Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

POV Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike is Not Married, Mentions of religion, Schrodingers Blood Kink, Gay or Homophobic: The Eternal Question, Background Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Freeform, Introspection and Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, MILFs love Cliff Marleau, Bathroom Sex, Hand Jobs

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of dogfish pond

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-07 Words: 8,457 Chapters: 1/1

Dogfish

Summary

Hayden has a list of things he knows about himself. He is, in no particular order: a Montreal Metro, a best friend, a sub-par son, and a pretty shitty mennonite. He believes in love, forgiveness, and the grace of God. He doesn't hate anyone.

Except, of course, for Cliff Marleau. Hayden really, really hates Cliff Marleau.

Or: after a game in Boston, Hayden runs into Marleau at the club. Shit ensues.

Notes

Instead of updating one of my countless WIPs or, god forbid, writing one of the four research papers I have due this week, I have decided apparently to take up writing erotica. How much of this is perversion rather than finding new and interesting ways to procrastinate everything in my life is up to the reader to decide.

I think I rare-paired too close to the sun with this. There is a very very real chance that I am going to come to my senses soon and delete this in horror. My worst fear in the world is that somebody who knows me irl is going to find this and read it, so if you are one of my friends and have somehow ended up here please trust me and don't do this to either of us. No joke I'll never forgive you. Ok thank you bye

Everybody and their mom knew that hockey rivals weren’t really a thing. Like—sure, there were guys you disliked on every team, just like there were guys you disliked in your classes in high school, and at family reunions, and in your church group. But it wasn’t serious, not in the way the fans seemed to think it was. Nobody was challenging each other to blood feuds or shit like that. On the ice, you might get into a tussle, draw some blood, on the rare occasion even do some lasting damage, say something biting on air right after, when tensions were high and you were pissed off from a bad loss, blood rushing loud and heady in your ears—but it never meant anything. That was the trick of it. Even Rozanov, who was really an asshole, obviously didn’t actually give a shit about Shane off the ice. And vice-versa—because why would they? It was all just marketing. Bells and whistles. Film some commercials, broadcast some ads, sell a couple million copies of chel to teenage boys hungry for a rivalry. Same shit that got kids to go to war.

Anyway, point was: nobody in the league really hated each other. If you didn’t like the cut of a guy’s jib, because he looked at you funny or you were jealous of his slap-shot or he’d said something that kind of toed the line once about your sister, there was one very simple thing that you were expected to do about it—stay out of his way.

Usually, Hayden was really great at this. He was awesome at conflict resolution, super full of grace for all creatures under the sun, made a point of always being forgiving no matter the slight. Honestly, Hayden took pride in the fact that he didn’t hate anyone.

Well. Mostly everyone. Because, the thing was, there was one teeny, tiny, little exception to that rule. Which was, of course—

That Hayden fucking hated Cliff Marlow.

Marleau. Whatever. Hayden fucking hated Cliff Marleau. He really, really did.

It was intermission between the second and third period, and the Metros were up two points on the Boston Raiders. The mood in Montreal’s locker room was boisterous, men slapping each other on the back, talking about the play, loosening and re-tightening skates and gear, downing easily accessible, fast-digesting carbs by the fistful.

Hayden walked to his stall, snatched his helmet off with enough force that it pulled a little at his hair, and manfully resisted the urge to slam it against the wood panelling until the whole thing smashed to pieces. Instead, he dropped onto the bench, pressed his palms to his eyes and took three deep, long breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth—ignoring the way it pulled painfully at the corner of his lip, the aching in his smarting jaw.

Walk with me, Lord, as I answer your call to be peacemakers. Give me the courage, the patience, the serenity—

“Yo, brochet, what’s good?”

Hayden opened his eyes. JJ was waving a can of red bull in front of his face with a raised eyebrow—he accepted it without much thought, but cracked it open once he realized how thirsty he was, throwing out a mumbled thanks. Sipping the energy drink, he said, “I don’t know that one. Brochet.”

JJ snorted at his clumsy pronunciation. “Brochet. I do not know the English word—hey, Drumby! What’s brochet?”

“Pickerel!” Drumby hollered back from the other side of the locker room. “We already did that one!”

Hayden rolled his eyes. The fish stuff again. Normally he would chirp something back, something sharp and witty and just mean enough to be funny without hurting anyone’s feelings, but right now he couldn’t quite be assed. “Where’s Shane?”

JJ said, “Where do you think? We are in Boston.”

It took Hayden a second before he got it. Right. Shane had this new thing about cold plunges, recently. It didn’t happen every single game, but at least when they were playing against the Raiders, a break between periods meant Shane shucking all his gear off and jumping into one of the locker room ice baths for a minute or two. To keep his mind sharp, he said. It wasn’t that weird, honestly, as far as shit hockey players did went. Hayden knew a guy in Tampa who legitimately took a dump between every period. Like, he was actually on the toilet twice a game—that was weird. Shane’s ice bath thing was pretty tame in comparison. Pretty tame for Shane himself, actually, who was in most every circumstance the most anal guy Hayden knew.

Anyway, Shane’d gotten pretty good at getting his gear off and on really quickly ever since the cold plunges had started—the one time the team had surreptitiously timed him, it’d taken 40 seconds from fully clothed to bare-ass nude, which Hayden had been reluctantly impressed by. And Shane did, admittedly, play his best against Boston, even with Ilya Rozanov being a total fuckin pest the whole time he was on the ice. Maybe that was the real reason for the baths—maybe the cold offset the total burning rage Shane must’ve felt each time Rozanov grinned around his mouthguard. Big teeth shining icy-white; feral and mean. When he checked him into the boards, shoulder to shoulder, so close he could almost feel the dry rasp of a dark stubbled chin—when he did feel the sparking pain of his own stick as it cracked hard against his mouth, and his opponent, still grinning, spat out, Fallin’ behind, Pike—

JJ said, “What the hell is going on with you?”

Hayden said, “Huh? What? Huh?”

JJ stared at him. “My guy,” he said, after a moment, “you look crazy.”

Hayden hastily wiped blood from where he’d unconsciously started gnawing at the already grody split in his lip. “What? No, I don’t.”

JJ patted him on the shoulder and said, with a note of brotherly wisdom, “You can not let him bother you, my friend. You have to rise above.”

“Nobody’s bothering me,” Hayden said immediately. “What? I’m not bothered. I’m, like, so unbothered.”

JJ did not appear to be listening. “Or you could high-stick him in the face,” he said thoughtfully. “You would get a penalty but you would also break his teeth, which would be nice.”

“Technically he didn’t high-stick me,” Hayden admitted.

“Yes,” JJ said. “I was watching. You high-sticked yourself.”

Okay, that was not true. “Uh, it was his fault, though. He, like, hit my stick into my face.”

“Sure,” JJ said easily. “You stick him, he sticks you, you stick each other. Potato-tomato!”

Hayden’s nose wrinkled. “That is completely not a thing. You’re just, like, saying words right now.”

“Do not worry, mon petit brochet!” JJ leaned in close, winking lasciviously. “When you stick him back, I will not tell Shane it was planned.”

“Nobody’s high-sticking Marleau.” That was Shane, back from his ice bath and shooting JJ a disappointed look. JJ put his hands up and affected an expression of innocent perplexity, which Shane simply rolled his eyes at, before starting to methodically pull his gear back on.

Hayden was still kind of stuck on the idea of high-sticking Marleau. Terrible idea, obviously, not least of all because Cliff Marleau had about 50 pounds and more than half a foot of height on him—people called him Big Dog for a reason, and not just because of the whole ‘Clifford’ thing—but, to use JJ’s words, it would be nice. Right fucking nice. Marleau with the back of Hayden’s stick to the mouth, maybe knocking out a tooth or two, busting up a lip. Get him a little bloody, this time. Would teach the guy to wear his goddamn mouthguard properly, instead of chewing on it all the time like a fucking child. Marleau’d probably be really surprised, at first, with his mouth all bruised and bloody. He’d spit when he lost the tooth, a glob of pink saliva splattering on the ice, maybe hitting against someone’s skate—Hayden’s skate, likely, being the closest player—and then, because he was Cliff fucking Marleau he’d grin again, blood smeared on his shiny teeth, red mouth open as he bit out, Pike—

“Hey, man, are you good?”

Hayden barked, “What? What? I’m fine! Jesus, fuck off!”

Shane’s hand hovered over Hayden’s shoulder, eyes wide and mouth open, looking entirely bewildered. It might’ve been Hayden’s imagination, but the locker room seemed to quiet a little, everyone’s heads swivelling over to stare at the outburst. It wasn’t like it was rare for someone to get loud in the locker room, even in anger, it was just—Hayden didn’t yell. He never yelled. And he sure as shit didn’t yell at Shane.

“Fuck.” Hayden dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed roughly at his face. He took a second to breathe in deep, to try to compose himself, find his peace, Walk with me, Lord, and then he looked back up at Shane and said, abashedly, “Sorry, Hollzy.”

“It’s fine,” Shane said. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply, gaze searching on Hayden’s face. He had a super expressive way of looking at people, Shane, like he couldn’t ever quite seem to get it that just because he couldn’t see his nose getting all scrunched up like that didn’t mean that nobody else could.

As the noise in the locker room slowly started to rise in volume again, the guys deciding that whatever was up with Hayden clearly wasn’t about to start being anything interesting, same old boring Pike, Shane said worriedly, “You sure you ok? Marleau say something on the ice? I talked to the ref about that check he got on you after it happened, by the way, but no dice. No matter that we all saw how dirty it was.” He was clearly quietly fuming about it. Nothing got Shane more fired up than poor calls, except maybe hitting a protein goal before noon.

Hayden swallowed a sigh. So much for finding his peace. “I’m fine,” he stressed, careful not to bite it out, to snap at Shane again, even though he was sick of talking about Cliff fucking Marleau. “He just fucking—gets under my skin. I dunno why.” Then, because Shane still looked a little skeptical, and the last thing Hayden wanted was for his friend to get all righteous about the possibility that Marleau had said something actually fucked up — like about Hayden’s family, who literally everybody including probably Marleau himself knew were still a sore subject — Hayden plastered on a smile and said, “No doubt he’s just saying word for word the same shit Rozanov’s spitting at you out there, eh?”

It was meant more or less as a self-effacing joke, haha, it’s true, we’re just like the two of you except worse at hockey, but instead of laughing in response Shane just went a little green.

Then he swallowed, and said tightly, “Right.”

Hayden frowned at him. “You ok?”

“Yup.” Shane gave a terrible, close-lipped grimace of a smile, somehow even worse than Hayden’s super fakey one. “You just, uh—stay strong out there.” He clapped Hayden a little awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

Hayden eyeballed him for another moment, before deciding it was probably nothing. Shane always got weird in Boston. “Yeah.” He sighed and tapped him on the ankle with the side of his socked foot. “You too, buddy.”

After coach came in to go really quick over their plays and Shane gave a short yet incredibly intense speech to the locker room where he accidentally managed to quote High School Musical, actually saying the words ‘you’ve got to get your head in the game,’ which had both JJ and Hayden’s face going bright red like kids trying to stifle giggles in church, the Metros hobbled back onto the ice and got right back into it.

Hayden managed to actually get a goal in about halfway through the period, a pretty filthy dangle past the defence that he popped in over the goalie’s skate. Shane, who’d given him the assist, caught Hayden with an arm across the shoulder, grinning, and hollered something incomprehensible and celebratory at him while Hayden beamed, face flush with pride.

“Lucky shot,” Marleau called out, as Hayden followed Shane back to their own side of the ice.

Hayden, still riding the high of having scored and unwilling to give Marleau the satisfaction of getting to him, just laughed out loud. “Now who’s falling behind?”

Marleau gnashed his mouthguard and narrowed his eyes. He was leaning against his stick, casual as anything. Smiling, still—he was always fucking smiling. Temples crinkled up from the force of his grin. “You gettin’ cocky, Pike?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hayden said, rolling his eyes, “keep talkin’, Marleau,” and skated away.

Montreal won five-three, which meant the boys were keen on celebrating.

“You in?” JJ said, sidling up to Hayden once he was out of the showers and dressed. “We’re planning on heading to the same bar from last time.”

Hayden glanced over at Shane, who was grinning down at something on his phone—text from Boston Lily, no doubt. He wouldn’t be back to their shared room until the early hours of the morning, if he came back before breakfast at all—which usually meant Hayden taking the opportunity to watch a movie, jack-off, or lie on his back on the carpet in complete silence for a couple hours without having to worry about Shane seeing and thinking he’s a freak—but the truth was that Hayden didn’t quite want to be alone right now. He felt antsy, adrenaline still running through his veins at odds with his tendency to crash right after games—and, to be honest, he was pretty sure he could really use a fucking drink.

“Sure,” he said, answering JJ. “I’m in.”

JJ blinked, surprised. “What? Really?”

Hayden scowled, a little stung. “Why the fuck did you ask if you didn’t think I was gonna come?”

“Hey, I am happy you are coming!” JJ said hastily, putting his hands up. “I just was not expecting it. You literally never want to come out with us.”

That wasn’t true. …Was it? Sure, it wasn’t like Hayden was partying with the team, like, every night—but he came sometimes. He wasn’t a fucking square. He wasn’t, like, Shane.

“Well, I’m coming now,” Hayden said, a little snippily.

JJ grabbed him by the nape of the neck and shook him, whooping something in French while Hayden rolled his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to fight down his laugh. Switching to English, JJ said, in a conspiratorial tone, “Maybe tonight is the night we will find you pussy, my friend.”

Urgh. Hayden made a face and ducked away from where JJ’s hand had migrated to muss up his hair. “Maybe not,” he said.

JJ just grinned at him, ignoring that, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in order to steer him over to the other side of the locker room. “Pike is coming out with us, boys!”

There were a couple of cheers and attaboy, Haydays thrown around by the gathered men, but Hayden also noticed a few exchanged looks, the younger guys glancing at one another, not sure whether to be nervous or put-out at Hayden’s presence, and had to restrain a groan. He knew they dabbled in some of the harder stuff, okay? He literally did not care; it wasn’t any of his fucking business what they did on their own time. He’d done his fair share of shit himself, back home—he’d just gotten done with it a little earlier than the rest of the league apparently had. Kids did drugs. That was just the way things went. So long as none of the guys hurt anyone, or fucked up their game, or got arrested, Hayden literally could not care less. He was not going to tell Shane. He was chill.

To show how chill he was, Hayden bought the first round of shots once they got to the bar. It was more of a club then a bar, really, one of the ones with two levels and a stage and what Hayden was pretty sure might’ve been an actual smoke machine, though it wasn’t, thank god, turned on. The music was loud and bass-heavy, and the floors were incredibly sticky. Hayden felt supremely out of place—even after JJ had goaded him into changing out of his hoodie and into one of the man’s extra shirts, which was a black polo that fit way too tight around the chest, due both to it being the start of the season and Hayden’s bad habit of hitting pecs disproportionately during off-season training. Everybody in the place seemed like they were drunk or rolling, all of them dressed in slinky black clothing or else looking like they were trying their damned best to emulate the cast of Entourage.

Hayden thought, If my parents could see me now— and snorted so violently that his vodka soda almost came shooting out his nose. Well. Shoot. He was maybe a little drunk.

Gillespie, seated next to Hayden at the booth they’d commandeered in the VIP section, gave him a look. “You good, Pike?” They were two of the only ones that hadn’t migrated to the dance floor, Gillespie because he had taken a blow to the thigh in the third period and was taking it easy, Hayden because he hated to dance.

“Yep.” Hayden grinned at him. Gillespie made a funny sort of face back, and Hayden, struck suddenly by the thought that the guy didn’t like him very much, which he’d always known but right now for some reason found incredibly sad, downed the rest of his drink in one long swallow and stood up, feeling a little shaky-legged, mumbling something about going to get another drink.

He found JJ at the bar, chatting up a curly-haired girl in a black minidress with some pretty impressive eyeliner. “Hey!” JJ said, when he spotted him making his way over. His whole face lit up when he saw Hayden, as always, like he was genuinely glad to see him. Like he loved him. Gesturing to the girl at his side, he said excitedly, “Hayden, this is Alyssa. Alyssa, this is the friend I was telling you about! ”

Ignoring Alyssa for now, Hayden smashed his face into JJ’s neck as a quick, half-hug of hello, before pulling back to say, very earnestly, “I love you!” He had to holler a little to be heard over the music, but it was easier when his face was right next to JJ’s ear.

“Oh boy,” JJ said. Then, hastily, at the look on Hayden’s face, “Hey, I love you too, buddy! Un question: how much have you drank?”

Hayden shrugged. Who cared? Turning to Alyssa, he said, “Hi. I’m Hayden.”

She smiled at him. She was very pretty. Big teeth. Dark hair. Her mouth was red—Hayden resisted the urge to point out that they matched, and kept himself from starting to tongue again at the torn up corner of his mouth. With a quick glance at JJ, and then back to Hayden, she said, “You’re not French?”

Hayden barked out a laugh and had to grab the bar counter to keep himself from falling over. “No,” he said, giggling helplessly. “Neither is he! He’s, like, fake French.”

“He means I’m from Quebec,” JJ told Alyssa, long-suffering. “He’s an idiot, actually, ignore him, I take back what I said before.”

“Where are you from?” Alyssa asked Hayden.

“North,” Hayden said, distracted. “What did you say before?” To Alyssa, “What did he say before?”

Alyssa bit her lip. She seemed amused by something. “He said you were cute, and asked if I had any single friends.”

Hayden blinked. Rolled the idea around in his head for a moment. Then said, “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” Alyssa said. “You’re looking a little wobbly.”

JJ snorted. Hayden glared at him. “I’m not wobbly,” he said, with great offense. “I have magnificent balance. I walk around on ice all day with knives strapped to my feet.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what you do up North?”

“Yup,” Hayden said brightly. “Home and native land, baby. How do your friends feel about igloos?”

Alyssa laughed. “Okay,” she said, apparently coming to some sort of decision. JJ gave Hayden a wink and an enthusiastic thumbs-up behind her back, which he hastily stopped doing as soon as she turned to look at him again. “But you’re buying me another drink.”

“Me too,” Hayden added quickly.

JJ ruffled his hair and said, cheerfully, “Pas de chance,” before turning to order. “Bud Light, gin and tonic and a water, please.”

Hayden followed after him, prepared to argue or at least whine about it, but was stopped by a flash of something in the corner of his vision. On the other side of the bar, a familiar figure was chatting with a blonde woman in a sparkly dress. Sensing eyes on him, or else taking note of the way Hayden sort of yelped a little and started slapping JJ very panickedly on the shoulder, he looked up—and then Hayden was making sudden, sobering eye contact with Cliff Marleau from across the packed bar.

Cliff Marleau, who did not look surprised at all to see him, only raised his eyebrows a little at whatever look he saw on Hayden’s face, mouth ticking upwards at the corners.

Hayden immediately stopped hitting JJ, but the other Metro was already looking up with a scowl, saying, “Calisse, Hayden, what the—Oh.”

“What the hell is Marleau doing here,” Hayden hissed.

JJ tilted his head, blinking at the weird three-way stare-off they’d found themselves in. “Chais pas.” He lifted his hand in a wave—and Hayden, lunging to pull his arm down with a startled squawk, was too slow to stop it before Marleau saw and waved back, mouth sliding into that familiar smarmy grin.

Out loud and to himself, Hayden said, “Ugh.” To JJ, “Why the fuck would you wave at him? I thought you were my buddy.”

JJ, bewildered, said, “I am just being friendly. Do not tell me you are still mad about him sticking—”

“He didn’t stick me!” Hayden’s face flushed, and he forced himself to drag his gaze away from Marleau, who appeared now to be ignoring the girl with him in favour of making a weird face at Hayden, probably wondering why he was being such a spaz. Again, Hayden said, “What hell is Marleau doing here?”

Peering over JJ’s shoulder, Alyssa said, “Holy crap, is that Cliff Marleau?” JJ and Hayden made eye-contact, like, okay, she recognizes him? as she continued, saying, “My mom’s obsessed with that guy. You guys are hockey fans, huh?”

“What?” Hayden scowled at her, momentarily distracted from the horror of having to see Cliff Marleau’s gigantic craggy face anywhere but on the rink by the sheer offense of her remark. “Lady, we’re on the Montreal Metros. That guy—” He pointed wildly across the bar, “—is our fucking nemesis.”

Alyssa blinked rapidly. “Oh.” She swung her gaze from Hayden to JJ, taking them in with new eyes. JJ made finger guns, sending Hayden a look like he thought he was ridiculous for the nemesis remark. Hayden, for his part, was kind of impressed. He’d always pretty much figured JJ picked up by going, I’m a hockey player, wanna bone? with a few random bits of French thrown out to keep things classy. Apparently not.

“Oh,” Alyssa said again, thoughtful. “Shit, are you guys gonna fight?”

“No,” JJ said emphatically, before Hayden got the chance to say anything. “Marleau’s fine, Hayden is just sore winner.”

“No, I’m not,” Hayden said. Against his will, he found himself glancing over again to the other side of the bar, just to check—but Marleau was gone. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Marleau’s gone. Where’d he go? Did he leave?”

JJ sounded a little bemused. “I do not know, maybe he is shitting.” Finally having received their drinks, he pushed the cup of water into Hayden’s hand and then grabbed the other two from the counter, raising them with an expectant eyebrow. “Now to meet our new friend’s friends?”

“Sure,” Hayden said, distracted. Unwittingly, he found his gaze scanning the patrons of the club, on the lookout for a tall head of dark hair. Jesus, what did he think was going to happen? It wasn’t like Marleau was about to fucking jump him in the middle of a dance floor, he knew that, Hayden wasn’t insane. The guy probably wasn’t thinking of him at all.

Hayden swallowed, suddenly a little nauseous, and made himself gulp down the water. The flashing purple lights, which a second ago had not bothered him even a little, made him feel now at once as though he was being hurtled through the void on some kind of gyrating, poorly constructed spacecraft. “I’ll, uh, meet you in a sec,” he said. “Think I’m gonna find the washroom.” He waved JJ off and, without checking for confirmation, turned and headed back into the crowd of people—admittedly, a little wobbly.

The first person Hayden bumped into and yelled “Washroom?” at laughed at him and said, “You mean the bathroom?” very rudely, so Hayden flipped them off on principle and staggered away. The second one was much more accommodating, and pointed wordlessly in the direction of the stairs between dance moves. Hayden made his way, very carefully, into the basement of the club.

He suspected the place had quite a few washrooms, actually, because the men’s was completely empty when he found it, tucked at the end of an entirely too-long hallway. This far away the music was muffled and faded, the boom of the bass no longer crawling up Hayden’s throat. In the absence of the deafening noise and the newfound brightness of the bathroom lighting, everything felt strange and half-real, his footsteps squeaking loud on the tile.

Hayden pissed quickly—he hadn’t been lying, he really did have to go—washed his hands, and then spent a few moments splashing water over his face and staring at his pupils in the mirror, reassuring himself that nobody had dosed him with anything, that he hadn’t somehow accidentally broken the whole no more drugs thing, before he was once again side-tracked by the split in his lip, which he was starting to think maybe needed some steri-strips or something, so long as it didn’t stop bleeding every time he so much as thought about touching it.

It was thus that Hayden, busy holding a piece of paper towel to his lip and frowning at his bleary-eyed, slightly sad-looking reflection, did not actually notice Cliff Marleau stepping into the washroom until he had already closed the swinging door and locked it behind him with a bright ‘click’.

Hayden stared, and then, slightly muffled through the paper towel, said, “What the fuck.”

Marleau grinned at him. “This place is a fucking labyrinth,” he said good-naturedly. “How’s it, Pike?”

Again, Hayden said, “What the fuck. Did you follow me here?”

“Yup,” Marleau said. “What happened with your face?”

Hayden scowled. “You, asshole. You fucking—“ he tried to act out the movement of Marleau’s stick hitting his with the hand not holding the towel to his face, but gave up when it only served to make Marleau’s face scrunch up in confusion. Hayden rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away from his face, gesturing at his split lip. “You hit my stick with yours, caught me in the lip.”

“Huh,” Marleau said, cocking his head. “Your teeth?”

Hayden chomped at the air, clacking his teeth together. “Same ones I had before.” Then, thinking that felt a little too friendly for his tastes, he tacked on, snidely, “Not gonna apologize?”

Marleau kind of—flicked his eyes over him for a second, something in his gaze gone strange and thoughtful, before he took a step forward and to the side, forcing Hayden to turn so that his back was to the sinks in order to keep facing him. “No,” Marleau said. “I don’t think I’m feeling very sorry.”

For some reason, it took until right then for it to actually make it through the sluggish haze of Hayden’s drunken idiot brain that Marleau had literally followed him into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Was Hayden about to get fucking murdered? By a Boston Raider? In Boston?

Hayden said, a little nervous, “Marleau, buddy, I think you should back the fuck off, yeah?”

Marleau stopped and stared at him. Then he laughed. “Oh my god,” he said delightedly. “You’re a fuckin’ hoser when you’re sauced, aren’t ‘cha?” He’d affected a terrible rural accent, eyebrows furrowing into a condescending, faux-pitying expression. “You sound like a fuckin’ trailer park boy.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Aw, c’mon baby, don’t be like that,” Marleau cajoled, taking one step closer, until he and Hayden were maybe an arms-length apart. His eyes dropped to Hayden’s mouth. “I think it’s real cute.”

Hayden said, “What the fuck?”

“Cute,” Marleau said again, slow, drawing the word out, almost mocking. Stepped forward again, until they were practically toe to toe.

Hayden, freaked out by the proximity, mind gone static-fuzzy with confusion, shoved him back. “Fuck off.”

He held his breath, right after, thinking fuck, but Marleau only grinned, delighted, and said, “Make me.”

So Hayden shoved him again — both hands on his chest, an open-palm push.

Marleau stumbled a little backwards, tripping over his feet before he caught himself. Hayden found himself holding his breath again. The both of them, for a long second, just stared at each other like that, frozen.

And then, like a switch had been flipped, Marleau was all of a sudden pulling Hayden forward by the shirt and they were fighting, grappling, like a hockey fight except on dry land and the whole thing therefore more than a little ridiculous, the two men just kind of shoving and tugging at each other, and Marleau must’ve thought it was funny too because not soon after he started laughing, and Hayden realized he was laughing too, the terrible, honking giggle he made when he really found something hilarious, and then Marleau was pressing him against the hard edge of the sink, pushing him up onto the counter, mouth to the side of Hayden’s neck and licking a stripe up the tendon—

For the third time that night Hayden shoved Marleau bodily away from him. “What the fuck?” He heard himself say, as if from very far away, voice high and wavering.

In their tussle, Marleau’s hair had managed to fall out of its gelled hold, short curls of it tumbling over his forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and he appeared about as out of breath as Hayden felt. His eyes, dark and deep-set, were locked on Hayden’s mouth. “What?” He asked.

Hayden said, a little delirious with it, “You just fucking licked me, man.” Then, like he’d needed to say it out loud for it to finally click into place, “Oh.” Something in Hayden’s stomach curdled. Oh.

Again, but in a slightly different tone, one Hayden couldn’t quite parse, Marleau said, “What?”

“I get it,” Hayden said. A part of him felt a little bit relieved. At least he knew how to deal with this. “You’re not the first person to play the family joke, okay, I get it, fucking hilarious. Haha.”

“Pike, what the fuck are you talking about?” Marleau was a good actor, Hayden could give him that much. Not that he really appreciated it much, at the moment.

“Weird fucking way to go about it,” Hayden said, words spilling out of his mouth very quickly, voice still a little high and panicked. “But sure. Fucking hilarious, Hayden’s a cock-sucker because he’s not a total fucking asshole like his parents, ha-fucking-ha. Let’s all have a great laugh about it and go our separate fucking ways.”

Marleau said, bewildered, “I’m so fucking confused.”

“You’re confused?” Hayden demanded, losing patience. “I’m confused! You fucking licked me!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, your parents?” Marleau appeared to be getting a little frustrated now, so at least they were on the same page in that regard. “What the hell’s your family got to do with this?”

And. Well. Wasn’t that the fucking question?

The thing about Hayden’s parents, okay, was that they weren’t bad people. They weren’t. They were just—old-fashioned. Like—they were fucking mennonites, okay? They could be forgiven for having some not-so twenty-first century views. There were some things growing up that Hayden just knew not to talk about. Like the Civil Marriage Act, and George Michael. It was whatever. Hayden and his parents had always had a weird sort of relationship, him too interested in hockey and not interested enough in settling down and having one million god-fearing children (and then that thing where he lashed out in high school for no discernible reason, started hanging around kind of the wrong crowd before he started juniors and got his head screwed on straight), but it had been manageable. He’d thought it was manageable.

Until six months ago—because around six months ago, some 4chan trolling loser with too much time on their hands had managed to dig up some shit Hayden’s church had said about the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman, the sin of sodomy, etc, etc, and a very small corner of the internet had seemingly decided Hayden was, like, the bigot of the century for it. And, like, this had been fine, okay, nobody even really cared, there were plenty of guys playing in the show who didn’t rock with that shit, plenty of guys way more high-profile than Hayden—except then another loser with a camera had decided to get in his face about it during a media scrum, had asked, Do you support the rights of the LGBTQ community or something like that—

And Hayden—

Hayden had completely blanked. Because—what, was he supposed to say no? He didn’t give a shit if the gays wanted to get married. He didn’t like, support it, exactly, but Hayden didn’t really support anything. Except God, obviously. And his team.

Anyway, he’d ended up pretty much saying nothing, ignoring the question—which was totally fine again, Coach said it would blow over and that he’d made the right call, but then Hayden’s family must’ve decided that a non-answer wasn’t good enough because his idiot fucking older brother—who was still in the fucking minors, by the way—got on Instagram Live and started spewing about how none of them supported that shit, it was disgusting, the whole family and God and the church were in agreement.

Which, again, would’ve been fine. Except. Except—then Hayden got to thinking about kids. Because Hayden loved kids. And kids sometimes were gay—like, just naturally, without the influence of social media and the twenty-first century ideological machine and hippie parents. In the fifth grade, Hayden had been friends with a boy who’d been gay—he’d actually pretty much forgotten all about it until the whole thing with his brother. The gay kid’s name had been Tommy, and he had kissed Hayden once, when they were hanging out in his room after hockey practice. Hayden had mostly been confused about it, because Tommy seemed like a super normal guy and a really good hockey player, and he hadn’t realized being gay was a thing that got to you so young—but he’d also known even then how he was supposed to act, and so Hayden had punched him in the mouth about it. And it hadn’t been a good punch at all, because there hadn’t been any anger in it, only a sort of fumbling, confused, this is what comes next, right?—but Tommy, though he was the better fighter by far, had not hit Hayden back. He had just clutched his jaw and stared at him, distraught and afraid, until Hayden ran out of the room to go tell his parents, at which point they took care of it and he never even saw Tommy again.

So it was Tommy that Hayden was thinking about when his brother said that stuff, and it was the punch he’d thrown at Tommy that he was thinking about when he started sort of freaking out about what the hell he was going to do, and it was the look on Tommy’s face that he was thinking about when Shane Hollander opened the door to his house in Montreal, this terrible, wary expression that threw Hayden back a decade and change, that made him blurt out, voice cracking and terrified and way too abrupt, I need to talk to your mom.

Yuna Hollander was a fucking godsend. She had listened over the phone, patient and with a steady sort of understanding, as Hayden broke down in Shane Hollander’s gigantic kitchen, blubbering, rambling, saying, I just don’t know why they’re doing this, I don’t hate anyone, I don’t know why they would hate anyone, I don’t know why it matters if people just want to be happy— while Shane’s hand came hesitant and awkward to lay on his shoulder. And when Hayden was done, chest hitching with the remnants of his sobs, entirely embarrassed and wanting desperately to be swallowed up by the floor, Yuna had taken a breath on the other side of the line and said, Alright. Here’s what we’re going to do, and then helped Hayden draft a statement, since he didn’t have a publicist of his own and the team’s was adamant that he didn’t need to say anything at all, something that sounded professional and sincere and was mostly stuff Hayden actually believed.

Hayden had really honestly felt good about it, even with the shitstorm that came after, his family as good as disowning him and the endless chirps both on and off the ice, from teammates and opponents alike, because for whatever reason Shane seemed to decide that Hayden having a mental breakdown in his kitchen at 3am meant they were best friends now, and he was quite happy to go along with that. Hayden got a lot of hate on the internet, obviously, but it more or less blew over pretty quick seeing as Vegas’ goalie got busted for coke on his yacht again, like, a week later, and nobody had ever really cared about Hayden before this anyways. A bunch of the other league guys still said some really heinous shit to him, obviously, but it wasn’t all bad. A few guys had even reached out personally to tell him he’d done a good thing. Shane seemed to think so, at least, even if he never said anything, because he stuck close to Hayden after that and he invited him to spend Easter with his family. Scott fucking Hunter had even followed Hayden on instagram, and then thanked him, which had been both very confusing and incredibly ego-boosting, and had made Shane silently, seethingly jealous. (Well, jealous about the following part. Hayden hadn’t told him about the DM—had felt somehow that it was probably best to keep that close to his chest.)

All this to say—it was not actually a mystery, exactly, why Marleau had clearly decided to fuck with Hayden tonight.

“Look,” Hayden said, as evenly as he was able with his head still spinning a little from his last drink and the nauseating, muffled thump of the dance floor above their heads, “can you seriously just, like, fuck off, man? I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with this right now. It was funny the first time, sure, but it got old like five fuckin’ months ago.”

Marleau narrowed his eyes. “Pike,” he said, in a strange voice, kind of like he was trying not to laugh, “How often are guys propositioning you in bathrooms?”

Hayden scowled at him. He didn’t understand what was so fucking hilarious. He never got the funny part of this—the whole gay chicken thing. He could never seem to grasp how to play along, and it always just ended up with him entirely uncomfortable and the other guy laughing. And he was trying really hard to not be homophobic any more, but for some reason the thought of it, even as a joke, still made him feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin with discomfort. It settled in his stomach, like a pit—the guilt. He really didn’t want to be a homophobe.

“Pike,” Marleau said again. Hayden really wished he’d stop saying his name like that. Marleau stepped closer. Hayden tried to match him with a step back, and realized that he was once again pressed up against the sinks, and that there was nowhere for him to go. Well. Fuck. Marleau said, “Your lip’s really bleeding, huh?”

Hayden went to wipe at it, but Marleau caught his hand before he could. He was still staring at Hayden’s mouth when he said, voice dropping a little deeper, “I bet I could make it bleed more.”

Brain working sluggishly, Hayden said, “Huh?” His gaze was caught on Marleau’s big hand around his wrist, the firm, calloused grip—stuck, like a fish on a hook. (Ha. Fish.)

Marleau said, “Hey. Look at me,” and waited for Hayden to blink and tear his eyes away from Marleau’s scarred up, hairy knuckles, dark against his own, paler skin, the soft of his inner arm, to say, “I’m saying I think you should suck my dick.”

Hayden, incredulous, somewhat on auto-pilot, said, “You suck my dick.”

“Say please.”

“Huh?” Hayden finally managed to snatch his wrist out of Marleau’s grip, cradling it close to his chest, staring up at the man in complete bewilderment. “Dude, what the fuck is happening?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Marleau looked heavenward, like he was praying for patience. Yeah, good luck, buddy. Hayden’d been trying to figure that one out his whole fucking life. Letting out a breath, Marleau continued, “What’s happening is I’m asking if you want to fuck, Pike. Simple question. Yes–” He raised an eyebrow, and—in a move that had Hayden jumping a little, placed a hand on Hayden’s upper thigh. “—or no.”

What.

Hayden’s mind went blank. Nobody home. “Uh.” His thoughts, moving slow and syrupy as they were, seemed impossible to grasp ahold of, a struggle to keep from letting slide out through his ribs and onto the floor. Hayden said, “Like. In a No Homo way?”

Marleau pressed his lips together. “Sure,” he said finally. He sounded, the absolute bastard, like he was once again holding in a laugh. “Whatever gets you there, baby.” His hand, still on Hayden’s thigh, squeezed once, sudden and hard enough that it kind of hurt a little, dull like an aching bruise.

Hayden’s dick jumped in his pants.

What?

While he was busy blue-screening, the hand not on his leg migrated up towards his face, until Marleau was cupping Hayden’s jaw in one palm. His thumb, brushing against Hayden’s chin, swept upwards—then pressed, hard, against the bloody edge of Hayden’s mouth.

Hayden hissed in pain and reflexively attempted to jerk away, but Marleau’s hand on his jaw kept him from going far. He tsk-ed, “Hey,” and hooked his thumb past Hayden’s lower lip, sliding against the split skin and pushing against his back molars.

Drooling a little now that his mouth was being pried open and incredibly confused, Hayden went, “Guh—?” and, in shifting a little against the porcelain edge of the sink, became suddenly aware of the fact that he was incredibly, impossibly hard. That he probably had been so for quite a while now.

Because Hayden had very little impulse control even when he was sober, as soon as he noticed the existence of his erection, his right hand, which up until that moment had been clutching whiteknuckled at the edge of the sink he was sitting on, immediately made a break for his belt buckle, fumbling it open. He got a little stuck doing it one-handed, not wanting to get his other hand involved, in case prying it off the sink edge meant losing his balance and banging skull-first into the mirror at his back, but then Marleau, noticing his struggle, said, “Yeah,” and “Hang on,” before batting Hayden’s hand away to finish yanking the belt open himself. It meant there was no longer a hand on Hayden’s thigh, which now felt weirdly cold, especially once Marleau was popping open the fly on Hayden’s jeans and bullying them and his boxers down his legs, exposing an uncomfortable amount to the bathroom air—his thumb, however, stayed shoved into the side of Hayden’s mouth, all the way to the furthest knuckle, the pad pushing against the flat of his tongue. Hayden’s jaw was starting to ache, kind of.

Then Marleau’s hand was on Hayden’s dick, striping it hard and fast, way too rough, almost painful, making Hayden flinch away with a high, unintelligible noise of discontent. Marleau shushed him, said, “Hey,” again in that low voice, like he was soothing a startled horse, which made Hayden bristle on principle—but he was forgetting what he was irritated about a split-second later when Marleau’s hand disappeared from his dick, thoughts now consumed by a dizzy string of no, what, put it back.

Marleau squeezed the hand around Hayden’s jaw, intent black eyes boring into his own, which were blown wide in righteous affront at the newfound untouched state of his dick, and cupped his other hand under his chin. “Spit.”

Oh. Yeah. Good idea. Hayden spat. Or, well—tried to spit. The force with which Marleau was gripping his face, alongside the thumb still wedged between his molars, meant he couldn’t close his mouth to gather enough saliva to do it properly—couldn’t bite down, even, which would’ve been nice to think to do the moment Marleau had stuck his hand in there in the first place. Hayden ended up doing something closer to drooling, messy and disgusting, into Marleau’s waiting palm. Spit dripped messily down Hayden’s chin, and he flushed, dizzyingly embarrassed as Marleau’s dark gaze tracked the slow, dribbling movement of it.

“Fuck,” Marleau mumbled lowly, almost to himself. Then, louder, “Good.”

Hayden’s hips jerked violently, the word bouncing around his skull, lighting him up inside, good, good, good—Marleau barked out a shocked laugh and kicked at Hayden’s ankle, forcing him to garble out a curse around the digit in his mouth, his feet scrabbling against the bathroom tile as he tried his best not to fall, legs pinned by the denim bunched up around his knees.

Marleau put his hand back on Hayden’s dick—better, now, frictionless and smooth, and, while Hayden was distracted, shoved two more fingers into his mouth, forceful and deep enough that Hayden was forced to choke back a gag, struggling not to cough. Marleau shushed him again and said, “Suck.” Then, like he knew what Hayden had been just a moment earlier thinking, “Don’t bite.”

Hayden hesitated.

Marleau raised an eyebrow, tsk-ed, and started to lift his hand away from Hayden’s dick.

Hayden made a noise of protest around the fingers in his mouth, distraught, too far gone to care about whining.

Marleau pulled his hand out of his mouth far enough to hook his thumb against Hayden’s back molars and jerk his head back and forth, once, like a misbehaving farm animal. Then he shoved the fingers back against Hayden’s tongue, a little gentler this time, and said again, sterner, “Suck.” What went unspoken: or I’ll stop touching you.

Hayden thought, fuck it, and sealed his lips around the digits—and was immediately rewarded by the tight grip returning to his dick. Tentatively, with his wide-eyed gaze locked onto Marleau’s, he started to suck.

“Good.”

Fuck. Hayden felt like his skin was on fire—it felt fantastic, so fucking fantastic, he was out of his mind with how fantastic it felt—he’d never thought about sticking something in his mouth like this and suddenly couldn’t understand how that was true, was obsessed with the weight on his tongue, the slightly salty skin-taste of Marleau’s fingers—wondered suddenly, unbidden, about whether a dick would taste different—

Hayden yanked at Marleau, pulling him closer, fumbling, desperate suddenly for the hot touch of skin—he stuck his fingers beneath the hem of his t-shirt and got one palm pressed against the hard plane of his stomach just as his orgasm hit him like a fucking mack truck and he came with a garbled shout, almost surprised by it, teeth clamping shut reflexively around the intrusion in his mouth.

Marleau said, “Fuck, jesus,” and yanked his fingers out of Hayden’s mouth.

Hayden blinked sluggishly and swallowed, still shivering through it, full body jerks of movement. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Marleau grunted, “Just—stay still,” and then he was shoving his hand into his own pants, jacking himself off while he stroked Hayden through the last clinging shocks of his orgasm—and beyond, until Hayden was flinching away from it, pleasure twisting on the knife-edge of pain as he tumbled into overstimulation, panting “ah-ah-ah” noises spilling high from the back of his throat while he scrabbled at Marleau’s wrist to push him away—

At which point Marleau came too, one long drawn-out groan, spilling over his fingers and onto Hayden’s left thigh. Hayden said, “Dude,” grossed out but not nearly as much as he would be if he weren’t still hazy in the afterglow, and Marleau laughed, letting go of Hayden’s dick to swipe two fingers through the mess—which he then proceeded to try his level best to shove directly into Hayden’s mouth.

Hayden went “Eurgh,” twisting his head away, face scrunched up in affronted disgust, but not before the salty taste of Marleau’s cum had already hit his tongue. “Dude, the fuck?”

Marleau said, all faux-sincerity, “You don’t like it?”

“No,” Hayden said, incredulous, “Fuck you,” and Marleau laughed again, that low, rumbling laugh—then did up his jeans, and, clapping Hayden on the shoulder, said, “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Then he turned back the way he’d come, unlocked the door, and left the washroom. Casual as anything.

Hayden, pants to his ankles, bare-ass against the cold porcelain sink, coming down from what must’ve been the greatest orgasm of his life and with Cliff Marleau’s cum dripping down the inside of his thigh, said, blankly and baffled and to nobody in particular, “What the fuck.”