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.