Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Shameless (US)

Relationship:

Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich

Characters:

Ian Gallagher, Mickey Milkovich, Mandy Milkovich, OCs, Random hockey players who are used for their names but are entirely fictional and made up, Lip Gallagher, Iggy Milkovich, Colin Milkovich, Terry Milkovich

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Hockey, Idiots in Love, Smut, Jockstrap Kink, backwards hat kink, Cocky Mickey, Mild Angst, Happy Ending, cocky Ian, Hockey!mickey, hockey!ian, competitive boys, Sports, sportsball, Mutual Pining, Mentions of past abuse, POV Mickey Milkovich, Hurt/Comfort, fwb to lovers, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Sadenverse references, hockey romance, Yes it’s similar to Heated Rivalry, but that was a happy accident, heated rivalry vibes, puckboy references

Language:

English

Collections:

Gallavich Gift Exchange 2025

Stats:

Published: 2025-04-26 Words: 27,769 Chapters: 9/9

Last Cigarette

Summary

Mickey and Ian play for rival hockey teams in the NHL

Notes

Chapter 1: Another hit

Chapter Notes

Haha well. *chuckles awkwardly” I lost my mind with this one. This short one shot I had planned turned into *waves hands around*. This is inspired by every queer sports romance I’ve ever read. Both fics and irl.. and lemme tell you there’s been a few! I tried to keep it original but like.. there are on-purpose inspirations and accidental similarities. Keep an eye out for easter eggs.

**post publishing note: this story shares some similarities with the book Heated Rivalry. As I hadn’t read it at the time of writing this it’s a happy accident. I loveeeee HR and if you like this you go should read it immediately.

Debby, my dear, this is for you. You asked for some kind of sportball au. And while hockey uses a puck…. there are sports. And there are balls. :ianguestwomb: so hopefully this still hits the brief.

Pre-season - September 

The roar of the crowd in the arena was deafening.

Mickey skated up to the blue line and everything quieted to a buzzing in the back of his brain. His whole world narrowed down to the other players on the ice and that tiny black round puck that the ref was holding. This was all that mattered. This is all that had ever mattered. 

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and looked up into the green eyes of his opponent.  

#7, Right Wing for the Toronto Maple Leafs and his number one rival in the league. Ian Gallagher. 

He couldn’t see much of Gallagher in the gear and helmet. The height difference even more annoying in this position. It didn’t matter, Mickey was gonna win this game and crush him. 

“Milkovich.” 

“Gallagher.” 

They fell silent even as the sound in the arena ramped up. The ref held his hand out, puck aloft, whistle in his mouth. There was a long, excruciating pause before—

The whistle blew. The puck dropped. And they were off. 

Using his dumb long limbs to his advantage. Gallagher managed to win the face off, scooping the puck with his stick and disappearing down the ice in the blink of an eye. Mickey took off, hot on his heels, and managed an intercept. Passing the puck to the waiting hockey stick of his teammate, Florida Panthers Brad Marchand, Mickey watched as Marchand skated at full tilt toward the Leaf’s goaltender. Marchard passed it to Verhaughe who managed to hold on to it through a scramble in the Leaf's defending zone before his eyes roamed, looking for someone open. And Mickey was fuckin’ open. 

He saw Gallagher barrelling toward him in his periphery, but he hoped he was too far away. Verhaughe passed the puck and Mickey caught it. He skated in an S around a Leaf's player, some fancy puck handling keeping him in possession. He deked left. The goalie saw the fake-out and went right, but Mickey got his opening. He brought his stick down and smashed the puck, sending it into a tiny unguarded space in the upper left pocket of the goalie’s net. 

The buzzer buzzed, the lights in the stadium flashing with the goal. In the blink of an eye he was lost in a sea of Panthers Jersey's as his teammates piled on him with hugs and backslaps. 

It might just be pre-season, but they just won their first game. 

It took him longer than he hoped to get out of the stadium. Because he scored the game winning goal, he had to do the post-game press and then was accosted by the Panthers' (probably) only 30 hardcore fans and their kids who wanted his autograph. 

When Mickey had been drafted to the Panthers, it had been disappointing to discover that Floridians barely knew what hockey was, nevermind surprised to hear they had two NHL teams. 

He once overheard a conversation in his local Dunkin between one customer trying to describe hockey to another as that 'skatey punchy' sport.  He’d grown up in Chicago, where the Blackhawks were practically a religion. In Chicago, everyone, would have known who he was.

So Mickey was running late when he finally dragged himself into his black Mustang and drove the six blocks to an abandoned parking lot behind an abandoned grocery store. He had made a conscious decision to drive his most inconspicuous car, rather than the red Ferrari he’d bought himself with his signing bonus to the Panthers. 

He cut the engine next to only other vehicle parked at the sketchy location. He got out of the car, clicked the locks and climbed into the passenger seat of the rented Jeep Cherokee that sat silent and dark. 

“Gallagher, who the fuck rents a Jeep in Florida?” 

That earned him an immediate green-eyed glare. “It was the only remotely practical option they had that wasn’t a family van. You’re late.”

“Not my fault I’m so popular, man. Gotta appease the fans,” Mickey said with a cocky grin. 

“Jesus fuck, why do I do this?” the redhead said, throwing his head back into the seat and rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

The question caused a familiar stab of something in Mickey’s gut. Something he had no interest in entertaining. It was the first time he'd seen the redhead since March. “‘Cause you can’t fuckin’ help yourself. Now get your dick out,” Mickey replied instead. 

Ian groaned, an annoyed sound, and Mickey had half a thought that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted before the big man was on him. He grasped Mickey’s chin between a thumb and forefinger and jerked Mickey's chin to face him. 

Mickey's breath caught.

There was a split second where Ian studied him. Their faces merely inches apart. Mickey took the opportunity—staring at those freckles up close, and the intense green eyes that he, more often than not, saw behind a helmet and visor. They were so green and up close almost looked flecked with gold. He was so beautiful, it was stupid. It hurt to look at him. 

Was Ian going to kiss him? His brain stuttered to a stop, white noise fizzling in his ears and his whole body tensing, before Gallagher leaned in, past his mouth, and licked a strip up Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey finally let air into his lungs as Ian’s lips and tongue made their way up his neck to kiss the sensitive spot behind his ear, while a big paw ran up his thigh. Mickey let out an involuntary whine. Which was then followed by a wave of embarrassment. Heat that prickled up the back of his neck.

He felt Gallagher’s smile against his neck and knew he had to take an offensive position immediately. He pushed against the redhead's broad chest, putting some space between them. He then made quick work of unzipping and wriggling out of his slacks. 

Ian caught on after a second and started on his own, but had only pushed them down past his knees when Mickey attempted to climb over the console and into the bigger man’s lap as gracefully as one could do so. 

Of course, they were two hockey players. And this was the driver’s seat of a Jeep Cherokee which, arguably, didn’t have room for two fully grown professional athletes. So Mickey’s knee caught on the gear stick and he awkwardly fell, managing to almost knee Gallagher in the balls with his other rogue limb. 

“Jesus! Fuck, Milkovich!”

“You’re fucking fine. Just let me—" he maneuvered himself fully into the redhead's lap only to hit his ass against the horn. The loud sound rent the air of the dark parking lot and they both jumped. Then froze. After a long moment, where it was clear no one was going to run out of the darkness and photograph them, Ian glared up at him. 

“What are you doing?” Ian asked. 

“Knitting a fuckin’ sweater. What’s it look like? Move the seat back.”

He did as he was told and Mickey settled on him, their bodies lining up fortuitously. 

Gallagher’s eyes darkened, already heavy with lust. 

“You gonna ride me, Mick?” 

“If you shut the fuck up, I just might,” he retorted. He shifted, grinding down, pulling out moans from both of them. 

“What if I don’t wanna shut up? What if I wanna tell you to take those briefs off and sit on my cock,” Gallagher growled, grabbing onto thick thighs and squeezing.

And Jesus, if that didn’t turn Mickey the fuck on.  

So Mickey did, in fact, ride him into the seat. Thoroughly defiling Ian’s rented jeep.

Ol' Bob was on his usual route. He had fought off the other homeless to own the area south of stadium, the best place to pick up any discarded bottles to return to the bottle depot. As he was passing by a usually abandoned parking lot he noticed two suspiciously nice vehicles parked side by side. He cocked his head, trying to figure out what they could be doing there when he realized the jeep was bouncing, creaking quietly on its hinges. Ol'Bob figured it was best if he kept on moving. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you Jessie for being the most amazing beta!!!

Chapter 2: Addiction is strong

Chapter Notes

I am Canadian. Making jokes at Canada's expense makes me laugh.

November

Mickey ignored the screaming crowd and the fact that he was in godforsaken Canada. He tried to forget the fact that the pundits on TV were probably discussing his and Toronto’s #7's rivalry. The game was just entering the second period, and the score was 1-1. So, he focused on the task at hand and skated up to the blue line.

He got into position like he always did. But as was tradition when he was facing off against the Toronto Maple Leafs, he searched out green eyes. And there he was. Toronto’s Right Wing. #7. Ian Gallagher. And he was glaring at him.

That wasn’t exactly unusual. Their rivalry ran deep, and they both liked to win. But there was something about this expression, the downturn of his mouth, the tightness of his jaw, that Mickey worried meant he was a little more pissed off than usual.

Mickey didn’t know what his deal was but also didn’t have a lot of mental space for an angry Ian Gallagher right now.

His last week had been absolute garbage. He’d been caught by the paps, leaving a bar with two girls on his arms. The photos were splashed all over page nine the next day. And really, that was the whole point of it. To get photographed. For the ‘player’ and ‘bad boy’ headlines. To be in the news for that. To piss off his PR manager for all the right reasons instead of the real reasons.

No, he was just another cocky fuckboy pro hockey player. But it always ended the same way. His phone buzzing nonstop with notifications he didn’t want to see and a bad feeling in his stomach. Plus, Mandy had called to say she’d broken up with her latest boyfriend and while she played it off as fine, he knew she wasn’t. Not really. So until they played New York in a few weeks, he could only brew and worry.

The ref blew his whistle, and the puck dropped. Mickey scooped it away from Gallagher’s reaching stick and raced down the ice. As he was about to enter Toronto’s defensive zone, thinking he was only a move or two away from a goal, he was hit by a freight train. Or what passed for one: a furious Ian Gallagher.

Mickey was slammed into the boards as a rageful redhead checked him and stole the puck.

Okay. So now Mickey was angry. And horny.

What the actual fuck? It’s not like Gallagher was the one who’d been torn apart by the press for days.

He tore off down the ice after #7. He managed to steal the puck back as Gallagher was winding up for an attempt on goal, and flip it to Aaron Ekbad who was exactly where he needed to be. Ekbad disappeared back to the offensive side of the ice and minutes later, the buzzer sounded. Mickey pumped his fist. Goal for Florida.

Take that you maple syrup swilling Canadian fucks, he thought as he waved at the crowd, bolstered by their boos.

But his celebration was cut short by 6 feet of enraged ginger. Hands shoved at his chest.

“The fuck?” Mickey asked, stunned. Was Gallagher trying to start a fight with him right now? Well, he was never one to back down, so he shoved right back.

Mickey was confused. The Leafs had played Florida in their first season game in October and it had been business as usual. Gallagher had, again, had an early flight and curfew, so they’d opted for the fucking jeep instead of a hotel room. They’d banged—Ian bending him into a pretzel in the back seat and giving it to him hard. After, they had chatted idly about hockey, sitting next to each other in the backseat. Mostly reviewing the game they’d played and ribbing each other. Then once Gallagher looked like he was gonna fall asleep back there, Mickey pulled on his clothes, got back in his own vehicle, and went home.

They never talked about anything serious. They never went to each other’s homes at the risk someone would see the other coming or going. It was quick and emotionless. A quick fuck. Nothing more.

Gallagher shoved him in the chest again.

“Fuck you, Milkovich. You ain’t shit!” Gallagher yelled.

The ref skated over along with most of their teammates, waiting to see if it was going to escalate into a brawl and if either side needed back-up.

“No, I’m the motherfuckin’ best.” Mickey postured, “and you love it.” They were too close, and the arena was too loud for anyone to overhear.

“Maybe I fuckin’ hate you,” Gallagher yelled back.

“That so?” Mickey bit his lip and nodded suggestively at the redhead. Gallagher was so worked up—Mickey could only hope this was the energy he’d bring to their planned rendez-vous later.

“Fuck you, Mickey”

Ian shoved Mickey against the door to their hotel room and attacked his neck. Licking and sucking in a show of possessiveness that Mickey was working hard to pretend he didn’t enjoy.

The room they had rented was conveniently several floors up from any Panther booked team hotel rooms, as per tradition. He couldn’t remember who’d done it first. It’s not like they had a long conversation about it. Just bickered about where they could bang without getting caught until they’d sorted out this solution.

Hockey players shared rooms on the road and Mickey wasn’t out. Nor was he interested in banging a dude from the rival hockey team in front of Alex Barkov, his roommate and team captain. So here they were.

Gallagher’s knees hit the carpet with a thud and in the blink of an eye Mickey’s pants were around his ankles. This was so much better than the front seat of a Jeep. Only the Redhead paused a second away from absolution. His mouth hovering.

“Gallagher,” he moaned. He’d been worked up since their rough game on the ice. And he was always horny after a win. Especially if that win was against Toronto. Gallagher had been off his game, angry and impulsive. He had made some aggressive decisions that had paid off, and some that hadn’t.

“You been out fuckin’ random chicks?”

Uh what?

Mickey’s horny brain took a minute to understand the words he just heard. And it gave him pause.

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” ‘Cause the real answer was no. But really, that wasn’t any of Gallagher’s fucking business. Or anyone’s, for that matter, despite what the paparazzi thought. But more importantly, since when did Ian care? He felt a flash of anger. After such a shitty week, this had followed him here?

“Answer the question, Mick,” Ian growled. Mickey’s heart pounded, his stomach swooped sickeningly and his cock twitched, 'cause apparently his body was not listening to his brain right now.

Ian definitely noticed ‘cause his mouth quirked into a smirk.

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business, Red.”

“Mickey," Ian begged, frown back in place, eyes wide and sad.

The expression on Ian’s face fucked him up. He couldn’t do this right now.

“What if I have been, huh? You got a problem with how I gotta live my life?”

And well, he’d love to tell you getting an angry blow job and then bent over the bed wasn’t hot. But he’d be lying.

Later that night, he waited until Ian had fallen asleep, gently removing the arm that had snaked its way around his waist. And he snuck out.

It wasn’t until the next day, when Mickey was on a plane from Toronto to Detroit to play the Red Wings, when the feelings truly hit.

It was after the guys had finally stopped ribbing him for the huge hickey on his neck.

“Was she hot Milkovich?”

"She must have a mouth like a vacuum. Look at that thing!”

He put his headphones on and stared out the window, trying to zone out the rest of his team, who were chatting, watching movies, and whatever else they did to keep themselves entertained during the endless travel they were subject to.

Was Ian… jealous? There was no way. The thought made Mickey a little nauseous. Because Mickey had a problem.

And the problem was, well...

Mickey wasn’t strictly willing to admit it. He’d never said it out loud—he’d never even said in his head. He more just felt a general sense of feelings and horrors. But see, his problem was that he was a little in love with Ian Gallagher.

He glanced around the cabin and confirmed that his teammates were all occupied and no one had developed any obvious mind-reading abilities. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the window, and indulged in his favourite private activity. Remembering the first time he and Ian got together.

#7 Ian Gallagher, Right Wing for the Toronto Maple Leafs, was drafted the year after Mickey to the NHL. As another native Chicagoan and first round pick, there had been a lot of similarities between them, and the media immediately started speculating about a rivalry. Those speculations only got more intense when they faced off in the playoffs that year, Mickey playing for Tampa Bay at the time.

Tampa had won. Fuck you very much.

But it had been close. Gallagher was good.

But he’d barely spoken to the guy until the following year, when they were both suddenly on Team USA together and playing in the Winter Olympics.

A smile pulled at his lips as he remembered all the training sessions—how hard he and Gallagher pushed each other and egged each other on. The noise about their rivalry got louder in the press.

But what people hadn’t seen was the flirting.

The way Ian’s eyes followed him in the locker room. The way he unashamedly stared at Mickey’s ass like he was hypnotized. The way Mickey did exactly nothing to dissuade the overgrown ginger. And if he wandered around in just his jock strap so often that the other guys started to tease him for it? Well, that’s none of your business, now is it?

So when 200lbs of freckled hockey player tackled him into a bathroom stall during the celebration drinks at a bar after their big win? He wasn't exactly surprised.

It had been fast and dirty. Everything Mickey liked. Mickey had been thrilled to find out that not only was Ian 100% a service top, but he was also seriously packing.

At the end Ian had leaned in for a kiss, and Mickey, in a moment of panic, had turned his head. He had never kissed during hook-ups.

They never talked about it after. Mickey had no interest in anything more. And neither, it seemed, had Gallagher. It was perfect, really. Plus, even then, they were playing in different countries. And back then, Mickey was so far in the closet, he wouldn't even admit there was a closet.

Now, three years later?

After, trying to suppress his sexuality for years, he’d given up. He’d accepted that his dick only got hard for dudes.

And him and Gallagher? Well, they were closeted queers in the NHL. There was only one out player, and he played for the Nashville Predators. Mickey had no intention of being the second out player. And that wasn't even just because of the reality of his Nazi Homophobic Dad spitting slurs down the line every time he called to ask Mickey for money.

He knew Ian had told his team, at least, that he was gay. And the Leaf's PR team was ready in case anything came out to the public. But Ian lived in motherfucking Toronto. Canadians were soft. They’d probably cheer for him and hold up rainbow signs, and Ian would become an icon of queer athletes.

Mickey was not that guy.

Mickey was rude and grumpy. He lived in Florida. And grew up a Milkovich. They were basically from different planets.

So these pesky feelings just made him queasy. And made his stomach swoop in that awful way.

These realities couldn’t exist together.

The truth was that Mickey’s life had to be the way it was. And who was he to complain? He’d grown up on the Southside and now he was a rich and famous NHL hockey player. He had it made. Right?

Chapter End Notes

In case its needed. Quick glossary of terms for the whole fic:
Puck bunny - a bit of a gross term for fans who want to sleep with hockey players cause they're hockey players
Hat trick - three goals in a game by one player
Intercept - steal the puck
Deke - when you pretend to shoot or move in the wrong direction to throw off a goalie or opponent
Glass seats- front row
Paps - paparazzi
Sin bin- penalty box

Chapter 3: I came to you fleshed out

Chapter Notes

This chapter is also dedicated to Krissi lmao (sorry Debby.. just this one)

December

It had been an awful week.

Not even the prospect of playing against the Leafs at home in the Amerant stadium could raise Mickey’s spirits.

He felt like he was carrying a weight on his shoulders as he laced up his skates in the locker room, hunched in on himself.

“Milkovich, chin up. We got this,” Marchand, his closest teammate, said and punched him lightly in the shoulder.

Mickey couldn’t even be bothered with a retort, so he just nodded. Marchand only looked more concerned. Which—fair. Usually Mickey would shove him back and make a rude joke, but he didn’t have it in him.

Earlier in the week, after playing in Tampa, he and some of the guys had gone out to a bar. Some chick he’d been casually talking to had kissed him and shoved her tongue down his throat without warning. And, without him knowing, had taken a selfie of it happening. Which had probably been the only reason for the kiss.

Mickey had been a little drunk and completely unaware that someone was using him to try to become an influencer in the wild.

And then, because he’d felt obligated, he’d kept talking her up. She’d flirted and touched his arm and asked him to take her home, so he took a shot and pretended to be sloppy drunk. She tried to shove her hand down his pants. He told her he was too drunk to get it up and had walked her out and put her in a cab, alone, and sent her home. Which was his usual move when trying to get out of a situation.

So of course, it had gone viral on TikTok. On account of him being a famous NHL player and one of the top players in the league. The photo was everywhere. As was the video with her account of him being a sloppy drunk whose dick didn’t work.

His PR agent, Lane, was furious with him and threatening rehab. And the worse part? Terry had called. To tell him how proud he was. And ask for more money, of course. Because Terry took credit for rehabilitating his cocksucker of a son, and paying for him to play hockey.

And Mickey knew that really it had been his brothers and Mandy who squirreled away money, when his dad was too high to notice, to help him play. And that by now he’d long since paid back any familial debt. But he felt guilty anyway. And violated by that girl and her gross tongue, using him for fame. He’d taken a hundred showers, and it wasn’t enough. The shame clung to him.

Shame for liking what he liked. Shame for being a coward and letting that girl take advantage.

When he skated up to the blue line, he didn’t even search out green eyes.

He lost the face off.

Mickey stood under the stream of the shower in the locker room for so long he absently couldn’t believe there was still hot water flowing.

His teammates were happy to avoid his sour mood.

“Go fuck yourself,” was all he’d told Marchand when the guys had asked if he was okay.

He’d lost them the game. No. He was not okay.

He pressed his forehead to the cool wall tiles, his eyes closed, wondering how he’d muster the energy to go meet Gallagher in that shitty parking lot again. He didn't think he could bring himself to cancel. And he was too embarrassed to face him after his showing tonight. So he stood there.

“Mick.”

Mickey startled out of his trance and turned to see the one person who should not be in the Panthers' home locker room.

“The fuck are you doin’ here?” he asked, surprised to find his voice hoarse.

Gallagher looked better than anyone had a right to. He was in suit pants and a button-up shirt. It was mandatory for hockey players to wear suits on game days. His slacks hugged his strong thighs. He ran a hand through still-wet red hair that was long on top and was curling into tiny curls where it was short on the sides.

“Dunno. Seemed like you had a rough night. Had a feeling I should come check.”

“M’fine Gallagher. Go away,” he said, turning back to face the water. It’s not that Ian hadn’t seen him naked a hundred times or more, but he felt exposed like this, with the other man stood there fully dressed.

“Mickey,” voice impossibly soft, “how long have you been in here?”

Mickey swallowed hard, fighting the thick burning in the back of his throat. No. He couldn’t handle this. He didn’t want soft and gentle.

“I said fuck off.”

“No.”

Mickey startled. Ian’s voice was right behind him now and when he turned, he saw Ian had stripped down to his briefs, his clothes and bag thrown on a nearby bench.

“The fuck? Someone will see!”

“Everyone left a while ago. You’re lucky they haven’t turned the lights off yet.” And then he was stepping into the stream, briefs and all.

And his hands were around Mickey’s waist and he was tugging him backwards until his back was nestled into Ian’s wide, muscular chest. And his arms were around him. Wrapping him up. Like safety. Like care.

Mickey couldn’t help his shoulders from shaking. He put his face in the water to hide the tears. He felt like an idiot.

“It’s okay,” Ian hummed in his ear, placing chaste kisses in the spot on the back of his neck that always made Mickey shiver. He couldn’t speak, so he just shook his head.

Ian tipped Mickey’s head back with two fingers, out of the water, against his shoulder. He held him even tighter. Mickey took some big shaky breaths, getting back in control.

“You’re okay,” Ian murmured again, pushing his shaggy black hockey hair back from his forehead. Mickey wasn't sure how long they stayed like that. Ian running his fingers through his hair with one hand, the other arm wrapped around his chest. It was so intimate Mickey felt ill.

He needed to get this back on even footing. So he slid his hand behind him. Up Ian’s thigh, over the soaking wet briefs, until he had Ian in hand. The redhead groaned silkily in his ear. Mickey rubbed his palm up and down. He felt him start to harden.

“Mick,” Gallagher rasped out. “That's not—I didn’t come here for that.”

Mickey's dick was starting to fill as Ian got hard in his hand. Suddenly, this was all he wanted. The clarity of sex, of being in his body instead of his brain. Sex with Ian. It was easy. Something he knew so well. It had always been natural for them. It felt so freeing. It felt like freedom.

He turned, then, and dropped to his knees on the cold wet tile. Sending up a small prayer the cleaning staff weren’t going to walk in on them.

He peeled off Ian’s wet, now dark grey, briefs. He ignored the smell of sweat and soap that always lingered in the locker room.

He looked up into Ian’s eyes for the first time. They were dark, hooded, and conflicted.

He placed two fingers under Mickey’s chin, tilting his face up. He looked like he was trying to read a secret message written on his face.

“Mickey, you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to, Gallagher.” A lick of his lips.

“You’re upset. We can… later.”

“Ian. Please," Mickey begged, desperation scratching at his voice. "I want this. I-I need this.”

Heat flared in Ian’s eyes at the sound of his name on Mickey’s lips. His cock twitched. Less than an inch from Mickey’s mouth now. It was something he only employed when he was playing dirty. He knew how much Ian liked to hear it. Demanded it sometimes when their inhibitions were lowered by alcohol.

“Fuck. Okay. But only if we go get a beer after and we talk.”

“Gallagher-“

“I mean it. I’ll leave right now.”

“Okay, okay Jesus. One beer.”

The redhead nodded and released Mickey's chin.

Mickey closed the distance and licked the precum off of his tip.

A sharp intake of breath and a curse hissed past his lips.

Mickey closed his eyes and took Ian in slowly, savouring the weight on his tongue and the fullness in his mouth. He didn't stop until Ian’s cock hit the back of his throat and then he moaned.

“Ah, ah fuck, your mouth,” Ian rasped out in a whisper.

Mickey began to suck and bob. Losing himself to the rhythm and pleasure of it. He went slowly at first, savouring the weight on his tongue. The taste. He sat back on his heels, letting the other man’s cock out of his mouth with a pop. He put a hand on his aching cock and started to stroke himself.

“Fuck my face, Ian.” He opened his mouth. This is what he needed. To not think, to turn his brain off completely and let pleasure overtake him.

“Oh, fuck,” Ian muttered. And then there was a light but firm grip on the back of his neck and Ian was sliding back into his mouth. He cursed when he hit the back of Mickey's throat again. Mickey swallowed around him. Full again.

And Ian thrust, not too deep but close. And Mickey took it.

“Holy fuck, you're so fuckin’ pretty Mick. Those pretty pink lips. I think about it all the time.”

And Jesus. He did? That sent Mickey to the edge. He stroked himself faster, feeling his balls pull up just as Gallagher moaned out a strained, “gonna blow.”

Mickey stuck out his tongue, and with a strangled grunt, Ian came—coating Mickey's tongue and pumping hard into his mouth. Mickey swallowed it down.

He licked his swollen lips clean and came so hard his vision whited out—bliss rolling through him in waves as he shot all over the tiles of the shower room floor.

And then Ian was in front of him. He was barely recovered, just opening his eyes. Ian landing on his knees, gathering Mickey into his arms and to Mickey’s complete and utter shock, kissing him.

Ian kissed him. Ian was kissing him.

His tongue licked the seam of Mickey's mouth, seeking acceptance. And Mickey opened for him once again. As he always would for Ian. He gasped as Ian licked into his mouth.

He slid his hands into red hair and pulled them impossibly closer. Trying to climb into the other man's skin.

There. Still under the warm running water of the shower. On their knees on the locker room floor—Mickey found his salvation.

He kissed Ian like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Like a meteor was headed for earth, like his life depended on it. Tongues, lips, hands, touches.

After a long minute, they broke apart, gasping for air. Mickey was sure his face was a mirror of Ian’s. Wonder, confusion, disbelief.

What in the fuck were they doing right now?

“Shit. We better get out of here before someone comes in,” Ian said, stating the absolute obvious.

They’d overstayed their welcome by a long shot. Hell, they had been so caught up he wouldn't have noticed if someone had come in and seen him in the most compromising position ever. Right now, though? He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Shit, yeah. Fuck.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m getting all pruney.”

Ian laughed loud and big. The greatest sound. He stumbled to his feet, tried to pull up the sodden briefs before giving up and pulling them off. Chucking them in the direction of his bag, he reached out a hand to steady Mickey, whose legs had fully cramped up. Nothing like playing an entire hockey game and then kneeling on a tiled floor for too long to create some stiff muscles.

But with some maneuvering, they were both standing.

“Check if the coast is clear,” Ian whispered, pointing towards the lockers.

Mickey stuck his head around the corner and was relieved to see the room remained empty. Mickey tossed a towel at the redhead and they hurried to his locker to hastily pull back on some clothes and then GTFO—having pressed their luck for locker room sex, with a rival teammate, enough for one night.

Ten minutes later, they were in Ian’s dumb rented jeep.

Twenty minutes after that, they were walking into a bar. Mickey had suggested a small, quiet, rundown place near the beach in the boring part of Fort Lauderdale.

The bar was Under the Sea themed with fake portico windows and wood everywhere to emulate a pirate ship and there were dumb signs nailed to every surface with sayings on them like ‘Pirate’s Only’ and ‘If you don't tip we'll make you walk the plank’ and ‘party like a pirate’ and ‘Goonies Never Say Die.’

Mickey liked the last one.

The lighting was dark—most of the light bulbs were dark blue. It was ridiculous and the only people who drank there were drunks, locals and tourists that got lost.

But Mickey knew they wouldn’t be bothered here if they were recognized at all. He ordered them a couple of beers while Ian found a booth in a dark corner.

While the bartender poured their pints, Mickey started to get nervous. He’d been in such a state all night he hadn’t been thinking very clearly. But here, in public, reality was finally seeping in.

Had they really just fooled around in the motherfucking locker room? And had Ian kissed him? Had that really happened? They had never kissed. After Mickey had shot it down. He’d had a hard enough time back then admitting he wanted to bang a dude. Kissing one felt wildly outside of his frame of reference. Of course, by the time he’d realized he’d actually wanted it—wanted it so badly sometimes he wanted to scream—he hadn’t known how to ask for it. And Gallagher, being annoyingly respectful, had never tried again. Until tonight.

He arrived back at the booth and slid over, joining Gallagher in the shadows and handing him his beer.

“Thanks.” A whisper. And then a hand on his knee under the table. Mickey considered shaking him off. He would have—a month ago. A week ago. He would have. But it felt too good right now. And he was weak.

Gallagher looked sheepish. Both of them all too aware of the moment they had shared. For one second, Mickey was nervous. They’d never done this. Sat down and tried to talk. What if they had nothing to say?

Only something occurred to him then. “Are you commando right now?”

Ian laughed. “Well, I couldn’t l wear my boxers.”

Mickey waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Ian laughed again, a smile resting softly on his mouth.

“So you played like shit tonight,” Ian observed wryly.

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey laughed.

“Fuck, I love winning against you. It’s good for the skin.”

“Oh, that’s why you’re glowing. Thought you might be pregnant.”

Ian gave him his best cocky smirk. “Outta the two of us, you’d be the only one at risk of that.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Okay, calm down.”

“But it’s usually more fun winning against you when you actually make me work for it.”

“Jesus, Gallagher, I get it. I sucked,” he said, his grumpiness seeping into the post-sex euphoria. Way to kick a guy when he’s down.

But the redhead wasn’t dissuaded. He removed his hand from Mickey’s knee, resting his elbows on the table, hands around his beer. He levelled Mickey with a look. “What happened?”

Oh, so this was a shakedown.

Mickey shifted in his seat. Really, he felt stupid about the whole thing.

“S’nothing. I was just bein’ a pussy, Gallagher. Don’t worry about it.”

Mickey expected Ian to push further, but instead, he did something worse. He said nothing. He just stared Mickey down. Mickey wasn’t even sure if he was blinking.

He squirmed under the scrutiny, tried to look anywhere but at the green lasers trying to see-through to his soul.

He made it about 60 seconds before he broke down. “It’s just that fuckin’ chick shoved her fuckin’ tongue down my throat out of nowhere and I hated it. And now she’s got a million fuckin’ followers and the team is mad at me? And fuckin’ Terry keeps calling. And it just reminds me of that Russian bitch and I dunno I can’t—"

He cut himself off mid-rant, cheeks flushed and breath coming out too quickly. Ian put an oversized hand over his and squeezed, which seemed to immediately reduce the tightness that had crept into his chest.

“I understood about a half of that. But Mickey, I’m sorry that she forced herself on you like that. That’s fucked up.”

“Whatever, it was fuckin’ dumb. I don’t know why it’s fuckin’ my shit up.” He looked away, embarrassed. He’d never mentioned the Russian or that fucked up situation with his dad to anyone—ever. He didn’t know what had come over him and could only be grateful Ian wasn't pushing further.

“Do you...do you ever hook up with the girls? From the tabloids?” Ian said instead.

Mickey looked up and saw it was Ian’s turn to be embarrassed—like he couldn’t believe he was asking. He tamped down his immediate reaction to say something dickish like of course I fuck or wouldn’t you like to know, but instead he surprised himself when honesty tumbled out.

“No. It’s for show. I usually just pretend I drank more than they realized and got whiskey dick.” He looked at the dumb fake ship windows and the peeling wood and the dusty ceramic parrots in the corner, anywhere but at the man across from him that he knew was staring at him.

He felt a squeeze against his hand and he realized they were still technically holding hands. On top of a table, technically in public. He gave Ian a firm squeeze back and then pulled his hand back to his beer.

“That shot you got on goal at San Jose was fuckin’ epic, man.” Mickey tells him, something he had wanted to tell him at the time when he’d watched it on TV in his hotel room.

Ian beamed at him, his smile so wide it was blinding. “Yeah?”

“Fuck off, you know you’re good.”

“I didn’t know you knew that, though.”

“Jesus, your ego. Never mentioning shit again.”

“Oh ‘cause I’m the one with the big ego. Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich, the arena is barely big enough for your head.”

“S’not my fault I’m the best Center in the league,” Mickey says casually, sipping on his beer and leaning back in the booth.

Ian just laughed. “Lord fuckin’ help me.”

They spent the next hour teasing each other and talking hockey. Predictions for the playoffs, the cup. Who they thought was doing well this season, who was doing poorly.

After they were done with their beers, they stood outside the bar in front of Ian’s jeep.

“Better get back before my teammates wonder where I am. We got a 6am fucking flight to Boston.”

Mickey didn't know what to say about that. And the thought of Ian leaving again was fuckin' depressing, so instead he just kicked a tire and said, “Stop renting such a boring fuckin’ car.”

“I like green.”

“There’s no excuse. Feel appropriate shame.”

Gallagher chuckled and looked down, scuffing his foot against the pavement. He looked back up, a determined look crossing his face before-

smack

He planted a kiss on Mickey’s cheek. Turned and got into the car.

Mickey held up a middle finger as he drove off, but he could see the smile even through the driver side window.

Chapter 4: Breathtakin' earthquakin' kind

January

It was All-Stars weekend.

Mickey’s knee bounced as the plane touched down in Nashville. He was in first class. Not a private jet with the team this time since only he and his teammate, Sam Pinchuk, Right Wing, had come in for this event.

Unfortunately, this had meant that Ian Gallagher was playing the Right Wing position on the opposing team.

It was better this way, really. Mickey needed to avoid the guy. Being on the same team for All-Stars would have thrown them together even more than they were already going to be.

The problem had only gotten worse after that kiss. That motherfucking world-ending kiss. It was bad enough they’d be in the same hotel. Bad enough that Mickey knew that, because they had started texting. Bad enough that he couldn’t stop thinking about that blowjob.

The last thing he needed was to share a locker room with the guy. He’d end up doing something fucking stupid and get caught.

No, this was better.

This thing between them had no future. No hope. Ian didn’t even feel the same way. It was a bad idea and a lost cause. What Mickey needed was space.

His phone buzzed.

Ian: I can’t believe the AS game is in nashville the guys are already partying

Ian: Quinn Hughes just dragged me and a couple of the guys out and bought us cowboy hats and boots

Ian: Send help

He could get space later.

Mickey: if I see you in a cowboy hat imma pretend I dont kno u

Ian: Is that after you drool on yourself cause of how hot I look?

Mickey: 🖕un-fckn-likely

“Is she hot?” Austen Matthews asked, bumping Mickey’s shoulder as they deplaned. He’d been sitting a few rows up for the flight. Matthews played on the Leafs with Gallagher, but he and Mickey had played on Team USA together. He was an attractive guy if you ignored the fact that he always dressed like he thought he was on a fashion runway. Which was a huge turnoff for Mickey. Nevermind the moustache ruined the whole effect.

“The fuck are you talking about?” he asked.

“Figured only reason to be smiling like an idiot at your phone is texts from a hottie.”

Mickey’s mouth pulled into a scowl. “Nobody was fuckin’ smiling. Calm down Matthews.”

“Lighten up, Milkovich. It’s All-Stars weekend and we’re in Nashville!” He said, throwing an arm over Mickey's shoulder. He was used to Mickey’s bad attitude.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over your terrible facial hair.” Mickey shrugged off his arm. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it. Idly wondering what Matthews would make of finding out the hottie was, in fact, his teammate.

Matthews punched his shoulder. “Fuck off, bro!”

“Seriously, it’s like a caterpillar crawled up there and died.”

“Hey, the chicks dig it.”

“No, they dig your paycheck.”

Matthews rolled his eyes.

“Whatever gets me laid. Let’s get to the hotel.”

The texting had started not long after the locker-room-blow-job-that-will-go-down-in-history.

Mickey had woken up a couple weeks later after a solid win against the Bruins to a message.

5:14 AM Ian: hell of a goal last night, Milkovich

Mickey hadn’t been able to stop the grin that formed on his face. Especially when he saw the next message.

5:16AM Ian: I never woulda left you that open

And well, Mickey couldn’t not respond to that.

8:30AM Mickey: you’ve left me more open

8:35AM Ian: sure have 😉

8:36AM Mickey: only u wud make that about yr dick size

8:38AM Ian: It's tough to be cursed with a big dick

8:40AM Mickey: Ur cursed w a big head

8:41AM Ian: Oh is that your favorite part? Good to know ✍🏻

Ever since, they’d been sending each other messages every couple of days.

Even while they were both home in Chicago at Christmas they’d sent little messages here and there.

Mickey was always quieter when he was around his Dad. And when…

Ian: got time to grab a beer?

… came in on Christmas Eve, Mickey was tempted. He really was. Only he’d already had a few with his brothers and his dad was in a bad mood.

Mickey: next time. Chicago isn’t a good spot

Ian hadn’t responded.

The weekend in Nashville flew by. They got in a training session as a team. Which was, as per tradition, a shitshow. Bringing together the best players aka—the biggest egos in the league—and making them play together with no practice or comfort with each other's style, always resulted in a shit show. But, hey. That was the fun.

What Mickey was most looking forward to was the skills competition. It always took place the night before the game. The best players in the league got to test out who had the hardest shot or could skate the fastest. For competitive athletes, it was really the one time you could really say you were the best. But, really, he wanted to beat Ian in the accuracy shot competition. Mickey was fast—but not the fastest—and could do decently in the shootout competition. But his accuracy was better and he knew he had a real shot at winning that.

He’d seen Gallagher in fleeting moments and there had been the occasional text message, but they’d both been busy and constantly surrounded by other players.

The night of the skills competition, the crowd in the arena was deafening. Nothing drew rowdy crowds like hosting the All-Stars in the bachelorette capital of America.

Mickey's blood hummed in his veins as he stepped onto the ice and did a couple of warm-up laps. It felt great to feel the breeze on his cheeks. No player bothered with a helmet for the skills competition, so he was wearing a Panthers beanie.

This meant Gallagher was rocking a backward cap. In completely unrelated news, Mickey may have developed a kink for backwards caps.

All-Stars was low stakes and high fun. The biggest risk was to your ego. The fans went crazy no matter who won. He was happy to see a couple of signs that had his name and number on it. He’d been invited every year since his rookie year and he usually enjoyed himself. Not that he’d told anyone that ever, or made any effort to change his demeanor, earning him the nickname Grandpa Milk to his All-Stars teammates. He grinned at a “Marry me Milk #9” sign held up by both a young girl and boy who shrieked and jumped around hugging when he waved at them.

As expected, Ian won the One Timers competition, getting in the most goals on net from a one-shot pass. They both did well in the One-on-Ones but it wasn’t until they announced the Accuracy Shot comp that he started to feel nervous.

The object was to hit all four targets in the net in the shortest amount of time. You essentially can’t miss if you want to win, but don’t have time to set up the shot in order to win on speed.

Mickey was up last. Which was good… and bad. This allowed him to see a couple of guys flub it, both missing one of the shots and therefore losing out on the time aspect. It also allowed him to watch Ian absolutely nail it in 8.1 seconds.

Fuck a duck. Mickey now had to beat that—'cause he sure as shit couldn’t stand to see the smug look on that asshole’s face if he lost.

He warmed up with a lap and a couple of practice shots before skating to the center of the rink, facing the goal. The net was decorated with the four targets he had to hit in each corner, while two teammates stood on either side of the net waiting to pass him pucks.

He rolled his shoulders back. Cracked his neck. Took a couple big breaths and then got into position.

The buzzer sounded, the audience went quiet, and his world narrowed down to the goal in front of him.

Bam bam bam bam

Was the only sound as four pucks met their targets, one after the other, in the most satisfying sound Mickey could imagine in that moment. He skated in a circle and pumped a fist. The crowd went wild. Amping up to absolute mayhem as the announcer's voice echoed throughout the cavernous room. “Mickey Milkovich, #9 for the Florida Panthers, 4 goals, 7.5 seconds. Winner!”

His eyes immediately sought out their target. And were met with the satisfying sight of a clenched freckled jaw and wrathful green eyes. He skated up to the other team's bench (after another celebratory lap… for the fans, of course) and held out his hand.

Gallagher remained seated, elbows on knees for such a long moment, Mickey wondered if he was about to be left hanging when he finally rose, and reached his hand out for a ‘bro’ handshake.

“Well played,” he grumbled, but leaned in slightly and added quietly, “you’ll pay for that later.”

And if Mickey was so flustered that he didn’t even remember skating back to his bench and accepting the praise of his teammates—well, that’s none of your business.

That night, despite his protests, his teammates dragged him out for celebratory beers—their team having won the overall Skills Competition. He tried to argue that they had a game tomorrow.

“Come on! The game has no stakes. We’re in Nashville. We gotta go to a Honky Tonk on a Saturday night!” Was Matthews' response and his other teammates warned him that if he tried to bail, they’d make his roommate, Pinchuk, kidnap him. And having experienced the ridiculous shit hockey players did to each other, he believed it.

So Mickey found himself, on a Saturday night, standing on the sidewalk known as the Honky Tonk Highway in front of a bar named (I shit you not) Tootsie’s. Mickey was sure he was in hell.

So of course when he reluctantly followed his idiot teammates up the stairs and to the back bar he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Toronto’s Right Wing #7. One Ian fucking Gallagher standing there, holding a beer, dressed in a motherfucking cowboy hat and and cowboy boots.

Why he didn’t see this coming, he didn’t know. After all, Gallagher and Matthews played on the Leafs together. And Ian was friendly, so of course he was friends with his teammates. Unlike Mickey, who mostly complained in the general direction of people. Only Marchand had adopted him and forced him into friendship, finding his grump persona endearing for reasons that flummoxed Mickey.

All the pro hockey players jostled, yelled, back slapped and did whatever a bunch of guys that had spent more of their lives in lockers rooms than in civilization did to greet one another in public. There was no question they were a sight to behold and he saw more than one phone go up across the bar—like monkeys in a zoo.

But of course, after a few minutes of inane greetings to guys he saw an hour ago, he found himself in front of Mr. I’m-not-letting-the-fact-that-I’m-a-ginger-Irish-asshole-from-Chicago-get-in-the-way-of-me-wearing-this-10-gallon-cowboy-hat.

“Mick,” he greeted with the smugest smirk to ever smug.

“No.”

“Don’t fight it. You like it.”

“You’re never getting laid again.”

Ian threw his head back and laughed like that was the funniest thing he ever heard, clearly not taking this threat (or the best attempt Mickey could manage in current company) to heart.

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. I think I look pretty good.”

“Don’t mind Grandpa Milk here, Gallagher. He’s secretly having the time of his life,” Matthew said, appearing out of nowhere and slinging an arm over Ian’s shoulders, even though he was an inch shorter than the guy.

Ian grinned. “Grandpa Milk?” he asked innocently.

Mickey groaned.

“Yeah, he won’t stop moaning about everything so it’s an official nickname now,” Matthews helpfully explained.

“Fitting.”

“I need a be- " Mickey was cut off mid-sentence by Quinn Hughes placing a pint in his hand. He gave him a grateful look.

The next hour or so passed as you’d expect. The guys drank and chatted. A couple of the rowdier young players like Jackson Holliday and Cam Smith got on stage with the band. Which caused everyone else to try to learn to two-step. Mickey sat at the bar watching in amusement as Gallagher let a young Texan girl in town for her friend’s bachelorette party try to show him the steps while flirting shamelessly with him.

He just felt bad for her. Besides the fact that Gallagher was very clear that his preferences didn’t include women, he had started texting Mickey half an hour ago.

Mickey, not an idiot, fortunately kept Ian’s name in his phone listed under Lucky N7. He figured with how brazen Ian was being with his phone, his name in Ian’s phone was similarly not ‘pro-NHL player Mickey Milkovich #9.’

Ian: The hat is good right?

Mickey: wrong

Ian: Your eyes give you a way GM

Mickey: GM?

Ian: 👴🏻

Mickey: 🖕🏻

Ian: so be honest.. later you want me to wear just the hat?

Mickey: 🖕🏻

Ian: Fine you can wear the hat while you ride me. I’ll keep the boots on

Mickey had spat his beer out at that and Ovechkin had thumped him on the back and asked if he was alright.

But for all his posturing and planning, Mickey noticed that Ian was a little drunk. So Mickey wasn’t sure if he really was going to be able to ‘save a horse, ride a Gallagher’ as per Ian’s last text message.

After he saw Ian almost fall over, taking the Texan bachelorette with him, he figured it was time to call it. He’d been Honky Tonked out since about five minutes in, anyway.

“Alright Cowboy. Time to getchya back to the ranch before you fuck up your game tomorrow,” he said, steading the redhead with a hand on his shoulder.

Ian looked like he was gearing up to say something wildly inappropriate for the setting so Mickey turned to Ian’s dance partner. “Thanks for teaching him some moves. Sorry he was so shit at it.”

She just giggled. “You’re Mickey. Ian wants to win against you tomorrow.’

Mickey glared at the unrepentant redhead, wondering what nonsense had he been spewing. “Yeah, well, not everyone gets what they wish for. See ya.”

He steered Ian away.

"Yo, Gallagher is bombed and I want to bail. I’ll make sure he gets back to the hotel," he told Matthews when he approached.

Austen nodded. “He can’t really drink on his meds, this idiot. Didn’t know you two were friends?”

“Oh, ya know. Chicago. Gotta stick together.”

Matthews nodded, already looking at the now available girl they’d left on the dance floor and heading in her direction.

Mickey learned that getting a leering, handsy, overgrown, redheaded professional hockey player ten blocks back to a hotel without getting papped in any compromising positions was harder than he had anticipated.

By the time he’d figured out his hotel room number and managed to get the key out of Ian’s pocket (who steadfastly refused to help and made 10 different is-that-a-banana in my pocket jokes while making Mickey fish it out) in the thankfully deserted hallway outside Ian’s room, he was too tired to even consider banging.

Fortunately, Ian’s roommate was still out, so there was no one to see them when Ian pushed Mickey up against the closed door and stuck his tongue down Mickey’s throat.

Mickey may have been dreaming about getting kissed again, but he hadn’t expected the next time to be quite so sloppy. But all thoughts left his mind as Ian licked into his mouth and his hand slid down Mickey’s side and grabbed a handful of ass. He moaned into Mickey’s mouth.

And then, abruptly, pulled away.

“Wha-?” Mickey gasped. Ian, already onto a new task, picked his phone up from where he'd thrown it on the bed and connected to the bluetooth speaker the rooms all provided. Country music started playing.

“What is happening right now?” Mickey asked. Ian came over, snatched his hands and pulled Mickey further into the room. “Is this some weird new version of cowboy sex ‘cause Pasternak could be back any minute? Hold up, is this Shania Twain?”

And to his dawning horror, Ian pulled him into his body, against his broad, warm chest. He slid an arm around his waist and slotted his hand against Mickey's. And started dancing.

Mickey recognized it immediately for the two-step dance the Texan had been showing him at the bar. Mickey was too stunned to speak, never mind to do anything about it, so he helplessly let the big man lead him around.

The song changed to an acoustic Morgan Wade song.

“I wanted to be dancing with you at the bar,” Ian whispered in his ear.

Mickey shivered. He had no idea what to do with that. What was happening right now?

So he just kinda leaned into it. Ian was drunk and he felt so fucking good. He could feel the heat of Ian’s skin through his clothes. The smell of his aftershave at the base of his neck. Ian’s chest vibrating as he hummed along to Morgan as he tipped them this way and that, shuffling slightly.

When the song ended, reality came flooding in.

“Alright, alright, you menace. Pasternak is gonna be back soon,” Mickey chided, stepping away and getting some distance.

Ian pouted and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for Mickey’s hand and tugging him close, between his spread legs. “I like kissing you, Mick.”

And well, Mickey’s brain was struggling to process things, so he deflected. “How're you so drunk off a couple beers, huh? You’re a pro hockey player. You have the same muscle mass as a gorilla.”

“It’s the bipolar meds, not really s’posssed to drink,” he admitted quietly.

And… that was news to Mickey. But it explained why he’d never seen Ian have more than two beers before.

Before he could think more of it, Ian was pulling him into his lap and pressing their lips together. It was a much softer and sweeter kiss this time and Mickey melted into it. His heart beating in his ears as he straddled the big man and hands found their favorite purchase on his ass.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said, breathing hard and scrambling off the redhead’s lap. It was time to go. “I’ll see ya tomorrow. Drink fuckin’ water.”

And before he could get sucked back in to the octopus arms, he fled.

He heard the elevator door slide open as the door clicked shut behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of Pasternak’s voice.

He bolted in the other direction and hid around the corner in the ice machine room, praying there weren't any other guys whose rooms were further down the hall since there was no door and nowhere else to hide.

His heart pounded as the voices got nearer, but stopped just short of where he was. He waited a full five minutes after he heard the doors click shut and the hallway go silent before bolting to the stairs and hiking the five floors up to his room.

Chapter 5: Hand in my hair

February

“Shut up, asswipe,” Mandy said and lobbed a cheeto at his head. Nothing more humbling than spending time with your sister to remember you ain’t shit.

“Seriously, Mandy, try to not date a douchewad for once in your life.” Another cheeto hit his cheek.

He was in New York, lying on Mandy’s couch in the beautiful New York apartment that Mickey paid for on the pretense that when he played games nearby, he was allowed to stay in the guest bedroom. It had been the only way she would agree to it.

Even with the absurd price tag, the apartment wasn’t huge, but it had a great view of the city, floor to ceiling windows, two bedrooms, and a modern kitchen. The rent was almost as much as his beachfront Fort Lauderdale house, and his was at least three times the size.

But whatever, on a pro hockey salary? He could afford it. She was the only family member he wanted to give money to. And it meant that since he'd played the New Jersey Devils the night before, he could spend the weekend with his sister—getting pelted in the head with orange snack foods.

“What about you? Try to date literally anyone for once in your life.”

For that, Mandy got a cheeto in her hair. “Dammit, not the hair!” she yelled and fruitlessly tried to get the orange dust out of her long locks. “Seriously, Mickey. I know those tabloid chicks are bullshit. When’re you gonna date a cool dude so I get a brother I actually like?”

At that moment, ESPN, which had been playing game highlights quietly, switched to a preview for that night’s Rangers game.

"Right wing Ian Gallagher has had a hot streak this season, but will he be able to keep it when taking on J.T. Miller and the Rangers? The game starts tonight at 7:15PM. Live from Madison Square Garden on ESPN.”

Mickey couldn’t help but smirk as a highlight reel of Ian Gallagher scoring goals filled the screen. And because the universe was cruel and Mandy was some kind of creepy mind reader, she happened to notice.

“Hold the motherfucking phone,” she yelled, leaping up dramatically to stand on the couch. “What’s that face? Who is that guy, Mick? Are you hitting that?” She swung her pointed finger back and forth wildly between the TV and Mickey even long after the commercial break had started.

“Jesus fucking christ. Chill your tits, bitch.”

So Mandy jumped on him and started wailing on him with a throw pillow while he covered his head and yelled profanities until he broke. “Okay, okay, Jesus, yes! Yes! We’re banging!”

Mandy stopped, stunned, and sat back on the couch, throw pillow at the ready.

“Tell me everything. Right now.”

So, on fear of death by throw pillow—what an embarrassing way to go—he told her. The highlights! She didn’t need to know about his little problem or any of the gory details. Not that it made much of a difference.

“Holy shit, you’ve been banging for three years?” Mandy pulled at her hair in distress. “Oh, my god. Mickey! Mickey." Her eyes went wide, and she leaned forward and grabbing his wrist. "Mickey. Mickey. Mickey," she chanted.

“Whaaaaat?” he yelled, waving his hands around.

Mandy clambered off her couch and ran into her room, returning a minute later with her MacBook, a past birthday present from Mickey. She vaulted over the back of the couch and landed in a practiced motion, opening her computer.

“Hold up. What are you doin’ right now?” he asked.

“Mickey!” The keyboard clicked as her nails tapped the keys. “Gimme me your credit card.”

“Right now? You are outta your mind.”

“Mickey!”

“Okay, okay, Jesus. You are scary.” He pulled out his wallet and had barely pulled the card out before she had snatched it. He suddenly had a horrible suspicion he knew what she was doing. “No, Mandy. Don’t—"

“Done. We are going to this game tonight, Mickey!”

Mickey groaned, sliding down the couch until he had almost fallen off of it, hands over his face. “Mandy. No.” His voice was muffled behind his hands.

“Oh yes. Front row seats. ‘Cause you can afford it. And you’re gonna introduce me.”

“Mandy,” he groaned, dropping his hands and look at her earnestly. “No one can know.”

“Jesus, you think I don’t fucking know that? I’ll be chill.”

“Clearly.”

“We’re doing this. Your whole life is hockey. Like it’s hard to go watch a game. Go take a shower, you’re gross and we don’t wanna be late.”

Mickey, resigned to his fate, stood up and started walking towards the guest room. “You know I coulda gotten the fuckin’ tickets for free, you dick. Just throwin’ away money like we didn’t grow up with no running water,” he grumbled, while heading off to do exactly as ordered.

An hour later they were stood outside of Madison Square Garden and Mickey was suddenly nervous. He stopped just outside of the crowd forming. He looked at the hockey fans lining up to get into the game and suddenly felt exposed. He only got recognized occasionally. Rarely in Florida, since no one there knew what hockey was there. But he was in New York. These were legit fans.

Wearing Panthers gear to a Rangers/Leafs game was not subtle, so they had decided not to wear any of the merch that Mandy had at her place. That left him in jeans and grey hoodie. Non-team specific. But he couldn’t walk into a hockey arena and sit in the glass seats like this and not get recognized.

“Here.” He handed his credit card over to Mandy for the second time that day. “Go in. Get me a Leafs hat and get yourself a T-shirt. We gotta blend in better, and there’s no fuckin’ way I’m supporting New York.”

She grinned in an evil way and hurried off on to her task, leaving Mickey to his thoughts.

He leaned against the building and assessed every life choice that had led him to this moment.

He hadn’t spoken much to Gallagher since All-Stars. They’d texted sporadically. The next morning after the Honky Tonk, he’d checked in to tease the redhead about his exceptional drunkness.

Ian had been appropriately embarrassed but then rallied out of his hangover and his team won the All-Stars game, much to Mickey’s chagrin. But Mickey had scored two out of the three goals for his own team, so he hadn’t been too broken up about it.

But since then, Mickey had responded to messages slower. Not starting any new text threads. Not even to say ‘good game’ when he'd made a point to watch Ian's games or catch the highlights of Ian making goal after goal, when his fingers itched and it felt physically painful not to reach out.

He had to shut it down.

It had been too close in Nashville. Had he hesitated five more minutes, they would have been walked in on. This was getting out of hand. This couldn’t happen.

It was all of Mickey’s fears wrapped in a pretty package with a bow.

Every time he thought about it, he imagined getting caught. He imagined all the news stories. The upset fans. His Dad's fury and disgust.

He didn’t think most of his teammates would give two shits. Most of the league knew Ian was gay. Most, with exception of a few assholes like Pinchuk, didn’t care.

Unfortunately, Mickey played and lived in Florida. And people did care there. It didn’t matter, anyway. Ian didn’t feel that way. He had been drunk, and admitted that alcohol had messed with his meds, so any affection had been purely the alcohol speaking.

So what was he doing right now? He had no idea. But Mandy was excited. And the idea of being excited about this—letting his sister in on this piece of him—it felt good. It made him remember the last time he’d felt truly good. Pressed against Gallagher in that hotel room. He’d felt free.

So when Mandy strolled around the corner with a grin on her face and a bag in her hand, he decided ‘fuck it’. For tonight, and tonight only, he was gonna pretend it didn’t matter. And watch a hockey game with his sister. And shamelessly get to stare at the dude he was fucking.

“I bought you a jersey!” she turned it around to reveal the name GALLAGHER written across the back.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Over my dead body.”

"Fine." Mandy pulled the jersey on which engulfed her, as she'd clearly purchased a Mickey sized jersey.

At least, in the bag, there was a Toronto Maple leafs hat as requested. He pulled it on and tugged at the brim so it was covering his face as much as possible. Mandy had also bought herself a hat. She put it on.

“Let’s do this thing!”

They started out lying low. Undercover. Hats pulled low.

The seats around them weren’t full. Seats that expensive were often owned by companies and the members would spend the whole time at the bar or in the company box upstairs. Or stay unfilled cause they’d been given to some client's partner's niece who decided she didn’t care about hockey enough to use the free tickets.

So they spread out and got comfortable. And took advantage of the in-seat service by ordering two beers and two shots apiece on every order.

Needless to say, by the third period they were drunk and had lost all sense of decorum. It wasn’t their fault that Ian was having a career-making game.

The Leafs weren’t tracking to make the playoffs but Ian was having one hell of a season. He was doing everything right tonight. The score was 3-1 Toronto and Ian needed one more goal to get a 3-goal hat trick.

Mandy had ditched the cap and the two of them were sitting with their faces practically against the glass. And yeah, Mickey was drunk and enjoying uninterrupted time to ogle Ian on the ice. Ian won a face off and got into the Rangers d-zone before the puck was stolen from him. Mickey and Mandy yelled profanities at the player who’d stolen it, then cheered when he got a penalty for icing.

When Mickey looked back out, Ian was skating back to the puck drop. But he swore he’d seen him look over.

During a game, it was rare to notice the fans. On warm up, the players would check out the signs and wave at fans. But during the game, you were focused on the game—just the game. But it’s not like you couldn’t see the fans. Especially in the first row.

The puck dropped again, this time in Toronto’s zone and New York won the face off. Gallagher was ready. He took off after Miller and managed to steal the puck out from under him and with some incredible stick handling, he got a breakaway. He took off across the ice, carving a path through New York’s players. Passed to Matthews, who passed back. And Ian did what he did best. He scored.

The buzzer went off. The crowd started yelling (mostly profanities. They were in New York, after all) and Mickey and Mandy went wild.

They stood up, jumping and yelling and hugging like a couple of idiots at their first hockey game.

They settled down just as the Leafs' celebration on the ice was wrapping up and players starting coming on and off the ice for the line change. Mickey looked down to find his beer and picked it up, took a sip and then almost jumped out of his skin when a loud bang sounded on the glass in front of them.

The Milkovich siblings lifted two sets of baby blues up to meet the amused green eyes of Ian Gallagher. He hit the glass again, shaking his head in disbelief, and skated off to hit the bench. Matthews passed by a second later, thumping the glass as he went.

“Well, I guess the cat is outta the bag,” Mandy commented and then immediately started snickering. Sure enough, the Leafs players on the bench were pointing over and waving or trying to give Mickey the finger hidden behind a glove so the cameras wouldn't catch them.

The game ended. 4-1. The win going to Toronto and Ian winning MVP. Mickey led the way to the entrance to the tunnel where the players exited the arena. Fans were hanging over the sides getting autographs, but Mickey walked up a ways to the security guard there.

“Mandy!” the guard said when they approached.

“Hey Todd! Lookin’ good today,” she said with a flirty flip of her hair, 'cause Mickey always brought her through the back this way when he played New York.

“You look beautiful as ever,” Todd complimented, opening the door that led back to the locker and press rooms. “Milkovich,” he greeted Mickey without the same enthusiasm.

“Hey man. Thanks.”

“Thanks Todd! Give my best to Britney!” Mandy said.

They slipped through and walked to the back.

“I feel like a fuckin’ puck bunny,” Mickey grumbled, pulling his hat lower over his face suddenly, again, aware he was wearing a Leafs cap.

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m no puck bunny and come back this way when you play. You’re here to see friends. It’d be weirder not to.”

Mickey stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. He knew she was right, but realistically, he was fucking a hockey player. Oh god. He was a puck bunny. He froze in his tracks and would have turned around right there if he wasn't then confronted with a sweaty, red faced Ian Gallagher who was currently just under seven feet tall on skates.

Oh, that was annoying. Usually when Gallagher was on skates, so was Mickey. The height difference only further made him feel like a WAG.

“Hiya Mick,” a shy Gallagher greeted. Apparently feeling some kinda similar way.

But before either of them could be any weirder about it, Mandy jumped in.

“Oh my god. I totally recognize you now. Ian! You went to our high school for like 10 minutes in what… junior year? Holy shit.”

Ian’s eyes flickered over to her. “Oh shit. You’re right. Wait are you-?”

“I’m Mandy! Mickey’s sister. You totally saved me from that pervert teacher in math class and then transferred like the next week. I never got to thank you.”

“Holy shit. I remember that. My sister moved us to Ann Arbour. I’d hug you, but you know.” He waved a hand to signal how sweaty he was.

“Good game, man. A fuckin’ hat trick.” Mickey had finally found his voice.

Ian’s whole face lit up with a grin, but just as he went to respond, a man in a suit appeared.

“Ian. Post-game press conference in five. Hit the showers.”

“Go! But message Mickey. You have to come for a beer!” Mandy said, shoving him away.

“‘Ey! Grandpa Mick!” Matthews yelled, appearing freshly showered in his suit from the locker room. He looked at Mandy. “Holy shit. Is this a girl version of you? Hi, I’m Austen. You’re hot.”

“Hi, I’m Mandy.” Cue flirty hair flip.

“Matthews, stay the fuck away from my sister,” Mickey snapped.

The same suited PR guy appeared again. “Matthews. Interviews!” He said, corralling Austen away even while he stayed focused on Mandy, winking at her before he disappeared before a door.

An hour later they were seated in a quiet hole-in-the-wall bar, arguing about how Mandy should not hook up with the sleazy hockey players Mickey knew, when Ian Gallagher strode in. Long legs clad in tight jeans and wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows looking so good Mickey was sure it had to be a crime somehow.

He took a seat across from the siblings in the high top chair across the circular table.

“Gallagher. Tell her that she can’t hook up with Mathews and that all hockey players are douchebags.”

Ian looked at Mandy. “It’s absolutely true. Matthews is a dog and so are all hockey players.”

“Ian, come on, you have to be on my side. You’re a nice guy.”

“He doesn’t count,” Mickey grumbled.

“I’m not that nice,” he replied, looking straight at Mickey. The look in his eyes lit Mickey on fire from the inside out. Which was unfortunate considering the setting. “And Mickey is a dick, so the logic stands.”

Mandy laughed louder than was strictly necessary at that. "True. But I thought that his dick is what you liked about him?"

"Mandy!" Mickey growled.

"Oh sorry, was I supposed to pretend I don't know?" she asked, sounding not even a little sorry.

Ian chuckled.

"So, are you a real hockey fan or forced into it to support your brother?" he asked her.

"Oh, a real hockey fan. It was like a religion in our house growing up and there's nothing hotter than a guy with long hair and a tooth missing, who isn't afraid to throw a punch so…" she trailed off with a shrug.

Ian grinned. "Right?"

Mandy grinned back at him.

It quickly became clear that Ian and Mandy got on entirely too well.

They chatted most of the next hour while Mickey was content to enjoy his buzz and watch Ian’s features animate in conversation with someone who wasn’t as grumpy as him.

At the end of his beer, though, Ian stood up. He pointed at the table and made a cheque signing signal to the bartender.

“I gotta go, unfortunately. We play in Boston tomorrow and have a curfew,” he said to the hands in his lap, before flicking his eyes up at Mickey. “Was surprising but nice you came to the game,” he said so sincerely it made Mickey’s chest ache and his soul sore.

“Mandy made me,” Mickey replied, earning a weird look from Ian. “How did you notice us, anyway?”

Ian laughed. “Mandy had my name on her back. You weren’t exactly subtle in a sea of Rangers jerseys. Plus, Mandy is basically your twin. You caught my eye.”

“Great game, Ian! I’m so glad we’re gonna be best friends. Send me a text when you've figure out which of your teammates you wanna set me up with. My new life plan is to meet a nice Canadian boy.”

Ian laughed and gave her a big hug. “I will support that plan as best I can.”

He looked at Mickey then, and he froze. Were they supposed to hug? They usually said their goodbyes with a blowjob and Mickey sneaking out after Ian fell asleep. Mickey, unsure what to do with his body suddenly, shoved his hands in his pockets.

He cleared his throat. “Uh-“

“See ya soon?” Ian asked hopefully.

"Yeah, ‘course. Sure." Mickey mumbled idiotically.

As Ian walked away, Mickey realized what she’d just said. “A text? When did you exchange numbers?”

“When you went for a piss. We’re besties now.” Then, in a surprise move, she wrapped her arms around her brother in a slightly inebriated show of affection. She stepped back right away.

“The fuck was that for?”

“Thanks for dating a nice guy that I can hang out with. I got my wish.”

She turned and walked out of the bar.

“Calm down,” he said, following her out. “Who the fuck said anything about dating?”

Mickey opened his eyes in the morning to a pounding headache and a phone buzzing with notifications.

He blinked, trying to focus his eyes, seeing about 10 text messages from his PR manager. He ignored them briefly to open the only other message he had.

1:03 AM Ian: Thanks for coming to my game. Meant a lot. Kinda rare for me.

Mickey smiled at his phone and considered what he might say in response when his phone started buzzing with a phone call in his hand.

His PR manager again. Shit. He only ever called when Mickey had been caught in the tabloids.

He answered.

“Lane?”

“Are you a fucking Leafs' fan now, Mickey?” Lane snapped.

“What?”

“You’re all over the sport sites. Wearing a goddamn Leafs' cap. Cheering for an opposing team in the same conference as you. What were you thinking?”

Oh. Oh! Mickey sat up in bed. Oh shit.

“They caught that?”

“Caught that? Mickey, you were on the Jumbotron at some point with your fucking name and number on the screen. You’re an NHL hockey player in the front row at a NHL hockey game. What did you think was going to happen?”

"I-uh-" Mickey’s brain was frozen. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why hadn’t he even considered this? He was used to getting in trouble for partying. Being caught leaving a club with a half-naked chick all over him. Going to a hockey game with his sister had seemed innocent in comparison.

“The press wants a statement and a quote. They think it’s a sign you’re trying to get traded to the Leafs. Which is insane because the Panthers are on track to go to the playoffs. And the Leafs are nowhere near that! I was going to suggest we say that you and Matthews became friends at All-Stars. Only then your sister was photographed in a goddamn Gallagher jersey. You’re supposed to be rivals!” Lane was yelling now. The guy had always been high-strung as fuck. Usually Mickey laughed it off, but right now, his anxiety was skyrocketing in response.

Shit. What if people had seen him with Gallagher? Would they guess? Jesus fuck. That had been so dumb. He hit his palm on his forehead a few times in agitation.

“My sister!” he yelled, cutting off Lane in the middle of yet another rant he had stopped listening to.

“What?”

“Gallagher. He and my sister when to high school together. They were in the same class for a while. She wanted to go to his game and say hi. That’s why she’s got his jersey. And I went to support her.”

There was a long pause.

“Is that true?” There was something weird about the way Lane asked the question.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Mickey,” Lane suddenly sounded deadly serious. He paused again, letting out a long breath. “Look. That’s a great story. We will tell that story. But, and hear me out, if you’re covering something—anything—tell me now. I won’t judge. I don’t care. Just tell me, and we can get prepared. Just in case.”

The blood in Mickey’s veins turned to ice. He knew. Someone knew. He’d heard through Mickey’s lie and figured out the truth. Fear gripped Mickey’s heart and he, honest to god, thought he was going to pass out.

He felt the phantom barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. He felt trapped. The smell of sweat and girl. The fear that hung in the air.

“Mickey?” Lane’s voice sounded far away.

“Just, yeah. My sister. Her friend. I gotta go, Lane.”

Mickey ran to the bathroom, fell to his knees, and threw up the contents of his stomach.

Half an hour later, he was sitting on the cold tiled floor of the shower, naked, with his knees pulled up to his chest, under the spray of hot water. Shivering.

Chapter 6: Where were you when I needed you most

Chapter Notes

TW: Homophobic language and general Terry-ness. References to past abuse

February

“Crush those Canadian queerbo fucks,” Terry yelled, brandishing a fist at the TV he stood in front of.

Mickey sat on the couch in the Milkovich house, wishing he was anywhere else.

Iggy patted Mickey's knee awkwardly, like that would somehow erase his Pops’ rampant homophobia from existing in the world. Mickey was briefly back in Chicago on a short stint, because his dad has insisted he come home for his birthday. So Mickey was in town for 24 hours before he flew to Vancouver in the morning to play the Canucks.

Terry didn’t want him there. Terry wanted to show off to his Nazi friends that he had a rich son in the NHL. So here he was. Unfortunately, the party didn’t kick off until later that night, and Terry wanted to watch the hockey game on TV. It was just his luck that the Chicago Blackhawks were playing the Toronto Maple Leafs that night.

So once again, Mickey found himself on a Milkovich couch, in the same city Ian was playing in. Only the situation couldn’t be more different.

His family had always been into hockey. That’s what had fuelled his interest from a young age. And as he moved up in the leagues, their interest had grown with him. But they were Blackhawks' fans through and through. His dad didn’t even pretend to watch his Panther games, or even the All-Stars when he played in it.

His brothers did, or kept tabs, and would occasionally message him after games, although no one was as consistent as Mandy.

They, too, didn’t believe the tabloid photos. Nope, just his dad who’d thought he’d manage to turn Mickey straight by forcing him to—

He didn't even want to think about it.

Terry yelled another slur at the TV as Ian skated by and Mickey visibly flinched. “I’m gettin’ another beer,” he said and fled to the kitchen. He popped the top off a beer and leaned against the kitchen counter. The house had been renovated with NHL hockey money. It was a still a shithole, but his dad had no interest in moving.

Terry yelled again and Mickey’s eye twitched. Gallagher had turned him soft. He never used to care. He’d just ignored it.

But now, now, everything was fucked up.

He hadn’t spoken to Ian since New York a month earlier. Mickey had played him in Toronto two weeks ago and had ignored his calls and messages. After that, Ian had stopped trying. He went silent.

Mickey hadn’t even had the guts to read the messages. Every day he just stared at that horrible red ’11’ notification number on his IMessage. By now Ian’s name was buried below the fold, but that notification remained. Taunting him. Reminding him he was a coward.

And he was. A coward. He saw that now. He’d barely slept for the last month. Just lain awake at night staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck was wrong with him.

Lane’s offer had been genuine. And he’d thrown it away. And ‘cause of what? The old man yelling that 'Austen Matthews is a shirt lifter' at the TV right now?

But he was frozen. Afraid. He couldn't seem to take a step forward. Or backwards. He couldn't fix it. And he hated it.

He stood in the kitchen nursing his beer and drowning in self-loathing, counting the minutes until this farce was over. He was lost in thought until Iggy’s shout broke through the incessant whirring of his brain.

“Oh shit!”

“That looked like it hurt,” Colin agreed.

“He’s not getting up. Is he dead?”

Dread filled Mickey’s heart, and he sprinted back to the TV. And there. On the massive screen. A lifeless Ian Gallagher was in a heap on the ice.

“What the fuck happened?” Mickey yelled, panic lacing every word. He grabbed Iggy’s shoulder and shook. “Iggy, what happened?”

Iggy looked at him, confused, but picked up on his distress. “He got checked, headfirst, into the boards by Viktor Svedburg. Hard. Looked like an accident, but he got his bell rung, man. Went down like a sack of potatoes.”

Mickey just stared at his brother in abject horror before turning his eyes back to the screen. He chewed off a hangnail while he watched the medics come out onto the ice and assess him. Mickey didn’t blink, watching for a twitch. A sign of life. There was nothing.

He felt lightheaded, his chest felt so compressed. They replayed the hit over and over again from different angles. Svedburg was almost 7 feet tall without skates. The guy was a monster.

Mickey had taken a light hit or two from the guy and remembered it. He couldn’t fathom what he was seeing. He watched the medics carry Ian off on a stretcher. He waited while they put Viktor in the penalty box. He waited to hear anything. They’d give an update soon. He knew they would. They had to.

He didn’t know if anyone was saying anything to him. At some point, Iggy had come to stand by his side and Colin had taken Terry to the kitchen to distract him with shots. Mickey couldn’t care less if even his nitwit brothers had figured it out. He didn’t care if Terry had.

He knew one thing and one thing only. He needed Ian to be okay.

“We’ve just had word that Ian Gallagher, #7, who was just taken off the ice in a stretcher. Is conscious and talking to medics. He’s going to be rushed to the hospital for further assessment," the announcer explained. Mickey took his first breath in minutes.

Mickey’s vision blurred. He blinked, pressing a palm into his eye socket so hard he saw stars. Iggy’s hand landed on his shoulder and pushed him out of the living room and into Iggy’s bedroom.

“He.. and you …,” Iggy said quietly, trailing off.

Mickey just nodded. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and pulled up Austen Matthews' contact. “Which hospital?” he texted.

The answer came through an endless 40 minutes later, once the game was done and players were in the locker room.

Mathews: Northwestern Memorial

In that time, some of Terry's friends had started to filter in for the party. Terry barged into Iggy's room where Mickey had been hiding out.

"Mickey, get out here. The guys want to meet the hockey player."

Mickey looked up at his dad with unseeing eyes. He was not dealing with this right now. "Fuck off, the zoo animal isn't available for viewing right now," Mickey said and pushed past Terry out of the room and into the living room.

Mickey turned toward the door. “Mick!” Iggy called, and Mickey turned around.

“Keys." Iggy tossed them.

Mickey caught them and gave his brother a grateful look. But Terry had followed them out into the living room.

"'Ey fuck you, faggot. Get in here right now. You ain't goin' nowhere," Terry growled, moving to stand in front of the door. His friends all stopped talking to watch the drama unfolding.

"You gotta problem, Mickey? You too big and famous for your old man's friends?" one of the guys joked. It was the wrong thing to say in front of Terry.

"Is that right? You got more important places to be?" Terry said, the threat clear in his voice.

"Yeah, my friend is hurt. I gotta go."

"That ginger faggot? What? You gotta run to your little boyfriend? Or you gonna stay here and drink like a man?"

And well, that was about the end of Mickey's rope for the night. "Fuck you, old man. I've had enough of your shit."

He stepped around Terry, reaching for the door handle, when Terry closed a hand around Mickey's bicep tight enough to bruise, yanking him back into the room. His other fist raised like he was going to swing.

But Mickey wasn't a scared little boy anymore. He was a professional athlete. So he stepped back, tugging Terry's centre of gravity off-balance. Then he shoved Terry in the chest and watched as he toppled backwards, landing on his ass. Terry's friends roared with laughter.

Mickey shook his head in disgust. "You're pathetic. That ginger faggot is more of a man than you'll ever be." He spat on the floor at his father's feet.

And with that, he left.

He found Iggy's beat-up Toyota halfway down the block.

He made it to the hospital in record time. Grateful he hadn't gotten a ticket. He'd be in enough trouble with Lane as it was. What he was about to do was arguably riskier to his reputation.

His mind was a mess the whole way over. He ran through every worst case scenario. Paralyzed and never able to walk again? What if he had a brain bleed from the impact? They wore helmets now and severe injuries were rare. But they fucking happened. There wasn’t a hockey player alive that didn’t know the dangers of a concussion, never mind the edge cases of what could happen in the case of head or neck injury.

But what stood out to him most was how dumb he felt. How angry with himself he was. What the fuck was wrong with him? Here he was running scared, cause of what? Mickey could barely remember why he cared what his dad thought. And so what if they get caught? So they get cyber-bullied?

Mickey hated twitter and farmed his social media out to his personal PR team to handle. He barely looked at it except occasionally when he creeped on Mandy from his anonymous private account to make sure she hadn't gotten herself abducted or worse, was dating another awful guy.

Mickey thought about his problem. His problem. His problem was he was in love with Ian Gallagher and had been for a long time. And now, what if he never got to tell him?

Of course, once he was actually standing in the hospital. Despite his revelation, he got nervous. There was no way he was hiding this. There were undoubtably journalists camped out in every corner of this hospital.

He walked up to reception.

“I need Ian Gallagher’s room.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t give out that information. Are you kin?”

“Am I—oh no. I’m a teammate,” he lied. “Hey, I can get you a signed jersey. Anyone in your family a hockey fan?”

She eyed him warily. Fortunately, luck was with him. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Matthews: room 245

He made a mental note to kiss Matthews on his stupid, mustached mouth the next time he saw him.

“Actually, all good,” he told the receptionist and took off down the hall. He saw a guy with a huge professional camera slung around his neck dipping into a bathroom down the hall and made a snap decision.

He opened up his texts with Lane and fired off a message.

Mickey: dude sorry for this but im gay. And I’m at the hospital to visit gallagher. don’t kill me but there’s a good chance im gonna get photographed

Not even 10 seconds later, his phone started to buzz. He silenced it and turned it all the way off, shoving it into his pocket.

He paused outside the door to Room 245. He took a deep breath. Turned the knob. And went in.

The room was dark, so he was surprised when he walked into a room full of people arguing. It was the last thing he was expecting.

There were five people cluttered around the bed. A guy with tousled dirty blond hair and big eyes that made him look like a lemur, and a younger redheaded girl who was holding a hand of a redheaded kid who had to be around 7. There was also an awkwardly gangly black pre-teen, and a guy in a meter maid uniform with short hair. And they were all yelling over one another.

“Mickey?” Ian’s voice was scratchy, but it still cut through the room.

Everyone fell silent and turned to look at the newcomer.

Mickey didn’t care, though. He had eyes for one person. Ian.

He was partially sitting up in the hospital bed, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. He had a butterfly bandage on his forehead at his hairline, and was holding an ice pack on top of his hair.

But he was okay. He was sitting up and talking. Mickey almost cried with relief when he saw his feet shift under the blanket.

His eyes burned and his throat got too thick to talk. So he just stood there awkwardly, swallowing, trying to remember how to function like a normal human.

“Can you guys give us a minute?” Ian asked, as though sensing Mickey’s distress.

Everyone murmured their agreement and started to file out, all but the Lemur.

“So you're Mickey? Hey fuck you, man. You don’t get to just waltz in here whenever it’s convenient for you. Do you know what you’ve put my broth— "

“Lip.” Ian’s voice was loud in the small room, even with the strain. “I’m a big boy now, don't need you to fight my battles. Get the fuck out.”

Lip looked at Ian for a long moment, then with a final glare at Mickey, turned to leave.

Normally, Mickey would smack that smug look right off that Lemur’s face. But his reaction had been telling. Mickey had done even worse damage than he had realized. Had he fucked this up beyond repair? Oh no, oh no, oh no. His throat got tighter.

Before he was gone, Ian called out, “Don't let anyone in.”

There was no response. The door closed hard. Mickey stood there trying to breath but instead just stood there, staring unhelpfully. Rooted to the spot. Frozen in his own mistakes.

“Mick. Come here,” Ian ordered.

Mickey shook his head. He had no right. He couldn’t.

“Mickey.” Ian pulled back the sheets and slid over as far as he could go, patting the bed where there was now space.

Mickey gave up and gave in. He forced his frozen legs to move and he walked to the bed, sat down next to Ian and swung his legs up, curling into Ian's warmth.

And he crumpled. Tears ran down his cheeks silently as Ian’s arm came around him, he tucked his face into Ian’s neck. And took a couple of big shuddering breaths.

“Are you okay?” he finally managed to ask, voice strangled.

“I’m fine. Concussion. Probably out for two weeks on concussion protocol. No bright lights, loud sounds, or screens ." He pressed a soft kiss to Mickey’s hair and Mickey hated himself a little more being the one who was getting comforted. “I’m mostly in danger from dying of boredom.”

Mickey snorted out a wet laugh. “That’s not fuckin’ funny you prick.”

“So after ghosting me for weeks? You’ve somehow magically appeared in Chicago to cry on me and call me a prick? This is some apology,” Ian said with a chuckle.

“I didn’t fuckin’ cry,” Mickey said, wiping his knuckles across his cheeks.

“Sure, Mick.” The eye roll was clear in his voice.

Mickey wrapped his arms tightly around Ian’s torso and squeezed him as hard as he could. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole.”

Ian’s chest bounced lightly as he laughed. “Better.”

“I was at home. And my piece of shit Dad was calling everyone on your team a fag on TV and then you just went down so fuckin’ hard, man. I thought you were never gonna get back up again.”

Ian pressed another kiss to his hair. “S’okay. I’m okay.”

“I-uh-care about you. So fuckin’ much, man. I’m sorry I disappeared. I got spooked.”

“The pictures from the game?” Ian asked like he was slotting a puzzle piece into place.

“Yeah. I—fuck—don’t even care. I shouldn’t have cared. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

“I know.”

“You don’t seem that surprised.”

“We’ve been doing this thing for three years, Mickey. I know you better than you think I do," Ian explained. “I was a little surprised to see you in New York, though. You were being weird even then.”

Mickey cringed.

“Was it cause I told you I was bipolar?”

Mickey sat up so fast he almost smacked his head into Ian and gave him a second concussion. “What?” he asked, suddenly realizing how it had looked. “No. Fuck no. Ian, I don’t give a fuck about that.”

“It’s okay if you do, Mickey,” he said sadly. Taking the ice pack off his head and playing with it in his hands. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No Ian. Look at me.” He placed a gentle finger under the Redhead's chin and pulled his head back to look him in the eye. “I don’t give a fuck about that. I mean, sure I spent the next couple days googling shit 'cause I don’t know much about it, but I don’t care, man.”

Ian looked confused, “Then—?"

“Pasternak. He almost caught me comin’ outta your room.”

Understanding dawned on Ian’s face. “Oh.” Then confusion. “Why are you here? You’re gonna get photographed. There’ll be questions.”

“I know. I messaged my PR manager already. Don’t care anymore.”

“You don’t?” Skeptical.

“I mean, I do. I'm trying not to. It was worth it to see that you’re okay. There was no other choice for me, man.”

Ian’s face turned all moony at that. And Mickey chuckled, “Are you gonna get all schmoopy now?”

“Maybe I fuckin’ am. You gotta problem with that?” Ian growled, leaning in so close their noses were touching.

“Me? No of course-" and Ian cut him off with lips pressed against lips.

Their lips slotted together, mouths moving in tandem. Pressing kiss after kiss. Mickey licked at the seam of Ian’s mouth and his lips parted, but as soon as their tongues touched, Ian moaned. And not in a sexy way. He pulled back and leaned his head against the pillow, groaning, pressing the ice pack back to his head.

“Oh no. Nope. Nauseous,” Ian whined pathetically.

Mickey couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“It’s not fucking funny. I waited so long to kiss you and you’ve made my life hell since I did. And now that I can, it’s making me physically ill.”

Mickey laughed a little harder at that. 'Cause, as previously mentioned, he was an asshole.

They both jumped as the door to the room flung open.

“I’m a nurse. You’re not allowed to keep me out, young man. Your brother needs to be woken up every couple of—oh!” the nurse barging into the room stuttered, trailed by an apologetic looking Lip.

Mickey awkwardly sat straight up and then climbed off the bed like he didn’t know how he’d found himself there in the first place.

“Mr. Gallagher, you’re meant to be resting.”

“Hi Denise. I’m sorry. My friend just came to check on me.” ‘Cause of course Ian was on a first name with all the staff already,

Denise’s shrewd eyes took in Ian’s ‘friend.’ “Uh huh. Well no one will be allowed to stay if you aren’t getting rest. The three R’s Mr. Gallagher!” She waggled a finger and Mickey got the sense this wasn’t the first time Ian had heard the lecture. “Rest, rehabilitation, and recovery.”

“Yes, Denise. I’ll be good. I promise. My friend promises to be quiet if he stays.”

Mickey pretended to zip his lips and throw away the key for good measure. Denise rolled her eyes and with one more stern finger shake at Mickey, turned to leave. Then, she turned her attention on Lip. “And you. Keep your zoo of a family out of here. He needs rest. No loud noises. Shoo.”

And with that, they left again.

Mickey looked over and Ian had rested his head back, eyes closed.

He walked up. Smoothing Ian’s hair back from his forehead rhythmically.

“Sleep, Gallagher. We’ll talk later.”

Ian’s eyes fluttered as he fought the exhaustion but he reached out and grabbed Mickey's free hand. “No, you’ll be gone when I wake up. I fuckin' hate that, Mickey.”

Mickey melted into a pile of goo. Oh god, he was so fucked.

“I’m gonna stay tonight. And I’ll wake you before I leave in the morning for my flight to Vancouver.”

“Fuckin’ Canuck dickwads.”

Mickey grinned.

“But we need to talk,” Ian said quietly, already drifting off.

“We’ll talk when you’re outta here. I promise.”

“M’not allowed screens.”

Mickey chuckled. “You can call me and put it on speaker. Then you don’t even have to hold your phone and your hands will be free for phone sex.”

“Mickey.”

“Ian. I promise, aight? I promise we will have a real, horrible, grown-up, embarrassing conversation. Okay? Now sleep.”

“Okay,” Ian mumbled, and started to drifted off.

Mickey got comfortable as he could in the chair next to the bed. He rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes and fully relaxing for the first time in hours.

Then he remembered the existence of that horrible iMessage notification. Maybe it was time to face the music and read those messages.

He turned on his phone and clicked into the messages, scrolling down to the messages that he had been avoiding. Seeing a preview for the last one that read, “fuck you Mickey.”

He took a deep breath. And he clicked. The first two messages were from when he was still in New York.

Ian: Hold up. did YOU buy a jersey? What are your thoughts on wearing just a jersey?

Ian: Okay fine. You can wear the Leafs' cap and your jock strap. I’m reasonable.

2 days later.

Ian: hey.. haven’t heard from you. When you're in Toronto next week I was thinking. Wanna come to my condo? Instead of a hotel room?

A week later.

Ian: sorry if that was too much. A hotel room is fine.

A day after that.

Ian: yo. The game is tomorrow night are you seriously ignoring me? What the fuck happened in New York?

Ian: even your sister has texted me. Mickey wtf

The next day

Ian: game day. Am I gonna see you after?

Ian: guess that’s a no

That night

//Missed call from Lucky N7//

Ian: I didn’t want to do this over text. But look I like you. I actually really fucking like you. I know it’s just supposed to be sex... but it’s not to me anymore. It hasn’t been for a really long fucking time.

Ian: and if that’s not what you want.. fuckin fine don’t fuckin ghost me after three fucking years Mickey

Ian: fuck you mickey

Mickey’s heart sank. Actually it may have just turned to tar and dropped into the depths of the earth. Ian liked him too.

He prayed that, after everything, Ian would still somehow want him.

Mickey tried his best to get a little sleep but with the uncomfortable chair, Ian's every-two hour wake up checks, the morning rounds and general hospital noise, he wasn’t very successful. Mostly he just kept busy by stewing in self-hatred.

He read Lane’s texts, expecting yelling, but instead was shocked.

Lane: Mickey. Thanks for telling me. I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t before. You don’t know this, but I’m gay. Me and my partner officially welcome you to ‘gay and working in the NHL club’. It’s small. It’s shitty. But it exists. I knew about Ian so I guessed, but I’m glad you told me.

Lane: me and the guys will monitor the story and continue with the ‘friends from Chicago/with your sister’ thread that worked in New York in case there are any photos.

Lane: tomorrow we’ll draft up some ‘just in case’ releases on the off chance you ever get outed or want to come out.

Lane: Want me to reach out to team management? The NHL supports queer players, Mickey. And the Panthers is a decent team for it. They’ll support you. You aren’t even the only guy in the known closet who’s played there.

Lane: Tell me and we’ll support you through it. Both as your PR manager… and as a friend.

Mickey felt a burn in the back of his throat. He’d been caught by his dad and basically outed to his siblings as a result. He’d never actually come out to anyone before. A text to Lane had been the closest thing, and he’d been taught to expect violence at worst, vitriol at best.

But he had never expected kindness. He hadn’t even known Lane was gay. He'd never paid enough attention.

At 6AM he gently woke Gallagher with a kiss to his forehead and a shake of his shoulder.

“Mick?” Ian said groggily, out of it from the combination of the head injury and lots of pain meds.

“Yeah, I gotta go, man. Gotta play tonight.”

Ian reached out and took his hand, tugging him closer and nuzzling his head into Mickey’s chest, snaking an arm around his waist and holding him tightly. Mickey’s arms went around him gingerly, avoiding the goose egg on his forehead and anywhere where visible bruises were now appearing. He place a gentle kiss to his hair.

“We’ll talk soon. Tell me when they let you outta here.”

Ian nodded against his chest but didn’t let go.

“I’ll see ya soon.”

“You said that last time.”

“I mean it. And I do have your stupid fuckin’ jersey. Mandy hid in in my suitcase when I left New York. Maybe we can negotiate somethin’ that doesn’t make me feel like a puck bunny.”

At this Ian looked up at him, more awake. Eyes like saucers, full puppy mode. “And the jock strap?”

“Jesus fuckin’ christ. We’ll see.”

Ian smiled like he’d already won. And well, let’s be honest, he probably had.

Mickey kissed him lightly on the lips, not wanting to risk making him dizzy again. “Rest.”

And with that he left. Off to Vancouver for his next game.

Chapter 7: 'Cause I never felt so

Chapter Notes

February

Mickey and the Panthers won against Vancouver and went on to win their next several games. It looked very likely they’d be in the playoffs.

Ian was on LTIR (long term injury list) for the time being. Toronto had lost most of their games, sealing their fate that it wasn’t going to be a playoff year for them.

Mickey felt bad for the guy. It sucked, not making the playoffs. But he more felt bad for himself.

Last time the Leafs made it to the Stanley Cup final, only to lose—they were notorious for choking in the last minute, Ian had grown a scruffy, sexy beard. The feel of it against his thighs was still something he had dirty daydreams about.

Mickey’s playoff beard, on the other hand, was patchy and embarrassing.

Mickey had slept in three different hotel rooms in the last week, alone. The league was buzzing with the playoffs fast approaching and the trade deadline looming. The amplified stress was putting all the players on edge. So needless to say, he was happy to be back in Florida for a couple of home games.

Ian had been released from the hospital and was resting at his family’s home in Chicago, but his screen time was being extremely limited. That and the fact that his caretaker was the brother that hated Mickey, he hadn’t received many texts. Ian had warned him that Lip was refusing to send many on his behalf.

Clearly he was not immune to Ian’s puppy dog eyes, though, as Mickey would get an occasional text from Lip like the one that read:

Lip: hey asshole. Ian is making me text you. He is asking you to send photos of the jersey for his recovery. Which sounds like a weird fucking sex thing so fuck you both

To which Mickey helpfully replied with: 'ya it’s code for a dick pic. Want a full body or just junk?'

He got no response.

So he was both nervous and excited when the end of the week rolled around and he was finally home. Not on the road, or in practice. He was on his couch. In his sweats. And counting down the minutes to his scheduled phone call with Ian.

The phone rang a couple times, and he waited with clammy hands, wondering if Ian was gonna stand him up out of spite. But then the phone connected.

“Hey Mick.” Ian's voice sounding deeper over the phone.

“How’s the busted noggin?”

“I’m so bored. Save me. I wanna play hockey.”

“Calm down, a couple days off isn’t gonna kill you.”

“I actually broke down and started listening to the audiobook Mandy sent me.”

“Gallagher. No. Rule number one. Never, ever listen to the drivel Mandy sends you.”

“It’s called ‘Him’. And it’s this queer hockey romance. It’s kinda hot, but I also kinda hate myself.”

Mickey just groaned. “You know how many of those she’s tried to get me to read? She’s obsessed.”

Ian chuckled quietly.

“You feelin’ okay? How’re the headaches?” Mickey asked again.

“They’re getting better.”

“Don’t the pain meds mess with your bipolar meds?” Mickey asked, glad they weren’t on FaceTime and Ian couldn’t see him blush.

“Did you google that?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re okay. My doctors are monitoring it.” Ian’s voice was fond.

Mickey nodded, even though Ian couldn’t see him. There was a long pause.

“What is this, Mickey? You and me? What do you want?” Ian asked.

Mickey closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. He had expected this would be hard, but Jesus. He’d kept this tucked so far down for so long it made him a little ill to say the words out loud. He wasn’t even sure he had the words in his vocabulary.

“Mickey?”

“You, man. I want—", he let out a breath he’d been holding, “you”.

Ian breathed out a relieved sigh across the line and half a country away.

“I want you too. But—," he paused. “You can’t keep disappearing. I want it for real.”

“I know,” Mickey rasped out, throat dry. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“So what now?” Ian asked.

“I dunno,” Mickey said, quietly. He had no idea. “We play Toronto again in a few days, but you’re not even there. Then it’s playoffs.”

“What about the summer? Do you have plans?”

“Supposed to hang with Mandy in New York at some point. Iggy and Colin are tryna talk me into a Miami weekend, which sounds fuckin' terrible. I’ve seen more strip clubs than I ever fuckin’ needed to. If I never see another naked chick, it’ll be too soon.”

Ian chuckled at that. “I’ll be in Chicago with my family a bit. But maybe we could do something there?”

Mickey perked up at that, but then deflated again. “We’re gonna get papped in Chicago, man. And we’ll be close enough for my Pops to kill me when we do.”

Ian made an angry noise. “What about getting a cabin somewhere? The Everglades?”

“Yeah, and get eaten by rednecks or alligators?”

“Private island?”

Mickey smiled. He’d hide under a rock if it meant spending time with Ian. “Yeah, man. We’ll figure something out.” The reality, though, was depressing. Someone would see. They’d slip and some rando would grab a grainy photo of Ian's hand down Mickey's pants, sell it to the tabloids for tens of thousands of dollars.

But he didn’t want to let Ian down again. So he figured, for now, they could pretend they lived in a world where that would work.

“You goin’ to that NHL charity thing the end of next week?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, man. PR is making me.”

“Same. And it looks like I'll be off the LTIR by then. At least we’ll see each other there. And well,” he paused, “maybe I could, ya know, wear a decent disguise and go with Mandy to a playoff game or two.”

Mickey felt his cheeks turn pink. The idea of having Gallagher come to his playoff games made his stomach hurt in a good way. Knowing he had someone. Had Ian. Watching from the stands? That sounded pretty fucking great.

“Yeah. That’d be good.”

“Yeah?”

“But my disguise was fine.”

“Yeah, worked real well. I’ll try it your way. Just wear a Milkovich jersey and stand in the front row in perfect sight of the cameras. See if I’m totally invisible, like you were.”

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey laughed. "Mandy was in the jersey."

"The effect was similar."

They were both quiet for a minute. Mickey's cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling.

“So you gonna try to grow out that sad attempt at a playoff beard again?” Ian asked after a minute.

“‘Ey now. My playoff beard is fine.” It was not.

“My 13 year old brother was jealous of it.”

“Fuck you!” Mickey tried to be annoyed but couldn’t help but laugh. "He should be so lucky."

March 1

Smack.

Mandy slapped his hand away where it was reaching, again, to pull at his bowtie.

“I just fixed that. Stop messing with it or I’ll chop your fingers off one by one,” Mandy threatened, pointing a finger at his chest.

“It’s so tight. Are you sure that’s how it’s supposed to be? I look fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“You look hot. And it’s Black Tie. Thus the black tie.” She pointed at said bowtie.

“I can’t pull this off. I don’t know what Lane was thinking.”

“Lane was thinking your image needs a cleanup, so showing up in a penguin suit to the NHL’s charity gala and donating an obscene amount of money to children’s cancer research a good look. And he’s right.”

Mickey waited until Mandy was looking down at her phone to reach up and pull at the tie again. She smacked him again without so much as a glance up from her phone. “Enough fidgeting. Ian’s gonna think you look hot. And even if he doesn’t, you’re his boooyyyfrrriieeennndd now, so he'll bang you anyway.”

“Calm your tits, alright. No one has used that word.'”

“To you, maybe.” Mandy smirked at him.

“What? Mandy." He snatched the phone outta her hand and held it behind him. "What has Ian said to you?”

Mandy cackled. “He just called you his boyfriend, Mickey. You’re the only one bein’ a fuckin’ weirdo about it. What did you think was happening?”

Mickey stood there, genuinely confounded. ‘Cause, yeah, okay. They’d talked about being together 'for real.' And logically Mickey had known that meant they weren’t going to be with other people. And were going to try to be together in a real—not just banging—kinda way.

But Mickey was emotionally stunted, and didn’t think his mouth knew how to form the word b-o-y-f-r-i-e-n-d. He had a boyfriend? Gallagher was his boyfriend? He expected to feel panic. But instead, he just felt a little warm and fuzzy.

And pretty dumb.

And now about 40x more nervous to see the redhead. He threw his head back and groaned. “I don't know what the fuck I’m doin’.”

“I’m aware,” Mandy replied unhelpfully. “But you don’t need to do anything. Just go flirt with him. And don’t fuck anyone else and you’ll be fine. I’m still annoyed you're in New York, but staying in this hotel room instead of with me.”

“I told you. Ian’s staying in this hotel too. So we can meet up later and bang. And my sister won’t be in the next room listening.”

“I have noise cancelling headphones. And now I won’t get to hang out with Ian. This is bullshit.”

“When did I get relegated to second choice?”

“As soon as the option was open to me.”

“Bitch! You’ll see him at the gala. Are you ready? I’m calling an Uber.”

“It’s not the same. We won’t get to hang, hang," she said, her words warped as she made an 'O' with her mouth to finish applying her lipstick. She adjusted her simple full-length black gown, which was skintight and open all the way to the bottom of her tailbone in the back. "I’m ready. Let’s go subtly hit on your hot hockey player boyfriend in front of a room full of your teammates and rich people.”

The gala was already in full swing when they rolled up. Mickey was grateful he’d opted for his sunglasses to hide behind as a million bulbs flashed as they made their way up the red carpet.

“Mickey!” the paparazzi yelled.

“Milkovich! Over here.”

“Who’s your date tonight? New girlfriend?"

Mickey made a face. “Hell no. This is my sister, Mandy.”

Voices behind gigantic lenses started yelling, “Mandy! Over here! Who are you wearing?”

Mandy loved every second of it. She made Mickey stop and pose for a million photos until he forced her up the carpet and into the gala. Inside was a sea of tuxes and ballgowns. The air smelled like perfume and money.

Mickey grabbed two flutes of champagne off the first tray he saw and handed one to Mandy, downing most of his in one gulp.

Mandy giggled next to him and he glanced over to find her watching him. “You’re nervous.”

“Shut the fuck up. I play professional sports. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, right. Bet your palms are clammy.”

And well, they were. But he wasn’t going to admit that. He finished his champagne and intercepted another from a passing tray. He hadn’t seen Ian since his embarrassing display of emotions in the hospital. And now the ‘B’ word was just out there. Floating around in the world.

He didn’t have more time to worry because he was accosted by Marchand and Barkov.

“Milkovich! You haven’t introduced us to your sister,” Barkov said, slinging an arm around Mickey’s shoulder and holding out a hand to Mandy. Who, as expected, flipped her hair and batted her eyelashes.

“Hi. I’m Mandy.”

“Aleksander Barkov. I’m the best player on the Panthers and Team Captain, but I’m sure Mickey has told you that.”

“I definitely fuckin’ haven’t.” Everyone ignored him.

“If you don’t mind my saying, it’s so weird you look so much like Mickey but are so hot,” Barkov continued.

Mandy giggled. Mickey rolled his eyes. It was gonna be a long night.

“Can we get you a drink?” Marchand offered, pointing at Mandy’s empty champagne flute.

“Of course.”

“Yeah, get me a whiskey,” Mickey muttered.

“We weren’t talking to you,” Barkov said, and with a squeeze of his shoulder, they whisked his date off to the bar.

Mickey just shook his head and watched as they walked off, all idiocy and hockey boy charm. This was why Mandy had agreed to come. She’d spend her night happily flirting while she was fawned over by every single dude in the NHL.

He walked over to a further bar that had fewer people at it. He ordered a bourbon on ice from the bartender and leaned his elbow against the bar behind him, scanning the crowd, trying to catch sight of red hair with no luck. Instead, he saw a head of tousled dirty blond hair and pair of slutty glasses headed his way. Lane.

“Mickey!” Lane held out a hand and he shook it.

“Lane.”

“This is my partner, Oscar.”

Mickey shook Oscar’s hand too, recognizing the former hockey player. “Hey man.”

“Good to meet ya.”

“You’re pulling off the bow tie. Well done for showing up with your sister. Excellent brownie points with the media.” Lane told him. 

Mickey made a face. “Glad I could make you happy.”

“Keep it up.” Lane glanced over Mickey’s shoulder. “We better make the rounds. Catch you later.”

As they wandered off, Mickey felt a presence enter his personal space as the band started singing on the main stage.

“Who knew Mickey Milkovich could pull off Black Tie,” a husky voice said in his ear, sending a shiver up his spine and heat heading south.

He looked up in the green irises of one Ian Gallagher. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

Ian looked delectable in his tux. Like it had been tailored within an inch of its life—the fabric pulling tight over his biceps. His hair was styled back in a way that made it look a deeper red than usual.

Mickey allowed himself a pulse to just look at the other man. Not just because he was incredibly attractive. But because he was here in person. In one piece. No bruises or hospital gown. His cheeks had colour. He looked healthy and Mickey felt a deep sense of relief. Like he could finally relax.

“Sam Pinchuk is hitting on Mandy. Should we save her?” Ian asked.

Sure enough, Pinchuk was making an attempt. “Nah, she knows he’s a homophobic prick. She can handle herself.”

Sure enough, they watched as Mandy leaned in and said something. And by the look in her eyes and reaction on Sam’s face, it hadn’t been complimentary. He made a face and wandered off, like he hadn’t known how he had found himself there in the first place. Mandy was swept up by a group of WAGs who looked to be complimenting her dress.

“Your bourbon,” the bartender said, resting it on the bar behind Mickey. “What can I get you?” he asked Ian.

“Just a beer, thanks.”

Mickey turned, leaning on the bar, holding his drink. Ian mirrored his stance, elbows just barely touching. The band started up a soulful rendition of I’ve never felt so alone by Labyrinth. The female singer’s voice was melancholic and beautiful against the backdrop of the string quartet. And it made his chest ache.

“It’s nice to see ya,” Mickey said lamely. But it was true.

“You too. I-I missed you.” Ian’s blush matched his hair.

They held eye contact for a long note. Mickey wanted nothing more than to just grab Ian’s hand and drag him out of there. But the presentation hadn't happened yet. No one had donated any money and he couldn’t leave Mandy in a sea of fuckboys. But he almost did it anyway.

“You know, straight dudes, especially ones who are meant to be rivals, don’t share long meaningful looks during romantic songs.” With arms around their shoulders, Austen Matthews slid between them.

Mickey snorted and looked down at his drink, taking a sip and praying the heat he felt up the back of his neck wasn’t quite as red as it felt it might be.

“Matthews,” Ian greeted wryly.

Matthews knew. Of course he did. Mickey had shown his hand that day with the questions about the hospital. And Matthews and Ian were friends. Ian admitted he’d told him something was going on with another player earlier in the year and Matthews had put the pieces together. So now, obviously, he was being insufferable about it.

“Got room for a third?” He threw a cheeky wink at Mickey.

“Oh shit,” Mickey gasped, then relaxed. Ian and Austen tensed. “Nah, it’s okay. I thought that fuckin’ caterpillar was gonna crawl off your lip and attack. But nope. It’s still fuckin’ there.”

Ian let out a loud laugh.

“Fuck you, man. Just for that, I’m gonna go offer your sister a moustache ride.”

Mickey almost gagged. “What the fuck Matthews?”

Matthews just laughed and waved them over. "Come on. Let’s go save her from the WAGS and remind her that I’m still single, shall we?”

Ian’s mouth met Mickey’s before they were even out of the hallway. They crashed through Mickey’s hotel room door and were ripping off bow ties and unbuttoning buttons as the door clicked closed.

It was reckless, and Lane had warned him that if he wanted to come out, to do it on his own terms and try not to get caught but as Ian’s lips pressed against his, and his tongue pressed against his own, he was struggling to remember why he’d ever cared.

The whole night had been torture. Mickey assumed that now that they were together—boyfriends—it would be easier to be around Ian in public. He was wrong.

It had felt wrong being so near to his redhead and unable to touch him. He’d watched Mandy flirt shamelessly with every hockey player in the room. He’d watched Lane dance to a slow song with his partner. And he'd felt… angry. Why couldn’t he have that?

He and Ian spent enough time close to each other than night that even with Matthews and Mandy running interference, Lane had shot him a few pointed looks.

But they were finally alone. No roommates or teammates or separated by hundreds of miles. And both Mickey and his right hand were all too aware they hadn’t hooked up since their shower sex encounter in December. So he was gonna enjoy this.

“Fuck this shirt,” Ian growled and ripped Mickey’s shirt open the rest of the way. Buttons pinged off the walls.

“Man, that shit wasn’t chea-" Ian cut his complaint off with his mouth.

Mickey moaned as their chests pressed together, skin to skin. Ian’s hands slid down and grabbed his ass, lifting him off the ground and hoisting him up so Mickey’s legs went around Ian’s waist.

“Eh, I’m not your puck fuck, man,” Mickey complained.

“Shut up, you like it.” Okay, maybe Ian did know him better than he realized.

Ian tossed him down on the bed and followed after, reconnecting their mouths and covering him with his whole body. Mickey groaned shamelessly into Ian’s mouth. His hips canted up, looking for friction. They both moaned again as they rutted their clothed cocks together.

“Pants,” Ian growled, “off.”

They both reached between them and started undoing buttons and zippers, tugging down trousers. Ian paused, “Wait. Do you have my jersey here with you?”

“What?”

“Mickey. This is my number one fantasy. Don’t hold out on me.”

“It’s back in Florida.”

The grumpy look Ian gave him then. “Fine. Next time we’re in Florida. Or next FaceTime sex. Or both.”

Mickey groaned.

“This is happening, Mick. Best you get on board now.”

Then an evil glint came into Ian’s eye. “Hold on, you’re flying straight to a game, right?”

“Yeah?”

Ian jumped up, found Mickey’s hockey bag, and started rooting around.

“Ian. It has been so long since I’ve had your dick up my ass. Are you seriously making me wait right now?”

“It’s gonna be worth it, I promise.” And he stood up brandishing Mickey’s jock strap.

Mickey couldn’t do anything but laugh as the (fortunately clean) jockstrap hit him in the face.

“Put it on,” Ian ordered, taking the opportunity to remove the rest of his clothes.

“You’re obsessed with jockstraps man.”

“No, I'm obsessed with you in a jock strap.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s your fault. You created this monster.”

“How is that true?" Mickey, resigned to his fate, pulled off the rest of his tux and pulled on the jock strap.

“Team USA, 2022. You never wore fuckin’ pants. You just paraded around in that fuckin' thing, smirking at me. It was like my own personal hell. I’d been so excited to get chosen for the team and there I was! Trying not to get hard in the locker room.”

“Aw, I’m so sorry for you.”

“It was a hard time for me!”

Ian came to lie down on the bed next to him, on his back. Legs wide, he started stroking himself slowly.

“Walk around, show off for me.”

“You’re such a perv.”

“Heck yes I am.” He pointed for Mickey to get going. So Mickey got off the bed and strutted around a little, adjusting his dick. Cups weren’t built for erections.

He made it around to the other side of the bed before Ian grabbed his hand and tugged him down on to the bed, manhandling him until he was bent over and spread out.

He slapped Mickey’s ass, hard. Mickey let out a shameful moan and tried to reach into his cup. Ian slapped his hand away.

“I’m gonna open you up with my tongue and make you cum,” Ian promised, spreading his cheeks and squeezing the meat of his ass. And boy howdy, was Mickey glad he'd taken the most thorough shower of his life earlier.

“Ian, you gotta fuck me, please,” he begged.

“I will, baby. Don’t you worry." And with that he dove in, licking a thick strip over Mickey’s hole. Mickey had never let anyone do this before, so he buried his red face in a pillow and held on for dear life.

Mickey cried out and pushed back as Ian’s tongue entered him. It felt so dirty Mickey didn’t think he’d ever recover. Ian went to town on him and Mickey lost his mind. Stuck between trying to rut forward mindlessly for friction on his trapped cock or push back to ride Ian’s face.

He hadn’t even noticed Ian reaching for the lube, he just felt Ian’s lubed up fingers sliding into him next to his tongue. “Ah fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, and spasmed as Ian’s fingers hit that special spot inside him. His body was overwhelmed with sensation. His balls drawing tight.

“Ian. I’m gonna—“. He let out an unholy moan.

“Come for me, Mickey. Then I’ll give you what you want and fuck you.”

Mickey gasped as Ian’s tongue slid into him again, his hips bucking fruitlessly.

Ian added a third finger, and it was all over. Mickey spasmed and came into the jock strap with a noise he would deny ever making.

And then he collapsed.

After a minute, he came back to himself to feel Ian lightly kissing up his spine and mindlessly rubbing his hard-on against Mickey’s hip.

He slid the jockey strap down, freeing Mickey's cock. Ian reached a hand around and stroked him once, making him shiver from overstimulation. He pressed into Mickey's hip again, clearly enjoying the mess he'd made.

Despite the insane orgasm, Mickey was still horny.

“Fuck me, Ian.”

Ian grabbed his waist and rolled him so he was on his back, and slid between his thighs so they were face to face.

“Mick. Do I need to wear a condom?” He asked, reaching between them to stroke Mickey, using his cum as lube, getting him hard again.

Mickey tried to find some brain cells in his horny-adled brain. “Uh? I got tested at the beginning of the season,” he said.

“Me too. And I haven’t been with anyone else. Have you?”

Mickey realized he had kinda given himself away there. “Nah, man. Only you.”

Ian kissed him, hard. And for a minute, they just kissed and revelled in each other. Hands in hair. On faces. On backs.

“So no condoms?” Ian confirmed.

Mickey's cheeks burned at the intimacy of it, but nodded. Ian kissed him again softly, then hooked Mickey’s knee under his elbow and lined up with his entrance.

Mickey threw his head back and groaned as Ian pushed slowly into him. Bare. Mickey had never done that.

Ian made a strangled noise before he was halfway in. “Mickey, you feel so fucking good. So hot and tight.”

Mickey was already getting hard again, desperate for it after not getting laid in so long. “Ian, fuck,” he moaned wantonly.

Ian paused when he was all the way in. “Ah, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Mickey rubbed his back, giving him a minute to get his shit together, before he wiggled his hips and squeezed. Ian moaned again.

“Move, Ian.”

Ian pulled out and slid back in, starting up a slow pace, pushing in so deep Mickey was seeing stars.

“Fuck, fuck, so full,” he rasped.

He thought this would be a desperate, rough, tumble where they both got off after so long. But instead, it was something else.

It was the first time they were actually together. They were being honest about how they felt. It felt… different. Scarier. But also so good.

Mickey thought his heart was gonna beat out his chest and that his feelings were probably all over his face, but he couldn’t help it. Ian was inside him, and he felt more connected, closer to him, than he ever had before. Then he had ever let himself. He surged up and captured Ian's lips with his.

Ian moaned into his mouth and kissed him deeply. He reached between them and stroked Mickey's aching cock. Owning his whole body.

“Come, Mick, I’m close,” he muttered against his mouth.

Holy shit, Ian was going to cum in him without a condom. The thought alone was enough to push him over the edge he was teetering on.

“Come in me, Ian,” he gasped out as his vision started to go white. His orgasm approaching like a freight train.

Ian made a strangled sound and Mickey felt him pulse hot and wet into his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and followed Ian over the cliff.

Afterward, cleaned up and under the covers, Ian lay quietly, drifting off with his head on Mickey’s chest and an arm around his waist while Mickey ran his fingers through red strands.

Mickey was exhausted, but his brain wouldn’t stop. He felt emotionally wrecked from the day and he could feel the minutes ticking down on the clock.

He felt like he finally had in his grasp something he had always wanted but never admitted to himself. Ian. Someone to come home to. Someone who was his home. He’d figured he didn’t deserve it. That he wasn’t allowed it. But here it was, drooling a little on his chest.

And in the morning Mickey would be on a plane to Winnipeg. And Ian was playing in LA in two days. They had no more games against each other in the regular season. And their playoff plan was thin at best. And that was over a month away.

It felt like it was slipping through his fingers like sand. Like he was trying desperately to hold on to something that barely existed. Even if they wanted to be together. Be out. How could they while playing for different teams?

The whole thing felt hopeless.

Chapter End Notes

a little hommage to LIAB in here ;)

Chapter 8: This is why i never fall in love in spring time

March 7th

It was another stupid home game in his stupid home in Florida. Mickey normally loved home games and even Fort Lauderdale had grown on him. It was a bit strange to live in Florida because Florida is a bit strange. But he had an incredible house right on the beach. Most of the town was populated by retirees from Quebec—a fact he'd been surprised to learn—but he wasn’t there enough time out of the year to care about that. And if needed, it was a 45 minute drive to Miami.

But now? Now it was just an Ian-less wasteland. He rolled over onto his back in bed and turned off the alarm clock buzzing on his Apple Watch. He touched the cold sheets next to him in his King size bed that had been hilariously big when he bought it and now was just mocking him.

Was he going to have to quit hockey?

Maybe he had enough money. Fame hadn’t done anything but depress him. But he loved hockey. He was good at it. But for once in his life, it wasn’t all he wanted. And he didn’t know how to have it all. What? Were they going to wait until they were old and retired to be together for real? To live in the same city? Go out for a beer together in public?

He grabbed for his phone and blearily checked his messages. His screen was filled with an angry text message rant from Terry, which included a wide range of slurs. He deleted them all, not bothering to even click in.

He felt a familiar pang of guilt that he pushed away. He hadn’t spoken to his dad since Chicago. He never wanted to speak to him again. When he got a minute, he was going to look up how to block a phone number.

He was done with Terry’s reign of terror that had haunted him his whole life. Telling Mickey that he was disgusting. A fuck up. A fag. But that never stopped him from standing there with his hand out when it came to Mickey’s money.

It had been a long time coming. He had wanted to cut ties for years, but could never muster the strength to do it. He had so badly wanted to make Terry proud. But Terry was never proud. Mickey never won enough games. Never played for the right hockey team. Never hooked up with enough girls to be straight enough—and he was never going to be.

And then, watching Ian get injured, while Terry stood there and called him names—it snapped the final tethers.

Ian made him want to be a better man. To try.

It was like a lightbulb going off. He didn’t want to be like Terry, whose own kids hated him. Whose family only stuck around because of some confused sense of obligation? Why did he look up to this person? Or care what he thought.

No. Mickey was fucking done. He was finally free.

Mickey rubbed his hands down his face, trying to shake the guilt and anger that the old man brought up.

Ian had been a rock over the whole Terry thing. Both if Mickey wanted to keep talking to his dad or cut ties off completely. Turned out they both knew a thing or two about shitty parental relationships.

But Mickey had bigger issues to focus on.

Like the fact that his boyfriend lived in another country and was talking about dying his hair black so he could sneak into Mickey’s playoff games.

It hadn’t even been a full week since New York and he missed him. He and Ian were texting around the clock. It was extremely unsurprising to find out that Ian was a ‘text good morning every day’ type of guy. He was also obsessed with the ‘b’ word and the usage had gotten a bit out of hand.

7AM Ian: good morning boyfriend 😎

7:12AM Ian: beautiful sunrise on my run today boyfriend

<sunrise photo>

<sunrise photo>

7:42AM Ian: I just missed a call from my agent. This early in the morning? wtf am I getting traded?

Mickey sat up in bed. Today was the trade deadline for the NHL. It was all anyone had talked about all week. But Ian? He had two years left on his contract with Toronto, which would mean someone would have had to buy out the rest of his contract. It wasn’t unheard of, but it was unlikely.

That couldn’t be it. Toronto loved Ian Gallagher.

Mickey checked the time. 8:34AM.

He sent a text off.

8:35AM Mickey: gallagher! good boyfriends don’t leave their boyfriend hanging on texts like that man

8:35AM Mickey: what did your agent say

There was no response. Mickey's chest tightened with anxiety. This could be bad. At least right now they played in the Eastern Conference together. If Ian was traded to LA or Vancouver, he and Mickey wouldn’t play more than two games against each other a season, never mind the added time zone and flight length complications.

Mickey hit the phone icon next to Ian’s contact. The phone went straight to voicemail. What the fuck?

There was nothing further he could do. He made a protein shake. Pulled on his workout gear and grabbed his hockey bag. He had to be at the rink for practice and then weight training before he’d get a short break before the game.

He just hoped he would hear from Ian before hitting the ice tonight.

The day passed in slow motion. Practice was gruelling, but fine. The coaches were putting them through the paces to get into playoff shape with only four weeks to go. Mickey and the team hit the weight room after practice. Some players went to seek out the massage therapists or physio. He snuck to his locker and checked his phone more than once, but had no notifications. Well, he had plenty of notifications from Sports Center and the locker room was full of rumours and breaking news as final trades were announced across the league. But from Toronto’s Right Wing #7? Silence.

Mickey: Gallagher what is going on?

Mickey: when i see you im gonna commit boyfriend-cide or murder-boyfriend or fuckin wtvr call me back

Mickey: Ian im getting worried

It wasn’t until later, that he got his answer. He was sitting at his locker half-dressed in pads and his under armour. The locker room was in its usual state of pre-game mayhem. Music was blaring. The guys were focused on pre-game rituals and trying to manage their nerves.

Mickey was more of a ‘be quietly grumpy, talk to no one and focus on how he was gonna play against these opponents’ kinda player. Today, the opponents happened to be the Nashville Predators.

So he was pretty surprised when the GM of the team walked in alongside their head coach, Paul Maurice.

Maurice clapped to get everyone’s attention. And all the guys filtered in, standing by the doors or sitting down at their lockers. The music was turned off and everyone was paying attention.

"Panthers. As you know, today is the last day of the trade deadline before the playoffs. You’ve been playing hard this year and we have a real shot of making it all the way. An opportunity came up that would help us get even closer to achieving that goal, so we took it.

“What this means is that effectively this afternoon, Sam Pinchuk is no longer playing for the Panthers. He was a good player, and we wish him the best. But he isn’t the right fit for the team we want to be.”

There was a murmur of chatter now. Mickey had always hated the guy so when he hadn’t seen him at practice earlier, he had just figured the guy was out sick. He never spent much time thinking about Sam if he could help it.

But the guy was still a top league player. So who the fuck would be replacing him?

“So, that brings me to my second piece of news!” Maurice yelled over the murmurs and everyone went quiet again. “I’d like you all to give a warm welcome to your new starting Right Wing on the Florida Panthers, Ian Gallagher.”

And Mickey? He almost fell off the bench.

Because there, walking into the room from behind Maurice and Panthers GM Bill Zito, was his motherfucking didn’t-know-how-to-send-a-text-message boyfriend.

“Gallagher, as you all know, has had an incredible season. And we think he’s gonna be our secret weapon to get us all the way this year. He’s joining you on the ice for tonight’s game. Please help him get settled and welcome him to the team—he wasn’t aware he was getting traded until this morning.”

Mickey’s mouth hung open stupidly, but he could do nothing about it. Gallagher stood there, looking shy with his hands in his pockets, his hockey duffel thrown over his shoulder.

Ian was here. In Florida. Ian’s phone hadn’t picked up because he was on a plane, from Toronto to Florida. With probably everything he owned.

Ian and Mickey were going to be on the starting lineup for the Florida Panthers for the playoffs.

Mickey’s brain must have been truly broken ‘cause all he could think about in this moment was that Ian was gonna have to grow that playoff beard after all.

“Milkovich. A moment?” Maurice called.

Mickey stared at his coach a moment too long before realizing that his coach wanted to talk to him privately. So he stood up and walked past his boyfriend, who was being shown to his new locker. Their eyes met for a brief second before Mickey followed Maurice out of the locker room.

They walked down a short hallway and turned a corner until there was no one else around.

Maurice was a no nonsense head coach. Mickey liked him well enough. He’d done a great job getting them this far.

“Look, Milkovich. We have been in talks to draft Gallagher for a while but held off out of respect for your ongoing rivalry. But Lane has spoken to us about your… preferences.”

Lane and Mickey had talked at length about Mickey coming out to team management. Mickey had finally agreed and knew it had happened, but hadn’t heard a peep about it until now.

“In light of some complaints against Pinchuk, the Panthers made the decision to keep this a safe space—especially for our star players. With the recent news about you and Gallagher being friends? We made the call. But it happened quickly, so I wanted to check in with you. See if there were going to be any issues we should be aware of?”

Mickey was truly stunned. He just stared at Maurice for a long moment before he started chuckling. He knuckled at his nose and tried to stop the laughter, but it was pretty much impossible.

Maurice narrowed his eyes at him. “Mickey?”

“Sorry, man. Just a lot of info to take in. I think I’m a little shocked.”

“Good shock, I hope?” Maurice asked.

“Yeah man. Great news all around. Pinchuk is an asshole. Gallagher is gonna be next level for the team. I’m all good.”

Maurice visibly relaxed. “Good. I trust you’ll help Gallagher get settled since you’re friends?”

Mickey needed to not be weird about this for five more minutes before he could take a breather and fully process what was happening. He nodded. “Yeah, no problem, Coach.”

“Great. Go warm up.”

“Yes, sir,” Mickey responded. He was truly amazed he’d made it through that whole interaction without swearing or breaking out into the hysterical laughter that was bubbling in his chest right now.

What was his life?

Sure enough, when he re-entered the locker room, which was steadily emptying out, there was Ian Gallagher. Still there. Dressed in his full pads. Standing up a framed photo of his family in his locker. And pulling a Panthers jersey to pull over his gear. It said his name and Mickey’s lucky number. #7. He had no idea how the team had managed to get it in time.

Mickey pulled on the rest of his gear and his own jersey over top while they both quietly watched each other from across the room.

When finally the last Panther was out on the ice for warm up and it was just the two of them in the locker room, Ian turned to Mickey. He blurted out, “Shit, Mickey. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. My agent showed up this morning at my door with a team of people and basically packed me up. Then made me sign an NDA until they were done with contract negotiations and could make the announcement. And then I was on a plane and now I’m here," Ian word vomited.

Mickey wiped his hands down his face and let out another slightly unhinged laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ian.”

Gallagher stood there looking at him expectantly, in skates, full pads, and a goddamn Panthers jersey.

“We live in the same city now. And play for the same team.”

“I know, Mick. It's a lot really quickly. I get it if you’re freaking out.”

Mickey just chuckled. He was freaking out. But not in the way Ian thought. He walked up to his boyfriend in the quiet locker room. Grabbed a handful of his brand-new Panther jersey, and brought his mouth down to meet his own. Bringing their mouths together in a firm kiss, he hoped conveyed everything he was feeling.

Because his boyfriend was here, in front of him.

“Ian. Every bit of this is fuckin’ amazing. Now, let’s go play some hockey.”

Ian’s grin was blinding. “Okay, Mick.”

And with that, they walked out of the tunnel and stepped out onto the ice.

They won the game. Mickey was pretty sure he could have won that shit just fueled by his own euphoria. Fortunately, the whole team seemed to be on a high. So they crushed the Predators 4-0.

After the game, the vibes in the locker room were celebratory. The guys took turns thumping Ian on the back, welcoming him to the team—callinv him a good luck charm. Music played. Someone found a bottle of champagne. Apparently, there were no tears over Sam’s exit.

“Think this calls for a welcome to Florida drinks tonight, Gallagher!” Marchand yelled above the rowdy noise.

“Oh fuck yeah, drinks on me!” Barkov agreed.

Ian chuckled, sparing a glance at Mickey. “Uh, yeah. Sounds great. Only I need to go check in at my hotel first. My suitcases are in Lane’s office right now.”

Mickey showered and figured he’d take Maurice’s advice to help Gallagher get settled.

“Yo, Gallagher. Want a lift to your hotel?” he asked.

Ian’s look of surprise only helped sell it. “Uh, sure. Thanks Milkovich.”

Mickey just nodded.

A few minutes later, they were piling Ian’s suitcases and hockey bag into every available inch of Mickey’s mustang.

“You know, this is when a jeep would come in real handy.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Don’t insult the Mustang, you’re trying to make friends, here, Gallagher. Mentioning the Jeep in front of her is not a good start.”

He climbed into the driver’s seat while Ian followed into the passenger side.

“Considering I've sucked your dick in this car, I think we’re pretty well acquainted," Ian tossed back.

“But at that point you were a tourist, now you’re like a step-parent. S’different. Gotta try harder.”

Ian’s eyes went wide. He stared at Mickey. “Oh? I didn’t realize. I’ll make sure to wash the windshield next time you’re filling up.”

“Damn straight,” Mickey said approvingly.

He felt Ian watching him and he couldn’t help but sneak glances at the redhead. He was here. In Mickey’s fucking car. In Mickey’s fucking city. He was so excited he felt like his chest had been inflated like a balloon and that he might pop.

Mickey pulled away from the arena. After five minutes, which was arguably a long time considering he was essentially being kidnapped, Ian asked, “Mickey, where are we going? I never even told you what hotel they put me up at?”

Mickey scoffed. “You fuckin’ kidding me right now? You ain’t stayin’ at some hotel. You’re stayin' with me.”

He could see Ian’s blinding grin out of the corner of his eye. “Until I get a place of my own, right?”

“Whatever you want, Gallagher.”

Ian placed his hand over Mickey's, where it sat on the gearshift. Was it too early to talk about moving in together? Probably. Did Mickey want to spend a single night in his big bed alone ever again? Absolutely not. But they could figure that all out later.

Chapter 9: Epilogue: If it hadn’t been for love

Chapter Notes

Welcome to the Epilogue!

June —

It was the morning of game 7 out of 7. The final round against the Edmonton Oilers. This was it. The game for all the cookies.

Mickey had at least won a cup when he had played for Tampa. But they both wanted it badly. The pressure was high. And the pressure they were putting on themselves was even higher.

Ian: If we win tonight can we get a dog?

Mickey: if we win tonight yur not allowed to shave yur playoff beard

Ian: a small dog we can bring with us on the road

Mickey: one of those yappy pieces of shit? no way

Mickey: I want a real dog like a bernese mountain dog

Ian: a nice small dog like a terrier or a beagle could totally come on the team plane

Ian: Mickey I googled it. That dog is bigger than you.

Mickey: 🖕🏻

Mickey: Now ur def not allowed to shave yur playoff beard

Ian: I’ll shave yours off for you

Mickey flipped his phone over and tried to smother his grin. He was not having this argument over text in the locker room before their big game.

Ian had been living in Florida since his trade in March—he was still living at Mickey’s. It was so domestic it made Mickey nauseous in a good way. They hadn’t really discussed it further.

Mickey didn’t want Ian to get another place. He hadn’t figured out how to tell Ian, either, but the conversation would have to happen, eventually.

This thing they were doing? Mickey was all in.

But the issue was that Ian had to give a home address to his employer. His employer being the Florida Panthers. They were pressuring him to move out of the hotel room he had never seen the inside of. And he couldn’t very well give Mickey’s address.

Young rookie players shared apartments. Grown ass men who’ve been in the league for years, did not.

It was a problem that needed solving. So obviously, they were instead arguing about getting a dog.

Mickey’s other big problem right now was the same it always had been. His problem—which had become a full blown issue. He was in love with Ian Gallagher.

He could barely stand to look at the redhead brushing his teeth or when he came back sweaty from a run along the boardwalk with 42 new sunrise beach photos on his phone without wanting to blurt it out like a lovesick teen.

It was a problem!

The other problem being that he was still hiding his sexuality and relationship.

Ian wasn’t hiding as much. His second day with the team, he had waited until the team was gathered in the locker room. Clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. Stood on a bench and announced, “Most of you know, but for those who don’t, I’m gay. Don’t out me to the press and don’t put your dick in my face. I’m not interested in either. I promise it isn’t as nice as you think it is. And yes, I’ll still come to the ‘rippers if the occasion calls for it. No, it doesn’t do anything for me. Any other questions?”

Everyone had just stood, staring at him, stupefied. He clasped his hands. Got off the bench. Said “Alrighty, then” and went about his day.

It took balls and Mickey was fucking impressed—which he showed by wearing nothing but Ian’s Leaf jersey and riding Ian into the couch later that night.

Of course the hockey was great too.

As expected, Ian and Mickey together were a powerhouse and their line up was winning face offs and games every step of the way throughout the playoffs.

So, of course, Mickey should have expected the other shoe to drop.

Just after their pre-game warm-up skate, they were in the locker room. Ian was showing Ekbad and Barkov photos of the Beagle he wanted, because he played dirty.

“And we can get him a little Panthers jersey and everything. He can come on the plane with us. Wouldn’t he make the best mascot?”

A chorus of ‘aw’s’ was cut off by the GM, Bill Zito, and Lane entering the locker room.

“Gallagher. Milkovich. My office now,” Zito said.

Ian and Mickey glanced at each other. This could not be good.

“Together or—?” Mickey tried.

“Now,” Zito said before turning and disappearing again.

Lane shot them a ‘you’re fucked ’ look that made Mickey’s blood run cold and they both quickly shucked off their remaining pads, and hurried to the boss's office.

Mickey had had all of a handful of interactions with the big boss over the years. Players talked to coaches and PR wranglers. Sure, he’d shaken the man’s hand a few times, but that was about it.

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand and tugged him to a stop outside of the two huge mahogany doors of Zito’s office.

“Mick,” Ian whispered, “I’ll take the blame. I’ll take the trade. This is my fault—“

Mickey tugged on his boyfriend’s hand. “Ian—stop. You’re not going anywhere. Neither of us are, okay? Whatever happens in there. Look, I—" and he took a deep breath. Pulled up his preverbal big boy pants and said, “I love you, alright?”

Ian’s face went full schmoop. Puppy dog eyes and all.

“Are you gentleman coming in or you gonna whisper outside my door all day?” Zito barked.

They both jumped about a foot, dropped hands and entered the-apparently-open doors.

“Sit,” Zito barked.

“We’re a bit sweaty,” Ian pointed out.

“Sit.”

They sat.

Zito was a little scary. He was a big Italian guy with a shaved head. Mickey had no idea how this was gonna go, but he prepared for a fight.

Zito stared at them across his large mahogany desk in his large mahogany office. There were plaques on the wall and a tv in the corner with a couch. The intimidating setting was doing nothing to calm Mickey down.

“So the handling managers tried to rebook your hotel room, Mr. Gallagher. And the hotel staff were confused as to why, since no one had ever checked into your room. And then, our PR team caught wind of a photo that was circulating. A journalist was trying to get confirmation from a source. They were trying to confirm Mr. Milkovich’s address—since Mr. Gallagher was seen jogging nearby and then entering the building on more than one occasion early in the morning.”

Mickey shifted. It was becoming hard to hear over the whooshing sound in his ears. His heart was beating so hard and his breathing was so shallow—he was glad he’d given up smoking years ago. The backs of his knees were sweating. This was all too familiar. They’d been caught. He tried to take deep breaths.

Right there, in front of the GM of the Florida Panthers. Ian reached over and put his hand on Mickey’s bouncing knee. And squeezed.

Mickey’s lungs filled with air he hadn’t realized had stopped flowing. This wasn’t his dad. The worst they’d do is fire him. He took another deep breath.

“Would you believe me if I told you we’re roommates?” Ian asked with a nervous chuckle.

Zito looked at his hand on Mickey’s knee. “No.”

Zito looked at Mickey in the eye and he wished he could get his mouth working.

“Didn’t think so,” Ian said, trying to pull the attention back to him. “So, hey. By the way, we're together! You traded me to my boyfriend's team. Thanks for that." he said with so much fake enthusiasm it helped snap Mickey further out of his panic. "Look, Mickey’s had some bad experiences with this sort of thing. Are either of us getting fired, sir?”

“Fired?” Zito looked even angrier.

“If you trade Ian, I’ll quit,” Mickey announced. His body started to relax from fight or flight mode. Ian got him. He wasn’t alone. They were going to be okay.

“No one is getting fucking traded! You’re both going to go out there and win this team the Stanley Cup tonight.”

Mickey slumped with relief. He really hadn’t wanted to give up hockey. He tipped his head back and rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair.

“But you’re both goddamn idiots for not telling the team and letting us get prepared. The journalist or someone close to them leaked the story on social. It’s purely speculation and hasn’t gotten traction yet, but it will. We want to release an official statement about your relationship. We’re lucky Lane was able to pull something together so fast.”

Lane shrugged, not looking at all apologetic. Mickey figured that statement had been drafted since the New York game.

“Any objections? Can we get you out on the ice to do what you’re damn well paid to do?”

There was a long pause while they all stared at each other, taking it in. It was coming out. One way or another.

“So is this gonna fuck up tonight’s game?” Zito barked, and belatedly Mickey realized he’d been waiting for some kind of response.

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Definitely not, sir,” Ian echoed, looking as confused as he felt.

“Good. We’ll release the statement—” he glanced at Lane.

“Win or lose, after the game, but the timing will change dependent on outcome,” Lane finished.

Zito nodded and turned back to them. “Go win us the cup.”

From there, they’d basically had to sprint onto the ice. The game was about to start.

The game was tough. The Oilers were fighting dirty. There were five minutes left in the third period and they were tied 1-1. Half the team was bruised from a brawl that had broken out in the second. Mickey had spent a penalty in the sin bin and would have a black eye by morning, but it had been worth it.

The puck dropped and Mickey won the faceoff. He passed it off and Barkov caught it, skating circles around Edmonton’s defence.

He passed it back to Gallagher, who was in position in the offensive zone. He took a shot on goal.

It missed, bouncing off the bar and heading right for Mickey. He tapped it out of the air with a glove, managed a catch with his stick, and looked up to see half of the Oiler’s defensive team barrelling down the ice towards him.

So he tried something dumb. He shot the puck between the legs of Ty Emerson. And it worked.

Ian was in position in front of the net. He caught the pass, turned and took the shot. It flew low as the goalie reached high, slipping through the minuscule space by his right glove.

The buzzer rang and the sound of cheers exploded.

The fans went nuts. The lights flashed. The timer rang, signalling the end of the game. And every remaining Panther hockey player that hadn't jumped on Gallagher tried to climb onto Mickey’s shoulders.

Confetti rained down from the ceiling. Mickey tried to get his bearings. They'd won! They'd won the goddamn Stanley Cup. Ian with the goal and Mickey with the assist.

Ian. Where was Ian?

Mickey tried to get his feet back on the ground as hands thumped his helmet and his back. He realized he was actually not on the ground. Barkov had lifted him up.

There. He saw a flash of his redhead. Ian was a few feet from him, also swamped with the team. His helmet had been knocked off and his hair hung forward, dark red hair wet with sweat in that sexy way it got after a game.

And Mickey was moving. He wasn’t thinking. No thoughts, just feelings.

He pulled off his helmet and dropped it and skated up to his boyfriend.

Ian Gallagher. Right Wing #7 for the Florida Panthers.

And he jumped. Ian opened his arms and caught him, throwing his head back and laughing. A grin so bright it lit up the arena.

Mickey landed on his skates, hands still holding Ian’s shoulders. They spun in a slow circle, skates sliding. And Mickey grabbed the front of Ian’s jersey, hauling his mouth down to meet his.

And he kissed his boyfriend. In front of the whole world.

Because he could. Because he wanted to. Because he was happy and in love. And a Stanley Cup Champion.

They broke the kiss and Ian laughed again. A giddy, bright, joyous thing. “I fucking love you Mickey Milkovich.”

And then they were swept away in a sea of teammates.

The end.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed reading these Hockey Boys as much as I did writing them. The biggest thanks to my beta Jessie (runawaybrain) who was a huuuugggggeee huge help in getting this over the line and beta-ing so fast considering how late I was. You're the best and give amazing feedback and cheerleading.

Happy GGE Debby!

If you liked this one and want more sport au.. go check out my most loved story In My Veins Like Lightning