come here in the off-seasons - fine, it's Jersey, but Jeff likes it here. There are tons of hot chicks in bikinis and no one bothers him. It's awesome. But he'll need to have his place in Philly cleaned out, and all his shit shipped out to wherever he's going to stay in Columbus. Shit, he needs to find a house. And he should probably say goodbye to Richie in person, wherever he is - or maybe not. Maybe Richie's already moved out. Fucked if Jeff knows.

He feels a little better once he has a plan. He puts on different clothes from the ones he's been wearing for four days and sits around, waiting for Nash.

At ten, just as Jeff's finishing his second Red Bull, Nash knocks. Jeff goes to open the door. It's just him again, thank God. Jeff doesn't think he could deal with... whoever the manager of the Blue Jackets is... in his face. Especially not on his doorstep. "Hey."

"You look better," Nash says.

He sounds surprised, which, fuck him. "Well, I'm not drunk," Jeff says, and stands aside to let him in.

Nash goes straight into the living room and sits down, on the uncomfortable chair again. He leans forward and says, "It might sound crazy, but Columbus is really trying to build something, and -"

"Spare me the pep talk," Jeff says. "I don't need it."

Nash blinks. "You don't?"

"I'll come to Columbus," Jeff says. He barely manages to force the words out, but eventually he gets there.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a minute, and then Nash says, "People are nice."

"And they don't give a shit about hockey."

"Well -"

"And it's in Ohio."

Nash winces.

"I'll do this," Jeff says, "because I have to. I want to play in the NHL, even if it's a fucking shithole. But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. I'm not going to act like I've swallowed the fucking Kool-Aid just because my team screwed me over."

"Old team."

"You're a fucking dick," Jeff snaps.

"You need to get used to it."

"What are you, a therapist?"

"I'm a delegate."

Jeff snorts. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm serious. I'm here to make you feel better about the Jackets."

"You haven't exactly done a good job."

"Well, I wasn't expecting...this."

"What, you thought I went AWOL to meditate and make my peace with things like a grownup?"

"That, or sleep your way through this town."

It hadn't even occurred to Jeff, which just goes to show how fucked up he was. "What's the timetable?" he says.

"Management wants to meet you, and you need to get a house and move your stuff in," Nash says. "So." He hesitates.

"Spit it out," Jeff says.

"How's tomorrow looking?"

Shit. "Fine," Jeff grinds out. The sooner he gets the moving over with, the better. Then he can come back here and... do something. Bang a lot of coeds. Something. "When's the flight?"

"We'll pick you up at eleven," Nash says. "We're going to have a bit of a meeting beforehand."

He sounds satisfied, which, fuck him. "Cool," Jeff says. "Can't wait. Now leave."

Nash raises his eyebrows, but he gets up and goes. Jeff half expects him to say something smug about how Jeff totally won't hate Columbus, or something, but instead he just leaves silently.

Jeff looks around. Maybe he should pack some clothes or something.

He finally settles on packing a duffel. Then he pulls out his phone and texts Richie. going 2 Columbus 2morow.

Richie's reply comes almost right away. finally manning up eh?

Jeff frowns. what r u in la?

met some of the guys, looking 4 a house

There's no way to say what Jeff wants to say, which is, "When am I going to see you again?" Really there's no way to say that at all. But before he has to decide on saying something, Richie texts him, will be in Philly in 5 days. meet me @ my place 4 goodbye beer.

Goodbye beer sounds nice and... nice. cool see u then Jeff texts back.

Meeting with the suits and Umberger is awkward and miserable. Jeff does his best not to do something crazy, but he's pretty sure it's incredibly obvious how shitty he feels about this whole thing. Nash is there, and he tries to smooth things along, but despite Jeff's best efforts, he mostly manages to sit there and be sullen while they tell him about the franchise and Umberger tries to get him to loosen up.

The flight to Columbus is one of the longest of his life, despite the fact that it's only about an hour and a half. He can't stop fidgeting. Not that he cares that much, because he's sitting next to Nash, and if he's annoying the shit out of Nash, then so much the better.

When they touch down, they go straight to the Blue Jackets arena. It looks like a real shithole, and it's basically in a field. Jeff grits his teeth and goes in, though. He's met Howson already, but they introduce him to some trainers and shit, and then Arniel, the coach. "It's good to have you on board, Jeff," Arniel says.

Jeff forces himself to smile. "I'm excited to be here."

He can practically feel Nash rolling his eyes, but the guy doesn't say anything.

When everyone clears out, Nash says, "I'll give you a ride to your hotel."

"I'm probably just going to call a realtor from there," Jeff says.

"That works," Nash says. "If you need anything, you've got my number."

"I do?"

"I programmed it into your phone."

"Oh. Right." Jeff doesn't remember that, but he doesn't remember a lot of the past week. Because, Jesus, it's been less than a week since he got traded. "Great. Thanks."

He's pretty much on autopilot as he searches for realtors. He's done it before, usually using what a friend recommends, because some realtors get weird about having famous or rich clients, but somehow he doubts a realtor in Columbus will give a shit about how he's a hockey player. Maybe he won't even tell them.

He gets in contact with a couple and picks one randomly, lining up an appointment the next day to see some rentals. Maybe he'll buy once his no-trade clause kicks in; maybe he won't. Thinking about being stuck here with a no-trade clause makes him want to be sick, but hey, maybe that'll change.

Well, no, it won't. But a guy can dream.

That night, he jerks off watching some softcore porn that was $3 on pay-per-view and then goes to bed. He doesn't think of anything in particular; he doesn't want to. The last time he banged someone was Jessica, with Richie, and that just feels weird to think about, knowing he and Richie won't pick up together ever again. Even just thinking about having a threesome with Richie generally feels weird. They were on edge after the sweep - which, shit, barely even matters anymore, except for how it connects to them being traded. But yeah; a sweep, and being drunk, meant a threesome. That's not happening again. Ever.

Jeff punches down the all-too-fucking-familiar disappointment and tries to go to sleep.

The next day, the realtor shows him a cheap-for-his-price-range house that has everything he'll need. He flicks on the lights, turns on the water, then says, "I'll take it. Who do I pay to set all the utilities up?"

"I could have someone do that," she says, smiling like she's been handed an award.

Which, well, Jeff guesses she has. "Right," he says. "Just tell me who to write the check to."

As soon as the paperwork's done and she's promised she'll have it all set up to move into in mid-August - not that he's moving in any earlier than training camp, but just in case - he books a flight back to Jersey. He's barely been in contact with his agent, so he can't be surprised by the press or anything; when he lands, he takes a taxi straight to his place, then grabs his car and drives up to Philly. He's already called movers, so he drops a copy of his keys - the old copy that he kept taped under the mailbox, not that it matters - off, grabs what he wants back at the beach house, and then drives up to Richie's.

He'll say this for being fucked over by the Flyers: he has plenty of money to make sure he doesn't actually have to deal with moving.

He gets to Richie's, but the doorman tells him that Richie stepped out. He says he's supposed to let Jeff in, though, so by the time Richie gets back, Jeff's already helping himself to the beer.

"Hey," Richie says, coming into the living room.

Jeff stiffens. It hadn't occurred to him, it literally hadn't occurred to him until he heard Richie's voice that this is the last time they'll hang out in this condo together.

"Hey," he says finally, and twists around.

Jesus. Richie looks awful. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he's wearing a ratty t-shirt and a baseball cap that makes his face look even more sunken than it actually is. "Hey," Richie says. "Brought beer."

"You have beer."

Richie shrugs. "I got more," he says, and sets a six-pack of Corona on the coffee table. He flops down next to Jeff and grabs one, opening it with the bottle opener on his key ring.

"So," Richie says.

Jeff's not going to do something insane like cry, but he does kind of want to lock himself in the bathroom.

"You spent a long time down in Sea Isle," Richie says when Jeff doesn't answer.

Jeff forces himself to look nonchalant. "I had some stuff to think about."

"Right," Richie says. "Stuff."

"You know, like what I'm going to do in fucking Columbus."

"LA won't be so bad," Richie says, then pauses. "Probably."

Jeff snorts. "Don't fucking even, man, LA is a million times better than Bumfuck, Columbus."

"True."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking their beers. Jeff feels like he should say something, or do something, but he has no idea what to say that won't sound stupid. Or gay. Or gay and stupid.

Finally Richie says, "Everyone keeps saying it's business."

He knows how to answer that one. "Fuck them."

"I know," Richie says. "But -"

Jeff waits. "Don't tell me you think it's just business."

"Nah," Richie says. "I mean, not really."

"But?"

"It is." Richie shrugs again. "I mean, isn't it?"

Jeff has no idea what he's trying to say. "We didn't sign for business," he says finally. "We could've gotten way more somewhere else. They screwed us."

"Yeah," Richie says dully.

And now they're going to be apart. For their entire fucking careers, most likely, barring a miracle. "Right," Jeff says, and takes another drink.

He thought the plan was to get hammered, like that one night after they'd had the - Jeff's mind kind of skates around the word "threesome" again. The thing they did, he'd thought it would be like that. He didn't think they'd be sitting next to each other, nursing a single beer and watching TV.

But that's what they do, for three hours, until Jeff says, "This tastes like piss. I'm getting shots," and stands up.

Richie stands too, though, and tries to move around him. Jeff bumps into him hard and Richie grabs him, and for a second they're just blinking each other.

Jeff opens his mouth to say who the fuck even knows what, and Richie makes a noise - a stupid noise, one Jeff's going to make fun of him for, except then Richie's kissing him.

Shittily. Jeff's seen him kiss girls way better than this, like, a lot.

"Dude," Jeff says, pulling away. "What the fuck?"

"Don't talk," Richie says. "Just keep your mouth shut, eh, Carts?"

And then he's kissing Jeff again.

It's better this time, which is, if anything, even freakier. Jeff thinks about pushing him away, only then Richie sucks on his bottom lip and kisses him again, and some crazy part of Jeff thinks, fuck it. They're moving away from each other, Jeff's going back to his beach house and Richie's going to LA, and soon the season will start and they won't see each other at all, except a few times a year. Fuck it. Their lives are more or less over - or at least, Jeff's is, he knows that for sure - so fuck it.

"I know you've got better places to do this than your living room," Jeff says when they pull away again.

Richie blinks at him for a second. His pupils are all blown, and it hits Jeff again that yeah, they're really going to do this.

"Right," Richie says, and sidesteps the coffee table, walking upstairs so quickly Jeff has to scramble to keep up.

When they get upstairs, Richie pushes him back against the wall and bites his neck. It's kind of weird, but Jeff goes with it, tangling his fingers in Richie's hair and letting Richie shove his pants down. When Richie gets a hand on his dick, though, he has a minor freak-out because it's Richie's hand on his dick, so he says, "Are we ever going to make it to the bed, dude?"

He realizes his error when Richie pulls away and yanks his shirt off and his pants down, climbing onto the bed. Being on a bed makes it seem way more serious. But Jeff takes his pants off and his shirt off, too, and then sits down.

For a second they just stare at each other. Then Richie looks away and grabs Jeff's wrist, pulling him in and biting his neck again. Jeff leans in, blindly kissing Richie's shoulder and trying to ignore what he can't ignore: their dicks, Richie's hairy and not-at-all-girly legs, the hair Jeff had his hands in when they both fucked Jessica.

His hair, yeah, okay, that's a good idea. That's a sex thing that's not too weird. Jeff grabs his hair and tugs a little. He regrets it when it makes Richie pull back and look at him, but then Richie's kissing him and shoving him down onto the bed so he's over him, propped up on his elbows. That's okay. It's not horrible.

Richie doesn't keep kissing him, though. He pulls away, and, breathing harshly, says, "Lotion."

Jeff's stomach lurches, because they can't just go straight to fucking, can they? But he doesn't say anything, and Richie reaches over him to grab the lotion from the table and squirt some on his hand.

Jeff thunks his head back against the bed when Richie gets his hand on Jeff's dick. It's a relief and - no, he thinks, it's just a relief that this is all they'll be doing. He pants and stares up at the ceiling over Richie's shoulder while Richie jerks him off, face buried in Jeff's neck. It's harsh and a little too fast, and Jeff knows Richie knows it's not what he normally likes, but it's working for him anyway. All he can think is they're not doing this again, obviously they're not, Richie's leaving and so is he. He's way, way too sober for this, but it doesn't matter. All the sharp edges of the bullshit he's feeling are brushing up against one another, and almost before he knows it he's coming all over his stomach and Richie's fist.

Richie doesn't slow down, just switches to his own dick. He's thrusting against Jeff's leg, and it should be weird but instead it feels like something Jeff actually wants. Jeff rocks against him, listening to Richie's breathing getting rougher and rougher until finally he's coming with a groan and slumping on top of Jeff.

They lie there for like, five seconds. And then it's weird.

"I should go," Jeff says, sitting up.

"Right," Richie says. He's not looking at Jeff. "Definitely."

"So." Jeff goes and puts his boxers and his jeans back on, then his shirt. When he's more or less dressed he says, "I'll see you. Skype, and stuff."

Richie finally looks at him. Jeff has no idea what expression is even on Richie's face. "Right," Richie says. "I'll text you. We'll set up Skype... times."

"Totally," Jeff says.

"Bye," Richie says, and goes back to staring at the ceiling.

Jeff doesn't reply, because he'd feel dumb. Instead, he hauls ass downstairs.

It's barely eight, and he could just spend the night at his place or something, but that's pretty much the last thing he wants to do right now. Instead he drives down to Jersey, blaring the most generic rock he has on his iPod and driving too quickly to really be safe. When he gets there, he goes inside, grabs three beers, and hauls ass out to the living room.

One more time. He'll get shitfaced one more time, and then he'll deal with his life like an adult.

He doesn't think about sex with Richie. He just doesn't. It was barely sex, anyway - Jeff's straight and he's jerked off with his buddies before, comparing dicks and that kind of thing. It doesn't count. It's nothing. They just... got intense, that's all, and things got weird. Which, considering everything that's gone down in the last week and a half, makes sense.

It doesn't matter and he's not going to think about it. He's just going to get blitzed.

After his tenth beer or so, he's drunk enough that just falling asleep on the couch seems like a really good idea. He rolls over until his face is pressed into the pillow and falls asleep almost right away.

It's not until he wakes up in the morning that he realizes his pants are gross. He gets up and pulls them off, tossing them and his boxers into the laundry room and going upstairs to take a shower.

Jerking off in the shower is nothing but natural, but he doesn't think about anything in particular. Just some nice tits and tan legs and long hair. Kind of like the girls Richie likes, actually, but mostly because Richie tends to pick them, and Jeff's easy.

Once he's done, he cleans up and then takes stock of his bedroom. He's got a couple suitcases he figures he'll pack in a few weeks; training camp's not till September, so he can stay here for awhile. Maybe he and Richie will text and he'll pick up a few coeds to make himself forget about -

That thing he's not thinking about. Right.

He spends the next couple days halfheartedly packing, making phone calls to make sure his place will be moved out of, and avoiding thinking about Richie. On the third day, though, Richie texts him: headed back out to la see u l8r. It's so dickish and so Richie that Jeff laughs and sticks his phone back in his pocket without even bothering to answer. For a couple seconds, it's almost like things are normal.

He's putting off going to Columbus as long as possible, even though Nash calls him to see when he'll be coming out. He thinks that's really reasonable. He's keeping in shape, anyway, spending two hours working out every day and not eating too much shit. And after a week or so, he goes out and picks up a girl named Kayla who works at a local bar, and she rides his dick for so long he sees stars, and he gets to grope her tits and have that be the first memory that pops up when he thinks about the ass he's been getting. So things are going back to normal, mostly, except for the way the end of the summer is looming over his head.

Time passes, though. The summer moves on, and on, until finally he gets notice that all his shit is moved in on schedule and he doesn't have an excuse to hang around the shore anymore.

So he packs two suitcases and flies out to Ohio. He's pretty much on autopilot; it seems unreal, but part of him is used to thinking of this as an inevitability now. No one meets him at the airport, probably because he texted Nash telling him he was coming out, but not giving him his address or itinerary. He's not going to fool himself about the likelihood that he's going to be babysat constantly. He hasn't exactly missed the way the media is portraying him as some kind of overdramatic crybaby. It's bullshit, but there's not much he can do about it.

Columbus sux, he texts Richie before taking a taxi to his new place. He had his car driven out, and he checks to make sure everything's okay before going inside with his two suitcases. All his shit is in boxes, and it looks like the house version of a graveyard. His mattress is on the floor of one of the bedrooms, though, so he drops his suitcase and sits down on it.

He feels like he's back in the A again, or something. Except not, because he could be living here for the next twelve years.

i have a beach house, Richie replies as Jeff's wandering around, halfheartedly planning where he'll put shit.

ur an ass, Jeff replies.

u r 2.

Jeff snorts and pockets his phone. What little happiness he has, though, dies as he looks around. This shithole is home. He goes and looks out the window, at the fucking cookie cutter houses on either side of him. He can't see out beyond the development, which is probably for the best. There'd be more city, but he'd know that just beyond that are fields and more endless fields.

He's a little surprised when Nash texts him. me and the boys going out tonight, u should come. He doesn't hesitate before sending back thx but no. Like he's going to spend any more time with Nash than he absolutely has to.

That leaves him with nothing to do, though. His TV is here, but it's not mounted on the wall yet. He did get a cable hookup, though, so he sits down on the floor, leaning against a stack of boxes, and turns the TV on.

He settles on Taken. It's kind of stupid, but he's not in the mood for an art house movie. Well, okay, he's never in the mood for an art house movie. But he's really not in the mood right now.

When he's thoroughly exhausted, he goes upstairs and crashes. He wakes up in the morning to a text from Richie. skype me 2day 2pm

It's a weirdly specific time, but then, they're probably going to have to schedule times like this from now on. He texts back ok and then drags his ass to the home gym.

He does a little more time on the bike than he strictly needs to, because he doesn't want to think about - well, anything. When he's done, he showers and decides he'll kill time by going to the grocery store.

It's still only noon when he gets back. He feels antsy about talking to Richie, even though it's dumb. He's very carefully not thought about that night they spent together; there's no way they'll be able to keep up their friendship if they're both weird about it, and anyway Jeff doubts Richie cares that much. Richie's slept with half of Philadelphia. It was just a buddies and heartbreak thing, that's all. It's not like Jeff is into dick or anything. He likes women. He likes women a lot.

Maybe he should find a girl to nail tonight or something.

One fifty-five finally rolls around, and he sets up Skype on his computer. Before he has time to think, again, about how things might be different, Richie's onscreen.

He looks pale as usual, and kind of more pissy than normal. "Hey," Jeff says. "How's LA?"

"Warm," Richie says. "No one recognizes me."

"Well, the season hasn't started yet."

"The place is full of fucking celebrities. And, you know, Kobe and stuff. No one's going to recognize me."

Jeff's not sure why that's a bad thing, when all Richie's wanted from the Philadelphia media is for them to leave him alone, but he's not going to ask stupid questions when Richie's just settling into a place he doesn't want to be. Still, Jeff can't help but say, "Yeah, but at least you have a nice house."

"Right on the beach," Richie says.

"I live in a fucking subdivision," Jeff says. "In Ohio."

"Rough stuff," Richie says.

They're silent for a minute. Richie glances away from his computer and stretches his arm out, and then Arnold's in view of the webcam.

"Hey, buddy," Jeff says.

Arnold blinks at the screen.

It's stupid, but Jeff misses him. "Does he like the beach?"

"I don't even know if he realizes we moved across the country," Richie says, smiling a little. He always looks happier when he's talking about Arnold. "Hey, try not to bang too many underaged coeds."

Jeff goes tense in spite of himself. He forces himself to relax and says, voice mostly level, "Please. Like I'd bother with girls who can't get into bars."

"Fake I.D.s don't mean you won't get arrested, man."

"You know I know how to check," Jeff says. "I can spot a fake college story from a mile away."

"Not that that stops you from making out with them."

"Hey, it's only statutory if they take their pants off."

Richie laughs. "Right. So... I'll talk to you later? I have to go."

It might go on the record as the shortest Skype conversation in the world, but Jeff's feeling a little lighter anyway. "Sure."

"Later," Richie says, and the screen goes dark.

Jeff doesn't really know what to do after that. He's not due to report to training camp for another week. He knows Nash is supposed to be keeping an eye on him, and he half expects the guy to invite himself over, but he hasn't yet.

He ends up just fucking around kind of pathetically, until Nash texts him at five. come out 2nite.

It's not really a request and Jeff doesn't want to think about what'll happen if he refuses. He's pretty sure he knows, anyway - management will lean on him and it'll start a power struggle that just won't stop. So he texts back ok where we meeting up?

ill pick you up, Nash replies.

This is what his social life is reduced to, he thinks, going upstairs for a nap. Hanging out with Rick fucking Nash.

"Hey," Nash says when he picks Jeff. "This is Ryan and Darryl."

Jeff has barely glanced at the Blue Jackets roster and has no idea who they are. "Hey," he says, nodding at them.

They nod back, and then Nash pulls them out. They wind up in a part of town that, by the looks of it, has a lot of college kids. Nash parks and then turns around, saying, "Drinks and some coeds, eh?"

Jeff can't help but wonder if someone told him that was the way to Jeff Carter's heart, or something. He's not going to ask, though. "Sounds good," he says with an anemic smile.

Nash and Ryan and Darryl - who are already one person in his head, more or less - talk and joke as they go inside. Jeff's giving half a thought to participating, but he doesn't really want to. It seems like a lot of effort for not much payoff.

They all sit down and Nash says, "They've got decent beer," to Jeff.

Jeff can't resist that, so he says, "Domestic?" like it's an insult. Which is for show, obviously, like Jeff gives a shit.

Nash laughs. "Nah, they've got foreign, too. Come on, Carter, take the stick out of your ass."

"Carts," Jeff says.

Nash raises his eyebrows. "Cool," he says. "Uh, can I get a Guinness, please?" he adds, which is what clues Jeff into the waitress arriving.

And shit, she's hot. She has to be legal to work in a bar, Jeff's pretty sure, and she's curvy and has long, curly blonde hair. She's like the girls Richie would pick up, once upon a time - Jeff usually picks up darker-haired girls, shorter than this girl. He smiles up at her, though. "Hey. Can I get a Guinness too, please?"

As soon as she takes all their orders and leaves, Ryan hoots. "She was into you, man."

"Hey, I know how to pick up," Jeff says. "What, was there a rumor I didn't?"

Nash snorts. "We all assumed you'd be too heart-broken."

"He told us what went on," Darryl adds.

"Come the fuck on, I was shocked, that's all," Jeff says.

"Sure you were, man," Ryan says.

And just like that, he slots into place. Not perfectly, but a little. Enough for him to deal with... everything else. And the waitress, Hayley, is flirting with him enough that he's pretty sure he's getting laid tonight.

The thought catches him up. Well - he'll get laid if they can go back to her place. Fucking boxes. Why hadn't he paid someone to unpack them? Or just done it himself.

Sure enough, when they're nearing finished, Hayley says, "I get off in twenty minutes."

"Bring me another beer, then," he says, smiling up at her. "I'll take care of the tab, boys."

"Generous of you," Nash says. "Try not to catch anything."

"I glove up, my man," Jeff says.

"Later," Nash says, and leaves.

Hayley brings Jeff a beer and closes his tab a few minutes later. He drinks it pretty quickly, thinking about how good it's going to feel to finally get laid again. Okay, it hasn't actually been that long, but between moving to the middle of nowhere and locking himself in his Sea Isle house, it feels like forever.

Hayley sits down across from him with a bright smile about a half an hour later. She's wearing jeans and a tank top that her tits are practically falling out of, and she's smiling brightly. "So," she says. "What do you do?"

"I play hockey," he says. "In the NHL."

She looks a little confused. "Is there a team around here, or...?"

Fuck his life. "Something like that," he says. "So, want to go back to your place?"

She laughs. "Does that usually work for you?"

"I don't know." He tries for another smile. "I've only tried it on the East Coast."

"Well, lucky for you, I want to get laid," she says. "Finish your beer and let's go."

She drives, which means he's going to need to take a cab home. It turns out not to be a problem, though, because she lives right in the city. She lets him into her apartment and they stand there in the middle of her living room for a second, staring at each other, before Jeff says, "So."

"So," she says, taking a step forward.

It's easy from there to step in and kiss her. And yeah, he might be stuck in Columbus, but he's not dead. He runs his hand over her hair and cups the back of her head, resting a hand on her hip and kissing her until she arches into him and says, "My bedroom might be a little better for this."

It doesn't take long until he's lying back with her on top of him, riding his dick. She's doing most of the work, but Jeff's fingering her clit and reaching up to play with her tits, watching her as she goes. She's into it, riding him hard, and for a second he flashes back to doing this with Richie - Richie likes them on top, and Jeff would fuck a girl on her hands and knees, watching Richie's girl ride him.

The image slams through him and he groans, lifting his hips a little. "Yeah," Hayley says breathily, so he does it again, thinking about the way Richie would hold her hips and guide her, make sure she was getting off. Jeff never looked him in the eye, but he remembers the way Richie looked, his face intent as he got her off.

He comes back to reality and keeps playing with Hayley's clit, hoping to get her off. He's close, thinking about the girls he's fucked with Richie right there, the way Richie moans and whispers things Jeff could never hear to his girl.

Fuck. He presses down on Hayley's clit, hard, and then says, "Babe, are you -"

"Go," she says, "come on," and that's it, he's coming hard, the image of Richie doing this with a girl burned into his eyelids. When he comes to, Hayley's still moving. She directs him to play with her clit a little more, and plays with her own tits, until she's coming slumped down against him, kissing him.

"I should go," he says when they've both caught their breath.

"Probably," she says.

She doesn't ask for his number and Jeff doesn't offer it. Right now his life has enough complications. Granted, most of them stem from how much he hates Ohio already, but...

The girls aren't bad, he thinks as he leaves. They're not bad at all.

The two weeks leading up to training camp settle into a kind of routine. A shitty routine, but routine all the same. He texts Richie almost every day, Skypes with him a couple times a week, and doesn't talk about how he's slowly unpacking, sleeping with coeds, and trying not to think about how much he misses Philly.

That leaves them with not a lot to talk about, but Jeff knows it'll be better once the season starts, barring something awful happening. So he tries to put on a good face.

Training camp is like an anvil to the stomach. He knew he wasn't keeping up with his conditioning as well as he really should be, but the drills are killing him, especially with how bruised his foot is. Coach knows it, too, judging by the way he's putting him through exercises. Jeff just grits his teeth and does it, refusing to admit he's let some things go in the off-season.

After the first couple days, it's a weekend and he's set up a Skype with Richie. He calls him at two on the dot. Richie picks up the connection, but he looks exhausted.

"What's wrong with you?" Jeff says.

"Nothing," Richie says. "Training camp, you know."

"Right," Jeff says. Even he doesn't look that beat up right now, but he's not going to call Richie on the lie. "How's Arnold?"

They talk for a half an hour, about whatever comes to mind. It's stopped being awkward and stilted, but it's still weird to only see Richie through a computer screen. He's heard about the press talking about Richie adjusting to living in LA; then again, he's also heard about the press talking about Jeff himself adjusting to Columbus. It sucks, there's no getting around that.

He's getting used to it, though. That's kind of a terrible thing to say, but he is. He still sometimes lies awake at night, wishing he was back in Philly with Richie and the guys, but most of the time he's over it, and learning to deal with life in Columbus, in fucking Ohio.

Then they don't win. And they don't win, and they don't win. At first Jeff doesn't care, because he's playing like usual, and the team's just shit; that's not surprising to anyone. But then they hit a franchise record, for losses, and that's just... shit.

"Shit," he says as they're walking up to their hotel room. Jeff's been made to room with Nash, probably because they're worried about what he'll do alone. "This is complete shit."

"Yep," Nash says.

"Like, it's such shit," Jeff says. "I can't believe what shit it is."

Nash dumps his stuff in a corner when they get into the room and then sighs. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Isn't that your job?" Jeff says bitterly.

"I'm not your shrink," Nash says, and goes into the bathroom.

Jeff winces when he takes his shoes off. His foot is fucking killing him, and it's all swollen. He's going to need to actually see the trainers about it tomorrow. He definitely doesn't want to, but he's not going to lie to himself about how okay it is.

Well, not much, anyway.

The next day he goes to the trainers before practice. "My foot," he explains. "It's acting up again." They poke and prod it, and Jeff says ow when it hurts, and before long they're telling him he’s going to have to see a specialist.

Great. Just great.

"Hairline fracture," the doctor says a couple hours later.

Jeff stares at the x-rays. "You're sure?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure." She holds up her clipboard. "I'll fax the results over to the trainers. I'm going to recommend you stay out for quite some time."

"What's the timeframe, Doc?" he says impatiently.

"Indefinitely."

Indefinitely. Shit. "Right," he says. "Okay. Thanks."

Her expression softens as she looks at him. "It's not the end of your season by far. You just need time to heal."

"I know." Jeff winces. "Do I get a cast or something?"

"Right in one," she says.

That's how Jeff winds up hobbling back to his house in a walking cast and hating himself. Richie texts him almost right after he gets home with heard u broke urself.

hairline, Jeff replies.

sucks. skype?

sure 6 good?

no game so 6 is fine

Jeff doesn't want to feel like he's just killing time until he gets to talk to Richie, but he kind of feels like that. There's nothing on TV, and he doesn't feel like playing video games. His fucking foot still hurts.

Eventually he naps and reads a bunch of old Hunting & Fishing magazines that he has no idea how he even bought, much less kept in the move. Well, he didn't supervise the move, is probably the actual answer.

Finally, it's close enough to six that he can justify opening up his computer and turning Skype on. The connection opens up, and there's Richie.

Jeff swallows hard, then immediately hopes it's not obvious that he did. "Hey, man."

Richie squints at him and leans in. "Jesus, you look like you got hit by a truck."

"Well," Jeff says. "My foot feels like it did."

"Yeah, that's obvious." Richie sits back. "So what's up?"

Jeff stares at him for a second. He's a little tanner than he was, and he looks... fine, if Jeff's being honest with himself. Right, because Jeff's the pathetic one. "Just, you know, playing hockey," he says finally.

There's an awkward silence.

"How are things with you?" Jeff finally manages to say.

"Fine," Richie says. "Went out last night."

"Yeah?"

"Picked up this chick," Richie says, "Blonde, right, cute little tits, and this ass - who the fuck even knows if that was natural, but man, she was into me groping it."

Richie talks all the time about the girls he bangs, so it's not like it's a surprise that he's running his mouth now. "Yeah? Sounds good."

"What about the girls in Columbus, they decent?"

"It's Ohio," Jeff says. "What do you think?"

Richie snorts. "Sorry, man."

Jeff shrugs. "I'll deal."

"Well, yeah, but -"

"Anyway," Jeff says quickly. "At least you're on a team that wins."

Richie grins. "Sometimes, anyway."

"More often than us."

"That's not hard, though."

"Asshole," Jeff says, but something in him loosens up and he manages to laugh.

Richie tells him about going out with Doughty and some of the other guys, and after awhile, Arnold wanders in and hops up on the couch, poking the computer with his nose. "Hey, bud," Jeff says, half reaching out and feeling like an idiot.

If Richie notices, though, he doesn't say anything. After a minute he wedges himself into the camera with Arnold and says, "I should go."

"Totally," Jeff says. "I'll - I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah," Richie says, and then he disconnects.

Jeff just sits there for awhile, feeling sorry for himself. After awhile, though, he picks himself up and hobbles out to the kitchen for dinner.

Jeff gets better. The team doesn't. By December, they're so far down in the standings that it's getting perversely easier to deal with. Jeff talks to Richie almost every day, and it's actually getting easier to talk to him, because after awhile the sting of being the half of them stuck in Ohio is fading. Jeff's even halfheartedly looking at gardening guides every now and then, figuring maybe he can plant some flowers next year or something.

Or, fine, hire someone to plant some flowers. But he figures flowers would probably look good, anyway.

They play the Flames two days after Christmas. Jeff throws himself into it - his parents had nothing but worried looks for him when he flew up to see them, and he doesn't want that, because fuck, he's playing in the NHL, not dying of cancer - but they lose by a goal anyway.

By this point, it's not even remarkable. But something in Jeff just... snaps. He goes to bed furious and wakes up even madder the next morning. He doesn't even eat breakfast; they fly out after practice, and his plan is - he doesn't know what his plan is. He does know he needs a change of scenery, so he hops in his car and starts driving.

He's just so fucking frustrated. He knows he's being a complete idiot about things; he's not stupid, he knows what people are saying about him. He's trying to play his ass off but it just doesn't feel the same as it did before. And it's not just leaving Philly for a shithole, it's -

He misses Richie. Fine, that's fucking dumb, people are moved all the time, that's part of the business. But he's played with Richie for so long, and he misses having that familiarity, someone who gets how to act around him after a really intense win or loss. And fucking Philly made him lose that, and he just needs to get out of Columbus before he loses it.

So he drives, and drives. He hits the highway as soon as he can, and just blasts out of the city. It doesn't take long, though, before he realizes the problem with his plan: there's nothing out there. No coast, no other city for miles. Nothing. He drives past suburbs, getting smaller and sadder-looking the farther away from the city he gets, until finally there's nothing but corn fields.

He pulls over and gets out of his car. "Fuck!" he yells, kicking his tire wheel with his good foot. Probably a dumb move, but at this point he doesn't even care.

He leans against the trunk, hands curled into fists. If he could just have one fucking day where he doesn't think about what they've lost, a single day where he doesn't have to think about how they're at the bottom of the standings are are going to stay there... it shouldn't matter. By all definitions, Jeff's still living the dream. He just -

Fuck, he wants something better, and instead he's here, next to a cornfield, in Nowhere-Bumblefuck, Ohio.

Crying isn't in his plans. It's just not. But he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, his vision is blurry from tears.

And because this is the middle of nowhere, far away from anyone who could judge him, he lets it come out. Ugly little sobs that make his shoulders shake force their way out of him, and all he can do is bow his head and tuck himself in and ride it out. He's so full of homesickness he can barely take it, and at this point he's not even sure what he's homesick for, except for the fucking past.

Finally, he cries himself out. When he stops, he wipes his eyes and grabs his keys from his pocket.

He's calm as he pulls off the shoulder and finds an exit to turn around at. It doesn't really matter, he tells himself. There's always next year, and the year after that, and...

Maybe that's not the best train of thought. Instead he thinks about Columbus, and how he's going to find a hot coed to bang so he can forget about all this.

That cheers him up enough that he can act like a normal person when he gets to practice, which really is about as high as his expectations go these days.

They play the Capitals on New Year's Eve, so of course the guys are making plans to go out and get hammered as soon as the game's over. Rick says, "Carts is in," without even asking him.

But fuck it, it's New Year's Eve. He might as well. "Totally," he says.

Washington fucking pounds them, 4-2. By the end of the game Jeff has a bit of a headache and his foot is acting up again. There's no way he's going to let that keep him from going out, though, especially not when easily half the team is going. Rick leads the way, with everyone else hot on his heels. Vinny and RJ flank Jeff like they think he's going to run away, which, okay, is pretty fair. Even if it does make Jeff feel like the team project, or something.

They go to a bar near the university and crowd into four booths. Jeff's in with Rick, Wiz, and RJ; they get two pitches of Bud Light to start. They've got two hours to kill until New Year's, so they get plastered. At eleven-thirty, Wiz turns to Jeff, leans on him, and says, "Bud, just call him."

Jeff blinks. "What?"

"Seriously," Wiz says. "It's the New Year. Just call him."

Jeff's had enough beer that it seems like a brilliant idea. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and dials Richie.

The phone rings and rings, though, until he gets Richie's voicemail. He tries not to be disappointed as he puts it away, but judging by the way Wiz says, "Sucks, man," and pushes his beer closer to him, he doesn't think he succeeds.

Counting down is the same as ever. Jeff's the kind of asshole who has stupid thoughts about what he wants the next year to be like, and now's no different. He yells the countdown with everyone else and when it comes, grabs the nearest hot chick and kisses her.

They wind up making out for half an hour, but when she says, "We could go back to my place," he realizes he's too fucking bummed to even hit it with a reasonably hot girl.

He's fucked, he realizes, and starts pounding back even more beer.

Which means that when he gets home at two AM, he's fucking hammered. Richie would make fun of him so much if he could see him now - but then again, Richie's not here, so who cares? Jeff drunkenly cuts off that line of thought and flops down on his bed and falls into a half-asleep stupor, thank God, since the room is spinning.

It's kind of stunning that his phone ringing at 4:30 even wakes him up. "Wha?" he says without checking to see who it is.

"Carts," Richie says. "Carts, Jeff... fuck, Carts."

Jeff blinks and tries to get upright. His everything rebels against it, so he flops back down into bed. "What the fuck, man?"

"I'm home," Richie says. "I got a beej from the hottest chick, man, she looked kind of gay but she was so into it. Right at midnight. Here's to 2012, eh?"

Jeff's the wrong kind of drunk, it turns out, because he's drunk enough for that to be fucking hot, but not too drunk to get it up. He presses a hand against his dick and says, "Yeah? You play with her tits?"

"It was a bar bathroom."

"And?"

"Fuck, yeah, I did." Richie's breathing hard. "You called me, but we were already out. Fuck, man, I wanted to take someone home. I just want to fuck a girl, you know?"

"Yeah," Jeff says, "yeah, I do."

"This chick's mouth was so fucking hot, though. She let me fuck her, and her fucking tongue..."

Richie groans, and Jeff freezes. That's not a sound Richie makes when he's not getting off.

"Richie?"

"I'm plastered," Richie admits. He's breathing hard. "Carts, come on. Tell me you're -"

"Yeah," Jeff says. He swallows hard and pulls his underwear down. "I am." He squeezes his dick. "Tell me about the pussy you get in LA, come on."

"I've told you," Richie says. He's making little gasping noises now, and Jeff fumbles for his lotion and gets it all over the place, fucking his newly slick hand. "I tell you," Richie adds, "because - fuck - it's better when you know. You always know."

Since they were sixteen, Jeff knows. "Fuck, Richie, just - God, I wish we could take girls home. Remember that girl you fucked, what was her name, Amber? The one with the Marilyn Monroe tattoo."

"Amanda, yeah. God, she was hot. Even when I ate her pussy, she was so into it, and the way she let me fuck her - how many girls let you finger their asses, man? And then on her hands and knees."

"Her tits looked so good." Jeff jerks himself off faster, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can arch his hips up the way he likes it. "I wanted your sloppy seconds, man. I wanted to fuck her so you could watch."

"Jesus, that would've been hot." Richie's speeding up now, if his voice is anything to go by. "God, her fucking pussy... she was so tight, and so fucking wet."

"Yeah," Jeff says. "Come on, Richie, just -"

"I'm too drunk for this," Richie says, panting, but he's about to come. Jeff can tell.

So Jeff swallows and says, "I got this girl to ride me, fucking stacked brunette, and she held me down like that one girl with the belly button ring did - remember? I was so into it, man, so fucking -"

Richie comes with a long groan. He drops the phone, judging by the noises on the other end, which is good, because Jeff can bite his lip and think about him fucking Amber, and then come into his own hand.

"Sorry," Richie says, picking the phone back up. "Are you good?"

"I'm good," Jeff says. And then, because he doesn't want to deal with - whatever it is they just did - he adds, "Still hammered, though. Gonna sleep."

"Good, yeah," Richie says. "That's - I'll talk to you soon." He hangs up.

Jeff tosses his phone to the side and wipes his hand on the sheets. He should've gotten tissues, but he doesn't really care. He's passed out as soon as he rolls over.

He expects things to be weird, kind of, when he lets himself think about the sex at all. They're not, though. He and Richie Skype a couple days later, and neither of them mentions New Year's. After awhile, it fades into Jeff's memory, replaced by more losing, occasional winning, and his shoulder hurting like fuck after a game with the Ducks. Mostly losing, though.

The rumors start around late January. At first they're just offhanded comments, little blurbs on NHL Network about how Jeff's production is down too much and he's injured too often to be traded. Jeff notices because he's out a week and a half after New Year's, thanks to his fucking shoulder, so all he can do is sit in the press box and watch TV when there aren't games. He half feels like he should be with the team during practice, but Coach sends him home and, if Jeff's being honest with himself, that's what he prefers. Even if it does give him plenty of time to watch talking heads discuss how pathetic he is or whatever.

It pisses him off. Not because they think he's pathetic; of course he's pathetic. But because he doesn't want to think about what it might be like to be traded to a winning team. He doesn't want to think about what it would be like to live somewhere decent, on a team that's good. That's something he doesn't feel like he can hope for.

When Milbury mentions him going to the Kings, he completely taps out and turns the TV off. There's no way. He's not even going to think about it; there's no way.

If he thinks about it, he'll jinx it. Hell, if he thinks about thinking about it -

He cuts that line of thought off right away.

Luckily, he's back by the beginning of February, so he can stop obsessing over it so much. Richie never mentions it; the Kings are fighting for a playoffs spot down the stretch, and Jeff knows how much it fucking hurts to get so close and then not make it, so mostly they talk about shit that doesn't even matter. Richie doesn't bring up the summer at all, and he definitely doesn't bring up the trade deadline.

Jeff's driving himself crazy not thinking about it. It gets to the point where the one time Rick says, "Hey, have you been paying attention to rumors?" Jeff snaps, "What do I look like, an idiot?"

And, yeah, he manages to sound crazy enough that Rick backs off. So... good job to him, he guesses.

Management doesn't ask him anything, and there's a lull where Jeff thinks he might not be moved at all. Only then people on fucking Twitter start talking about how he might be moved.

To the Kings. For real. Right before the deadline.

The first time someone tells him to check Twitter, he locks himself in a bathroom and stares in the mirror for a long time before sitting down on the toilet and telling himself he's not allowed to hyperventilate.

It's not going to happen. He repeats that to himself as often as possible, because it's true, and he needs to not forget it. There's no, no fucking way it happens. He's not going to think about it, because it's not going to happen. He's not going to play in LA with Richie -

No. He's not thinking about it.

He has a fan event that night, so he goes, and as he's signing shit and talking to fans he definitely, definitely doesn't think about what it would be like to do this in any other sweater. Only then, after the event, management pulls him aside and Howson says, "Jeff, we've traded you to LA."

Jeff stares at him. And then stares some more. "Are you - are you serious?"

"Very much so."

"Right." Jeff takes a deep breath. "Okay. That's... that's good. I'm going to - I have to go. Is that cool? I just, I need a minute."

"Of course," he says.

Jeff goes to the bathroom and sits down on the closed toilet. He blinks, and tries to think about anything except Richie.

It doesn't work. Finally, he pulls out his phone. There's a text from Richie: see u in la

Yeah. He will.

Chapter 2

Jeff doesn't know what to think of LA. The airport's nice enough, he guesses, as he hauls his carry-on over to baggage claim. He texted Richie as soon as the plane landed, but he's expecting him to be waiting in the cell phone lot or something. So it's like a punch to the gut when he gets to his baggage claim and Richie's standing there with his back to Jeff, staring off into space.

"Uh," Jeff says.

Richie whips around.

"Hey, man." It's all he can think of to say.

"Hey," Richie says, and steps forward. For a second Jeff's throat gets tight, but Richie just grabs him and thumps him on the back. "Good to see you, man."

"Yeah, you too." Jeff turns away and looks at the baggage carousel.

"What do your bags look like?"

Jeff shrugs. "Black."

Richie snorts. "Come on."

"You've seen them," Jeff points out.

For a second Richie's silent. Then he says, "I figured maybe you'd gotten new ones."

Jeff wants to ask why the hell he'd do that, but it's obvious Richie's in a weird mood, so he's not going to push it. Instead, he says, "I tied an old red tie to them."

Richie snorts. "Cool."

They stand there in silence, waiting. After a couple minutes, the carousel starts moving. Jeff just stands there until he sees his bags. He goes after them, but Richie's already swooping in and grabbing one. "I got it," he says, pulling the handle out. Jeff grabs the other bag quickly. "Do you have anything else?"

Jeff shakes his head. "Movers are shipping everything later," he says, setting his down on the ground.

"You're just going to trust movers to pack your shit?"

"I did when I moved to Columbus."

Richie snorts. "Right."

"Fuck off," Jeff says.

It's like something clicks: Richie relaxes and so does Jeff, and they walk out to the car in comfortable silence.

"You can stay with me," Richie says as he starts driving.

Jeff fiddles with the air conditioner. The car feels like an oven to him, but Richie's just hanging out like it's no big deal. Then again, LA in the winter is like anywhere normal in the summer. "Cool," he says. "I have a hotel room, though."

Richie taps the steering wheel. "Yeah?"

"I'll probably split time," Jeff says. "I mean, you've got your own stuff going on."

"The room you stayed in last home game is still there," Richie says. "It's not like I have a lot of people over. You know, who sleep in another room. Or sleep over at all."

Jeff snorts a laugh. "Yeah, you've told me about all the hot LA tail you're getting, man."

"Like you weren't hitting it with coeds all year."

"Not many," Jeff says. "I told you - was too busy being, you know. In Columbus."

Judging by the look on Richie's face, he gets that that's code for 'miserable'. "Right," he says.

They end up slowing down on the highway. Which, there's a dizzying amount of road here. Jeff doesn't get how it's all clogged with cars. He turns on the radio, though, switching it until he finds a decent-sounding station.

"I can't believe you still like this shit," Richie says over the sounds of Nicki Minaj.

He says it relatively normally, though, so Jeff feels free to laugh and say, "What, is it burning your ears?"

"Something like that," Richie says. "Come to my house, though. For the first night. We'll get hammered, like old times."

"At your house?"

"We could go out. No one would care."

It hits Jeff right then, that Richie's living in a place where the media won't shove themselves into his face every time he does something they don't agree with. "Shit," he says, relaxing back against the seat. "I mean, no one cared what I did in Columbus, but..."

"Yeah," Richie says. "It's nice. I like it."

"Awesome."

They're pretty much silent until they get back to Richie's house. As soon as they pull up, though, Richie smiles a little and says, "I almost brought Arnold to the airport."

Jeff laughs. "I can't wait to see him."

"Totally," Richie says, and grabs Jeff's bag from the back.

It's a seriously nice house. Jeff's jealous that he's been stuck in a shithole all year while Richie's been right on the beach. Those thoughts go away, though, when they get inside and Jeff calls out, "Hey, Arnold."

Arnold starts barking madly and careens out to the front room, jumping on Jeff. Jeff laughs and goes down to his knees. "Hey, buddy. I missed you too. Yeah, that's right." Arnold's licking his face and wagging his tail like he's going crazy, and Jeff winds up sprawled against the door, just letting Arnold get all his energy out. He can't help but laugh a few times, feeling kind of overwhelmed.

When he finally looks up from Arnold - who's now just pressing against him and panting - Richie's looking down at them with a tiny smile on his face. Jeff swallows and says, "So he missed me, eh?"

"Yeah," Richie says. "He was sad without you."

"I missed him too," Jeff says, glancing back down at Arnold.

Richie drops his bag. "Anyway," he says, a little quicker than he was talking before, "I've got a bunch of rooms, but the only one ready is the one you stayed in before."

"That works," Jeff says. It's got a sweet-ass TV and everything.

"This way," Richie says, even though obviously Jeff already knows where the room is.

Arnold follows them closely upstairs. Jeff isn't fussy; he just dumps his shit on the bed and says, "Why don't we pregame?"

He can't really read the expression on Richie's face when he says, "It's four o'clock. And we've got a game tomorrow."

Jeff raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, man."

And then Richie actually laughs. Really laughing, leaning against the doorway. "Fuck it," he finally says. "Why not?"

That's how they end up doing shots together and then killing three beers before seven. Finally, though, Jeff's tipsy enough to say, "Let's go out, man."

"I can call a taxi," Richie says, fiddling with his phone.

"We'll fucking kill it," Jeff says.

"Practice tomorrow."

"We won't do this again. But tonight - who cares, man?"

Richie snorts and then holds his phone to his ear. "Hold that thought."

They end up at a bar Richie swears is nothing but hot girls and good drinks. They grab a table and Jeff flags a waitress down. "Two shots of vodka each," he says. He glances at Richie. "And a Bud Light for each of us."

"Got it," she says.

"You're not pulling any punches, huh?"

"I'm celebrating, man," Jeff says. "Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow."

"Yeah," Richie says. "Yeah, okay." He relaxes a little, then nods over to their side. "What about her?"

Jeff looks. She's got dark hair and a tattoo curling down her arm, and tits like Jeff can barely believe. "You or me?"

Richie shrugs. "She's more your type."

"Sure," Jeff says. "After the vodka, though."

"After the vodka."

They do the shots leaning into each other, and then Jeff goes to talk to the tattooed chick. "Hey," he says, leaning in at her table. "Come here often?"

It's a terrible line, but it works. She laughs up at him, and then says, "You can buy me a drink, and then we'll talk."

Half an hour later, they're still talking, and Jeff's pretty sure he's getting laid tonight. He glances over, and Richie's talking to a stacked blonde who's practically in his lap. So he says, "I'm here with a friend of mine," and nods over at Richie.

"Does he play hockey too?"

"As a matter of fact, he does," Jeff says. "And we're going to take you beautiful ladies home. How about that?"

"You've got a lot of nerve," she says, but she's not mad. "Let me grab my stuff."

"Hey," he says to Richie once she's gotten her things. "This is Trudi."

"With an i," Trudi-with-an-i says.

"Nice to meet you," Richie says. He smiles, but it doesn't look that convincing. He must be really getting places with his blonde.

Jeff's not going to stand in the way of that. "We're heading out," he says.

"Great," Richie says. "You want to go, babe?"

The blonde looks between them. "I'm Samantha, by the way," she says. "And sure. You guys are... roommates?" She glances over at Trudi.

"We play on the same line in the NHL," Richie says smoothly. "Let's go get taxis, eh?"

The girls giggle, which, it's not like Richie is G or anything, but apparently Canadian accents are kind of exotic. Richie makes it work, in a dumb way.

They go outside and flag down two taxis. It's way easier here than it was in Philly, just because there are more of them and they wait to close down the bar before they leave. Richie waves goodbye to Jeff as he slides into the taxi next to Samantha.

As soon as he and Trudi are in a taxi, she puts a hand on his leg. "So," she says, "where's your place?"

Jeff feels more than a little smug when he says, "Manhattan Beach."

"Damn," she says. "Guess you weren't lying about being in the NHL."

"I figured the accent would give me away." He shifts a little closer, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her in for a kiss.

She goes with it, kissing back and pulling him even closer. The cab driver's glancing back at them, but Jeff doesn't really give a shit. They make out until they get to Richie's, then Jeff hands the driver a fifty and they go inside.

"This way," Jeff says. Richie's shoes are in the front, so Jeff figures he's already hooking up. Their bedrooms are next to each other, and as they go down the hall, Jeff freezes. Richie's left the door open.

He can hear the girl making noise, moaning as Richie does... something to her. As they stand there, Richie says in a low voice, "Like that, babe, keep going."

Shit. "Sorry," Jeff whispers.

Trudi just giggles and pushes him towards his room. Right.

He can still hear the girl moaning as he gets Trudi undressed. He's expecting to fuck her, but she pushes him against the door and drops to her knees. Which, he's not going to turn down getting head, so he pulls her hair aside and says, "Hell yeah."

She smiles up at him and then goes to town. She's good at it, too, just the right kind of sloppy and intense. Jeff lets his head fall back against the door and just concentrates on how it feels. He can't help but hear Richie and his girl, though. They're not doing anything special, just making the normal kinds of noises you make during sex, but he can hear it, and that's -

It reminds him of, it makes him think of, the nights he and Richie have done this in the same room. Fucked girls, gotten off - of that time they had a threesome. He's not thinking of the other time, but the threesome was hot. He lets himself get off thinking about that and watching Trudi's mouth on his dick.

When he's come and she's spit, Trudi stands up and says, "Finger me, come on," pulling him towards the bed.

Jeff likes girls who tell him what they like, so he says, "Yeah," and pushes her down onto the bed, pulling her panties down.

Richie's getting his girl off again, and the noises she's making is making Jeff competitive. He pulls her in and kisses her, doing his best to get her off, biting her lip a little as he touches her. It's easy to finger her - she's not picky, and he fingers her until she's coming against him. Richie and his girl have stopped, he thinks, but he looks down at her and wants to get her off again. Richie did. So he says, "Open your legs, babe," and leans down.

"Oh," she says, but she widens her legs. Jeff kisses her hip and then licks her, long and slow.

He only likes giving head a little, not nearly enough to make him hard. But she's so into it that Jeff draws it out, finger-fucking her only after she begs him and licking her clit until his jaw aches.

And it's pretty hot when she comes, her fingers tangled in his hair, thrusting her hips up against him. She gasps for awhile, then says, "Okay, okay," so Jeff pulls back and wipes his mouth off.

"I should go," Trudi says after a few minutes.

"Probably," Jeff says. "Need help getting a cab?"

"Sweet of you, but I can call one."

They both look up as someone walks past Jeff's room. Trudi laughs. "This was fun," she says, and starts putting her shit on.

Jeff forces himself to stay awake long enough to make sure she leaves. Once she's gone, though, he pretty much passes out. His last thought is that he hopes Richie paid attention long enough to hear Jeff get his girl off.

When he wakes up in the morning, it's to the smell of coffee. He puts on a pair of boxers and then wanders out into the kitchen. "Hey," he says, snagging the mug out of Richie's hands.

"That was mine," Richie says.

"Cool," Jeff says, and sits down with the coffee.

"Have fun last night?" Richie says as he pours another mug.

"Sure," Jeff says. "She was hot."

"Doesn't mean it was fun."

"What, do you want details? Trust me, it was good."

"Sure," Richie says, and takes a sip of coffee.

Jeff's is still hot - or maybe he's just a baby, whatever. "When's practice?"

Richie shrugs. "Noon."

"I'm not even hungover," Jeff says. He pauses, reevaluating. "Much."

"You think I'm going to turn down a day off?"

He has a point, and it's not like Jeff's that worried about making a good impression. They knew what they were getting into. So he shrugs and says, "Sure, fine. Are you taking Arnold for a walk soon?"

"I was thinking about it."

"Mind if I come?"

"Sure," Richie says.

They finish their coffee in silence, and then Richie goes to get Arnold. Jeff can't help but smile at little at how excited he is to go outside. Richie grabs one of Arnold's toy balls and slips his shoes on; Jeff follows suit, and then just like that they're on the beach.

"Here, Arnold," Richie says, and throws the ball. Arnold bounds to go get it, then carries it back to Jeff, tail wagging.

Richie laughs a little. "Told you he missed you."

"Maybe he just misses being around someone who can actually throw," Jeff says, throwing the ball hard. Arnold bounds after it, then brings it back to Richie.

They play with Arnold for awhile before Richie says, "We should get ready to go."

"Pre-game skate, right?"

Richie nods. "Blackhawks."

It's weird to think that he's going to be putting on a Kings sweater. Weird, but good. "Okay, cool," Jeff says. "I'll get ready."

"We'll take my car."

"Sure," Jeff says, and begins the trek back up to the house.

No one comments when they arrive together. Richie says, "Hey, Drew," and goes to his locker. Jeff's is off to the side, far away from Richie. He tries not to feel stupid about going over there and getting ready.

"What's up?" the guy next to him says. "I'm Trevor."

"Richie's friend," Jeff says. Richie brought him up often enough. "Hey. Carts."

"That's what they called you in Columbus, eh?"

"No, they called me the injured jackass in Columbus," Jeff says. "Carts is what everyone calls me."

"Quit making eyes at the new guy," someone yells at Trevor.

"Carts can take care of himself," Trevor yells back. Then he smiles at Jeff. "Welcome to the team, man."

"Thanks," Jeff says.

That's as much of a welcome as anyone gives him, thank God. They all suit up and get on the ice for morning skate. "Carter," Sutter says to him as he gets on the ice. "You're with Richards and King."

Jeff nods.

"Well? Get to it."

It's a normal morning skate, with the same drills Jeff's used to. Once they're done, they go back into the locker room and do the usual stuff there, too. Everything's shockingly normal, considering he's in a Kings sweater.

When he's getting dressed, Richie comes over and says, "You're as slow as ever."

"Fuck off." Jeff glances up, though, and sees that Richie's hovering with a weird smile on his face.

"Holy shit, Richie, I didn't even know your face could do that," Trevor says, coming over with a towel slung over his bare chest.

"Tell him to fuck off," Richie says to Jeff. "Not me."

"Nah," Jeff says. "Give me five, I'll be ready then."

"Okay," Richie says dubiously. He just stands there, though, keys in hand, watching Jeff.

It makes Jeff dress more quickly than he usually would, which, maybe that was Richie's plan all along. Either way, Jeff's soon dressed and ready to go. "Let's roll."

"Trevor seems nice," Jeff says once they're on their way back to Richie's.

"Yeah," Richie says. "Him and Drew, we usually eat dinner before the game."

"I'm going to take that as an invitation," Jeff says.

"Sure."

"Cool." Jeff stretches. It'll be good to get his pre-game nap in. "You've got it made here."

"Maybe if we were winning more."

"That'll come," Jeff says. "It's you and me now."

"Yeah." Richie rubs at his temples as they stop at a stoplight. "Can you feed Arnold for me? I need sleep."

"Sure," Jeff says.

When they get back, he goes into the kitchen and takes the dog food out, filling the bowl. Arnold pads up to him as he does it, shoving his cold nose against Jeff's knee.

"Hey, bud," Jeff says, scratching him. "We're going to go to sleep, okay?"

Arnold ignores him in favor of his food. That's good, then. Jeff pats him one last time and heads upstairs.

He's a little fuzzy-headed when he wakes up from his nap. He can smell something good, though, so he slips into pajama pants and heads downstairs.

"Put a shirt on," Richie says when he sees him.

"Nah," Jeff says. "Cooking?"

"Dinner. Drew didn't want to go out, so I bailed."

"You and Drew Doughty, huh?"

Richie looks at him oddly. "What?"

Jeff shrugs. "He doesn't seem that fun."

"What, and you were partying it up in Columbus with Rick Nash?"

"Point. I just -" He pauses. He hasn't talked about this in a long time. "I miss the Old City crowd, you know?"

"Sure," Richie says. "So do I. But right now we're going to eat pasta."

Richie's different, and it makes Jeff's stomach twist. But he just says, "Okay," and grabs some plates.

Richie's not as good a cook as Jeff is, but he gets the job done. "So," Jeff says as they eat. "I was thinking I'd split time between here and a hotel for awhile."

Richie stops eating. "What? Why?"

"I don't know," Jeff says, "I just feel like me moving in is kind of abrupt?"

"I don't care," Richie says. "Seriously."

"We're busy right now," Jeff says. "I won't get a chance to move my shit from Columbus till the off-season."

Richie stares at him for a second before saying, "Do what you want," and standing up, tossing the rest of his food in the trash.

Jeff's pretty sure he just said something wrong, but he has no idea what. Richie can't be offended that he doesn't want to live there full-time yet. That would be weird. Jeff's not even sure why he doesn't want to live there full-time; he just knows the thought of doing that makes him feel weird. Tomorrow he's going to pick up another car and just be done with it. He doesn't want to be Richie's sidekick in LA; he needs to establish himself.

He doesn't do a good job establishing himself against the Blackhawks, though. At first it's just crazy: going out right after Richie, playing on a line with him. Hell, seeing him on the ice in the same colors. But then the Kings actually score, and keep scoring.

It feels like everyone gets on the board except him and Richie. Not that Jeff's complaining, because winning games is a fucking novelty for him this year, but still, it kind of sucks.

Halfway through the third period he gets a chance, but draws nothing but post. On the way back to the bench he slams his stick against the boards in frustration. "Watch it," the ref says.

"Sure," Jeff says, and makes it back to the bench as quickly as possible.

"Don't sweat it," Richie tells him when they're sitting down. "You'll get one."

He can't help but notice the way Dustin Brown looks at them. "We're going to sweat it more," Jeff says.

"Right," Richie says. "Maybe not during a blow-out, though, eh?"

In the end they win 4-0. Quick gets a shutout, and the first thing Doughty says in the locker room is, "We're going out tonight."

"I have to buy a car tomorrow," Jeff says.

"Practice and then flying to Nashville, man, you're not going to have time," Doughty says. "Come on. Don't tell me you don't know how to cut loose. You even make Richie have fun."

"I'm plenty of fun," Richie says. "Get a move on, Carts."

"Coming, princess," Jeff says. "Fine, we're going out. Where are we meeting?"

"Richie knows where," Doughty says. "We're going to get hammered, boys. See you in a few."

"So you won't be able to move out right away," Richie says as they walk out to catch a taxi.

"I'm not moving out," Jeff says. "I never moved in."

"Sure," Richie says. "What kind of car are you going to get?"

"I was thinking a BMW," Jeff says. "There a dealer around here?"

Richie snorts. "There's everything around here. We'll find you one the next time we have a day off."

"Cool," Jeff says. "Where are we going?"

"A bar."

"Very descriptive."

"Well, we're almost there. You've got time to learn neighborhoods." The taxi makes a sharp left turn and practically careens into a parking spot. "Here you go," Richie says, handing the guy his card.

The club is the kind of slick place Jeff thinks of when he thinks of LA. Doughty and Trevor are already hanging out at a table. "Hey," Richie says, sliding into a chair.

"Elvis here was just talking about you guys," Doughty says.

Trevor - Elvis? - makes a face. "That's not my name," he tells Jeff.

"Sure it's not," Richie says. "What was he saying?"

"That we have better odds of getting laid with you two," Trevor says.

Jeff blinks, suddenly remembering the shit he's been doing with Richie lately. "Huh?"

"You're the ultimate wingmen," Doughty says. "So? How about it?"

Jeff's feeling more than a little tongue-tied, but Richie just nods. "That girl over there. Donuts. She'll fuck you."

"Sure about that?"

"Go talk to her," Richie says. "See if I'm not right."

Jeff steals Doughty's seat when he leaves. "Seriously?"

Richie shrugs. "Seriously."

"Dude, that's like a superpower," Trevor says. "Why haven't you shared that before?"

"Usually it just gets Jeff and me laid," Richie says. "I know what kind of girls Jeff likes, anyway."

That makes Jeff feel weird, so he says a little loudly, "Yeah, and my taste is better than yours, jackass."

"Sure," Richie says. "Tell that to Jessica, and Samantha, and Jane, and..."

"You remember that many of them?" Trevor sounds horrified.

"He's just pulling names out of a hat," Jeff says. "Who do I have to kill to get a fucking beer around here?"

They end up getting shitfaced on shots and Bud Light. Jeff barely even realizes he hasn't picked up until it's just him and Richie doing Jagerbombs together while Trevor and Doughty hit on girls.

"Why haven't we picked up yet?" Jeff says.

"Not in the mood," Richie says. They're both slurring a little, but Richie's also got the heavy-eyed look Jeff associates with fucking. "Let's go."

"What about the guys?"

"Kidding? They're getting laid," Richie says. "Come on, I'm closing out my tab."

Jeff goes with him. He feels like he's going to jump straight out of his skin, like something's off and he doesn't know what. He closes out his own tab, though, and then they're stumbling out onto the street to get a cab.

Richie ends up kicking a foot against Jeff when they climb into the cab. There's plenty of room for them, even despite the fact that they're both pretty big guys, but Richie's taking up a lot of space. He gives the driver their address and then slumps back, eyes closed.

Jeff's kind of glad they left, because he's pretty sure he was on the verge of doing something stupid, like trying to get girls for a threesome or something. "You okay?" he says, leaning his head against the cool window.

"Sure," Richie says. "Going to drink a fuckton of water when we get home. To my house."

Jeff's all of a sudden incredibly tired. "Right," he says. "Totally." He closes his eyes.

The cab slowing down wakes him up from his half-sleep. He reaches for his wallet, but Richie just hands the driver his card again. Jeff's not going to sweat a free cab ride, so he climbs out of the cab with Richie and follows him up the front walk.

Richie fumbles with his keys for a second, and then they go inside. Jeff flicks on the light in the front room, and for a second he and Richie just stare at each other.

For a second Jeff has this crazy idea that something's going to happen. Which is fucked up, he thinks drunkenly, because how bad would that be? Very, very bad. But instead Richie says, "Water. You look drunk as shit."

"I am drunk as shit." Jeff leans against the counter, not looking at Richie. "Thanks," he adds when Richie hands him a glass of water.

"I'm going to bed," Richie says, taking off before Jeff has a chance to answer.

Jeff ends up crashing fully clothed. It's a bad idea, because they have shit to do tomorrow, but he's so drunk. He sets his alarm, and then shoves a hand into his pants, thinking about the easy way Richie'd picked out a girl for Doughty and how he used to do that for Jeff. The girls, the fucking girls were so hot, and Jeff has no idea how Richie does it.

He thinks about Trudi sucking him off, and about all the other girls he's fucked, and he comes quickly, thinking about Richie there with him again, living it up the way they used to. His last thought, as he passes out, is he can't wait until he and Richie get to do it all over again.

He's not that hungover when he wakes up in the morning, which is good, because he has to get his ass in gear for practice, and right after that flying to Nashville. He rolls out of bed and goes downstairs to get some coffee and water, and then drinks as much as he can.

At nine-thirty, Richie stumbles downstairs, looking worse for wear. "There's coffee," Jeff says, looking at him and then looking quickly back down at his mug.

If he doesn't admit things are weird, then they're not weird.

They sit silently and drink their coffee for awhile. Then Richie says, "Next time we'll hook up."

Jeff almost spits out his coffee. "What?"

Richie makes a face, looking uncomfortable. "You know what I mean. Next time we'll take girls home."

"Well, you know." Jeff feels like he's stumbling around saying something significant. "We have next time. I'm not going anywhere."

He means it to be a good thing, but if anything, Richie's expression gets even more shuttered. "Right," he says, and stands up. "I'm going to take Arnold out."

Jeff would like to pretend he doesn't know Richie well enough to know what his tone means, but he's not stupid. Richie's taking Arnold out and Jeff's not invited. "Right," Jeff says. "Leave for practice at ten?"

Richie shrugs. "Sure," he says, and goes to get Arnold.

Jeff can't help it: he hangs out in the kitchen, watching Richie take Arnold down to the beach. Richie loves that dog so much. Jeff loves him too, obviously, but not the way Richie does. Jeff's not sure Richie's ever loved anyone like he loves that dog. Except, like, his mom.

Eventually Richie and Arnold jog out of view, though, and Jeff finishes up his coffee and goes upstairs. It's kind of stupid for him to hide from Richie, but he's feeling weird about this whole thing and doesn't want to deal with him.

On the way to the arena, Jeff says, "I'm going to stick to a hotel after we get back from the road trip."

Richie doesn't bat an eyelash. "Sure."

"It just makes sense," Jeff says, unable to fight the urge to keep talking even though he knows how stupid it is.

"Right," Richie says.

That's the sum total of anything he says. Jeff falls silent, feeling like an idiot and not quite understanding why.

"Anyway," Jeff says. "The Predators, eh?"

Richie groans. "Worst part of playing in the Western Conference."

"That bad?"

"That bad," Richie says. "Especially since we can't fucking score goals."

"Right," Jeff says. "That's rough."

"You don't know the half of it."

"We'll light it up," Jeff says, like it's some kind of guarantee.

"Sure."

Richie's obviously not in the mood to talk, so Jeff stays silent the rest of the way to the arena. When they get there, Richie goes in ahead of him.

They do two-on-one drills together, and wind up doing some board battles that they beat Doughty at. Jeff and Richie fist-bump on the way back to the bench, and Trevor yells, "Lovebirds!"

Jeff's stomach flops over but Richie says easily, "You wish you had that kind of finish, Elvis," punching Trevor in the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Trevor says, but he looks happy enough, so Jeff doesn't sweat it.

They go to the plane right after practice. Jeff spends most of it fucking around on his phone, texting his mom about when he'll call her and playing Angry Birds. He and Richie wind up next to each other on the plane, and that makes it easy to take a nap, because Richie's still barely talking.

When they touch down, though, Richie says, "I switched rooms with Elvis. He's with Penner now. You're with me."

Jeff blinks. "Thanks?"

Richie shrugs. They go into the lobby and get their key cards, then go upstairs.

"Team dinner," Richie says as they set their bags down.

"Right," Jeff says. "Steakhouse?"

"Probably," Richie says.

"I better loosen my belt, then."

Richie snorts. "It's already plenty loose."

"Fuck off," Jeff says. "One of us takes the off-season as an excuse to eat their weight in fried chicken and it's not me."

"Once," Richie says. "One day."

"Sure thing," Jeff says. "Tell that to your waistline."

Richie actually laughs, even though Jeff wasn't that funny. "Right," he says. "Come on, let's hang out with Donuts and Pancakes."

There's a really easy joke there, but Jeff doesn't make it. Instead he says, "Let's roll, then."

They wind up hanging with the guys for awhile, just watching ESPN and cracking jokes at each other, until it's time to go to dinner. Despite the fact that Jeff's still getting used to being with these guys, it's not half as miserable as things tended to be without Richie. Which, okay, is kind of pathetic, but he can admit to himself that he's okay with being kind of pathetic as long as he's getting something out of it.

Dinner is a usual team dinner: lots of food, a little booze, and passing credit cards around in a hat at the end. Jeff's card doesn't get picked, so he's in a pretty good mood on the way back to the hotel room.

"We're going to marathon some pay-per-view, if you want to come," Trevor says, catching up with him and Richie on the way back to their bus.

"We're just going to crash," Richie says before Jeff gets a chance to answer.

Trevor snorts. "You're going to have to share him with us eventually, you know."

"Fuck off," Richie says easily.

"Yeah, yeah," Trevor says, but he actually does leave, walking ahead of them.

"I'm okay with hanging out with the guys, you know," Jeff says.

"You're tired," Richie says. "Come on, it's obvious. And I am too. We'll just watch TV and crash."

He doesn't say 'like the old days', but it's implied. Jeff wants to say - he doesn't know, something about how he doesn't need to be babied and they have more than enough time to just hang out in their room alone in the future. But instead he follows Richie up to their room and sits down on his bed as Richie grabs the remote and starts flipping through channels.

He settles on some show about guys renovating cars, and they sit there in silence for a few minutes, mostly ignoring each other. Then Richie says abruptly, "How was Trudi?"

"Huh?" Jeff says. "Oh. Good."

"Right," Richie says.

More silence.

"How was... what's her name," Jeff says.

"Samantha? Good." Richie pauses, then adds. "I heard you."

"Right," Jeff says.

"You don't normally go down on girls."

Why the hell are they having this conversation? "Yeah, well, I decided to."

The 'fuck off' is, he thinks, implied. Richie falls silent again.

Nine turns into ten, and then Richie's wandering into the bathroom and coming out in his boxers. "I'm going to jerk off," he says. "You mind?"

Jeff stops breathing for a second. He can't help it. He changed into pajama pants awhile ago, and now he rolls over so his back is to Richie's bed and says, "Sure, whatever."

Richie doesn't answer, just turns out the light. Jeff closes his eyes and starts thinking about the game tomorrow, visualizing how they'll play against the Preds. It doesn't help, though. He hears the slide of fabric on skin, and Richie's breathing catches a little. Jeff hears the wet sound of lotion and then slow, steady movement.

They've done this before, a few times - or rather, Richie's done this when Jeff is here. He hates jerking off in the shower, which Jeff doesn't really get. Jeff doesn't usually have a problem not listening, but it's been awhile, and either he's crazy or Richie's making more noise than usual.

Jeff listens to the way Richie's breath gets a little faster as he moves more resolutely. He knows Richie likes it soft and slow at first, then harder and faster. He knows how he twists his hand, and how, if he's with a girl, he'll kiss her as she jerks him off. He doesn't know what's in Richie's spank bank, but he bets he's thinking about the girls he fucks, burying his face in their tits and fucking their mouths and -

Shit, Richie's groaning a little and Jeff has to roll over, press his hips into the bed and pretend he's falling asleep. His dick is hard and every time he moves, even a little, it just makes the problem worse.

He could jerk off without Richie noticing, probably, and the longer Richie jerks off the more he wants to. He feels too hot under the comforter and way, way too desperate, breathing hard and, finally, giving in and rocking his hips against the bed.

It feels good, even better when Richie says, in a quiet low voice, "Fuck," speeding up. There'll be no avoiding what he's doing after Richie comes, so Jeff tells himself it's not a big deal, he's just horny because he didn't jerk off tonight, and wraps a hand around his dick.

He rocks against his dick and presses up against the mattress. It's a little dry, even after he licks his palm, but he doesn't care - the relief that shoots through him when he finally gets some friction is more than enough. It doesn't take him long to be so turned on he's aching with it, and just as Richie's breath gets the kind of ragged that means he's about to come, Jeff comes silently, choking on the sounds he wants to make.

He rolls away from the wet spot just as Richie comes with a groan. Jeff wipes his hand near the wet spot and closes his eyes.

He thinks, he doesn't know, that maybe things will be awkward after. But apparently he was more tired than he thought, because just as he's thinking that, he falls asleep.

It's not a big deal, he thinks. He and Richie will be normal in the morning.

They get up for morning skate at about nine. Jeff does his usual routine, putting on his clothes and mostly just ignoring Richie. Richie does him the favor of doing the same, and before long they're ready to go without having spoken a single word to each other.

Morning skate is normal, but afterwards Trevor says, "Hey, Carts, did you have fun with your boyfriend last night?"

"Richie mopes for ages, then you come along and he hides in his room with you," Doughty adds.

"Fuck off, Donuts," Jeff says. He can't possibly get redder than he is after morning skate, thank God. "We had more fun than we would if we were with you guys."

"Aww, that's sweet," Trevor says, clapping him on the back.

Jeff shrugs him off and tries not to think about why he wants to hide from everyone's looks.

"Jesus," Richie says later that day, as they're getting ready for the game. "Do you still not know how to tie a tie?"

It's the first thing Richie's said to him all day. Jeff looks down. It looks fine to him. Maybe a little messy, but who cares? They're just going to be taking it off soon anyway. "What?"

Richie lets out an annoyed sigh and walks over, grabbing Jeff's tie. Jeff goes very, very still, because they're just a couple inches from each other and suddenly Jeff's remembering, vividly, what it is they did last night.

Which sucks, because it looks like Richie doesn't even care.

Richie unties his tie, then ties it again, tugging like he's annoyed and not looking Jeff in the eye. When he's done he stands back and looks Jeff up and down, but not at his face. "There. Now you look like you weren't raised in a barn."

"Oh, fuck off," Jeff says. "I was raised in the 'burbs."

"Sure," Richie says. He smiles a little, but it's a narrow smirk more than an actual smile. "Come on, let's go."

By the time it's actually time to play, Jeff's feeling keyed up as hell. Once they get on the ice, though, that disappears. He remembers playing the Predators, and he listened to Coach talk about what they needed to do to beat their system - but there's a difference between remembering and listening, and actually playing them. Their system is insanely tight and barely allows Jeff room to fucking move, much less try to score. He remembers playing with Philly and just blowing past people's defense, but the Kings can't score to save their lives. He can feel the mounting frustration on the ice and on the bench.

The Predators don't just win; they limit the Kings to just a single goal. The frustration in the room afterwards is completely obvious. Jeff doesn't know what to say, and unlike in Philadelphia, Richie's keeping his head down. He has to talk to media, but Jeff doesn't. He could just go back to the bus, but instead he hangs around and waits for Richie to finish up.

No one says anything to him. He's kind of glad.

Richie doesn't talk to him, though. Not on the bus, not at the hotel, and not on the plane out to Minnesota. Jeff doesn't say anything. He knows how things have been for Richie since his concussion, how hard it's been for him to score, and he knows that sometimes Richie just has his moods. It occurs to him, too, that this might be because of last night; but he's not willing to consider what that might mean, so he just doesn't. Instead he puts it down to the game and waits for Richie to get normal again.

When they get to their room in Minnesota, though, Jeff says, "Hey, man."

Richie looks at him. "What?"

"You haven't talked," Jeff says. "To anyone. Like, at all."

Richie shrugs.

"You okay?"

"Sure," Richie says. "Totally. Why wouldn't I be?"

"We -"

"Didn't score," Richie cuts him off by saying. "So I'm pissed. Okay?"

That's the end of that, then. "Sure," Jeff says.

Richie stares at him for a second more, then abruptly looks away. "Go to sleep," he says, and starts stripping down.

Jeff lies still in his bed that night, turned away from Richie, as Richie jerks off. He screws his eyes shut and desperately tries to ignore it, trying to ignore the way he gets hard almost right away, the way he can track Richie's rhythm like last night. He ends up thrusting his hips against the bed a few times, but staying lying on his side as Richie gets himself off, finishing with a moan so quiet Jeff would bet cash Richie thinks he can't hear it.

Jeff finally falls asleep, what feels like hours later, to the rhythm of Richie's breathing.

They explode out the gate against the Wild. Everyone's frustrated and everyone wants some. Jeff's more than ready, but even though he plays his ass off, he doesn't have a hand in any of the four goals. He slams his stick hard against the boards, fighting down frustration at the general state of the world. He wants to fucking punch someone, but there's not even any time to go out and get laid, because after the game they're flying right back to LA.

Coach actually looks at him and says, "Carter, you worked your ass off. It'll come," but that's slim consolation, all things considered. He's quieter than usual on the ride back to LA. Richie, on the other hand, is loud as hell and joking with everyone, jostling Jeff as he fucks around with Trevor and laughs with Doughty.

When they get back to Richie's - and Jeff's - house, though, Richie says, "Hey, don't stress out too much about scoring."

"I couldn't even get an assist," Jeff says, and he knows he sounds bitter, but he doesn't really care.

"It'll come," Richie says. "Seriously, man, if you stress too much then nothing will happen for sure. Just relax."

Jeff sighs. "You know how hard that is in this situation."

"More than you think," Richie says. "I haven't been the same since..."

The concussion that meant he couldn't Skype with Jeff and was completely miserable, maybe even - for once - worse than Jeff himself. Right. "I know," Jeff says. "I shouldn't be whining."

"Well," Richie says, but he doesn't say 'no'.

"No, I really shouldn't," Jeff says. "Believe me, I know that. I just..."

"I know," Richie says. "Hey, get some sleep, eh?"

Jeff looks - really looks - at Richie for the first time in days. Richie looks exhausted, and he's shifting from foot to foot like he doesn't want to be talking to Jeff.

Well, he never much liked talking about feelings.

"Yeah," Jeff says. "I'll see you tomorrow, man."

They don't have practice until one the next day, so Jeff spends the first hour he's awake in bed, fucking around on Facebook and texting people. He's not avoiding Richie, exactly, he just wants to give him some space. He knows Richie's not used to sharing space.

When he makes it downstairs, there's a note on the counter that says, "Ran to the store." Jeff's kind of surprised Richie doesn't have a grocery service, but maybe he's trying to play at being grown up now or something. Jeff shrugs to himself and tosses the note in the trash, grabbing some coffee from where it's waiting and sitting down at the kitchen table.

It's not long before Arnold pads over to him, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Hey, boy," Jeff says. "Want to play?"

He winds up on the beach, playing fetch. Arnold keeps dropping the ball at him and then tackling him to the ground, and Jeff knows he should probably be telling him no, but it's too great, after so long away from Arnold. He's on his back, laughing as Arnold licks his face, when Richie jogs up to them.

"Thought I'd find you down here," Richie says. "Hey, boy." He kneels down and holds an arm out to Arnold, who yips and runs over to him. Richie's grinning openly, and his smile actually stays when he looks up at Jeff.

"Day off tomorrow," Richie says.

"Yep," Jeff says.

"Want to go swimming? Or surfing. I'm learning," Richie adds quickly.

"Sure," Jeff says. "Plans for tonight?"

Richie shrugs. "The guys will probably want to go out."

"Right," Jeff says.

Richie sighs and rolls his eyes when Jeff doesn't say anything else. "Come on, man. You're invited."

"Whatever," Jeff says. "I knew that."

Richie snorts but doesn't press.

Jeff's put on different lines than Richie during practice. It makes him grit his teeth, even though he knows there are good reasons for it. But he's not going to throw a tantrum or something and demand to be back on the line where he feels like he belongs.

Well, "belongs". It's not like he feels like he belongs much of anywhere here right now.

Sure enough, after practice, Doughty says, "We're going out."

Jeff just kind of blinks at him for a second before quickly saying, "Right, yeah. Totally."

"Okay, good," Doughty says. "Richie! Come out with us. Don't bogart Carts this time."

"Whatever," Richie says, which is as good as an enthusiastic 'yes' from him.

They go out to another bar somewhere in the city that Jeff hasn't learned about yet. For all he knows, it's the same part of LA they went to last time. Doughty and Trevor are wearing the same douchey expressions as always, and they've brought along Quick, who looks fresh-scrubbed and weirdly shiny.

"Let's get some girls, eh?" Doughty says as they settle into a table.

"You sound like you're in eighth grade, man," Richie tells him. "Get some girls? Come on."

"Get some pussy, Your Highness, is that better?"

Trevor cracks up. "Nice one," he says, fistbumping Doughty.

"Fuck you guys," Jeff says. "I'm going to go hit on her." He nods - subtly, he thinks - at the girl he's looking at.

Doughty whistles. "Damn."

"Watch and learn," Jeff says, and goes to flirt with her.

It's the weirdest thing, but he'd swear he can feel Richie watching him. That just makes him throw himself into the flirting harder, though, because if Richie's going to be weird about this then Jeff will ignore him as best as he can. It's not long before he's buying Lissa drinks and complimenting her on being a physics major. And then they're leaving, and Jeff tosses a glance over his shoulder to see Richie talking to a hot blonde that will probably sleep with him.

Well. Good.

Lissa's got dyed black hair and a nose ring, and when he gets her naked he sees that she has tattoos all up and down her back. She's hot, and Jeff fucks her hard and for a long time. He doesn't hear Richie come back, but he doesn't really care. Richie does what he wants.

After, Lissa says, "This was fun."

"Yeah," Jeff says.

"Take my number," Lissa says. "I'd be up for doing it again."

That's - surprising, but Jeff's not going to do something stupid like show that it's surprising. "Sure," he says, handing her his phone.

Once she's gone, Jeff flops back into bed and passes out. He doesn't wake up until eight the next morning, and when he's finally up he groans and stumbles out to the kitchen for coffee.

He almost does a double take, though, because Richie's sitting at the table in the clothes he wore the night before. "Jesus, warn a guy," he says.

"There's coffee," Richie says.

"Did you go back with her or something?"

Richie nods. "Fell asleep."

Jeff snorts. "Rookie move, man."

"It happens," Richie says. "How was yours?"

"Fine," Jeff says.

"She was hot."

"All the girls I pick up are hot." Jeff inhales the scent of the coffee and sighs. "Beach today?"

"Sure," Richie says. "It's right there."

"We could go to a boardwalk or something. Do they have those in LA?"

Richie snorts. "Only you would pine for the shore."

"Well," Jeff says, but he doesn't actually have a rejoinder for that.

They sit there in silence for awhile, before Richie says, "So. Beach?"

"Are we taking Arnold?"

"I took him for a walk already. He gets excited if I go into the water."

"Okay, cool," Jeff says. "Hang on." He finishes his coffee, then says, "I have trunks upstairs."

"Yeah." Richie stands up. "I'll grab mine too."

Whatever was making Richie act so weird has disappeared by the time they get down to the beach. Richie walks into the water, laughing when Jeff steps in a hole and almost falls over. "Smooth, man," he says, shaking water out of his eyes.

"Oh, fuck you," Jeff says, but there's no feeling behind it.

They hang out in the water for awhile, just soaking it in and swimming around. Richie mentions a couple plays he wants to try, and Jeff responds, but mostly they just hang out.

If Jeff was someone else - like his mom, or maybe his cousin Jill or something - then he'd probably talk to Richie about how glad he is that they can just enjoy hanging out. Or at the very least, admit that's what he's enjoying. But he's not them and there's no way he's going to talk about his feelings like that. Instead he just swims around until it's noon and Richie says, "Lunch?"

Jeff expects Richie to throw a loaf of bread at his head or something, but instead Richie makes them sandwiches. They're just chicken sandwiches, on multi-grain bread with hardly any mayo and lots of mustard, but they're good.

It's not surprising when Arnold comes up and sits at Jeff's feet, looking up at him with wide eyes. Jeff can't help but laugh. "No, boy, there's no way I'm giving you some of this."

Arnold whines a little and paws at Jeff's leg. "No, Arnold," he says again.

Richie laughs. "Come on, you're a sucker for brown eyes and we both know it."

Jeff looks up at Richie and then away again. He doesn't know why his stomach just twisted. "Fine," he says, because Richie's probably right. He breaks off a corner of his sandwich and feeds it to Arnold, who licks his fingers happily.

"Sucker," Richie says.

"Fuck off, he's your dog. Teach him not to beg."

"It's funnier watching people give in."

Richie's got a smart-aleck smirk on his face that makes Jeff throw a crumpled-up napkin at him. "Asshole."

"You -"

Jeff blinks at Richie. "What?"

"Nothing," Richie says. He looks like he's smelled something gross. "We should shower."

"How do you want to kill the rest of the day?"

"Xbox or something," Richie says. "I might go for a walk."

The 'alone' is implied, Jeff's pretty sure. "Oh," he says. That's fine. Richie can go for walks if he wants, even if he never did in Philly. "Sure."

"At least we don't have to Skype anymore," Richie says, and stands up abruptly, taking his plate over to the sink.

"Right," Jeff says, except he's talking to empty air, because Richie has already left.

He gets a text from Doughty as they're playing Xbox. way 2 make richie fun again. thought his equip didnt work for most of the year. keep it up

Jeff doesn't answer, just pockets his phone. The idea that Richie wasn't getting laid every other night for most of the year is too weird to think about.

Their days, after that, settle into a rhythm. They're hovering every day at the eighth or ninth spot in the conference, sometimes slipping to tenth but never getting as high as seventh. There are only nine games left, and then eight, and Jeff's playing out of his mind, but every day Coach points to the standings and tells them they need to do more.

Jeff can tell it's weighing on Richie. He's not a leader here; he doesn't have the room the way he did in Philly, with Pronger. But Richie still puts a lot on himself. It's not like Jeff goes out of his way to analyze Richie or something; it's just that it's obvious to anyone with eyes that Richie's pressuring himself pretty hugely.

Not that Jeff's going to say anything about it to him. They hang out, and they party less, and things are more or less normal until, finally, they're playing the Sharks.

It's for a playoff spot - for both of them. If the Kings win, the Sharks are out; if the Sharks win, the Kings are out.

"And in case you were wondering," Richie says as they're getting ready, "we don't like the Sharks."

Jeff doubts it's anything like Atlantic rivalries, but he doesn't say anything. Richie's got that intense look he used to get before Penguins and Rangers games, like he'd happily kill someone's grandmother for a playoff spot. It gets Jeff pumped, ready to go in every sense of the word.

The fucking Sharks, though, jump out to an early lead, and Niemi's completely stoning the Kings. Every time the Kings haven't scored since Jeff joined the team is haunting him right now. Finally, though, he gets a pass from Doughty. A beautiful pass, tape-to-tape, and then he's racing up the ice and no one's going to catch him. It's him and Niemi, and he dekes, fakes, makes Niemi go down, and then roofs it blocker-side.

And it goes in.

Everything gets blurry after that. Jeff throws himself against the glass and then Richie and Trevor are there, jumping on him, and Doughty and Scuderi too. Richie taps his helmet hard, laughing, and Jeff laughs back. Hell yeah, he thinks, this is why we do it.

"Come on," Richie says as they skate to the bench. "Let's get another."

They do. Somehow, impossibly, Kopitar tips in a shot from the point, and Quick just shuts the fucking door. The final score is 2-1, Kings.

It's mayhem in the locker room after that. "Hell yeah, playoffs!" Kopitar yells. Dustin Brown's got Trevor in a headlock, and Doughty's laughing kind of hysterically. It hits Jeff then that none of them were really expecting it; they all thought this was the last hurrah and they'd be golfing for the summer.

But they're doing it. They're going to the playoffs. And stranger things have happened than an upset in the playoffs.

"God, I want to sleep for a fucking week," Richie says. "Donut! We're going out tomorrow."

Doughty sketches out a bow. "Sure thing. Your boy coming?"

"Carts?" Richie says, turning to him.

Jeff swallows back an objection about being Richie's 'boy'. Doughty didn't mean it that way anyway. "Totally," he says. "First I'm going to sleep for fourteen hours, though."

"That's my man," Richie says, holding up his fist to bump.

Jeff bumps it back, then rushes to get out of the locker room.

He and Richie don't really hang out the next day, until Richie comes into his room and says, "Almost ready to go?"

Jeff wants to ask - he's not sure, something about picking up, and if Richie's planning on doing it. But he's been anticipating them leaving for hours, so instead he just says, "Sure."

They go into the city again. It's starting to hit the point where it's just routine. They meet up with Doughty - who no one seems to call Drew - and Trevor, and then go to the bar they were at last time.

"I'll pay," Jeff says, because he's in a good mood.

"Sure?" Richie says.

"Fuck off, I'm solvent," Jeff says. He takes his card out and goes to open a tab.

Trevor and Doughty don't need help tonight. They're all still high on the adrenaline of getting into the playoffs, and that's enough to make them at least moderately attractive to girls. Richie's got a hot blonde half in his lap, and he's making her laugh and playing with her hair, occasionally glancing over at Jeff.

And Jeff... well, he's flirting. But he's nowhere near to picking up, and he's okay with it. The night goes on, until Richie leaves with his girl and Doughty leaves with his, and then it's just him and Trevor hanging out.

Finally Trevor says, "You sexiled?"

"Nah," Jeff says. "It's not like we share a room."

Trevor burps. "I'll catch you later, then," he says, and leaves.

Jeff closes out his tab and takes a cab back. He's not hammered, but he's drunk enough that when he closes his eyes in the cab, the world spins a little.

He's not expecting to do anything when he gets back, but he's only in bed for a few minutes before he hears the noise from the next room over. The girl Richie's fucking is moaning, not all showy like girls sometimes do, but quietly and desperately. Carts rolls over and tries to ignore it, but he didn't bother to close his door when he went to bed, and he can hear it way too clearly.

And he can't stop listening, in spite of himself. He's trying not to hear it, he really is, but there's so much fucking moaning and he's getting hard in spite of himself.

He presses his hand against his dick, trying not to think about it. But he can't just not think about it. He's remembering the way Richie is with girls, how he holds onto their hips as they ride him, and he thinks about the girl biting his tattoos and riding his dick.

Fine, okay, this isn't working. He arches his back a little and slides a hand into his boxers, jerking himself slowly. He doesn't, embarrassingly, need to fantasize about anything, not when there's porn going on in the room next to him. He jerks himself hard and fast, thinking about the way Richie's probably fingering her, pressing against her clit and playing with her tits.

He comes quickly, just as the girl is moaning and making noises that sound like she's coming. When he's done, he wipes a hand on his sheets and just lies there for a minute, gasping.

Then it occurs to him, like a punch in the head: shit, shit, shit. This isn't about a girl being fucked in the next room. This is about Richie.

Fuck. No, fuck. It can't be. Except he knows, he's absolutely positive, that it is. It makes everything, including that time they fucking had sex, make way more sense.

Jeff groans and presses his face into the pillow. He can't - he's too drunk for this shit.

Finally, he manages to fall asleep. It's only a relief for a little while, though. When he wakes up in the morning, he's got a hangover and is still remembering realizing he wants to... fuck. He wants to fuck Richie.

It probably really shouldn't be a surprise, considering what happened last year. But - he was hoping it was just a fluke, not a big deal. They weren't going to see each other again for a long time, and they were never going to play together again. Only now they are, and Jeff wants to fuck Richie so fucking bad.

He lies in bed kicking his heel against the mattress and trying to think of arguments that will convince him that he's wrong and, actually, he doesn't want to sleep with Richie at all; but finally his head starts pounding badly enough that he needs to get up and get coffee and aspirin.

He actually jumps into the air when he sees Richie there. "Uh, hey."

"Day off," Richie says. His voice is hoarse, which Jeff shouldn't be into. Of course, he shouldn't be into anything about Richie. Richie's dragging a hand through his hair and it looks awful, and fuck, Jeff's into that too.

Fuck.

"Thankfully," Jeff says, and goes to grab some aspirin and coffee.

"What do you want to do today?"

Jeff shrugs. He's tempted to say he wants to spend the day alone, but he knows that wouldn't make a damn bit of sense. "Take Arnold out?"

"I did earlier," Richie says. "You were passed out."

"I drank more than you."

"Didn't get laid, either," Richie says smugly.

"I wasn't in the mood."

"Come on, when are you ever not in the mood for pussy?"

"I just wasn't, okay?" Jeff says sharply.

"Whoa, okay," Richie says, raising his hands. "Chill out, man."

"I'm chill," Jeff says. He takes a sip of coffee. "I'm fine."

"Sure," Richie says. "I'm just going to hang out."

"Cool," Jeff says.

He's thankfully distracted by Arnold coming in and nudging his legs. Jeff balances his coffee carefully as he leans down to pet Arnold. Even with the shit that's going on, Arnold still makes him laugh when he whuffs a breath and licks Jeff's knee.

When Jeff looks up, Richie's watching them with a little smile. He doesn't look particularly happy - Richie rarely does - but he looks not completely terrible.

"Anyway," Jeff says, because that moment got weird and Jeff doesn't know why. "Call of Duty marathon?"

"What are you, thirteen?"

"Fuck off," Jeff says easily. "Come on, man."

"Yeah, sure." Richie yawns and gets up. "I'm going to go shower."

Jeff watches Richie's ass as he leaves, then wants to punch himself in the face. He can't watch Richie's ass, or notice how good his arms look in his tight long-sleeved shirt, or anything. It's bullshit that will get him in trouble, or that at the very least will embarrass the shit out of him.

They play Call of Duty for a long time, only stopping to hydrate until the sun's gone down and Richie says, "If you don't feel up to cooking we could order in."

"No, it's fine," Jeff says. He pauses the game and goes into the kitchen; he's a little surprised when Richie wanders in after him. While they're in there, Richie says, "Coach'll keep us both on the powerplay, eh?"

Jeff shrugs. "Probably."

"You could ask him to take you off my line."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"I don't know," Richie says. "Just wasn't sure that was where you wanted to be."

Jeff doesn't know how to say, in a not-gay way, that where he wants to be is in the city where Richie is, on a winning team, and fuck where he's playing in all that. "It's all right," he says finally.

"Cool," Richie says, and they watch the oven bake their chicken and rice.

Preparing for the playoffs is as much about playing mind games with yourself as anything else. Jeff tricks himself into sleeping enough and not gassing himself during practice until, finally, Coach is telling him to get on the ice for the opening faceoff with Phoenix.

The first game is complete shit. They get horsedicked on the dot and the old, haunting inability to score comes back to them. Phoenix gets one in the first period, two in the second, and one in the first. They don't pull Quick, because there's no fucking point. Jeff gets a chance in the second period, but he tries to go fivehole instead of roofing it, and the buzzer sounds at the end of the third period before he has another clear chance to chip away at the score.

"Four and oh," Sutter barks at them when they get back to the locker room, "isn't good enough. We're down by one in the series. Next time, we'll probably be down by two. Do you want this? Then fucking score some goals." His eyes linger on Richie and Jeff. "Practice tomorrow," he continues. "Don't think it'll be easy."

Everyone exhales when he leaves. "Jesus," Trevor mutters.

"It's his job," Jeff says.

"Believe me, I know," Trevor says with a sour twist to his mouth.

"Wish we could go out and get hammered," Richie says.

"Who says we can't?"

Richie shrugs. "It's probably not the best idea."

"Since when did that stop you?"

"I'm not going," Jeff says. "We're going to get fucking bag-skated tomorrow, are you kidding? Only an idiot would go out."

"Dude has a point," Doughty says.

"Thanks," Jeff says. "Your approval means a lot."

He's being sarcastic, but Doughty cracks up, slapping him on the back.

"Fine," Richie says abruptly. "We'll go home."

Jeff nods, and they all fall silent.

The air is tense when they get home. Jeff's on his toes, trying to figure out what's up with Richie. Richie slams the door when he gets in, drops his shoes on the ground, and turns to Jeff.

"We weren't good enough," he says, mouth set in a grim line.

"I know," Jeff says. "We'll - we'll be better. We've been down in series before, remember?"

Richie shakes his head. "Look at the team that's on the ice, man, how great do you think this is going to be? Even if we do get that one back."

"We're down just a game, man, don't be so dramatic. Anyway, you could always slash someone's wrist," Jeff says, smiling weakly.

Richie eyes him with a narrow gaze, then grabs him and pushes him back against the wall. "We have to do better," he says, staring at Jeff intently.

"Right," Jeff says, suddenly nervous. "I know. That's why I said -"

"No," Richie says. "You're not getting it. I -"

Jeff waits and watches him. Richie's hands are digging into his shoulders so hard he's probably going to have bruises. "It's okay, man," he says finally. "Just, you know. Let me go."

For a second the tension in the room is so tight Jeff feels like something's actually going to physically snap. Then Richie's making a frustrated noise and - holy shit. Kissing him.

Jeff kisses back, because he's surprised, not dead. Richie's lips are chapped and his mouth tastes like old Gatorade. He's kissing Jeff hard, desperately, hands still on Jeff's shoulders, lips biting at his. He shoves a leg between Jeff's and Jeff just goes with it, hands scrabbling for purchase on Richie.

"What," Jeff says when Richie pulls away, staring at him, "are we doing?"

Richie shrugs. "It's the playoffs," he says, like that makes any damn sense.

"Right," Jeff says. "But -"

"Don't think," Richie says, and grabs his wrist, dragging him upstairs.

Jeff's thinking, though, as they get undressed. And he's thinking as Richie pins him to the bed and jerks them off, hard and a little too dry and so, so fucking good. He's thinking about how they probably won't do this again, and if they do - fuck, what if they do?

But Richie swallows the sounds he makes and ignores the way Jeff turns his head into Richie's shoulder, breathing harshly and trying to keep everything he's feeling under wraps as he comes in Richie's hand.

As soon as he's done, Richie says, "You should go." His voice is toneless, like nothing just happened.

"Are you -" Jeff literally bites his tongue to keep from saying what he wants to say. "Right," he says, and gets out of bed, grabbing his clothes and practically running next door.

He flops down into bed as soon as he's there, still bare-assed naked, and stares at the ceiling. What the fuck was that? If he hadn't watched Richie get ready to go he'd think the guy'd somehow managed to get high at the arena. Why the fuck did he jerk Jeff off? What does he think they're doing?

Or is he just not thinking at all? But Richie overthinks everything. So - why?

Jeff scrubs at his eyes. He's exhausted. There's jizz on him, but he doesn't really care; not right now. He rolls over and crashes, running over plays in his head until he finally falls asleep.

The next day, Richie's made him coffee like nothing even happened. He hands Jeff a mug silently, then sits down with his iPad, fucking around and completely ignoring Jeff.

Jeff doesn't know if he should say something. Like maybe, "Hey, so why'd we fuck last night?" Or, "Do handjobs count as sex, or is this just a buddies thing?" Or, "Want to take a ride on my dick?"

Okay, maybe not the last one.

In the end, though, he just kind of sulks around until it's time to go to practice. They're bag skated, exactly like everyone was expecting. Sutter runs them until they're all ready to drop, then runs them again for good measure. "Jesus," Richie mutters, skating up next to Jeff as they cycle through two-on-one drills.

"Stick it out," Jeff mutters back. Then it's his and Richie's turn again.

Game day dawns and everyone's tense. Jeff grabs coffee and then holes up in his room until it's time to leave; Richie drives them both over, because why bother going in more than one car? Right before they get out, Richie says, "We'll play our asses off."

"Totally," Jeff says, and then they go inside.

They play two-touch with Doughty, Trevor, and Quick, but Jeff goes out almost right away, so he goes to the locker room. No one's really talking; they all know how much their chances of making it through decrease if they lose the game today. Jeff realizes his hands are shaking as he does up his skate laces, so he clenches his hands in fists for a minute and tries not to freak out before finishing up.

Sutter comes in twenty minutes to puck drop. "We all know what's on the line," he says. "You all know how hard I'll ride you if you don't produce results. Richards, Carter, I want scoring opportunities so thick you could piss your name in them, got it?"

Jeff nods, glancing over at Richie. Richie's looking at Sutter, though.

"Doughty, it's your job to beat Doan this time, not hang Johnny out to dry. Keep an eye on Whitney. Are we all clear?"

Everyone nods.

"Good," Sutter says, and leaves.

It's not the greatest pep talk in the world. Jeff's not surprised when Dustin says, "He told us what happens if we fail, but if we win, that's one of sixteen. Let's get 'em, boys."

The atmosphere feels tense when they drop the puck, electric. Jeff skates up the ice with a burst of effort that leaves everyone but Richie behind, and when Richie passes to him, he's there. He taps it in behind Smith easily, five seconds into the first period.

"Fuck yeah!" Richie yells, slamming into him. He almost lifts Jeff off the ground, and Jeff goes with it, laughing.

It's back to the grindstone after that, though. Phoenix gets a goal from a Doan shot at the point halfway through the second, but then Doughty somehow gets involved in a backdoor play that ends with the puck in the back of the net, with Dustin's assist. That's the end of the scoring; Quick and Smith lock it down. Johnny makes some saves that leave Jeff stunned, even as he's racing to catch up with Richie.

"Not a bad effort," Sutter says in the locker room afterwards. "Do it again day after tomorrow."

Jeff tries to catch Richie's gaze, to smile at him or something, but Richie's looking at Sutter. Richie doesn't so much as look at him until they're walking down to the car together.

"We fly out to Phoenix tomorrow," Richie says when they get on the freeway.

"Yep," Jeff says.

Richie reaches out and grabs Jeff's wrist. It's hard enough to hurt like hell. But it's also, Jeff realizes, a promise.

Richie doesn't let go on the drive back to his place. When they get there, he lets go long enough to go up the walk and into the house. Then he grabs Jeff's wrist and presses him up against the door again, staring at him.

Jeff doesn't know what to say, or if he's supposed to say anything. He looks at Richie, and Richie looks back, and then finally Richie frowns and shakes his head, leaning in and shoving his hand in Jeff's pants.

Jeff's been hard since Richie grabbed his wrist, but there's no way he's going to come in his suit pants, so he says, "Hang on. Let's - undressed."

Richie looks like he's going to object, but then his expression goes blank and he steps back, saying, "Fine," and going upstairs.

Jeff feels like a fucking tool hanging up his suit in just his boxers. He feels like less of a tool, though, when Richie presses against his back and reaches around to yank his boxers down.

Jeff doesn't do anything stupid like try to kiss Richie. He can't help the noise he makes, though, when Richie bites his neck and thrusts up against Jeff's ass.

It should be different, now that he knows how into Richie he is, now that it's obvious to him that he has a crush or an obsession or whatever the fuck you'd call it. But it feels almost exactly the same.

Except, obviously, more depressing.

When he comes, he's gasping stupidly and leaning his head against the wall. Richie groans, then leans away and reaches down, jerking himself off frantically. "Wait, wait," Jeff says, voice hoarse. He turns around and wraps a hand around Richie's dick.

But he wants -

"Don't freak out," Jeff says, and sinks to his knees.

"Fuck," Richie hisses. "Carts -"

"I said don't," Jeff says, and licks the head of Richie's dick.

He just tastes like skin and... dick, basically. It's weird, and if Jeff was less insane right now maybe he'd be freaking out about it, but instead he jerks Richie and sucks as much of his dick into his mouth as he can, and doesn't look up at Richie or think about how he wants to do this every fucking day.

Richie doesn't give him any warning, because he's a jackass, and comes in Jeff's mouth. Jeff thinks about spitting, but winds up swallowing just because he doesn't want to have to clean jizz off his carpet. "Fuck," Richie says, reaching down and running a thumb over Jeff's lip.

That's too close, too much, so Jeff pulls away and says, "I'm going to crash," going into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

When he comes back out, Richie's gone. He tells himself he doesn't care and climbs into bed, covering himself in as many covers as he can reasonably get away with. At least Richie cranks the a/c.

He falls asleep doing his best not to think about Richie's hand on his wrist, holding him still.

They have an early flight to Phoenix. Jeff's zoned out on the plane, playing his PSP and ignoring everyone, when Dustin sits next to him. "Hey," he says.

Jeff eyes him. Dustin's a good guy, but he's usually too busy being a responsible media guy to hang out with Richie and the guys. "Hey."

"You and Richie are really clicking out there."

"Yeah," Jeff says. "Coach put you up to this or something?"

Dustin snorts. "No," he says. "Coach's not one to make friends with his players."

Jeff just waits. He obviously has no idea what's going on.

"I was just thinking," Dustin says. "Don't get in some stupid fight."

"Huh?" Jeff says.

Dustin nods over to where Richie's sleeping, turned away from Doughty, who's sitting next to him. "You normally sit together."

"Well," Jeff says.

"Don't fuck with playoff routines, that's all," Dustin says. "Richie gets weird about things pretty easily."

You don't know the half of it, Jeff thinks. "Right," he says.

"Cool," Dustin says, and gets up, going back to his seat.

That was bizarre. Jeff goes back to his PSP and tries not to think about how his crush might be obvious enough that Richie knows, how he might be avoiding Jeff on purpose. It's the playoffs; Jeff doesn't have time for some stupid crush right now.

The game comes quickly. No one says it, but Jeff knows they're all thinking about how they could pull ahead in the series, about how they could be one more win closer to making it out of the first round. Jeff know they're not going anywhere special; he knows. But that doesn't mean he doesn't want to make it out of the first round. Miracles happen in hockey sometimes. Hell, Jeff and Richie are more than familiar with that.

Phoenix pushes back hard, though. The arena is, for once, pretty full, and the people who are there are shouting so loud Jeff's a little rattled. He and Richie can't seem to find each other for a single pass, and even Dustin can't get one past Smith. Phoenix is up 1-0 at the end of the second and Jeff can't help but think there's no reason to believe the Kings will win this game.

Then Richie pulls him aside in the locker room and says, "Get it together, asshole," and for a second Jeff sees the guy the Flyers decided to make Captain.

"Right," Jeff says. "Right." He goes back over to his stall and grabs his helmet. Get it together.

He finds Richie for a cross-ice pass halfway through the third, and just like that, it's tied.

Jeff doesn't know what possesses him but when he grabs Richie for a hug he says, "Get another and I'll blow you again," and skates away.

Richie gets another.

"Better make good on your promise," Richie says, thumping Jeff's head.

Jeff doesn't get hard or anything - that's not a thing you can do in a fucking jock - but he does fight down a shiver as he goes back to the bench.

They win; that's the last goal scored. Jeff's full of nervous energy on the way back to the hotel. The guys are talking about getting trashed at a hotel bar, but Jeff doesn't join in. Richie doesn't either; when Doughty asks him, he just says, "No way, Donuts, you think I want you barfing on my shoes?"

No one says anything when Jeff and Richie walk up together. Jeff relaxes when they get into the elevator, letting out tension he didn't even realize he had.

"No one knows," Richie says. "It's not a big deal."

"Fuck off," Jeff says. "That's not why -"

"Yes it is." Richie shrugs. "I don't care. It's not like we're anything important."

Jeff isn't hurt. It would be crazy and stupid to be hurt. "Right."

"Anyway," Richie says. "I guess I'll blow you too."

Jeff blinks. "Seriously?"

Richie shrugs. "Sure. Why not?"

"You've never. Right?"

"Nah. How hard can it be?"

Jeff kind of hates how blasé Richie sounds, like he has gay sex all the time. "Sure," Jeff says. "Okay."

When they get to the room, Jeff just stands in front of his bed for a minute, feeling suddenly awkward. Richie rolls his eyes at him and says, "Come on. Get ready to go."

So Jeff strips and then gets onto the bed. Richie strips too, and then they're sitting there, staring at each other.

If Richie was a girl - if Richie was anyone, really, except himself - Jeff would just kiss him. Instead he says, "So how do we do this?"

"Lie back, I guess," Richie says. When Jeff does, Richie tugs his boxers down and says, "Okay, right," leaning in and kissing Jeff's chest.

It feels weirdly intimate in a way frantic handjobs just don't. Jeff starts to reach down for Richie's hair, then stops himself. Richie, though, glances up and says, "Just grab my hair if you want to, man," and starts jerking Jeff off.

He's nowhere near completely hard, but the rhythm feels good, and it gets even better when Jeff tangles a hand in Richie's hair and lets his head fall back. Richie's close enough to his dick that Jeff can feel his breath on Jeff's thigh, but he's not sucking Jeff yet. He's looking at Jeff's dick like if he keeps focusing on it it'll tell him all Jeff's secrets or something.

It's not a particularly funny though, but Jeff huffs out a breath anyway. Richie glances up at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Jeff says quickly.

Richie raises his eyebrows sarcastically, then grabs Jeff's dick and licks once, slowly.

He was kind of turned on before, but now, it suddenly hits him that Richie's going to blow him, and he's so into it it's embarrassing. He groans and tightens his hand in Richie's hair, tugging a little as Richie licks him again.

"Not bad," Richie says quietly. It's probably the least sexy thing anyone's ever said in bed with him, but Jeff's into it anyway - especially when Richie sucks the head of Jeff's dick into his mouth.

It's not the worst head Jeff's ever gotten. It doesn't even crack the top ten. Richie's thorough, and he probably knows what Jeff likes almost as much as Jeff does. He goes down on Jeff like he does everything, carefully but not holding back. Jeff tries to last as long as possible, because he knows this might not happen again and, fuck his entire life, he wants to remember it - but it's way, way too short a period of time before he's tugging Richie off his dick and saying, "Jerk me off, I'm going to - "

Richie nods and buries his face in Jeff's neck, jerking him off hard and fast. Jeff lets out a choked-off moan and then comes, closing his eyes so he doesn't look at Richie, thinking if Richie sees him right now he'll somehow know.

When he's done, he opens his eyes. Richie's already wiped his hand on the bed and is looking at Jeff with a considering expression on his face, like he's not completely sure what he sees. It makes Jeff's stomach twist; he wants that expression to mean something, because he's a fucking idiot.

All Richie says, though, is, "Your turn," rolling over to the other side of the bed.

Jeff keeps his eyes closed for most of the blowjob, because he's having these stupid fucking feelings and he doesn't want to deal with them. Richie seems happy enough, groaning and, this time, warning Jeff so that he can pull off and jerk Richie off until he comes.

Of course, there's a problem with that. "My bed's fucking covered in come."

"Put the duvet over it," Richie says, sitting up and going over to his own bed.

"Fuck you," Jeff says.

"You whiner," Richie says. "Fine. Just share with me."

Jeff goes stiff. "Are you -"

Richie rolls his eyes. "Are you going to be weird about it? Come on, man." He gets up and goes to grab his toothbrush. "It's sharing a bed, I'm not proposing marriage or something."

"Right," Jeff says. It's only weird if he makes it weird. Right. "Okay."

It's weird, though. It's incredibly weird. Jeff's up half the night, because Richie smells kind of good and he's breathing a little loudly, and all Jeff can think about is how, apparently, he'd kill for this kind of closeness regularly; how he wants to have some kind of stupid romance with Richie, like he's in high school or something. He wants Richie on his dick, sure, but this is getting way more real than just wanting to get off with a specific person.

They have to wake up early to fly back to LA. When Richie's alarm goes off, Jeff's head feels like it's collapsing. "Ugh," he says, rolling over.

Richie didn't have an arm around him or anything like that, thank God. That would be weird. Jeff sits up. "First shower?"

"I'll take it," Richie says, lurching to his feet. He stumbles into the bathroom, and Jeff flops back down gratefully, closing his eyes. Just a few more minutes.

Richie takes stupidly fast showers, though, and Jeff's been drowsing for maybe ten minutes when Richie nudges him and says, "Bathroom's yours."

"Right," Jeff says, opening his eyes and yawning. For a second he thinks - he doesn't know. Richie's looking at him like Jeff's Arnold or a baby or something. It's kind of unnerving. But then Richie's stepping away and putting a shirt on, and that's the end of it. Jeff forces himself up and into the shower.

He feels more human after he's showered. He doesn't talk much, though, all the way out to the plane, and he naps when they're in the air. It's not until they're back at Richie's house, hours and hours later, when Richie says, "Go take a nap, man, you look like hell."

And they've got a game in two days. "Right," Jeff says, and goes upstairs.

At least when he's this tired he can't think about his stupid thing for Richie.

When he wakes up, Richie's in the kitchen, staring at the oven. Jeff says, "Hungry?"

Richie nods. "Feeling better?"

"Sure," Jeff says. He goes to the fridge and pulls out some chicken and vegetables. He's not going to do anything fancy with them, but as he's making stir-fry, Richie sits down at the kitchen table and watches.

He serves Richie first, then himself. "Thanks," Richie says. "Practice tomorrow. Early."

"Ugh," Jeff says.

"We're ahead in the series," Richie says.

Something about his tone makes Jeff blurt out, "Did you like being Captain in Philly?"

Richie's stonily silent. "Sorry," Jeff says a minute later.

"It made sense," Richie says. "At the time, I mean. I guess."

"Right," Jeff says. "Forget I said anything."

"Cool," Richie says.

They eat in silence. After, Richie says, "I think I'm going out."

"Seriously?" Jeff says. He still feels like a wet rag.

"Yeah," Richie says. "Just, you know. Around."

"Okay," Jeff says. "Sure."

"Maybe get my dick sucked," Richie says, tone light.

Shit. "Right," Jeff says tightly. "Have fun."

Richie nods, then gets up and puts his dishes in the sink. "Later," he says, heading upstairs.

Jeff knows it's dumb, but he just kind of sits there for awhile, staring blankly at his empty dishes. He should have realized Richie would do something like this. When you think about it, it's really logical.

Yeah. That's what he's going to tell himself.

When Richie actually leaves, Jeff goes upstairs and grabs his PSP and his phone, getting into bed. It's kind of dumb to sulk, but at this point Jeff really doesn't care. He texts his sister a little and tries not to think about Richie going out and getting his dick sucked by some chick who probably lets him tug her hair and come on her tits.

He's drowsing, almost asleep, when he hears Richie come home. He pulls the covers up and keeps his eyes closed - not that it matters. But instead of continuing down the hall, Richie stops in his room and says, "Hey."

He sounds drunk. Jeff thinks about pretending to be asleep, but when Richie says, "Carts, hey, c'mon," Jeff stirs.

"Yeah?" he says, sitting up.

Richie comes all the way into his room. "Got my dick sucked," he says.

Jeff fights not to frown. It would be insane to be jealous. "Cool."

"Didn't like it," Richie says, walking towards Jeff.

It occurs to Jeff - a little late, but he's barely awake - that, they, something's going on here. "Huh," Jeff says.

"Yeah," Richie says. He stops right at Jeff's bed, looming over Jeff. "I... shit."

Jeff almost asks what's going on, but before he gets a chance to, Richie drops to his knees next to the bed and kisses Jeff.

Jeff jerks away right away. Well, almost. "What the fuck?"

"I told you, it sucked - blew - it was bad," Richie says. He's been drinking, but not nearly enough to make this make sense.

"It's an off day," Jeff says, which is as close as he's going to come to pointing out that their weird thing is only post-games.

"Fuck that," Richie says. "Let me -"

Jeff could finish his sentence for him, but he doesn't. He just waits.

"Let me suck your dick," Richie says finally.

Jeff blinks, then blinks again. "What the fuck?"

"Let me," Richie says. "Come on. I want to."

"Are you high or something?" Jeff says. "Seriously, man, what the fuck?"

"Just let me," Richie says. He takes a deep breath, then adds, "Please."

That's how Jeff ends up sitting on the edge of his bed, boxers pulled down, as Richie bits the inside of his thigh and jerks him off slowly. "Tell me if it's bad," Richie says, and sucks lightly on the head of Jeff's dick.

"You just sucked my dick, man," Jeff says. "What the fuck?"

Richie flips him off and doesn't answer.

Jeff's been hard pretty much since Richie offered, and now he lets out a breath as Richie takes him in, as much as he can, then goes back up again, eyes on Jeff's face. He pulls off and takes a deep breath, then licks Jeff's dick.

Jeff wants to ask - he doesn't know. He wants to ask Richie how it feels, if Richie wants Jeff to do it to him. But he can barely fucking think. Richie's jerking him slowly and sucking him, and it's not any better than the last one but, Jesus, it's Richie, and Jeff's far enough gone for him that he doesn't even really care.

Which, embarrassing. But it doesn't really matter now, not when he can tangle his fingers in Richie's hair and say, "Fuck, I'm gonna - pull off, man."

Richie does, and jerks Jeff off until Jeff's coming all over his hand and the floor. Jeff slumps back on his hands, taking deep breaths until he's not dizzy anymore.

"Jesus," he says. "What the fuck was that?"

Richie doesn't answer. Jeff blinks and leans forward, and - fuck, Richie's frantically jerking himself off, forehead pressed against the side of the mattress. "Let me," Jeff says. "Get up here." He reaches out and grabs Richie's hair, tugging hard. He's hoping to get him up, but Richie groans brokenly and comes.

Fuck. "Fuck," Jeff says. "I -"

"I have to go," Richie says, standing up. He looks wild-eyed, insane, but Jeff lets go of his hair as he gets to his feet, and then Richie stares at him, shakes his head, and leaves.

What the fuck was that? Jeff slumps back into his bed. He... fuck, he's not awake enough for this shit right now.

He ends up falling asleep pretty quickly, but his rest is less than ideal. He has no idea what's going on in Richie's head anymore. And, fuck, he needs - he doesn't even know what he needs. Not right now.

The next game against Phoenix is a complete shitshow. Things go badly for them from the beginning; they get their asses kicked in the first and none of their only five shots against Smith go through. Doan cheapshots Richie, and Richie swears up and down he's not going to do anything - then fights Doan in the second after straight-up boarding him.

It's fucking stupid, and the Coyotes pour on yet another goal, burying the Kings. Sutter's fucking pissed and benches Richie, and Jeff's almost afraid to see what's going to happen with Richie after the game.

Richie's slamming things around afterwards, and he tells Jeff, "I'm going home. Coming?", in full view of everyone.

Jeff knows it's not suspicious but his throat closes up anyway, even as he nods and says, "Sure, yeah. See you guys tomorrow," he adds. They're flying back out to Phoenix early. Jeff was hoping on getting some sleep, but Richie's acting so fucking weird that who even knows what will happen with that.

When they get back to Richie's, though, Richie drops his bag and pushes Jeff against the wall. "Let me fuck you."

Jeff blinks at him. "I -"

Richie huffs an impatient breath and yanks Jeff's shirt apart, biting his neck. "Carts," he says, kissing Jeff's jaw. "C'mon. It'll feel good, I swear."

Jeff shivers. He wants to say no, in the sense that he wants to believe he can say no to Richie. But, fuck.

He wants to.

"Yeah, fine," Jeff says, biting back questions about whether it'll hurt, if they should with practice tomorrow. Richie nods and bites Jeff's neck again, pressing him back against the door. He doesn't have bulk on Jeff, but he does have the insane drive he always gets in the playoffs.

Jeff goes pliant, letting Richie push him around and kiss him roughly, too aggressive to really be comfortable. Finally, though, Richie says, "Okay, upstairs," letting go of Jeff.

Jeff immediately misses the pressure, so he leaps upstairs, just barely restraining himself from taking the steps two at a time.

"I have stuff," Richie mutters, backing Jeff up against the wall of his room and kissing him. "Lube, I mean. And condoms."

"Tell me you looked it up on the internet, or something," Jeff says. "Like, you know what to do with my - my ass. Right?"

He would've sounded so much better if he hadn't stumbled his way around saying that.

Richie, though, looks offended. "Fucking duh, man," he says. He grabs Jeff's shirt and yanks it off. "You're into this, though, right?"

He sounds like he couldn't care less, but Jeff knows him way too well to actually buy that. "Yeah, sure," he says. He grabs Richie and pulls him close, kissing him and bringing Richie in so his legs are bracketing one of Jeff's thighs. Richie thrusts against him, hard and quick, and Jeff says, "Clothes off," unbuttoning his own slacks.

When they're naked, though, it's Jeff's job to get on the bed, then say, "Hands and knees?"

Richie stares at him for a second, then shakes his head. "Just be on your back," he says. "That'll be fine."

"You might as well fuck a chick," Jeff says, but he stretches out on his back, spreading his legs.

It's surprisingly calm, considering everything. Richie's stopped radiating his usual playoffs crazy. He's gentle as he touches Jeff.

And, yeah, it feels weird when Richie pushes a finger into him. But Richie says, "Good?" and Jeff takes a shaky breath and says, "Yeah - yeah, it's good. Keep going."

He has to close his eyes when Richie fucks him. He just - he can't deal with this. He's got too much going on. But he can deal with how good this feels, and how, after, Richie cleans them up and says, "Shove the fuck over," before rolling over and leaving Jeff alone to fall asleep.

"Hey," Richie says when Jeff wakes up.

They shared a bed. Jesus, Jeff thinks, trying to ignore the way his heart turns over in his chest. "Hey."

Richie blinks at him, then leans away. "We gotta get up."

"I know," Jeff says, but he doesn't move.

"Seriously." Richie smacks his shoulder, then sits up. "We have to go, man." He cracks his neck, then leaves Jeff's room without looking back.

Jeff isn't going to be weird about this. There's no way. He's a fucking grownup, and if his ass aches a little, then whatever. Friends can fuck their friends. That's like, a cornerstone of Jeff's life.

That's what he tells himself when they fly to Phoenix and beat the Coyotes, putting them within a game of winning, and Richie blows him against the wall of the hotel room. It's also what he thinks when they put it away and they all go out and get hammered, and Richie corners him at the club and says, "Come home with me. Just us," and Jeff nods frantically and leans away from Richie's hand on his hip. This time he blows Richie, lets Richie fuck his mouth and then afterwards shudders around Richie's hand on his dick. They fucking won, in six fucking games, and Jeff - Jeff can barely think.

He's finally fitting in; he's got a team, and things are working. The sense of happy belonging isn't new, but it's something that he hasn't felt in awhile, and it's making everything better.

"Fuck yeah," Richie breathes, biting his neck as he comes.

"Jesus," Jeff says, flopping back onto Richie's bed. His head isn't spinning but it's a close thing; he wants to shout off the fucking rooftop that they did it, they're going to round two.

"Yeah," Richie says. "I... fuck." He traces a hand around Jeff's mouth, where his lips are still swollen from Richie fucking his mouth. For a single, heart-stopping second, Jeff thinks Richie's going to kiss him; but then Richie pulls away. "You should go," he says.

Jeff's not going to do something stupid like fucking cry because Richie doesn't want him there. That would be ridiculous. "Right," Jeff says. "Okay." He gets out of bed and grabs his shit, going over to his room.

He doesn't cry or anything. They're in the second round; he's not going to cry. But, well.

He's pretty disappointed, is all.

Not that it matters. They have a day off the next day, and Jeff wakes up early and goes for a jog along the beach. He's trying not to think about Richie or all the sex they had or the way Richie kicked him out, because pretty much all of that is this confused ball of feeling that needs to not distract Jeff from the playoffs.

They're playing Chicago in the second round, and the first game opens with fucking Sharp scoring two minutes into the period. Jeff groans. "Fuck."

Richie jostles him. "We'll get it back," he says. It's louder than a mutter, but just barely. Jeff nods and tries to get his head back in the game.

But it's all for nothing. They lose 4-2, and Richie and Jeff's line doesn't register a point.

"That," Coach says when they're back in the room, "was the biggest pile of fucking bullshit I've ever seen this team play. Practice tomorrow at noon. Be prepared to work your ass off."

Jeff winces as he gets dressed. "We played like real bullshit," he says when Trevor looks at him questioningly.

"We'll be better next game," Dustin says, nodding firmly.

The guys mumble assent. Jeff just shakes his head and goes back to getting dressed.

He and Richie drive home separately, and by the time Jeff gets back to the house, Richie's car is parked and he's nowhere to be seen. All things considered, that's probably for the best, even if it makes Jeff's stomach twist that they're not going to be sleeping together tonight.

Or at least, that's what he thinks until he gets to his room. Richie is sitting on Jeff's bed, head bowed.

"Hey," Richie says, not looking up.

Everything Jeff wants to say sticks in his mouth. He wants to ask what the fuck they're doing, and why they're doing it, but he knows if he does, Richie will completely close up. So instead he drops to his knees and tugs at Richie's pants.

Sooner or later, they'll stop this. But right now, pathetic though it might be, Jeff's going to take what he can get.

They don't win the second game. They don't win the third game, either.

"How does it feel to be down 3-0 in the series?" the reporter asks Jeff.

Jeff stares at her, trying to make words - any words - work. "Shitty," he says finally. "Crappy. Bad." Then he remembers that he does actually have media training and adds, "We're determined to turn this around."

Richie's surrounded by twice as many reporters, and he's got that cornered kind of look that Jeff remembers from Philly. LA reporters might not be as intense, and the city in general might not pay as much attention to the Kings as Philadelphia paid to the Flyers, but the fact remains that Richie's getting some shit.

They fuck that night, hard and fast, Richie pinning Jeff to the bed. Jeff leaves right away and doesn't say a word to Richie.

They win the fourth game, but no one in the locker room is that happy about it. Everyone knows the odds of coming back from a 3-0 deficit.

And sure enough, in Game Five, the Blackhawks close the door, 3-2.

Their season is over.

No one says a word back in the locker room. They all shower and go about their normal business, and Donuts slams some shit around and Dustin, finally, breaks the silence by saying, "It was a good effort, boys."

That's not good enough, Jeff thinks bitterly. But at the end of the day -

What are they going to do?

Richie follows him closely on the way home. Jeff parks and waits in the car until Richie's parked, too, before getting out and saying, "Richie -"

"It's over," Richie says shortly. "It's done."

Jeff takes a step forward and Richie jerks back like he's been burned. "We're in the fucking driveway," Richie bites out, and goes up the steps, half-running. Jeff follows, but Richie goes straight up to his room and slams the door.

So it really is over, Jeff thinks. He rubs his temples, letting himself - just for a second - feel really, really fucking sorry for himself. Not Columbus levels of pain, but close enough. Then, finally, he hauls himself upstairs.

The season's over. Really, he doesn't even care that much. He and Richie will play together next year, and right now...

Jeff rolls over on his side and closes his eyes. Right now he's got his hand, and they're going out tomorrow. That's enough, he tells himself. That's more than enough.

But he's still awake an hour later, when Richie barges into his room.

"Richie?" he says, sitting up.

"Fuck," Richie says. He sounds broken, like he did after the trade. "Fucking almost fucking swept," Richie says, grabbing Jeff and pushing him down on the bed, straddling his hips.

Jeff stares up at Richie. If he was smart, he'd say no; he wants this, but he knows it's a bad idea. Putting his feelings through the meat grinder isn't exactly a winning plan. But he keeps circling back to how bad he wants it, and in the end, he makes the stupid choice.

"Fuck me," he says before he can lose his nerve. "Come on, Richie."

"Don't talk," Richie says. "Don't - " He leans down and bites Jeff's neck, pushing a leg between Jeff's and sucking at Jeff's neck. It's not hard enough to leave a hickey, but it is hard enough that Jeff groans and tangles a hand in Richie's hair.

They're out. It's over. It's not the first time they've been out in the second round, but somehow it hurts more this time, with things being fucked up between him and Richie, and... everything, really, every fucking thing about this entire fucked-up season.

"Richie," he says, voice almost cracking. It's a little embarrassing, but Jeff doesn't care, not when Richie is working his way down Jeff's body, tongue scraping roughly over Jeff's nipple and then kissing his way down to Jeff's boxers.

He yanks at Jeff's boxers like they've offended him, and then they're gone and Richie's nuzzling Jeff's dick.

"I can't," Jeff says, swallowing hard. "I need - not yet."

"Don't you fucking dare come," Richie says, and sucks Jeff into his mouth.

It's a sloppy, desperate blowjob, more spit than technique, and somehow it's exactly what Jeff needs right now. Jeff thrusts his hips, just a tiny bit, and groans when Richie tightens his hands on Jeff's hips and bobs his head. Jeff's just starting to get close to coming when Richie pulls off and snaps, "Spread your legs."

Jeff does it easily. He'll never admit it, not to Richie or anyone else, but this is what he loves more than anything - being spread out for Richie, Richie getting him ready. It's crazy, because this is brand new, but it's replacing a lot of things, like hot chicks and the boardwalk in Jersey. He wants to be this open all the time, but it's fucking impossible.

"Fuck," Richie groans when he sinks into Jeff.

"Harder," Jeff says.

"Shut up," Richie snaps, but he thrusts hard, knocking Jeff back against the back of the bed. Jeff reaches back and braces his hands against the wall, arching his hips up against Richie. Richie moves quickly and messily, a mirror to the blowjob he gave Jeff earlier. He's staring down at Jeff with almost terrifying intensity.

And Jeff feels too big for his skin. The season's over, this might be goodbye with Richie, and all Jeff can think is that he doesn't have enough - anything. Brains, skin, he doesn't have enough to contain this.

It's not really a surprise when Richie digs his fingers into Jeff's shoulders had enough to hurt and Jeff gasps, feeling tears spring to his eyes. Fuck, fuck. He turns his head and closes his eyes, pushing back against the wall and meeting Richie's thrusts. He can't stop the way he cries, though, sobs shaking his shoulders and making him bite his lip so he doesn't make noise. Or at least, he tries not to make noise; the moans and tiny, stupid fucking crying noises escape anyway.

Richie doesn't say anything, but he drops down and bites Jeff's exposed neck, supporting himself with one arm and then, finally, getting his hand around Jeff's dick. Jeff feels the tears squeeze their way out of his eyes, and he gasps raggedly as Richie jerks him off, still thrusting hard.

It's over. It's over, fucking over, and all Jeff can do is hold on until, finally, he's coming.

He opens his eyes when he's done, but he doesn't wipe them - he keeps his hands on the wall as Richie fucks him even harder, staring down at him, until he's shuddering and coming too. After, he pulls out and ties off the condom, tossing it in the trash and then sitting up on the bed.

Jeff frantically wipes his eyes before sitting up, too. "Richie," he says hoarsely, reaching out to put a hand on Richie's shoulder.

Richie jerks away like he's been burned. Jeff pulls his hand away, tucking it under his thigh. "Richie," he says again. His head is spinning with the force of everything that's happened, but he's pretty sure he still looks more together than Richie right now.

Richie reaches out and touches his shoulder, stroking lightly. He's looking at Jeff like - honestly, Jeff has no idea. Richie opens his mouth to say something, but then hesitates and closes it again, seeming to think better of it. "I'm going to go," he says, standing up.

Jeff should say something. This is his chance. They have a day off tomorrow - they don't clear out lockers until three days from now - and he should say something. But instead he just nods and sits there as Richie leaves.

He ends up cleaning himself off, then going back to bed. He thinks for sure he's not going to sleep; but then he passes out after only about twenty minutes.

When he wakes up, Richie's nowhere to be found. Fine, Jeff thinks; that's fine. He grabs coffee and then goes for a long run, doing his best not to think about Richie or the sex or the way he fucking cried like a complete idiot.

When he gets back to the house, though, Richie's in the kitchen, on his laptop. "Don't read the paper," Richie says when Jeff comes inside.

"You don't get it delivered," Jeff says stupidly.

"I know," Richie says. "So don't read it online or whatever. It's not flattering."

"Right," Jeff says. Then he gets a hold on himself and adds, "Thanks."

"No problem," Richie says, and returns his attention to his computer.

Things are weird that day. Jeff doesn't hole up in his room, mostly because he reminds himself that he's not actually a teenager and doing that would be weird. He does mostly keep to himself, though, and Richie does, too. They don't hang out in the living room. Richie appears to have staked out the kitchen, and Jeff uses the weight room and then goes into the rec room, hiding out in the chair in the corner with his phone and his iPad.

His mom has called him twice, and really, Jeff should talk to her. She knows elimination isn't easy, and he's called her about this kind of thing before. He kind of doesn't want to, though. He's a grown adult and shouldn't need his mom or his dad to tell him everything's going to be okay or whatever.

Even if, okay, he does want to hear it. In spite of knowing how stupid that is.

Finally, around five, he gives in and calls her, going upstairs in the off chance that Richie - what? Listens in? Fine, Jeff's behavior isn't logical. He goes upstairs anyway, though, shutting the door to his room.

"Were you pretending you don't need your parents?" his dad says when he picks up.

"No," Jeff lies. "I've just been busy."

"Busy sitting on your ass sulking, you mean."

His dad's usual gruffness makes him relax. "Not sulking. Just... thinking the season over."

"Well, you've had a rough time of it."

They talk for about fifteen minutes, and then Jeff gets sent over to his mom. "Hey," he says.

"Tell me you know what you're going to say in your pressers tomorrow."

Of course she knows when they clean out their lockers. "I know what I'm going to say," he says. "It's not - it's better than being in Columbus, anyway. Two rounds is better than none."

"You'll do better next year."

His mom's never been one to pretend that only partly succeeding is the same thing as doing a good job. "Yeah," Jeff says.

"How are things with Michael?"

Jeff snorts. "You know he hates being called that. Just call him Mike." His parents using 'Richie' would be too weird.

"How's Mike, then?"

"Fine," Jeff says. Then, like a weight crashing down on him, he remembers everything that's been happening. He swallows hard around what he wants to say. "Things are fine."

"I know that one, young man."

"Mom," Jeff says, rubbing at his temple. "I'm twenty-seven. Seriously. I've got this."

"If things are uncomfortable -"

"I can move out," Jeff says. "They're fine."

"I know it was difficult, keeping your friendship this year."

"That's just what happens sometimes," Jeff says. "Trust me, it's - we're fine."

"You're overusing that word."

"Well," Jeff says, because he honestly can't think of anything else to say.

Thankfully, his mom changes the subject. When he hangs up, it's five forty-five, and he's hungry; so he goes downstairs, hoping he can rustle up something out of the fridge.

Richie's still sitting in the kitchen. "Have you even moved all day?" Jeff says without thinking.

Richie shrugs. "What do you think?"

"I think you're crazy, man."

"Well," Richie says. "And yeah. I used the gym."

"You could've gone running along the beach."

"I took Arnold out," Richie says, weirdly defensive.

"Relax, man," Jeff says.

He's making a sandwich - it's the off-season now, he thinks bitterly, he'll eat nothing but a sandwich for dinner if he wants to - when Richie says, "Shit's weird."

He almost chokes on nothing. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says when he recovers.

"With us," Richie says.

Carts rolls his eyes, because otherwise he's going to get really awkward really quickly.

But then Richie lets the silence go on for a couple more moments before he says, "Are you seriously hung up on playoffs sex, man?"

He makes it sound like that's the ridiculous thing, here, and not that Richie came on to him, again and again, for weeks. "No," Jeff says, spreading too much mayonnaise on his sandwich. "Of course not. That would be stupid."

"Fucking right it would."

"Things are just -" Jeff piles roast beef on the sandwich. "They're just weird, you know?"

"Sure," Richie says. "Whatever. I guess."

They're silent for a minute, and then as Jeff is cutting his sandwich in half, Richie adds, "I just figured it would be easier than picking up. And you know, that got us in trouble before. So."

Jeff swallows hard. "Yeah."

"And..." Richie sighs. "Look, man, it's not a big deal."

"I never said it was." Jeff takes his sandwich to the table and sits down across from Richie. He doesn't look at him, though. He's pretty sure if he does, the truth of how he feels will be written all over his face.

"You're acting like it is."

"So?" Jeff says. "We're out of the playoffs, come on. Did you really think I'd be acting normal?"

Richie pauses, then says. "Okay. True."

"Right," Jeff says. "So let's just drop it."

He can't believe he's the one who doesn't want to talk. Richie's practically king of that. But Jeff takes his dinner upstairs, and Richie doesn't say anything until the next day, when they're cleaning out their lockers and waiting for the press to talk to.

He goes through all the usual soundbites about doing better and training in the off-season. It's torturous, but the press doesn't have him nearly as long as they have Richie. Jeff doesn't know if he's being weird when he waits around for Richie to be done, but he does it anyway, because he doesn't want the guy to have to slog through this shit alone.

"Let's go swimming," Richie says abruptly when they get back.

It's almost four. "Sure," Jeff says.

They go out into the waves with Arnold running along the beach. They don't go out far - they have to keep an eye on Arnold, and anyway, Jeff's not feeling super into athletic swimming right now. But they do swim a little, avoiding going too close to each other and not really talking.

And, sure, Jeff feels like his insides have been scooped out, in a really specific way that makes him reconsider all his thoughts about sad love songs exaggerating shit. But that's just - he's just going to have to deal with that. And he is dealing; it's getting better. It has to.

"Fuck it," Richie says after they go back inside and shower. "Let's order takeout." He kneels down and scratches Arnold. "Thai?"

"Sure," Jeff says. "I'll cover." As usual. He goes to get his computer.

"We should go out," Richie says as they're eating their pad thai.

"Yeah?"

"Sure," Richie says. "Why not?"

Jeff shrugs. "We could."

"I'll text Donuts."

"And Trevor?"

Richie nods and grabs his phone, dropping his fork in favor of texting.

Twenty minutes later, Jeff's doing the few dishes there are and Richie says, "We're going out. Wear something tight."

Jeff's stomach twists. There's no reason for him to be upset that Richie wants him to pick up, obviously, he just - "Right," he says as lightly as he can.

"And dark wash jeans," Richie says. "Acid wash won't get you anywhere here."

Jeff would protest, but the truth is his favorite pair of jeans is kind of acid washed. "Fuck off," he says instead.

Richie snorts. It's a weird noise, but he does actually look kind of happy for once, so Jeff dries off his hands and then goes upstairs.

"You guys look like someone shot you," Donuts says when he picks them up. "Come on, man, you can both get laid and life'll be good again."

"It's not like cleaning out your locker is easy," Jeff says.

"Yeah, but you gotta brush it off."

Jeff glances at Richie. Richie just looks kind of sarcastically amused, which isn't exactly unusual for him. He does say, "Sure thing, Donuts," as they go out to the car.

Doughty takes them to an insanely douchey bar in the middle of LA. It takes them awhile to drive in, but it doesn't really matter, because once they hit heavy traffic, Trevor pulls a flask out and passes it around.

"This is some serious high school stuff," Jeff says, but he takes a drink anyway.

"Relax," Trevor says. "The point of tonight is to get hammered and laid."

"I can get hammered at a bar like an adult," Richie says. He also swipes the flask, though, drinking twice as long as anyone else.

"Yeah, yeah," Doughty says.

When they get to the club, they grab a table just off to the side of the dance floor. There are all kinds of sweeping colored lights and loud, dance-heavy music. As soon as they get to the table, Richie grabs Jeff's wrist. "Let's go," he says into Jeff's ear.

Jeff doesn't shiver. That would be stupid. He does follow Richie to the bar, though, and do a round of shots before grabbing beer for the table. When they get back, Trevor snags his beer and leaves the table right away, going to chat up a group of blondes who can't be a day over twenty-three.

"He works fast," Doughty yells over the music.

That's all they say, though. They drink, and after his third beer Doughty quirks a smile and leaves, too.

Jeff's given up on his stomach not being in knots. He glances over at Richie, who nods at a table of women. They're all hot, and they're looking at Richie. Richie smirks at Jeff, then leaves, glancing over his shoulder.

Right. So it's like that, then. Jeff follows.

Before long, he's drunk as shit and Gina's hanging off his arm. Richie's nowhere to be found, which is probably for the best. "Come home with me," Jeff says.

She laughs. "That's not that smooth."

"So?" Jeff says. "You know you want to."

"Confident," she says. "Yeah, okay."

They take a taxi back. Jeff's going to keep his hands to himself, but Gina's all over him, kissing his neck and palming his dick through his pants. So he slides a hand up her thigh and kisses back, tangling a hand in her hair.

The house is dark and quiet when they get back, but Jeff's not going to take any chances. He leads her upstairs and then fucks her, fast and messy, careful to get her off but still half paying attention to the noises outside, just in case.

But Richie doesn't come home. Gina leaves, and Jeff strips down and passes out before anyone else comes upstairs.

The next day, Jeff comes downstairs to Richie watching TV in the living room. "Gonna tan today," Jeff says.

"Yeah?"

"I'm too hungover to do much of anything else."

Richie snorts. "You took a girl home."

"Well, yeah," Jeff says. "What, did you get a quickie in the bathroom?"

He can only see Richie's profile, but the way Richie smirks is answer enough. "Right," Jeff says. "Coffee?"

"I made some."

Jeff hangs out in the kitchen for awhile, then goes upstairs. After he showers, he lies out on the sun deck, eyes closed.

He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to do anything, really, except hang out and try not to focus on what he's going to do for the rest of the summer. He can afford to piss away three weeks or so each summer, which means he needs to start training tomorrow, if he's going to get down to Jersey or something eventually.

The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks maybe he doesn't want to leave right away. Bumming around the shore is fine, and all, but it's not Jeff's ideal existence, not when he spent half the year alone except for fucking Rick Nash in Columbus.

"Hey," Richie says after a couple hours. "Trying to burn yourself?"

"I put sunscreen on, Mom."

"I'm going to the gym," Richie says. "I've got a trainer there."

Jeff groans. "Are you serious."

"If we're gonna go on vacation -"

"I know."

There used to be a time when neither of them would care that much. But Jeff's not a stranger to how Richie's tightened things up recently. "Okay," Jeff says when Richie just waits for him to answer. "I'll go with you." He sits up, warm from the sun.

Richie glances away. "Cool," he says, and goes back downstairs.

Things are pretty chill for the next couple days. Two days after Jeff starts working out again, Richie wanders into his room and says, "Come swimming with me."

Jeff glances up at him. "Yeah?"

Richie smiles at him. "Yeah."

They go swimming and bring Arnold. The beach Richie's house is on is semi-private, so it's nice; they get their towels out and hang out in the sun as Arnold runs around, and occasionally spent twenty minutes swimming around. An hour or so into it, Richie says, "Did I tell you about the time I interrupted a threesome here?"

Jeff almost chokes laughing. "No."

"Yeah, man," Richie says. "Two chicks and a dude, fucking on this massive blanket. They looked pretty into it, but Arnold just wanders up to them, all, hey, what's up, and the guy screamed like a little girl."

Jeff's still laughing. He can't help it. He can picture exactly the look that would be on Richie's face when he found them. "What'd you say?"

"I said it was a nice day," Richie says. "They were getting dressed, anyway."

Jeff snorts and leans back, lying flat on his towel. The sun is hot, but he was in the water just a couple minutes ago, and there's enough of a breeze that it's not too bad. And - this isn't what normal used to be, back in Philly. But this could turn into a new kind of normal. Just him and Richie, again, same as they've always been, only... better, almost. Jeff's pretty into it.

The next two weeks pass like that, plenty of swimming and beating the shit out of each other on Xbox. They go to the gym and hang out, sometimes with Doughty and Trevor and sometimes not, and Jeff carefully doesn't think about anything like the fact that he jerks off thinking about Richie some nights, because he just can't keep the guy out of his head.

Then Chicago's out, and Richie says, "Tazer needs a couple days to cool down, but we're heading up to the lake next Wednesday."

"Great," Jeff says. "I mean, cool. Yeah."

"You could come," Richie says. "I mean, you haven't made plans yet, right?"

Jeff blinks. "No. I mean - yeah. Yeah, I could."

"Cool," Richie says. "You've got fishing gear?"

Jeff gives him a look.

"Oh, right, it's you," Richie says. "We'll go to the store and buy some."

"Sounds good," Jeff says. "Just as long as you're not making me actually gut a fish or whatever."

"Like you have the balls," Richie says.

They go shopping in a sporting goods store, which, Jeff's been in them before, but it's a little weird that Richie seems to know, marginally, what he's doing. Richie insists on paying for the shit they're both going to use, like the tackle. Jeff lets him, since he's buying a pole and other supplies that are all pretty expensive. Not that Jeff's a cheapass, or anything, but when's he going to use them again?

They fly up to Winnipeg. Jeff's nervous the whole time for no good reason. Richie glances over at him a couple of times before finally saying, "Cut it out, man," reaching out and kicking Jeff in the ankle.

"Right," Jeff says lamely, forcing his leg to still.

When they touch down, Richie says, "Johnny should be picking us up. We're going to drive out to the lake house tonight."

Jeff's already tired as hell of traveling, but it's not like he's going to say that. "Sure."

"Good," Richie says, and leads them off the plane.

Toews is waiting at baggage claim. "Hey," Jeff says, nodding awkwardly.

"Hey," Toews says.

"Johnny," Richie says.

It's as nonchalant a greeting as Jeff's ever seen. Then again, when Richie met him in LA - Jeff cuts off that line of thought, fighting not to blush. "So, Toews," he says. "Planning on... catching a lot of fish?"

That sounded better in his head.

"Call me Johnny," Toews - Johnny - says. "I'm better at it than Richie, anyway."

"Fucking slander," Richie says. "You wish you had my skills."

Johnny laughs. "I really, really don't."

Richie makes a dismissive noise and grins at Jeff. It's more relaxed than he's looked in weeks, and Jeff finds himself smiling back.

"Anyway," Johnny says a little loudly. "Look, the luggage."

Johnny's car is huge. Jeff knows he's kind of the third wheel, so he gets into the back, but it's barely a sacrifice - there's plenty of leg room. But as they're climbing in, Richie says, "A Benz, Tazer, really?"

"Fuck off," Johnny says without any heat. "It's a four-hour drive to the lake house."

Jeff raises his eyebrows. "Hope you brought an iPod."

"I'm always prepared," Johnny says.

It's impossible to tell if he's joking. "Right," Jeff says, and settles back to wait.

Johnny and Richie mostly talk about the league, and their friends in it. It's good, because it means Jeff can chime in every now and then. Mostly, though, he's fighting a creeping feeling of awkwardness. They're going to be at the lake for two weeks, and Jeff knows perfectly well that things are still weird between him and Richie. He'd like to think they aren't, but that's just him deluding himself; they're not back to normal yet. The thought of spending that much time with Richie - and, fine, Johnny too - in a remote area is making his stomach twist.

Not that he hasn't spent time alone with Richie when things are weird before, but really, it's the principle of the thing. If they hadn't done this vacation, Jeff would be chasing Sea Isle coed ass right now. If he thinks about it right, it's almost like Richie owes him a BJ.

Except, okay, that's kind of crazy logic. Jeff shakes his head a little and tries to pay attention to what Johnny's saying.

It's a story about Pat Kane, but it's a long one. Jeff rolls his eyes and digs out his phone. His mom has commented on his Facebook update, making fun of him for not training right away. He types up something about his foot and then goes to check his texts.

He's got, to his surprise, one from Rick. heard u were going to lake w/ toews & richards

whats it 2 u? Jeff replies.

just curious. u and richie settled in well.

Jeff narrows his eyes. He doesn't like how Rick seems to think he knows Jeff. Fine, they spent months playing together, and hanging out, but Jeff was - not in the greatest place then. How he was then has almost nothing to do with how he is now.

Or at least, that's what Jeff's telling himself.

"Here we are," Johnny says after what feels like forever.

It's a nice cabin, except for how it's out in the woods and is thus the opposite of pretty much everything Jeff loves. He pretends to be cheerful, though, saying it looks awesome and then adding, "Are we going grocery shopping, or...?"

"I had groceries brought here," Johnny says.

"Right," Jeff says. "So."

Johnny looks at his watch. "I figured we'd have beer on the patio."

"I'm in," Richie says from behind Jeff.

Jeff doesn't jump or anything stupid like that, but he does get a little tenser. "Sure," he says, hoping he sounds normal and not like a neurotic lunatic.

"Cool," Johnny says. He looks between Jeff and Richie, but he doesn't look like he's figured anything out. Then again, Jeff thinks a little bitterly, Johnny's probably not that bright. Most of Richie's friends aren't - well, most hockey players aren't. And if Jeff can't figure out what the hell's happening with him and Richie, then why should Johnny be able to?

They hang out on the patio for awhile. They don't talk about the rest of the playoffs - Jeff doesn't know any players who'd want to do that. But they do talk about gossip around the league, and Johnny talks about his little brother, and Richie tells stories about being in LA. It's fun - or at least, it would be if Jeff could relax.

"I figured I'd grill tonight," Johnny says around five. "There's a grill on the side deck."

"You can grill?" Richie says.

"Fuck off," Johnny says. "I'm good at it."

"Sure," Richie says.

He's just joking, but he uses the same kind of half-sarcastic tone when he's picking up. Jeff tightens his grip on his beer bottle and says, "Need any help, Johnny?"

Johnny blinks at him. "I'm good," he says after a minute. "You guys can stay here."

He leaves before Jeff can desperately offer to set the table, or something. He can think of plenty of things that would be worse than being alone with Richie, but that doesn't mean he's gagging for one-on-one time.

"We can go fishing tomorrow morning," Richie says almost as soon as Johnny's gone.

"Cool," Jeff says. "Sounds like fun."

"Sure about that?" Richie says. "You're not the outdoors type."

"Maybe I wasn't before," Jeff says. He shrugs. "I got into it in Columbus."

That might be the biggest lie he's ever told, but Richie doesn't need to know that.

"Right," Richie says. "I guess you had to think of something to do."

"Funny," Jeff says. "Asshole."

They're talking around something, and Jeff's not even sure what it is. Well, aside from their whole thing with sleeping together, and then not. "Anyway," Jeff says. "Odds Johnny burns the cabin down?"

"Pretty high," Richie says. "You sure you don't want to run away to Sea Isle?"

He's more than used to the way Richie says stuff when he's annoyed with something. The guy couldn't be more passive-aggressive if it was a contest. But Jeff's used to Richie being passive-aggressive at other people, with Jeff, not passive-aggressive and dickish at Jeff.

Jeff doesn't know what to do with that; he's mostly just settling for not making waves, hoping Richie figures his shit out. So now, he grits his teeth and then says, "Nah."

"Right," Richie says, and falls silent.

They drink their beer and - well, Jeff's not sulking, but he's pretty sure Richie is - until Johnny comes back out on the patio and says, "Steaks are ready. I made corn on the cob, too."

"What, do you want a medal?" Richie says. He gets up and goes inside. Jeff wanders in after them.

There's pasta salad, too, which probably came out of a box and is the kind of thing they only eat in those first few weeks during the off-season when they're getting as loose as they'll ever be. Jeff piles his plate high and goes to sit at the picnic table. His choice is sitting next to Richie or Johnny, and after a second's hesitation he picks Richie.

This vacation is going to be so awkward.

Jeff goes to bed early purely out of self defense. He wakes up early, because they haven't been in the off-season long enough for his body to shake those habits. No one's up when he goes to the kitchen, so he makes a cup of coffee and goes out onto the side deck.

The deck overlooks the lake, which is actually really pretty. It's not as good as Jeff's view at his Sea Isle house, and it's definitely not as good as Richie's view, but it's not terrible. And going fishing is going to be fun. Well, drinking beer on a boat will be fun.

If only he could just... not be around Richie. Or something.

"Hey," Johnny says from behind him.

Jeff jumps. "Oh. Hi."

"Gonna have to wake Richie up soon."

Johnny moves into Jeff's line of sight. He's holding coffee, too.

Jeff snorts. "Good luck with that. He hates when people wake him up."

"He likes fishing, though."

"And you've got a decent boat," Jeff says, looking at the boat at the dock. It's pretty big, and has plush-looking chairs and all kinds of shit.

"Not mine, but thanks."

They stand there in silence. In desperation, Jeff says, "So, you and Richie do this every year, eh?"

"Most of the time," Johnny says.

It's getting really, really obvious that Johnny's not a talker, though, so Jeff finally gives up and just drinks his damn coffee. Just as he's finishing up and putting the mug away, Richie comes into the kitchen, running a hand through his hair.

"Oh good, you made a pot," Richie says, falling on the coffee.

"Yeah," Jeff says. He takes a deep breath and adds, "Hey, are we going to talk about the playoffs?"

Richie goes very, very still. "We never talk about the playoffs."

"Yeah, but -"

"Why change what works?" Richie says, and wanders away.

Right. Of course. Jeff closes his eyes, shakes his head, and goes upstairs to get dressed.

Sure enough, fishing is hanging out with poles, supposedly trying to catch something, but mostly just drinking beer. Johnny filled the cooler with halfway decent beer, not Molson or Bud or something, so Jeff's actually enjoying himself - even though, fine, he likes Bud Light with lime during the season. Richie and Johnny are talking about being captain, which is the kind of conversation Jeff can tune out without feeling weird about it. And Jeff's texting Donuts about all the fish they're going to catch, which is fun.

Then, of course, Richie says, "What are you, some kind of... gay little pussy or something?" to Johnny.

It's not like Jeff cares. One, he's not one, so whatever. Two, people say that shit all the time. But he can't help but flinch, and then he remembers Richie's mouth on his dick, and yeah. That fucking sucks.

Johnny laughs it off and they go back to talking, but Jeff swallows and pulls up his phone calendar.

He's been thinking about it, sort of, ever since the awkward car ride to the lake house; but now he's thinking about it solidly, because Richie's -

Richie doesn't want to talk about what they did. Apparently, to him, it doesn't matter. So it's Saturday now, which means he can probably have utilities up at his house by Wednesday or so. Then he can get the fuck out, a week and a half early.

He relaxes knowing he has a plan. He laughs at Richie's attempts to reel in a fish that actually takes the bait, and rolls his eyes when Johnny catches a fish and is then a bragging dick about it. Eventually, they go back to the house, and Johnny skins his fish - what do you call it when it's fish? Jeff doesn't know - while Jeff goes upstairs to shower.

While he's up there, he makes the call to turn his utilities back on. They tell him Wednesday, which means tonight he's going to need to buy plane tickets.

If he thinks about it right, and not like he's been betrayed or whatever, then he's almost pumped about it. Sea Isle's awesome. He always gets laid there.

And maybe that's his problem. Maybe, he thinks, he's hung up on Richie because he hasn't hit it with anyone else. He's only fucked one person since Richie, so he's all distracted. He needs to fuck some chick with tits out to here and forget about Richie.

Right, totally. And in the meantime, he's just not going to think about it. There's nothing to think about, really. Fuck Richie. Jeff barely cares about him, anyway.

Telling himself that totally works for the rest of vacation. Well, kind of. It works in the sense that every time Jeff gets weird about Richie, he can shout himself down. He's pretty sure Johnny and Richie don't notice he's being weird.

Until, that is, Tuesday. "Hey, so," he says as they're all eating breakfast. "This has been fun, but I'm going nuts out here. I'm going to fly back to Sea Isle tomorrow."

Johnny blinks. "Oh," he says. "Okay."

"Yeah," Jeff says. "Just, you know, I miss hot chicks to bang."

"Because you were banging so many before," Richie mutters.

"What?" Jeff says.

Richie shrugs. "Nothing," he says, and takes a huge bite of eggs.

Jeff's tempted to tell him to fuck off even though he knows that would make him look like a lunatic. "Anyway," he says finally, telling himself not to be weird, "it's been fun. Thanks," he says to Johnny.

Johnny nods at him. "No problem, bud."

That day, Richie disappears for hours to go swimming. Johnny's way more of a float out in the boat guy, and Jeff ends up hanging out on the patio and sunbathing. They don't meet back up until dinner, which is chicken cooked in some greasy orange sauce that basically tastes like takeout Chinese.

"Pulling out all the stops, eh?" Jeff says.

"It's the off-season," Richie snaps.

Jeff blinks. "Right," he says. "I was joking."

Richie glares at him, but doesn't say anything else until Jeff gets up to put his plate away. When he does, Richie says, "Come into the living room, eh? We need to talk."

Jeff looks at Johnny, like maybe Johnny will save him. Johnny just shrugs at him, though, so Jeff digs his hands into his pockets and goes out to the living room.

"What is your problem?" Richie says when they get there.

The living room is down the hall from the kitchen, so Johnny's probably not going to hear them, but Jeff still says, really quietly, "We're not talking about this."

"Fuck you, we're not talking about it," Richie says. "How about we don't talk about how you're a complete asshole? I thought we were okay. You said you wanted to go on this vacation."

"And then I changed my mind," Jeff says. "So sue me."

That sounded way less childish in his head.

Richie snorts. "Tell me this isn't about the playoffs."

Jeff crosses his arms. "Fine. This isn't about the playoffs."

"Man, it is, though." Richie clamps a hand on the back of his neck and glares at Jeff. "That wasn't supposed to be a thing!"

"It wasn't," Jeff says. "You said it wasn't."

"Fuck you," Richie says. "You're being weird. What, you've never sucked someone else's dick before? You were in juniors with the rest of us."

"That's - " No, he's not going to say 'different'. He's not going to show his hand like that. "That's not the point," he says finally. "Things are weird, okay, so I'm going home and I'm going to fuck a hot blonde and that'll be it."

"A hot blonde chick?"

It takes Jeff a minute to realize what Richie's asking. "Oh, fuck you," Jeff says.

"What? It's obvious you've had a revelation. Why else would you be all up on my dick?"

"Who said I was?" Jeff snaps. "You've got a hell of an ego."

"Right," Richie says. "Please, keep saying you're not all weird about us sleeping together. It's really believable, man. Totally makes sense."

"Fuck you," Jeff says. "I thought we're not talking about this." He turns to leave.

Richie grabs him, though, and slams him back against the counter so hard Jeff's pretty sure he's going to have a bruise. "Fuck you, yes we are."

Jeff could push him away, only this isn't the quiet, kind of passive-aggressive Richie he normally deals with. This is the guy who plays like he's 6'4" and doesn't give a fuck. And Jeff's torn between being kind of freaked out, and being really inappropriately turned on.

"Richie," he says when he can think again. "Let me go, man. Come on."

"Then get the fuck over yourself and finish your vacation here. Things are supposed to be - this is just like always."

Jeff shakes his head. "Not happening."

Richie glares at him for what feels like forever but is probably maybe a minute before pulling back. "You're a fucking dick," he says, and stalks away.

Right. Jeff's going to be an adult and hide in his room until it's time for him to leave, then.

On the way to the stairs, though, Johnny heads him off and says, "Need a ride tomorrow?"

"I was going to call a cab," Jeff says, then realizes how stupid that sounds.

"I'll drive you," Johnny says.

He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, which, Jeff is so over this whole vacation experiment. "Thanks, man," he says, and practically runs upstairs.

He does, in fact, hide until Johnny knocks on his door the next morning and says, "Ready?"

"Oh yeah," Jeff says, and grabs his luggage.

Johnny's silent for a good ten minutes at the beginning of the drive, long enough that Jeff's starting to feel like he really got away with something. Then Johnny ruins it by saying, "He was excited about you coming to live with him, you know."

Jeff resists the urge to slump down and cross his arms like he's a teenager. "So?"

"So, maybe you should, I don't know, figure out whatever dumb fight you're having."

"We're not," Jeff says, but he can't finish that sentence because it's so transparently a lie.

"Right," Johnny says. "Sure. So anyway. When you're at your place, just call him or something. He's kind of a dick, but you can talk to him."

Jeff laughs, then slams his mouth shut because it sounds a little hysterical. "Thanks for the advice, man."

"Whatever," Johnny says.

They don't talk until Johnny pulls up at the departure gate. "Later," Johnny says, popping the trunk.

"Later," Jeff says, and gets out.

It's a lonely flight back to Sea Isle. He hasn't actually told his family where he's going; at some point he's going to visit them, but he doesn't want to admit that he left Winnipeg early.

Fuck Winnipeg, anyway. Why'd he even decide to try to vacation with those guys? They're both boring as shit and there weren't even hot chicks to pick up.

When he gets back to his house, he drops his luggage and looks around. It's clean and the utilities are on. The fridge is empty, but that's not a problem during the off-season. He orders pizza from his favorite place - he's had it saved in his phone since last year, a thought that makes him wince even though it's not like anyone else knows - and then flops down on the couch.

It's weird being back here. Last year he was so fucked up, obviously, that he really couldn't do anything - and this year is better, totally. He's with a team he wants to be on, and he's going to be staying, and it's not in fucking Ohio. Life rules compares to last year.

So any moment now he's going to stop feeling like he's come full circle and is miserable again, because that would be stupid. There's no reason to be miserable. This thing with Richie will figure itself out. It's not a big deal unless Jeff makes it a big deal.

He goes to bed early, and then the next morning puts Sun-In in his hair for the first time in months. He needs it to look good, because he's going to find chicks to bang. Tons of chicks. He's going to be, like, buried in pussy.

He goes out to a Mexican place for lunch and takes his margarita out to their patio. There's a trio of hot chicks there, and he's got his eye on the brunette. "Hey," he says, smiling at her. "Know where a guy could have some fun?"

She looks at him disbelievingly. "Does that line normally work for you?"

"It does in LA, but they don't have as discerning taste over there."

"Right," she says. "Um, I'm here with my girlfriend? And I'm going to go now."

Well, damn. Jeff's luck is totally gay lately. Like, literally gay, not thirteen-year-old skateboarder "stupid" gay.

Or bi, maybe. Bi chicks are hot. But she's gone, so he can't ask her for a threesome.

He tries another couple times, but he keeps striking out. He's obviously rusty, which is another thing he can blame Richie for. He definitely wants to get laid, though, so he figures maybe he'll go to some place where he won't have to talk.

He goes home to change into a tighter shirt and finds a club that's not too far away. He goes at ten, slipping into the crowd. He's not really a dancer - well, okay, it's not that. It's that he can't dance at all. But he's hoping his ass and pecs will do all the talking, or dancing, for him.

Sure enough, after maybe fifteen minutes, someone starts grinding against him. Only it's a dude.

Jeff doesn't jump and like, hit the guy, because he doesn’t really care. But he does turn around, hoping to be able to tell the guy he's not into it.

The guy just looks at him. He's smirking a little, and he's got his hands on Jeff's hips, looking up at Jeff like he wants to... do something dirty. Jeff's not even sure what. Jeff swallows hard.

Every part of his brain is yelling at him to push the guy away, but suddenly, he really doesn't want to. So what if he takes a dude back to his place? It's not like anyone will know. And maybe a different dick will make him stop thinking about Richie's. It doesn't make him gay or anything. It's for practicality.

Mind made up, he leans into the dude and grinds against him a little. They do that for just a couple minutes before the guy leans in - and up, because he's short, and Jeff's kind of into that - and says, "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah," Jeff says, which is how he winds up being pushed back against the inside of his own front door, kissing a guy who's kind of skinny and doesn't look like Richie at all.

He kisses back, moving to grope the guy's ass as the guy kisses his way down Jeff's neck. He doesn't just want a sketchy blowjob, though, so he says, "Wait, hang on - bed okay?"

The guy smiles, slow and pleased. "Sure," he says, hooking his fingers in Jeff's belt loops and tugging. "Where to?"

Jeff leads them to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He barely has time to take a deep breath before the guy is on him again, pulling his shirt off and saying, "You can fuck me if you want."

Jeff's mind goes a little blank. "Um..."

"Or, we could do this." The guy cups Jeff's dick through his pants, kissing Jeff's neck.

But if Jeff wants to get rid of Richie in his mind, then he needs to go all the way. "I'm going to fuck you," he says, grabbing the guy's hair and tilting his head up so he can kiss him hard.

The height difference is enough, though, that after just a couple seconds Jeff is pushing the guy back towards the bed, kicking off his shoes and taking off the guy's shirt as he goes. The guy is into it, rocking against him so that Jeff can feel that he's already hard.

Jeff is, too, but that makes sense. Friction is a thing.

The guy fumbles with Jeff's belt buckle as Jeff lowers himself on top of him. "Wait, hang on," Jeff says, standing up again so he can get out of his pants. When he goes back to the bed, the guy's completely naked.

And, yeah, he looks good. He's got great abs, and he's stroking his dick and looking Jeff up and down in a way that makes Jeff want to touch him more, right then. Jeff pushes a leg in between the guy's thighs and rocks down against him, their dicks rubbing together as Jeff kisses him again.

They don't make out or anything, but Jeff does kiss the guy's neck and jerk him off a little, and then the guy's passing him a tube of lube and rolling over, right, Jeff's really doing this.

It's not that hard. He uses fingers and gets the guy ready. The guy hisses out breaths and rubs against Jeff, and towards the end he starts panting and Jeff idly wonders if he could make him beg.

That's not really the point of this, though, so Jeff slicks up his dick and presses in slowly.

"Fuck," the guy says. Jeff sees his arm move like he's jerking himself off as he pushes back against Jeff's dick. "Harder, c'mon."

Jeff does what he says, angling his hips until the guy's groaning and jerking himself off even faster. It's good, it's really good - Jeff's so turned on he's a little dizzy with it, and he wants to keep going forever.

Eventually, though, Jeff pushes the guy's hand away and jerks him off himself, so that the guy can brace himself up on both arms as Jeff fucks him harder. The guy comes quickly, all over Jeff's hand, and then Jeff just has to grab the guy's hips and fuck him until he's coming, too.

Jeff pulls out quickly. They lie there for a few minutes before the guy says, "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Go for it."

It occurs to him as the guy's showering that he didn't think about Richie at all. Which is good, that's really good - only now he feels guilty, like maybe he should've been thinking about Richie. Which, what the fuck?

Richie would've made fun of him for having no game, though, after he was done making fun of him for going gay. Richie probably would've braced his hands on Jeff's hips and guided him, and been really pushy, and bite Jeff's lip. It wouldn't have been impersonal at all. They would've made out, half-angrily, and Richie would leave bite marks and scratches down Jeff's back.

Jeff shivers. No; he can't think about this. The whole point was to not think about Richie, and he did that, so he needs to stop thinking about him now that it's really over.

After the guy leaves, Jeff showers, closing his eyes against the spray and trying not to think about the way Richie sometimes smirks and critiques his game when they fuck girls in their hotel room.

He mostly succeeds, but still, when he falls asleep, the last thing he thinks about is how Richie's mouth felt on his.

He doesn't call Richie. He doesn't know why; he should, really. They're still friends. But somehow, he can't bring himself to. A couple days go by, and then a week, and then three weeks, and he just... doesn't call or text him. He talks to his mom, and makes plans to go up for a week at the end of the month, but he doesn't text Richie at all.

He's not an idiot, so he's aware of the irony in the whole thing. A year later, after everything is supposed to be better, he's hiding in Sea Isle again, hooking up to try and forget about his feelings. Fucking Richie. Jeff's stupid fucking feelings. Out of all the guys in the world Jeff could be gay for, why Richie?

All in all, flying up to see his family is a relief. His mom meets him at the airport. The first thing she says is, "Oh, thank goodness, your tan is natural now," which makes Jeff duck his head.

"Mom," he says. "It was fine before."

She raises her eyebrows. "Yes, dear," she says. "Now let's get your luggage, hmm?"

His dad greets him with a clap on his shoulder, saying, "Room's still the same."

"I figured maybe you'd turned it into an office," Jeff says, lugging his stuff up the stairs. His dad's laugh follows him as he goes.

They actually hold off on grilling him until he's eating dinner that night. "So," his mom says. "How was your vacation?"

"Good," Jeff says quickly. "Yeah, uh, Tazer - Toews, he plays for Chicago - he was, uh. He was nice. Yeah."

His dad raises his eyebrows. "Should you grill him, or should I?" he asks Jeff's mom.

"Oh, I think I can handle it," she says calmly. "How's Michael?"

Jeff blinks. "Um, do you mean Richie?"

"Yes. Your... roommate."

Oh, Christ. Jeff grabs his glass of wine - thank God his parents are kind of classy, otherwise Jeff would have to pregame his own family dinners - and downs it in one gulp. It calms him down enough that he can say, "Yeah, he's good."

"That's good," she says.

That's it for that dinner; but over the next five days, his parents somehow manage to get the important details out of him. Jeff doesn't know how, but by the end of his visit, they're referring to Richie as "That one", and Jeff's honestly kind of scared for what happens when they come into town next year and Richie wants to hang out. He tells himself it's not that big a deal, but it obviously is to his parents. They just don't get it, apparently. He and Richie are just on the outs, is all. They'll be fine. Probably.

As much as it was a relief to go to his parents', it's also a relief to leave. When he gets back to Sea Isle he picks up a chick with a nose ring. It's quick and easy and Jeff refuses to think about Richie before, during, or after.

The rest of summer is - well, it's decent. Jeff makes sure he has a trainer and spends equal amounts of time drinking his ass off and finding random people to hang out with. Like it always has, being a millionaire hockey player opens doors; he finds some guys to find him some girls, and it's - whatever. It's a good summer.

Except for how he sleeps with more guys than girls. A lot more. He gives hand jobs, and sucks dick, and somehow, it feels like what he wants to be doing, in spite of everything.

Jeff doesn't really know what to do with that, so he ignores it. It's not like he didn't know he's into guys: he's into Richie. So what if he fucks a few? Or lets them fuck him, whatever.

He only does that once, actually. It feels too good, so he doesn't do it again.

Mid-September, he sucks it up and calls Richie.

"Jeff?"

Richie sounds suspicious and kind of pissed. Jeff winces. "Yeah, hey."

"I was starting to think you'd drunk yourself into a coma."

"Long summer," Jeff says. "I was training a lot."

"Uh huh."

"So..." Jeff grits his teeth. He's acting like a teenager. "I was thinking I'd come out in about a week. Does that work for you?"

"Sure."

"Great. So." Jeff pauses, then blurts out, "I'll be looking for my own place, too."

"Right."

"See you then," Jeff says quickly, and hangs up.

The next week is pure agony. He knows it's stupid to be losing his mind over this, but he can't help it. He should've talked to Richie, he can see that now. It was stupid not to. Now he has to deal with knowing things are going to be insanely awkward when he gets back. And... yeah, it's not actually terrible to decide to move out, and he knows it. So he's got that to deal with, too.

The days eventually pass, though, and then Jeff's catching a cab to Manhattan Beach. Richie's house is dark and empty when Jeff lets himself in. There's stuff in the fridge, though, so Richie must've been back for awhile. And when Jeff puts his stuff in his room and goes back downstairs for some water, Arnold comes into the kitchen and jumps on him.

"Whoa! Hey, buddy," Jeff says. He kneels down. "Took you a minute to realize I was here, eh? I missed you too."

Arnold licks his face and then barks, putting his paws up on Jeff's shoulders. Jeff laughs and scratches him. "I know, next year I'll come back sooner, I swear. I just had -"

"Hey," Richie says stiffly from the doorway of the kitchen.

Jeff just barely manages not to jump. "Oh. Hey."

Arnold bounds between them, wagging his tail.

"He missed you," Richie says.

"Right."

"Again."

There's enough accusation in there to convict him of murder. "I know," Jeff says. He stands up. "I was going to grab some water, maybe fuck around with your - the TV."

"You're welcome to it," Richie says, and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

Jeff groans and stands up. "Maybe things'll be more normal when camp starts," he tells Arnold.

Arnold just blinks up at him, tail wagging. Jeff says, "Come on, bud," and takes his water out to the living room.

Richie doesn't reappear all day. Jeff has no idea where he's gone; his room, maybe, or the rec room, which is like the living room only with dumb shit like a pinball machine. Jeff doesn't bother trying to find him. He orders takeout for dinner, a last hurrah type thing, and eats it alone up in his room. He can practically hear his mother lecturing him about putting food trash somewhere not the kitchen, but he really doesn't care that much.

Richie's downstairs when he wakes up the next morning. He's got his running clothes on and is opening the door for Arnold to leave.

Jeff had been planning on going for a walk and trying to talk himself out of having any kind of feelings for Richie, so he says, "Mind if I come?"

He then realizes that that's the opposite of how he should be acting, but before he can take it back, Richie glances at him, shrugs, and says, "Sure. Whatever."

The beach is exactly how Jeff remembers it - not that there's a reason for it to have changed. Richie has a ball that he throws for Arnold to fetch, but when Arnold gets it, he trots back to Jeff. Jeff laughs a little and takes the ball, throwing it.

He's pretty sure he's not inventing how pissy Richie looks at Jeff playing with Arnold, but it's not like Jeff can do anything about that.

They don't really talk, and by the time they get back to the house, Jeff's deliberately thinking about what he'll make for dinner so he doesn't have to obsess over how he and Richie are apparently still more or less fighting. Still, it's a surprise when Richie says, "So. When are you moving out?"

Jeff doesn't choke on his tongue or anything, but he does frown. "What?"

Richie doesn't look directly at him. "I mean, you're getting your own place. Right?"

"Oh." Jeff shouldn't feel like he's been punched in the stomach, probably, but he can't really help it. "I don't know. I guess. Hadn't really thought about it much."

Richie snorts. "Come on, man."

"No, seriously," Jeff says. Richie keeps staring at the wall, but something in his expression makes Jeff say, "What, do you want me to go?"

"Of course not," Richie says right away. "Don't be stupid."

"Right," Jeff says. He's pretty sure he's missing something. "Anyway. Camp tomorrow."

"Should be fun."

That's the opposite of what Jeff's thinking, but he just nods. "I'm going to go fuck around in the garage," he says when Richie doesn't say anything else.

Richie doesn't reply.

"Carts!" Donuts claps him on the back when he comes into the locker room. "Long time no chat, man."

"I was busy," Jeff says. "What, you weren't?"

"I probably wasn't getting laid with hot trashy chicks like you were," he says. "I've seen the pictures, man. Why didn't you invite us to your place?"

"Maybe I will next year," Jeff says.

He's never really been the guy who takes everything too literally before, but it's hard to make jokes when he knows the actual reason he spent three months in Sea Isle, not talking to anyone. Luckily, Donuts leaves him alone after that.

Camp is intense, like it always is. Jeff thought he stayed in decent shape - he had a trainer in Sea Isle, he's not an idiot - but staying in shape is nothing like going through camp. By the time they're finished, he's so tired he can't even really think about his fight or whatever the hell it is with Richie.

Richie seems to feel the same. "What's for dinner?" he says when they get inside, like Jeff never actually stopped providing dinner.

"Um." Jeff really can't make his brain work. He tries to smile. "Takeout?"

Richie snorts. "If you want to buy it."

"Some of us don't blow all our cash on private planes for our dogs," Jeff says without thinking. The next silence is incredibly awkward. "Right, okay, I'm getting my computer," Jeff blurts out, all but running upstairs.

He pretty much hides there until the food comes. He's the one who opens the door and takes it all out to the kitchen, though.

They sit at the table and eat silently. All Jeff can think is he wishes they were a couple years younger, because these days they don't just take their food to wherever in the house they want nearly as easily.

Arnold begs for scraps, as always, and Richie calls him a lazy asshole and then feeds him bits of chicken. Jeff watches the process and then snorts. "You're spoiling him."

"It's not like he's fat," Richie says. "Anyway, he's my dog, I'll spoil him if I want."

"Sure," Jeff says. He's not sure if that's meant to be a jab at him or not. It's Richie, so probably.

Luckily, as soon as he's full from dinner he's also exhausted. Richie takes the trash out, and Jeff goes upstairs almost right away, and half an hour later, he's asleep.

He wakes up at ass o'clock in the morning and spends a lot of time downstairs, nursing a bowl of oatmeal in the near-dark until it's sticky and gross. He plays with Arnold for awhile outside, tossing a ball around, until Richie comes out and says, "Did you eat?"

"Yeah," Jeff says. "Kix, seriously?"

"You better not have touched my Kix."

"Relax, man, I had oatmeal."

Richie eyes him. "Good," he says. "Come here, Arnold," he adds, and whistles.

He leads Arnold back inside, and Jeff, feeling like a tool, follows. Richie goes into the kitchen and pours himself a mug of coffee. "Over the summer," he says abruptly, not looking at Jeff, "you missed Donuts hooking up with a chick who turned me down."

If Jeff was eating something he would've been hard-pressed not to choke on it. "You're kidding."

"Turned me down cold, man, told me she'd rather sit on a lizard's dick than mine," Richie says. "I don't even know if lizards have dicks. But yeah, then she chatted up Drew. Tits out to here, I swear, and this perfect ass, and she's leaning all over Donuts like he'll eat her pussy for two hours straight or something."

Jeff laughs. "Sucks to be you, man. Tell me you at least got laid."

"Yeah, some blonde," Richie says.

"Well?" Jeff says. "Come on, what'd she look like?"

"Tall, hot, bleached hair." Richie smirks. "It looked good, though, unlike some people."

"This isn't bleach!" Jeff says.

It's an old conversation, an old argument, and when Richie laughs at him, Jeff has to duck his head so the feelings rushing through him aren't completely obvious. Summer should've gotten rid of these dumb feelings. He used to be so good at just goofing off with Richie.

He doesn't really have time to sit around and brood about his unrequited love for Richie, though. They have to get ready for camp. Richie drives this time, and they shoot the shit about people they know around the league until they get to the rink.

There are a bunch of rookies up, and Jeff feels like a dick, but he doesn't really bother matching faces to names. That's Brown's job, anyway. Jeff just tries to be friendly and not razz them too much when they fuck up. He also sticks close to Richie, but he figures everyone mostly expects that, and it would be weird not to.

In the locker room after, Trevor says, "Ice Town, ten?"

"We have camp tomorrow," Jeff points out.

"Ignore him," Richie says. "All that time in Sea Isle made him soft. He's coming."

"Sweet," Trevor says, fistbumping with Richie before he goes to get dressed.

"I might need to, you know, sleep," Jeff says in the car on the way home.

Richie flaps a hand. "So sleep after you get some pussy."

Jeff wonders if it's really that easy, if they can slot back into place this quickly. But he's not going to question it, if Richie's sure. It's been awhile since he got laid, and even longer since it was by a chick.

The thought makes him wince, like somehow Richie'll read his mind. He doesn't, though, obviously. He just grins at Jeff and speeds up a little as they head towards his driveway.

But things don't go as planned. Sure, they go to a bar, and Richie taps him on the shoulder and leans in and says, "That one," low and confident in Jeff's ear. And Jeff picks her up, and they wind up making out in the back of a cab, her snuggling up against him all soft and willing. Then he takes her home and fucks her, on her hands and knees, and he listens to all the sounds she makes and tells himself this is easily in the top five of the last six months or so.

Then, though, he wakes up the next morning and comes out to the kitchen, and Richie's nowhere to be seen. He doesn't see Richie, in fact, until twenty minutes before they're due to go, when Richie comes in from the garage sweaty as fuck, hands taped, and says, "Have a good time last night?"

"Fucking hot shit, man," Jeff says. "She -"

"Great," Richie says, and leaves.

Jeff sighs. Right.

That night, Richie says, "I'm going out. Don't wait up."

"Picking up?" Jeff says, ignoring the twist of jealousy in the pit of his stomach.

Richie smiles, lip curling a little. "Yeah," he says.

"Have fun," Jeff says. "Pick someone hot."

"I always do," Richie says.

Jeff figures Richie won't be back until late, so Jeff stays up in the living room, watching some dumb animated movie he doesn't know the name of. Well, okay, it's Up, but like Jeff cares. It's just filler while he tries not to think about Richie nailing some chick, and what it does to Jeff.

It shouldn't do anything to him, is the thing. He knows that. He also knows that, logically, he should move the fuck out. The only thing living with Richie is doing is driving him up the wall. "I should just go," he tells Arnold, who's been occupying the couch with him since he flopped down two hours ago.

Arnold thumps his tail against the couch. "I'd miss you too, bud," Jeff says. "But he's driving me up the wall."

That's when the door opens.

Jeff goes still, then turns off the TV quickly and goes still again. Richie usually takes them right up to his room, so if he just hangs out, then things shouldn't get too awkward.

Only then Jeff hears a moan. A low, incredibly male, very much not Richie moan.

He's up before he even thinks about the nine hundred thousand ways in which that's a bad idea. What he sees when he gets to the front room, though, makes him stop dead.

It's not that he hasn't seen Richie on his knees before; he has. It's just that he's usually drunk enough to want to eat pussy, and also, it's a chick. Right now, Richie's sucking dick. And, fuck, he looks really fucking into it.

"What the fuck," he says without thinking.

Richie goes still. The guy - tall, and built, and fucking blond, what the fuck - says, "Uh."

Richie stands up and wipes the back of his mouth. "You should go," he tells the guy.

"Right," the guy says, and does up his pants. He's pulling his phone out as he leaves.

"Fuck you," Jeff says. "Fuck you, you fucking - what the fuck?"

Richie shrugs. He looks bored. "What?"

"Maybe keep it in your pants until you get to a room, jackass," Jeff says. He's not even going to pretend he's not jealous, but maybe he can hide it by pretending he suddenly gives a fuck about jealousy. "And since when are you into sucking cock?"

"It's something to do," Richie says.

His mouth is still red and shiny. Jeff blinks hard, then says, "Is this some kind of fucked-up revenge thing?"

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Richie says. It's not actually an answer. "I got used to doing what I want. In, you know, my house."

Jeff's dealt with Richie-ese for years, and years, and fucking years. Way too long, he thinks viciously. "Right," he says. "You want me to move out."

Richie blinks; bingo, Jeff thinks. "Nah, get your panties untwisted. I was just sucking a dick, I wasn't -"

"Fuck you," Jeff says. "Fuck you. Also? Fuck you. I was planning on moving out anyway, jackass, but now I'll call the movers tomorrow." He shoves past Richie and stomps halfway up the stairs. "Also, what, should I call you a gay pussy now?"

"Oh, come on, are you still pissed about that?"

Jeff decides to let his expression speak for itself.

"It's not fucking dudes, man, it's getting all weird about it," Richie says. "Like, I wasn't going to cry because that guy didn't want to be my boyfriend."

Right. Sure. Jeff takes slow, deliberate steps down the stairs.

Richie doesn't even move, the asshole. "I'm moving all my shit out," Jeff says. "Tomorrow."

"Where are you going to stay?"

Richie doesn't say it like he wants to know; he says it like he doesn't believe Jeff. Jeff takes another step forward, and then another, until he's got Richie backed against the door.

Mostly it doesn't matter that Richie's kind of small. Right now, though, Jeff feels good about forcing Richie to look up at him.

He feels less good about it when Richie kisses him viciously.

Jeff kisses back for one insane second he'll never want to admit to, then pushes Richie away. "Fuck you," he says. "You think you can just - fuck you."

It's not exactly the world's most dignified thing to walk up the stairs, carefully not running, but Jeff feels worse than he did the entire three months in Sea Isle, so he doesn't really care.

He's up half the night venting to himself about Richie. When he hears Richie finally climb the stairs and go to his room, Jeff's tempted to get up, drag him into Jeff's room and then - what? Hit him? Fuck him? Jeff doesn't know. He thought he could get over this, being hung up on Richie, and he thought he was doing a decent job, but then Richie brought home a guy as some kind of fuck-you that probably only makes sense in Richie's twisted mind.

Jeff just lies there in the dark, staring at the ceiling and hating everything, but especially Richie, until he finally manages to fall asleep around three. When he wakes up, he pulls his computer onto the bed with him and looks up moving companies.

He calls one and sets up an appointment, but they won't let him move sooner than a week, so after that Jeff packs a bag. He's going to the nearest hotel and he's staying there until they can get his shit out.

It's not until he's driving to camp, alone, that he realizes he still doesn't have a place to stay.

"Fuck you, Richie," he tells the road, then calls the moving company to cancel the move. He's going to have to find a place, then, but that's not that big a deal. He can do that from a hotel room.

Camp isn't horrible. Jeff's not really expecting it to be, because whatever else you can say about him and Richie, they're professionals. Richie acts the way he always does; it's just that in the locker room he doesn't say a word to Jeff, and he leaves alone. And Jeff can tell that everyone else notices, even if no one says anything.

He didn't make a reservation at a decent hotel, so after he leaves practice he drives until he sees a Days Inn and checks in there. It doesn't really matter, because he's going to find a place as soon as possible. He can look during camp, if he schedules shit carefully, and then things will be fucking over and he'll be able to relax.

He looks through realty shit on his laptop for the rest of the day and makes a couple calls. Real estate is way crazier here than in Sea Isle, but Jeff figures he can throw money at a realtor and make them do most of the actual work. It's a nice distraction, anyway, thinking about that instead of how into the blowjob Richie was, and how bad Jeff wants to, he doesn't even know, fucking beg Richie to just give them a chance.

Just the thought makes him snort. Give them a chance, right. Like this is some kind of romantic comedy.

He puts his computer away at exactly ten and turns the light off. He's going to sleep, and when he wakes up he's going to eat shitty Days Inn breakfast, and then hopefully he'll get in contact with a realtor before he has to go to camp. And at no point in time will he be talking to Richie, because they have nothing to talk about.

He dreams about Richie. It's not a bad dream, technically, except for how when he wakes up and remembers it, he feels sick. He and Richie went out, and they had some drinks, and hit on some girls. Only then Jeff went home with Richie, and Richie pushed him into the mattress and fucked him.

Which: Jeff's been fucked in the ass before, sure, but why does his subconscious have to be fucking him over like this now?

He gets a call from a realtor right as he's leaving for practice. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mr. Carter? This is Jenny Klein, from Klein Realty."

"Oh, hey. Listen, I'm on my way out the door -"

"You can call me back at your convenience, but I'm happy to take you on as a client. I can show you several properties at your earliest convenience."

Sometimes the shitty economy rocks. "Yeah, totally," Jeff says. "I'll call you back around three?"

"Sounds good!"

He hangs up and goes down to his car. Right. This is really happening, then. Kind of like how you can take back jumping into the lake until you let go of the rope, and then, good luck if there's a shark like your older cousin said, because if that's the case, then you're fucked.

Only less dramatic. Jeff's just moving out. It's not a big deal. He's a grown ass adult, he can move out if he wants.

It's not until he's finalized a meeting with the realtor on their day off two days from then, and has eaten a snack, that he gets the text from Richie: a bunch of ur shit is still here

Jeff feels like he's been punched in the stomach. im looking for a place he replies after, hopefully, long enough that it doesn't seem like he's just been waiting around for Richie to text him. stick it all in the room i used if it bugs u

Richie doesn't reply. That's a good thing, Jeff reminds himself.

The next two days pass slowly and, if Jeff's being honest with himself, kind of painfully. As they're leaving camp the day before their day off, Doughty catches up with Jeff and says, "Hey, Carts, afternoon movie tomorrow with the guys?"

"Can't," Jeff says. "I've got a - meeting."

"What, fixing your stocks? Come on, Carts. Richie already said he wasn't going."

Jeff looks at Doughty sharply, but Doughty looks like he doesn't think he's said anything unusual. "I'm busy," Jeff says. "I've got a meeting with a realtor."

"Sure thing," Doughty says. "Some other time." He claps Jeff on the shoulder and goes off in the opposite direction.

The realtor shows Jeff some really nice houses. Jeff, feeling perverse, has told her he doesn't want to live on the beach, so mostly he gets shown gated communities with a lot of unnatural-looking grass. They're nice places, though, with lots of space, and Jeff thinks he could do - something - with it. Something that doesn't involve Richie and does involve living his life like the adult he is.

He doesn't make a decision right away, though. He tells her he wants to look at more places. She doesn't even blink, so she's probably used to picky millionaire clients. They set up another meeting for a week from now and she drops Jeff off at his hotel.

Jeff spends a lot of time after that lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Then he orders porn on the shitty, old TV and jerks off to it. It's not satisfying, and at the last second, right before he comes, he thinks of fucking Richie on his knees for some random guy again, which ruins the whole thing even if he does get off.

He just - he doesn't get it. He doesn't understand why the fuck, after spending nine fucking months away from Richie, all of a sudden not really talking to him is fucking him up. Hell, just this last summer he was... okay... without Richie. So Richie sucks dick now; so what? It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. Jeff spent the summer getting over Richie.

Only, obviously, he's not over Richie. At all.

He can admit it to himself, if only here. He's not over Richie. He says it to himself over and over, trying to get used to the thought. He wants Richie to... fuck, he wants Richie to be his boyfriend. He wants to fuck Richie, and to make out with him when they watch movies, and to take Arnold for fucking walks on the beach. Summer didn't make him not want it, six months in Columbus didn't make him not want it. He's stuck with it, this stupid feeling that makes his chest feel like it's being squeezed.

"Well," he says out loud to his ceiling, "this sucks."

It's good that he's moving out. It's what he needs to do. Richie's not - Richie doesn't want him, not the way Jeff wants Richie. So he should definitely move out. That's the right thing to do.

Jeff's just going to keep telling himself that.

He's miserable when he wakes up the next morning. He tries to shrug it off, though, eating his usual breakfast and then driving to camp. He doesn't miss the looks Doughty's giving him, but he's not going to respond to them, either. He skates, and works out, and showers, and doesn't say much of anything to anyone.

He thinks he's gotten away with it when he gets back to the motel. He thinks that in the parking lot, and the lobby, all the way up until he's been in his room for five minutes and someone knocks.

"I don't need housekeeping," he yells, trying another level of Angry Birds.

"I'm not housekeeping," Doughty yells back.

Jeff freezes. Shit.

"You'll open the door eventually," Doughty adds when Jeff doesn't respond. "Even you have to eat."

Jeff closes his eyes briefly, then opens them and gets up. "What the fuck," he says when he opens the door.

Doughty shoulders his way past Jeff and into the room. "We need to talk," he says. "And before you say no, Brownie put me up to this, so believe me, we're going to talk."

"Look, Doughty -"

"Drew."

"Drew," Jeff says again, as Doughty - Drew - stares at him. "I don't need to talk. Things are fine."

"That's exactly what I'd call it," Drew says. "Look."

Jeff waits, because he's trying not to be insane, but then Doughty doesn't say anything. "What?" Jeff all but snaps.

"Richie didn't talk about you, okay?" Drew moves to sit down on the unused bed. "Like, at all. I'm not kidding about this. He mentioned you maybe once the first three months he was with us. I wouldn't have thought you were friends, except he Skyped with you more than Elvis did with his girlfriend."

Jeff is tempted to either start laughing hysterically or kick Drew out so he can cry. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're both acting like idiots. Whatever happened, whatever it is, it can't be so bad you stop talking to each other."

"We've texted."

Drew gives him a look. "Have you."

"...a few times," Jeff says. "Look, it's complicated, okay? You have no idea how complicated."

"I'm not going to ask," Drew says. "Seriously, I'm not. Whatever freaky shit you guys are getting up to, that's your problem."

Jeff almost chokes on his tongue. "We're not -"

"Whatever," Drew says. "But you need to talk to him. I've never seen anyone as intense about his best friend as Richie is, and that's you, Carts. He's not going to throw that away because you guys are having some stupid fucking middle school fight."

"You really, really don't know what you're talking about," Jeff says.

"So?" Drew says. He shakes his head. "I'm not saying you have to kiss and make up and be BFF, I'm saying you should talk to him. At least to square away what's wrong. Just talk, and be honest."

"Or what?" Jeff says, because yeah, that's definitely a threat.

"Or Brownie'll give you the speech next time, and he's not as nice as I am." Drew stands up. "Have fun sulking," he says, and leaves.

Jeff flops down on the bed. Talk to Richie. Right.

...he should, he thinks. He really probably should. Just to clear up that, no, Richie doesn't want what Jeff does. They're at odds and that's the end of it.

He pulls out his phone and, after hesitating for a second - because seriously, what is he doing? - calls Richie.

"What," Richie says when he answers.

Jeff swallows. "We need to talk."

"Do we."

"You know we do."

"I'm busy," Richie says. "Napping."

"I'll come over after." Jeff closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'll - I'll bring dinner."

"Fine." Richie hangs up.

Jeff picks up some steamed fish from a decent restaurant on the way to Richie's. When he gets there, he stops in the driveway for a minute, taking deep breaths.

Then he tells himself to quit being a fucking wimp and gets out of the car, carrying the fish.

"Dinner," he tells Richie when Richie opens the door. Jeff has a key, but it felt more appropriate to knock.

"You have a key, jackass," Richie says, taking the fish.

Richie portions it out onto plates, along with the vegetables, and pours them both water while Jeff grabs the silverware. It's pretty normal, or what was normal last year, and it makes Jeff's stomach predictably twist.

"So," Jeff says as they're eating.

Richie looks at him.

"...we should talk."

"You said that already." Richie pauses. "Jackass."

Normally that kind of thing would make Jeff smile, but right now it just pisses him off. "Well, I'm trying, okay? Which is more than I can say for you."

"Fuck off," Richie says. "What is there to try for?"

"Well, last I checked, we were friends."

"Were. Until you fucked off to Sea Isle for three months and didn't bother to call."

"It's not like you called me!"

"I wasn't the one who left."

"No, you were just the one who insulted me and accused me of -"

"What? Being hung up?" Richie looks him up and down and smirks. "Tell me you weren't."

"We were sleeping together," Jeff points out. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, maybe not have attachment issues? It's not like you ever have before." Richie shakes his head. "You're freaking out, man, and it's fucking dumb. Why do you have to be making this so weird?"

Jeff can't pin it down, but something about that just doesn't ring true. Richie looks just... off. "Fine. Fine, whatever. It was a bad idea. I was a quick fuck to you, you were whatever to me, but it's done, and I've moved on, so I don't know why you're being such an asshole."

If he was paying even a little less attention to Richie, he wouldn't notice the way Richie flinches. As it is, he catches his breath.

There's no way. There's just not. Richie never had feelings, because he's not pathetic like Jeff. But something in Jeff refuses to let it go, and he finds himself saying, "So why'd you kiss me?"

Richie looks down at his plate and shrugs. "I figured maybe a pity fuck would get you off my dick." Jeff stares. And stares, and stares, until finally Richie looks up and snaps, "What the fuck's your problem, man?"

"Nothing," Jeff says. "I'm thinking."

He's thinking about the fact that he knows Richie, that he's known him for ages. He's thinking about how pathetic he's been, and how weird Richie's been. He's thinking about that kiss, and how Richie's never pity fucked anyone in his life. The last time Richie was like this, Jeff thinks, he was trying to shake off a girl - Jeff doesn't even remember her name. But he only heard about it from Richie's end, and for the first time he has a hell of a lot of sympathy for the girl.

He wishes Richie would make up his mind; if Jeff's like a girl who's gotten too clingy, or if Richie's just pissed because Jeff left Winnipeg early.

The truth of it is, he's probably about to get punched. But after everything that's happened for the past year and change, he figures it's not the worst thing in the world.

"You're lying."

Richie rolls his eyes. "Keep telling yourself that."

"You were fucking a guy who could be my brother." Jeff pauses. "With a bad dye job."

"One, your hair is a bad dye job. Two, what's your problem? So I have a thing for blonds. That proves you weren't special."

Richie's spitting out every other word like he thinks he's Al Capone. Jeff gets out of his chair and walks the short distance to Richie's.

Richie stands up, too, which Jeff was pretty much counting on. It makes it way easier to grab a handful of Richie's hair and haul him in for a kiss.

Of course, Richie pushes him away right away. But Jeff keeps a hand on his shoulder.

"What the fuck?" Richie's eyes are wide and he looks panicked, not condescending or scornful, which is a good step. "Carts, you can't just -"

"It's not actually a tragedy."

"What?"

Jeff shrugs, forcing himself to sound nonchalant and not like he's baring his fucking soul. "If I'm hung up on you, but you're hung up on me too. We can make that work. Probably."

"I'm not," Richie says, but it's about as convincing as... something really not convincing, Jeff doesn't have the brainpower for this right now.

"Why not?" Jeff says. "Come on, man, we fucked before I left, we fucked during the playoffs, we could just fuck all the time. It would be nice, don't you think? Less work than picking up chicks." He pauses. "Or dudes, I guess. But you're being completely crazy, you can't say that you're not into this. Me."

"You're insane," Richie says. "You're crazy. It's not - it wouldn't work."

"So you're admitting you're into me?"

"You're the dumbass who didn't pick up on it," Richie snaps. "Everyone else did. You're just a fucking idiot."

It hits Jeff, suddenly, that he's freaking out, and he's freaking out bad. It makes him feel a little better, even though that probably makes him an even bigger dick than Richie's been being. "Fine," Jeff says. "I'm a dumbass. Did you know everyone said I was too sad to trade? I fucking missed you, asshole. Not just Philly, or like... winning games. I mean, I missed that too. But I also missed you."

He's not saying 'love'. There's no way. Unless Richie makes him.

Richie, though, is staring at him like he's never seen him before. "If we do this," he says slowly, "you're not allowed to move out."

Jeff blinks.

"Arnold would miss you," Richie says. "You're fucking with his head, man, he's just a dog."

Jeff's pretty sure they're not just talking about Arnold now. "Okay," he says after a second. "I'll get my stuff from Days Inn."

"...you've been staying at a Days Inn?"

"It was short notice," Jeff says defensively. "They're not that bad."

"Right," Richie says. "Whatever. Fine. You can stay, and that way Arnold will stop looking at me like I kicked him, and we'll... whatever, and it'll be fine."

"Dude, if your standard for a relationship is 'fine', we're going to need to talk," Jeff says.

"Ha ha, you're so funny." Richie makes a face that Jeff can only classify as pained. Really pained. "And - I shouldn't have been such a dick. I said some shit that was wrong, okay, really wrong, and... I'm sorry."

"Wow," Jeff says. "Wow."

Richie glares at him. "I said it, okay?" he says, and then pulls Jeff down and kisses him.

This time it's wet and dirty, like it was during the playoffs only without the air of desperation. Jeff's going to have to figure out what he's going to call Richie, eventually, because he doesn't think his mom will approve if he tells her Richie's his boyfriend and then also that they're still going to live together, and anyway he's pretty sure gay dudes their age use 'partner' because it sounds grown up and shit, only Richie will probably get annoyed if he uses it, so that's a talk they're going to have to have, but -

But right now Richie's backing him against the wall and undoing his belt, so he can think about that later.

"Wait, hang on," Jeff says as Richie bites his neck. "No, seriously." He pushes Richie away. "I really am hungry."

Richie stares at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Jeff says defensively. "What? I like food."

"Fine," Richie snarls, going back to the table.

Jeff can't keep from smiling then.

"We can still have threesomes, right?" Richie says after a few minutes of silence.

Jeff blinks.

"I still like banging chicks," Richie says. "And we're young and hot, so why not?"

"Sure," Jeff says. "Just, you know. After. It'll be us."

"Right," Richie says. "I mean, we're not going to be getting pussy every night, or anything."

"Totally," Jeff says.

"I... don't think I want to." Richie sighs, shakes his head, and swallows. The beat of silence drags into awkwardness before he finally says, like it's being dragged out of him, "I mean, if I'm banging you, then we don't have to pick up chicks a ton."

"Right," Jeff says. "Sure."

Richie frowns at him. "Why are you being so nice?"

There's really only one answer to that. Jeff smiles. "Because I'm happy."

"You look like an idiot," Richie tells him, and goes back to his fish.

Jeff barely gets a chance to finish before Richie's dragging him to his feet, saying, "If you give me shit about the dishes, I will fucking end you." He grabs Jeff's wrist and pulls him to the stairs, then upstairs.

Arnold is on the bed. Jeff laughs as he jumps off and bounds over to Jeff. "Hey, bud," he says, scratching him. "I missed you too." He glances up at Richie. "I won't leave again."

"Right," Richie says. "This is touching. Arnold's leaving." He nudges Arnold with his foot, then closes the door behind him.

"You're kind of a dick," Jeff says, standing up.

Richie shrugs. "You knew that." He takes Jeff's shirt off. "Also, you like it."

"Whatever," Jeff says.

Richie leans in and kisses him again.

They're never going to talk about it, Jeff knows. They're not going to have some conversation where they talk about their love for each other. They could get married and their vows wouldn't be mushy - not that Jeff wants to get married right now, but still. But Richie's kissing him hard, running his hands over Jeff and pressing him back into the bed like he doesn't ever plan on letting Jeff leave, and Jeff knows exactly what he's trying to say.

He winds up with his hands on Richie's ass, saying, "You can fuck me if you want, I just -"

"God, you're easy."

Richie's a little breathless, and he's tugging Jeff's shorts down, so Jeff decides not to take it personally. "Seriously, though."

"Seriously, though," Richie says, "Spread your legs." He pauses. "I guess you can touch me this time," he adds with a slight smile.

"Oh, well, in that case," Jeff says, laughing a little. But he spreads his legs, not unaware of the thrill that goes through him when he does.

Richie took his boxers off with his shorts, and now he skims a hand over Jeff's dick, a light enough touch that it just makes Jeff desperate for more.

"Come on," he says. "Don't make this fancy. Just give it to me."

Richie smirks, but he does what Jeff asks for. Jeff doesn't need to talk after that.

Richie sends Jeff out to get his shit once they're done fucking. Jeff drives maybe a little too fast, but he can't help it - he's too excited to keep a lid on it. When he gets back, Richie's sitting on the couch in the living room. He says, "You can stick that shit in your room, if you want. And I guess we can sleep in my room."

He's not actually looking at Jeff, which is good, because Jeff's pretty sure he's completely failing to hide how happy he is. "Got it," he says, and goes upstairs.

When he's in his room he pulls out his phone and texts Drew. got shit figured out thx

congrats. whens the wedding?

go fuck yrself Jeff replies, and tucks his phone back in his pocket.

Richie drives them to camp the next day. When everyone sees them come in together, Trevor, Drew, and Stoll all start applauding.

"Yeah, yeah," Richie says. "Laugh it up, assholes, you weren't the ones who had to put up with his tempter tantrum."

"Oh, it was my temper tantrum now?" Jeff throws a sock at him.

Richie rolls his eyes, but he's smiling a little. Jeff bites back a stupid smile, too, and goes to work.

Camp finishes up, and Richie and Jeff are sleeping together almost every day. They haven't gone out with the guys in about a week or so, mostly just because every time Jeff's about to accept, Richie says loudly, "We're gonna stay in."

Jeff's kind of on the fence about that, because they're being so fucking obvious, but he's not going to argue when it means Richie holding his hands above his head and fucking him until he's begging for it.

Two nights before they fly to Long Island for the first game of the season, though, Richie says, "We're going out. The usual crowd."

"Cool," Jeff says. "I'll... shower." He's been hanging around in his underwear playing Red Dead Redemption all day.

Richie sniffs the air, then says, "Yeah. You're disgusting. Do that."

Jeff showers. He also puts on a tight shirt and jeans that make his ass look good. He's pretty sure he's picking up what Richie was putting down.

Donuts picks them up at nine, and they drive to their usual spot. Trevor says, "Richie, my man, do you know how hard it is to get laid without your skills? I'm spoiled."

"You definitely are," Richie says dryly. "Check her out."

Trevor looks over at a tall, curvy brunette. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Richie says, and gives him a little push.

"Just like old times," Donuts says, slinging an arm around Richie's shoulders.

"Like... last year?" Jeff says.

Donuts laughs. "Living up to the dumb blond stereotype, eh?"

"Fuck off," Jeff says.

Richie's smirking, though. "Go talk to someone, Donuts," he says.

"Nah, I'm good here." Drew sips his beer. "Glad you guys made up, by the way. I told Jeff you were stubborn."

"Yeah, okay, we're not having this conversation." Jeff punches Richie's shoulder. "Come on. Dance floor."

He's not surprised when, after maybe five minutes of dancing kind of terribly, Richie leans in and says, "Turn around. By the bar, in the red heels. She's been watching."

Jeff turns slowly. The girl gives him a flirty smile. She's got dark, curly hair and a tattoo curling around her bicep.

"So, what, we're banging the female version of you?" he says in Richie's ear.

"Why not?" Richie gives him a little push. "Go, man."

"Hey," Jeff says to her, sliding in. "I'm Jeff. Me and Richie over there would love to know your name."

She laughs. "Blunt."

Jeff smiles. "Well, next I was going to ask to buy you a drink."

"Got that covered." She lifts her glass. "But it's Amanda." She looks him up and down. "You and your friend, huh?"

"Two for the price of one," Jeff says. He leans in. "And believe me. We like each other and you."

"Your lines are horrible," she says. "How do you ever get laid?"

"I go for girls who go for terrible pickup lines," he says. "Come over to our table, Richie'll get you another drink when that one's done."

She laughs. "You're lucky I came here to get laid," she says, grabbing her purse.

"This," Jeff says as she sits down next to Richie, "is Amanda."

"I'm Richie," Richie says. "Did Jeff have to beg you? He's got no game."

"Why didn't you come over there, then?"

"Jeff's hotter," Richie says. He glances over at Jeff, looking him up and down.

Luckily, it's too dark for Jeff's blush to be really obvious. "We're buying her drinks," he says, sitting down.

"It's polite," Richie says. "Then you can watch me suck his dick, if you want. Or we can fuck you. Whatever."

"Sounds like a plan," she says, and lifts up her drink, clinking it with Richie's.

It occurs to Jeff that he might be in a little bit of trouble.

They drink for an hour, and then Richie calls them a cab while Jeff pays the tab. They all pile into the back together, Amanda half on top of Richie. The cab's barely pulled away from the curb when she kisses him, wet and dirty, tongue all over the place.

It's stupidly hot to watch. Jeff reaches out and rests a hand on her thigh, and she covers it with her own, rubbing her thumb over the back of Jeff's hand as she and Richie make out.

From there, it's just a matter of waiting until they're pulling into Richie's drive. Richie shoves some bills at the driver, and then they go into the house together.

When they're in the bedroom, Amanda turns to Jeff and says to Richie, "What are we going to do with him?"

Jeff wants to protest that it's not like that, but the smug look on Richie's face would show that he's lying. "I don't know," he says. "You could sit on his face. He likes that."

Jeff can feel himself turning red. Whatever. Plenty of guys like that.

She gives him a speculative look. "Hell yeah," she says, and then pushes Jeff back, kissing him.

It goes on for a long time, and it's not until Jeff opens his eyes for a second that he realizes Richie's behind Amanda, kissing her neck and feeling her up. Jeff reaches out, moves a hand from her neck down her back, and his fingers brush over Richie's.

Before, this would be when they would pull away. Instead, Amanda turns and steps away, and Richie pulls Jeff in for a kiss.

They make it showy, and Richie gets Jeff's shirt off almost before Jeff realizes what's happening. Amanda laughs and moves to stand behind him, kissing his shoulder and rubbing a hand over the bulge in his pants.

"Okay," Richie says finally, pulling away. "Bed, Carts."

Jeff lies down, careful to prop some pillows up behind his head. He watches as Richie and Amanda undress each other, stopping to make out as they strip. Jeff reaches down to rub his dick, but Richie says, "Don't."

Jeff sighs, but he puts his hands behind his head again. Finally, Richie and Amanda are both completely naked, and they turn to look at him.

"Lose the pants," Amanda says.

If anything, that's going to make this worse. But Jeff does what she says, until he's naked on the bed and she's sauntering over to him.

"This better be good," she says, slinging a leg over the bed and settling with her knees on either side of his head.

Jeff curls his hands around her thighs and says, "It will be," and then licks her pussy, long and slow.

It's been a long time since he did this, but he settles into it easily. She loves when he fucks her with his tongue, and when he sucks lightly on her clit. She goes nuts when he angles his head so she's basically fucking his face. And when hands start moving up Jeff's legs, bypassing his dick and driving Jeff insane, Jeff just eats her out that much more, throwing himself into getting her off while Richie touches both of them.

When she comes she makes this tiny noise and reaches out, grabbing Richie with the hand that's not tugging on Jeff's hair. She comes and comes, riding him and shuddering, until finally she takes a deep breath and says, "Fucking hell," moving off of Jeff.

Jeff sits up and licks his lips. His jaw aches, in the good way.

And, fuck, Richie's looking at him all intensely, like he used to when Jeff fucked girls. Jeff's feeling like kind of an idiot in retrospect, so he leans back and knocks Richie over, covering him and shifting to the side a little so Amanda can see when he starts jerking Richie off.

"Fuck you, asshole, I'm not coming like this," Richie says, but he thrusts up into Jeff's hand and grabs Jeff to bite his neck.

Amanda comes up behind Jeff and kisses his neck, saying, "If I let you fuck me will you be a dick about it?"

"We could Eiffel Tower him," Richie says, sitting up as much as he can with Jeff on him. "What?" he adds when Jeff gives him a dirty look. "Metaphorically speaking."

"Fine," Jeff says. "Whatever. How're we going to do this?"

"She rides you, you jerk me off."

"Why m - fine," Jeff says. "Okay! I said okay."

Amanda grabs him and pushes him back onto the bed. Richie comes over on his knees, leaning up and kissing Amanda. And shit, they really do look a lot alike. Richie's got his hands in Amanda's hair, and her tattoo is right next to his, and fuck, it's a hot image. It's even hotter when Richie reaches out and runs his hand over Jeff's head, like he wants a reminder Jeff's there.

He's also stupidly into it when Amanda sinks down on him and Richie comes up and rubs his dick over Jeff's face before Jeff gets a hand on him. Because, fine, he likes this, a girl on top, fucking herself on him with her tits bouncing, and Richie watching him as he jerks Richie off.

And fuck, it's good that he fucking finally gets to touch Richie.

Jerking Richie off means he only has one hand free, but he uses it to reach up and play with Amanda's tits as she fucks herself on him. She's going to town, grinding down against him and rubbing her clit. Her tits are fucking fantastic. She leans over and kisses Richie every once in awhile, and, fuck, if this keeps up Jeff's going to be coming sooner rather than later.

He ends up coming first in spite of himself. He groans and tightens his hand on Amanda's hip, arching his back and just going with it. He doesn't realize Richie's petting his hair until he comes to and realizes that Amanda's looking at him with amusement and Richie's fucking his hand with tight, staccato motions.

"Come here," he says to Amanda, sitting up and pulling her in to kiss her. He moves in to rub her clit, but she slaps his hand away and does the job herself as he jerks off Richie. Before long, she's coming, moaning into his mouth.

After they toss the condom away, they turn to Richie. Amanda ducks in and starts sucking him off and oh, fuck, that's...Jeff wishes he could go again.

It doesn't take Richie long to come, groaning, hand that's still on Jeff's head tightening. When he's done, Amanda pulls back and wipes her mouth. "That was fun."

"It was," Jeff says, leaning in and kissing her.

"I should go, though." She stands up and starts getting dressed.

When she's done and the taxi Richie called for her has arrived, Richie and Carts walk her to the door. "Call me," she says, handing Richie his phone back and kissing each of them.

"Huh," Carts says when Richie closes the door behind her.

"What?"

"Girls don't usually give us their numbers."

"Well, maybe you're just not that good in bed."

"Fuck you, maybe you're not," Jeff says.

Richie smirks. "You know that's not true."

"Fuck you," Jeff says again.

Richie looks him up and down. "Maybe tomorrow," he says, and leans up to kiss Jeff.

It's slow, lazy, post-sex kissing. It makes Jeff want to lie down and do what Richie swears isn't cuddling. It's awesome.

"Let's go to bed," Richie says.

"Yeah," Jeff says. "Yeah. Good idea."

Richie keeps a loose hold on his hand all the way up the stairs.