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Spring 2002
Jonny guesses he first notices Patrick’s hands when they’re thirteen and playing together for a tournament with the Junior Flyers. It’s not a thing exactly. It’s just that he’s used to being the top guy on every team he’s played for; and here comes this small dude with the magic hands, scoring all the goals, and bumping Jonny down to number two. Jonny knows what kind of player he is -- strong two-way forward, defensively minded, a straight-up boss at face-offs -- and he’s never thought that his hands were bad per se, but the things this kid can do with the puck are just obscene. Jonny spends a lot of time that tournament watching Patrick deke around defenders and score highlight reel-esque goals. Not when Jonny’s on the ice okay -- out there he’s just as focused as anything, playing hard and wanting to win -- but when Patrick’s not playing on his line Jonny can’t help it if he only has eyes for him. For his hands. It’s just that Jonny appreciates good hockey, and this is good hockey.
Jonny tells him so once, an “awesome goal, man” after a game where Patrick embarasses the opposing team’s goalie so thoroughly that Jonny feels momentary competing flashes of jealousy and sympathy. Patrick had laughed, all confidence and good cheer: “Sick mitts, dude” he’d said, grinning wide and easy, dimples all over the place, and a light hip-check to Jonny, as if letting him in on the joke.
They do well in the tournament, they don’t win it all or anything, but Jonny feels good about the way he played, and before he knows it he’s back in Winnipeg: back to playing hockey with his team, back to racing David up and down the ice in their backyard, and back to convincing his parents that he absolutely should be sent to Shattuck Saint Mary’s “for the good of my hockey development.”
It’s not like he thinks about Patrick everyday, or even that terribly often; he thinks of him a normal, reasonable amount, he’s sure. But once in a while Jonny will see someone messing around on the ice, stick handling and showing off, and before he can stop it, an image of Patrick will skate across his mind: hands flashing, blue eyes laughing, and irrepressible grin lighting up his face, as if to say, “That? I can do better.” Jonny agrees.
***
2005
Jonny and Patrick sort of circle around each other in the way that all talented North American hockey players do: they face each other at tournaments, read about each other in prospect updates, and hear about each other from their respective teammates. If Jonny pays slightly more attention to Patrick than he does to other juniors players it’s only because Jonny used to play with him, or because he sees that Patrick’s talent is a level above, or because he’s preparing to play against him at World Juniors. It’s not a thing.
***
December 2006
It’s his second World Juniors tournament. He’s already got one gold medal and he’s already been drafted by the Chicago Blackhawks, so when Jonny arrives in Sweden for the tournament he’s feeling more excitement than anxiety. Spending Christmas away from home with a bunch of temporary teammates is always a little strange, but they’re all here to play hockey and win for Canada, so he takes the shared rooms and protein shakes instead of his mom’s home cooking in stride.
The Canadians don’t meet Team USA until December 27th, their second game of the tournament each, but from the moment he landed in Mora Jonny’s been looking forward to that match-up. Patrick Kane’s name is abuzz in the air, Jonny knows he’s playing for Team USA, knows that he’s having a killer season in the OHL, and knows that there’s talk -- serious talk -- about Kane’s rising draft status.
Sometimes when he hears his teammates talking about that “Kane kid” he feels a little bit proud. “I played with him once,” Jonny says, “he’s good. Really good. He had these hands-”
Sam laughs. “Well, I play with him now. And he still has those hands. Showboating all over the place.”
His voice can only be described as fond, but something about it still raises Jonny’s hackles. “It helps your numbers though, doesn’t it? He’s playing on your line, right?” Jonny says, perhaps with more heat than is deserved if the faces his teammates make are anything to go by.
“Sure,” Gags says, placatingly, before going off on a bit of a tangent on all the ways Team Canada can try to shut Patrick down.
***
Canada wins their first game against the US, and before that can even really sink in, it feels like they’re facing them again in the Semi-finals. These international tournaments always fly by, games nearly every day.
At the end of the game Canada’s won again, and Jonny’s feeling more than a little pleased with himself, having made all three of his shoot-out attempts. He’s still riding high on the rush of adrenalin as he makes his way through the handshake line. When he gets to Patrick he pauses slightly, gripping his hand tightly. “Sick mitts, dude,” he says. Patrick’s eyes fly up to meet his from where they’d been trained slightly over Jonny’s shoulder. Patrick’s lips quirk up like he can’t help it and a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh escapes his lips.
His red lips.
His lips that he won’t stop licking. Jesus.
“Good game man,” he gets out before both of them are shuffled further down the line.
Jonny’s left feeling vaguely unsettled: pleased that his little joke went over well (he’s more than aware that his sense of humor tends to be a bit of an acquired taste); thrilled beyond belief that Canada made it through to the gold medal game; so fucking proud of how he kicked ass during the shoot-out; and -- now -- thoroughly distracted when he thinks about Patrick’s warm hand in his, Patrick’s tongue working the corner of his mouth as he met Jonny’s eyes. Fuck.
***
June 2007
Jonny’s home for the summer -- can he still say that now that he’s officially signed with the ‘Hawks and won’t be going back to North Dakota in the Fall? It’ll be Chicago or Rockford for him, but really Chicago or bust, thanks-ever-so-much -- when he settles in to watch the 2007 draft. He’s watched the draft every year in recent memory, so it’s not like he’s watching for Patrick. He’d definitely be tuning in regardless, wanting to see who the ‘Hawks end up with, who he might be playing with next year.
He can’t stop himself from smiling a little when Patrick’s name is announced, choking back a laugh as one of the announcers likens Kane to an altar boy. Already dreaming about getting back on the ice with Patrick on his wing, lighting it up with perfect passes and pretty goals.
If he can’t help himself from biting the inside of his cheek when they start showing the ‘best of Patrick Kane’ stick-handling highlights, if he finds himself staring a bit too long at the way Patrick’s biting and licking his lips in his post-pick interview, if he finds himself wondering if those curls are as soft as they look, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.
***
December 2007
Jonny falls back onto his bed in their shared hotel room, Patrick doing God only knows what in that bathroom. Normally Jonny’d be annoyed that Pat got in their first since his night time routine is so much shorter than whatever it is Patrick’s getting up to, but for now he’s just enjoying the illusion of privacy.
The NHL is amazing, seriously amazing, but also seriously tiring. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this tired ever. And it’s sort of surprising? He’s been playing hockey for, for forever really. But this? This is a whole other level. And he’s not complaining, not at all. Hockey is the best, Blackhawks hockey is the best, he’s having the most fun he’s ever had playing.
It’s just, harder than he thought it was going to be. Not the hockey itself, that’s hard and fun, but exactly in the ways that he thought it would be. No, it’s Patrick. Playing with him is excellent, they’re just as good together on the ice as they were when they were thirteen and making all the other kids jealous. It’s not even the way that they get into it during games. Jonny allows himself a small smile when he thinks of how they fight each other on the bench and on the ice, but that’s okay too really, each of them pushing each other to be better.
It’s Patrick himself. His stupid laugh. His trusting blue eyes, doe-like and wide-open as he hangs on every thing their idiot teammates say. His sexy, sexy hockey. His lips, red and chapped and so distracting. His dumb curly hair always flopping in his dumb face. His ass in his ridiculous, loose Under Armor. His embarrassing skype dance-offs with his sisters, hips shimmying all over the place and a carefree smile on his face like he doesn’t realize that he should be mortified that Jonny’s caught him dropping it like it’s hot to Britney Spears, again. His perfect fucking eyelashes.
And his hands, God, those hands. They’re so much bigger than you’d think they’d be, and Jonny often finds himself daydreaming of those wide calloused fingers and the breadth of Pat’s palms. All too often he finds himself imaging Patrick using those hands to hold his hips down, raining stinging hits across his ass, and then sliding his palms over to soothe.
And fan-fucking-tastic he’s starting to chub up. Jonny hears Patrick fiddling with the door, loser always forgets he’s locked the door (and he always locks it), and the traumatizing thought of Kaner seeing him hard in his game-day suit is enough to take care of that. Thank goodness.
“All yours,” Patrick says as he comes out, sweet and sleepy in his pajama pants and old London Knights shirt. Jonny wonders if it’s as soft as it looks. And yeah, he’s screwed.
“Thanks, man,” Jonny says, punching Patrick lightly on the shoulder before entering the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror while trying to convince himself that this is just the unfortunate by-product of their forced proximity.
He’s completely unsuccessful.
***
June 2010
They won. They fucking won. Jonny’s been drunk for nearly three days straight now, and he’d almost think he’d dreamed the whole thing up. Been dreaming of the fucking Stanley Cup for as long as he can remember. Except if this was a dream he would have scored the winning goal in overtime.
His boys, his team, are in various states of disarray around the club: Seabs drinking from the cup, Duncs zoned in rather intently on the two fingers of scotch he’d dragged them all back to this place for, and Kaner shooting champagne everywhere.
Jonny’s sitting in the banquette, arms spread across the top of the bench, what he knows has to be a drunk dopey smile on his face, and he just doesn’t care. Patrick falls in next to him, tucking his body -- damp with the potent combination of sweat, champagne, and winning -- tight into Jonny. Jonny knows he can get a little handsy when he’s drunk and he usually tries to keep it under control, especially around Patrick, but fuck it. Three days ago they brought the Stanley Cup back to Chicago for the first time in forty-nine years and if he wants to haul Patrick into his chest he thinks he’s earned at least that much.
His hand falls down, heavy on Patrick’s shoulder, as he starts running his mouth, mumbling into Patrick’s ridiculous mullet. “Fucking great...won...that shot...champs...Stanley Cup...I love you, man...so hot” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Words are tumbling out of his mouth, unprompted and tripping over his sluggish tongue. It’s virtual word vomit, that he’s pretty sure amounts to little more than, “Can you believe we won?”
Patrick’s cheeks are pinking up, matching his bitten lips that he will just not stop licking. And is that fair? Jonny’s only human okay. “I really want to kiss you.” Patrick’s eyes widen, and oh shit, did he just say that out loud?
“Uh, I mean -- “
“Yeah? Yeah --”
Patrick’s talking over him, eyes fixed intently on Jonny’s face, damned lower lip tugged between his teeth. And what? Is Patrick saying yes?
“Yeah,” Patrick says, “you can man. Only maybe not here? Yeah, not here. But we could? My place?”
Jonny doesn’t even want to know what his face looks like; he’s pretty confident it’s gotta be doing something embarrassing right now. But he just cannot bring himself to care.
It’s mere minutes and the two of them are stumbling out of the club, leaning just a little too heavily on each other as they look for a cab. The fresh air goes a long way towards sobering Jonny up -- or at least bringing him back to reality a bit. And Patrick must be able to see the apprehension on his face. Because he smiles at him, big and real and dimples flashing, “I want to man, I really want to.”
They make it back to Patrick’s with little incident, keeping a reasonable distance from each other in the back of the cab. Their hands brush twice, but their eyes remain fixedly staring out their respective windows.
Jonny’s mind is racing; he’s long had Kaner slotted into this untouchable category in his head. He’s had to out of basic self preservation. It was either that or fixate on things like Pat’s eyelashes and how much Jonny wanted to hold his hand and tell him he’s pretty. And maybe he gets to do that now? Anticipation is flowing through Jonny, teaming up with the beer and whiskey and champagne and that one ill-advised red-headed slut shot to wreak havoc on his stomach, which is bubbling in a not-entirely unpleasant way.
Patrick pays the driver when they arrive at his building and the two make their way upstairs, only getting waylaid once by Pat’s doorman, Steve, who wants to congratulate them (again) on their win. Fucking right, Stanley Cup champs!
Once they’re inside Pat’s place, shoes toed-off in the entryway and water bottles procured, they end up on opposite sides of the kitchen island, each determinedly not making eye contact, drinking water with a single mindedness that isn’t often seen off the ice. Jonny’s staring rather intently out the big plate glass windows, taking in the Chicago skyline. He’s trying to get his nerves under control. He’s been over here a thousand times, but of course it’s never felt like this before. Sparing a glance at Patrick, he sees him tearing the label from his bottle piece by tiny piece, a small pile growing in front of him. Patrick looks as nervous as Jonny feels, ears a little red and eyes downcast.
Fuck it, Jonny thinks. He puts his bottle down on the island and quickly moves around it to take Pat’s from his hands too. Pat’s eyes fly up, looking at Jonny through his lashes, and God that hits Jonny like a punch to the gut. He pulls Patrick’s face to his and takes his lips in a kiss gentle and tentative. For about a second, until Pat’s lips open up slick and hot and he’s kissing Jonny back with an intensity that makes his breath catch.
Jonny spins Pat a tiny bit, pressing him back against the counter as they kiss and kiss and kiss. All wet heat and sliding tongues and not-so gentle bites on lips and cheeks and chins. It’s messy and rough and not-at-all practiced. And Jesus, Jonny’s getting harder in his pants than he did when he was thirteen and first discovering internet porn. (Frankly, he feels a little proud, he wouldn’t have thought it was possible with their current blood alcohol level.)
Jonny groans into Pat’s mouth as he feels Pat hardening up against his thigh. Patrick wraps a leg around Jonny, moving their dicks together and rubbing shamelessly as he mouths at Jonny’s neck. His breath ghosting over the now-wet skin sends a shiver down Jonny’s spine.
Jonny levers both hands under Patrick’s ass, squeezing tight, hitching him up higher and tighter. And, oh God, he can’t believe he’s going to come in his pants in Pat’s kitchen, but he is totally coming in his pants in Pat’s kitchen.
Jonny cannot believe this is happening. Maybe he really is dreaming. But no, he couldn’t make up the delicious friction of Pat’s dick against his; the rough drag of his cock against his jeans; the sharp bites at his collarbone before Pat laves over it.
Patrick’s holding Jonny’s shoulders, fingers pressing in tight as they rub against each other, losing any rhythm as they move faster and harder, chasing, chasing, chasing.
Patrick comes likes it’s been punched out of him, body melting into Jonny’s as he tucks his face into Jon’s neck, holding on tight, hips still rolling lazily against Jon. Jonny circles his hips, grinding in, right on the knife edge of orgasam.
“Jonny,” Patrick says, voice rough and scratchy like he’s been sucking dick. Patrick’s hands fall down to Jonny’s ass with a smack; he’s gripping hard and pulling Jonny in to him. Pat’s hands on his ass are so close to what Jonny wants, so close to the fantasy he has of Patrick spanking him until his ass is red and nerves shivery. And that’s it, Jonny’s coming, wet warmth spreading across his belly and a broken sounding moan falling from his lips.
They slump to the floor like they planned it, legs still tangled, hands clutching, and growing wet patches on both their pants.
***
They don’t really talk about it is the thing.
It’s not awkward exactly. Jonny ends up sacking out on the couch (their couch, the traitorous portion of his brain supplies), and the next morning it’s all sheepish smiles, and hangovers, and arguing over who exactly should be making the coffee (“It’s your apartment Patrick. I’m a guest”).
And that’s it Jonny thinks, a one time, Stanley Cup fling. Frankly, he’s just absurdly grateful that Patrick’s not freaking out and that nothing about their friendship has changed at all.
***
Except that it keeps happening.
Not right away of course, they each spend the first part of the summer in their respective hometowns, celebrating the Stanley Cup with friends and family.
But come August, they’re both back in town and falling into bed together after a night out at Rockit.
And again a few weeks later. It’s not every night, and Jonny’s pretty sure Patrick’s still picking up -- at least he seems to be trying, spitting game with regularity to the pretty co-eds at the bars they frequent -- but it’s definitely becoming a thing.
A nice thing, Jonny thinks stretching out in bed after a particularly enthusiastic blowjob (“To kick-off the circus trip Jonny”). There’s sweat and come cooling on his thighs, and Patrick’s next to him, fingers trailing up and down Jonny’s side as they discuss their power-play.
***
The year continues apace; wins and losses in almost equal measure, which is frustrating though not entirely unexpected. Patrick and Jonny end up together at the end of the night -- and a few memorable times in the middle of the day -- more often than not.
It’s kinda the most fun Jonny’s ever had hooking up. Jonny’s never really had a fuck-buddy situation before, and man is he regretting it now. There’s something seriously awesome about spending the day shooting the shit with your best friend, and spending the night reaping the benefits of his oral fixation.
He’s always liked spending time with Pat best. And now he gets to add one more thing to the list of stuff he likes to do with Patrick. Hockey and video games and drinking and blow jobs and making fun of the rookies . . . not golf though, Patrick’s still pretty shit at that.
***
July 2011
Jonny’s just finishing up his work-out when Patrick’s face flashes across his phone. He moves to answer it, but the phone slips through his sweat slick fingers before bouncing off the gym floor. Normally Jonny wouldn’t answer his phone for anyone, not while he’s training, but it’s Patrick and he don’t exactly talk on the phone. Texts sure, but he honestly can’t remember the last time Patrick called him.
Once Jonny’s toweled off, he dials Patrick back, not bothering to waste time listening to his voicemail.
“Sucks, I know,” Patrick answers, “But I should be fine by October.”
“What?” Johnny feels like he’s coming into this conversation somewhere in the middle. “What are you-? What happened?”
Patrick laughs a little -- his mocking ‘Oh, Jonny’ laugh (and he’s seriously going to take a moment to rethink his life choices to date that have apparently led him here, to a place where he’s characterized Patrick’s different laughs) -- “Did you even listen to the message I left? Of course you didn’t. My wrist, man, totally fucked up. Scaphoid fracture. I’m gonna need surgery. I think the team’s gonna announce it soon? I don’t know, it’s - it should be fine - anyway, just didn’t want you to see the press release and freak out.”
“Pat,” Jonny says, pausing for a moment. He knows what a scaphoid fracture is, of course he does, they’re fairly common in hockey, but he really doesn’t like thinking about them in connection with Patrick and his magical play-making hands. “You’re going to be okay, though?”
“Should be fine, gotta do it though. You know how bad my wrist was at the end of the season, it’s not gonna make it another season playing with it the way it is now.”
Jonny does know. He rooms with Kaner on the road, and as much as Patrick tried to hide it, he’s the one who saw him icing it at night after games and early in the morning over eggs and watered down coffee. Once, towards the end of the season, he’d been jerking Jonny fast and tight -- the way Jonny likes it best after rough games -- and he’d had to switch hands. Neither of them had said anything, but Jonny knew it was because the angle was fucking with his already sore wrist. Jonny’d just hoped that some rest, the summer off, training it up would take care of it. Surgery should be fine -- will be fine -- but he still doesn’t like it.
“Yeah” Jonny says, and generously lets Patrick change the topic to the upcoming fan convention.
***
The convention is fun, Jonny always likes getting together with his boys, and almost everyone comes back for it. Convention weekend -- at least for the players themselves -- always ends up being a big excuse to eat and drink too much, and someone always end up showing up for one of his panels late and hungover.
The first night finds all the guys at Smith and Wollensky, wine flowing and massive steaks on everyone’s plates. Kaner’s holding court, Sharpy smiling at him affectionately. Jonny refuses to think what his own face might be doing.
Jonny’s the best kind of drunk, pleasantly buzzed and relaxed, and he just cannot stop staring at Patrick’s arm: white brace standing out in sharp relief to the summer tan of his forearm. He’s resting it on the table, fingers tracing idle shapes. Patrick gestures wildly with his right hand as he recounts some story about one of his cousins and too many tequila shots. Jonny cannot take his eyes off him.
Patrick pauses, story over Jonny guesses as all the guys start laughing and Sharpy begins regaling them all with, “One time at Vermont…” And Jonny realizes he did not hear one word Patrick just said. Patrick’s still looking at him, mostly appraisingly now, and raises one eyebrow in what has become the universal symbol for, “You wanna?”
And, yes, Jonny does want. He wants to lay Patrick out in his bed and take him apart with hands and lips and teeth. He wants to spoon up against Patrick and bury his nose in soft curls. He wants to trail fingers up the delicate tendons of Patrick’s wrist and suck bruises into his collarbone. He wants Patrick to pin his hips into the bed while he bites the curve of his ass, and teases his hole. He wants to hold tight to headboards in both their apartments while Patrick smacks his ass and digs fingers into quivering muscles. He wants Patrick to fuck into him hard and fast, and he wants Patrick to ride him sweet and slow. He wants to wake up to a soft smile and softer kisses. He wants to never see Patrick raise an eyebrow again because he’s asking “If?” and only because he’s asking “Now?” He wants lazy mornings sharing coffee and arguing over the remote, and he wants hurried mornings sharing showers and arguing over who misplaced who’s damn keys.
The totality of everything Jonny wants settles over him. He wants Patrick. He always has he thinks, hindsight providing an almost embarrassing clarity to all their past interactions.
Patrick’s eyebrow is lowering a bit, confusion sliding over his face, and Jonny hurries to nod, once. Yes, he wants Patrick to come home with him. He wants more too, wants it all, but he’ll start here for tonight. Patrick’s faces settles back into it’s usual relaxed lines, a hint of a smile at the edges of his lips and a self-satisfied light in his eyes, as he turns back to the conversation at hand.
***
The rest of the Convention weekend goes fine, Patrick and Jonny hook up a few more times, but are mostly relegated to hanging out with the team. Jonny can’t bring himself to fully mind. Yes, he wants Patrick all to himself and to implement his plan to woo the shit out of him, to date him right, to convince Patrick to spank him and fuck him good, and to kick ass and take names and make Patrick fall in love with him; but he also knows how important team bonding is, even during the off season, and he does love his boys. He’ll just take this time -- and the rest of his annoyingly Patrick-free summer -- as a time to strategize.
He’s only ever really dated girls before, no dude’s been worth more than clandestine hook-ups well out of the private eye, and the majority of that had been more flash than substance. Still, Jonny thinks, there is something to be said about the basics. Classics are classics for a reason, and so: flowers.
***
Jonny’s phone beeps in the middle of dinner with his parents. Ignoring his mom’s disapproving look, he flips it over to check. Patrick was having surgery today, he’s not not checking his phone till he knows it’s done. Done and successful.
u sent me flowwers???? :)
and then
they r vry preeety
Jonathan allows himself a small smile. You’re still high, he types back. You’re welcome. And Don’t terrorize the nurses.
Toews: 1. He’s not sure who exactly he’s competing against here, but the flowers worked. And he’s winning.
***
The first thing Jonny does once he’s back in town for training camp is check in with Patrick. Now that they’re both in the same city, it’s time to really step up his game. Jonny’s accustomed to getting what he wants, he’s willing to put in the work, and he’s a little annoyed at the slow start to this whole dating thing he has going on. So dinner and a movie, that’s a thing that’s going to happen.
“Out?” Patrick asks his voice a mixture of amused and confused. “Don’t you want to stay in?” Jonny can hear the leer in his voice, practically hear him wagging his eyebrows shamelessly, and he takes a moment to bemoan that not only does he let this dude touch his dick, but he wants to hold his hand and, like, bring him soup when he’s sick. Sometimes Jonny’s choices are troubling.
“Out,” Jonny says decisively. “I’ll pick you up at 7.”
***
Jonny thinks he’s going to have to call this one a draw. Dinner and a movie sounded good in theory, and everyone agrees the burger at Nightwood was a hit. Unfortunately, trying to see X Men: First Class, was a bust: Patrick insisted on paying for the tickets (“You got dinner, man.”), and both of them missed the first ten minutes of the movie after getting roped into signing autographs for what seemed like the entire theater.
Still, the night ended with blowjobs and spooning, so he guesses it wasn’t a total wash.
***
Training camp was fine, the festival was fun, pre-season games are whatever, but Jonny’s fucking thrilled to finally have real hockey back as the team boards their charter to Dallas.
Patrick’s walking in front of him, chewing the shit with Leddy and Saader. Jonny shakes his head, a bit bemused. Is he allowed to think how much the baby Blackhawks love Kaner is adorable? Because it really is.
He hip-checks Kaner into the window seat, and after storing their bags up top, joins him. He pulls a book out of his bag, a hurriedly tied bow listing left of center, and places it on Patrick’s lap.
“You got me the True Blood book?” Patrick says, thumb flipping through the pages quickly.
Jonny’s not going to be embarrassed, he’s not the one with a hard-on for sparkly vampires. “Yes, it’s uh, supposed to be good? If you like Twilight. It’s supposed to be better than that.”
Patrick laughs, “I think this means you have to watch the tv show with me now!”
“That is absolutely not what this means.” Jonny wouldn’t really mind, Pat’s pretty cuddly when he’s really engrossed in what he’s watching.
“Does it mean you think I’m gorgeous, you want to kiss me. You want to hug me. You want to love me...”
And, well, fuck, that is sort-of exactly what it means.
“Shut up, Miss Congeniality,” Sharpy says from across the aisle, “no one thinks you’re pretty with that mess on your head.”
“A summer home with his sisters, and it takes us at least a month to stop him from quoting chick-flicks,” Seabs offers from a few rows back.
“Hey my sisters are awesome…” Patrick says, and by now everyone knows better than to argue, not that they would.
The whole thing devolves into lazy chirping until the plane is taxiing and everyone settles back with video games and books and phones.
Patrick’s still laughing as the plane takes off, but he does start reading Dead Until Dark a mere 15 minutes into the flight, a small smile on his lips every time he glances over at Jonny.
Yeah, Jonny thinks, presents definitely work.
***
They lose the season opener, but they win the home opener, and while he would have liked to have gone two-for-two, he’ll take the win at home, Chelsea Dagger on repeat, and everyone amped up from the win. Jonny gets a goal, Pat gets an assist, and the team gets two points. Yeah, he’s in a good mood.
He’s following Patrick home, body still alight with energy from the game, and by the time they’re actually in the condo, it’s all he can do not to slam Patrick into the side of the elevator and just go to town.
They make it up to the condo, but barely, and Patrick’s hardly dropped his keys to the entry table before Jonny’s dragging him back to the bed, holding his wrists down, and fucking him hard.
After, both still breathing heavy, Jonny’s dragged Patrick out of the wet spot and is trailing his fingers over his wrist. Up tendons, across scar tissue, around the delicate rounded bone below the pinky, and stroking lightly over the vein. Patrick breaths a laugh into Jonny’s chest. “Idiot,” he says, voice breathy and fond.
Jonny grunts softly in acknowledgment (he is an idiot over Patrick, no one knows that better than he does) thumb moving softly across Patrick’s wrist.
Patrick shifts minutely, and Jonny holds tighter to his wrist, keeping him in place. “I’m glad your surgery went well,” he says, eyes fixed on Pat’s wrist. He presses a contented kiss into Patrick’s shoulder, so fucking happy he’s humming with it.
Patrick looks happy too, he thinks, a touch considering maybe, but mostly languid and sated and pleased.
***
So this presents thing is maybe not the shiny silver bullet Jonny had originally thought. Patrick’s contract is identical to Jonny’s so it’s not like he needs Jonny to buy him extravagant things. And the extravagant things Jonny does want to shower him with are just, well, is there a nice way to say that Patrick has fuck-awful taste? He just cannot bring himself to buy anything that includes a bedazzled 88, there are some lines that even he won’t cross.
Still, despite the fact that he can’t make that one gesture that says “be mine forever,” the gift thing isn’t a total failure: keeping Patrick supplied in twizzlers and extra ear buds at least puts him on the receiving end of more than a few of Pat’s megawatt smiles.
***
Flowers, gifts, dinner dates, and Jonny flat-out refuses to explore anything even tangentially related to dancing (the Kaner shuffle is just not sexy and Jonny can barely stay on his feet even on the ice where he’s his most coordinated). He’s sort of out of ideas? This is definitely one of those times that throwing himself into hockey and not normal teenage dating is biting him in the ass.
He supposes he could revisit the dinner thing? Maybe cook something this time. He’s not, great in the kitchen, but he’s pretty sure the effort is more important than the outcome? He hopes.
***
It’s after an optional skate and Jonny’s sitting on the bench, waiting on Patrick. He’s scrolling through his phone after googling “easy recipe to impress a dude” and finds what looks like a pretty basic steak and potatoes recipe. It’s basically something he’s already done, just with more seasoning, and Jonny’s pretty confident that he won’t fuck it up.
“Let’s go, dude,” Patrick says, coming into the room from where he’d been meeting with the trainers.
“Everything good?” Jonny asks.
Patrick’s got a bit of a weird look on his face, but just says, “Yeah, everything’s fine. You good to go?”
They make it to the car quickly enough, and there’s not much traffic on the way back into the city. Jonny knows he needs to actually ask Patrick about dinner, can’t expect him to just show up at Jonny’s condo. Well, he might show up? They are spending a lot of time together, but still. Asking, it’s a thing he needs to do. Soon, they’re almost back to Patrick’s. And seriously, why does he feel so nervous, they’re friends, they’re boning; it’s not like he expects Patrick to say no.
“Jonny. Jonny. Jon.”
And oh great, how long has Patrick been trying to talk to him?
“Everything okay, dude?” Patrick’s face is open and he’s licking his fucking lips, because of course he is.
“Dinner?” Jonny says, and watches confusion bloom across Patrick’s face.
“Uh, it’s like 11:30, but we could get lunch? Or I have stuff upstairs to make us sandwiches?”
“No. I mean, tonight, you should come over for dinner. I’ll make you dinner.”
And Kaner smiles that stupid dumb smile that makes his dimples pop and his eyes crinkle and says yes.
***
Dinner definitely belongs in the win column: the steak is cooked (but not too cooked) the potatoes taste right, and he got everything to finish up at roughly the same time. The meal is -- he doesn’t want to be too self-congratulatory but -- it’s pretty damn delicious.
He and Patrick both finish all the food and the wine, and Jonny’s having a great time, always has a great time with Pat, but it doesn’t feel very date-like. They talked hockey, team gossip, league gossip (between the two of them they know damn near everyone), and what’s new with their respective families (not much). And it all feels really comfortable; it just doesn’t feel like a date. Maybe he should have busted out the candles.
“We should go see a movie?” Jonny asks, a last ditch effort to get this date back on track.
“Last time we saw a movie out we spent forever signing autographs. Watch something here?”
“Good point. Want to take a walk, go down towards the river?”
Patrick biting on his thumb, looking at Jonny like he’s piecing something together, and Jonny’s honestly never felt more naked in his life. “So, I might have this wrong man, but are you trying to date me?”
Jonny momentarily contemplates his windows, he could probably break one open. But Patrick’s derailing that train of thought, barrelling ahead like always, like Jonny loves. “Because, it kind of seems like you’re trying to date me, and I want you to. To date me. Not to try and date me. Because I think we’d be good together? We kind of already are good together. And the sex is great, obviously. I was talking about this with my sister -- not the sex, God, no -- but about us and if there was an us and -- “
“Patrick? Shut-up.” They’re kissing over dirty dishes, Jonny half out of his seat, leaning around the corner of the table. And the whole thing is awkward and a little terrible, but it’s also the best kiss Jonny’s ever had. He can’t believe he gets to have this.
It may have been touch and go there for a while, but Jonny’s feeling confident enough to call it, and he’s pretty sure he’s won. Round one? Tally up a win in Jonny’s column, though he’s sentimental and sappy enough at the moment to think that maybe they both won. It’s time, he thinks, smiling into the kiss and anchoring his hands in Patrick’s curls, to get started on round two. Patrick likes him, he wants to date him, and he’s totally going to be up for spanking Jonny’s ass until he comes. Jonny’s almost sure of it.
***
December 2011
It’s a few weeks after the slightly uncomfortable conversation -- involving the mutual admission of feelings; the acknowledgment that they are, in fact, exclusive; and the decision that, yeah, they could maybe forget the condoms from here on out -- when Jonny lets himself into Patrick’s condo. He’s carrying two bags of take-out and a six pack of some craft beer that looked suitably impressive. And, yes, it will never cease to amuse Jonny just how much of a beer snob Pat can be.
Jonny’s maybe planned out how this night will go, and he’s not messing around here: jeans that make Patrick lose his train of thought? Sun Wah BBQ? Fancy-pants beer? Check, check, check.
Patrick looks up from where he’s lounging on the couch, bright smile breaking out on his face, and, God, Jonny is just never gonna get sick of that one.
“Is it my birthday? Christmas? Did you fuck up my car, man?” Patrick says upon seeing the take-out bags in hand. His dimples are working overtime, and Jonny wants to tease him back, just a little, but refrains. Eyes on the prize and all that; tonight is about buttering up Patrick.
(Well the first part of tonight is about that, the second part of the night, well, Jonny’s not going to let himself get distracted by that.)
“Ha, ha, ha,” Jonny intones, spreading out the food on the coffee table, opening up the beers, and grabbing plates and utensils from Patrick’s kitchen.
They dig in to the food, not talking much at first, chopsticks battling for the coveted pieces of barbecued pork. Soon they’re mostly full, each idly picking at the last bits of food and taking slow sips on their beer, hockey highlights playing low in the background; it’s the right time to bring it up Jonny thinks. But he’s just not sure how to begin: “Pat I want you to -,” “Pat I think we should -,” “Hey have you ever wanted to -”
“Dude,” Patrick says, poking Jonny in the thigh with his big toe. “Just spit it out.”
Jonny looks at him: all rumpled curls; cheeks flushed from the two beers he’s had; lips spit shiny and red; and his hands - oh his hands - one curled over his own thigh, fingers spread wide, and the second loosely holding the neck of his bottle. Jonny sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and sees Patrick’s eyes darken, pupils already blown out, and goodnight does he want this.
Jonny takes a breath, gets his game face on, and all but shakes out his shoulders. “I want you to spank me.”
Patrick’s licks his lips, eyes widening.
“During sex.”
Patrick laughs. “Yeah, I think I got that,” he says.
“Well?” Jonny says, he can feel himself getting pissy. But really if Patrick’s not into it, he should just say something. This is starting to get a little --
“Yes.” Patrick says. “Obviously. Yes.” The bright grin on his face turns loose and just a little sleazy.
Jonny feels the knot in his chest loosen. He stands up, wiping his hands on his pants, watching Patrick’s eyes follow his hands. “Well?” he says.
Patrick takes a second before lurching to his feet, knocking into Jonny, kissing him messy and hard and just this side of too wet. It’s perfect.
Patrick grabs a hand-full of Jonny’s ass, squeezing tight as he sucks on Jonny’s neck. A loud moan escapes before Jonny even realizes it. It used to embarrass him how loud Patrick could make him, how Patrick would leave him moaning, and wanting, and making garbled noises as Pat took him apart with his clever hands and lips. He’s given up on blushing now though, pointless really when he never never wants Patrick to stop doing what he does to draw out these sounds.
“Bedroom.” Jonny says, voice already rough and a little gutted.
***
They make it to the bedroom eventually, and by the time they’re there things have slowed down, the harsh, biting kisses easing into something slower and languid. The energy feels thick and a little hazy, as they slowly divest each other of their clothing, all the while kissing and stroking each new exposed patch of skin.
Jonny settles onto the bed, stretching out against Pat’s -- frankly ridiculous -- black sheets. Patrick’s looking at him so intently, licking his lips, eyes trailing up and down. Jonny feels hot under his gaze, his body singing with it, his skin prickling as Patrick rakes his eyes over him. He’s got a bit of an exhibitionist streak; he’s fine with it. He arches his back a little, feeling himself get even harder, and loving the way Patrick’s eyes dilate. He’s not even going to pretend that he doesn’t love Patrick looking at him like this: wanting and hungry and his.
“Patrick,” Jonny says, voice pleading. He trails his hand down his body, loosely fisting himself. He’s not looking to come so much as to just take the edge off.
Whether it’s the plea or Jonny’s movement, Patrick is spurred into action, kicking off his boxers, and settling himself over Jonny on the bed. Jonny might be bigger than Patrick, but Pat’s broad and strong, and Jonny sinks deeper into the bed, gladly accepting Pat’s weight, enjoying the feeling of being caught and held.
They’re kissing unhurriedly, hands meandering lazily, when Patrick shifts their legs together. Jonny’s cock presses tight into the hard jut of Patrick’s hip, and he can feel Patrick hardening up against him. Jonny can’t help but rut up. Slow pace forgotten, replaced by something needy and insistent. Patrick grinds back for a moment, teeth nipping at Jonny’s collarbone before he pulls back, visibly gathering himself. “Roll over,” he says, dragging ragged, bitten nails down Jonny’s sides, leaving red trails in his wake. That sharp pleasure-pain gives Jonny something to focus on, his mind already feeling fuzzy and his body pliant.
Jonny hurries to comply, a frisson of excitement flowing through him. He rolls his shoulders out before settling himself back onto the bed, arms above his head and head turned to the side so he can watch Pat. Pat. Pat who is sitting back on his legs, fat cock jutting up towards his stomach, eyes roaming appreciatively, just staring at Jonny.
But Jonny doesn’t want him to just look. “Patrick” he says, with more of a whine than he intended. But before he can ask for anything else Patrick’s hand is coming down sharply across the meat of Jonny’s ass, forcing a huff of air from Jonny’s lips.
The slap was strong and biting and nearly takes Jonny’s breath away. He can already feel his ass heating up. They’re just getting started, and it’s already so much better than Jonny imagined it was going to be. The sweet sting sending vibrations through all of him. Skin warm and tingly, cock pulsing, body trembling.
Before he can do more than take in a shaky breath, Patrick’s hitting him again, this time on the other cheek.
“Pat,” Jonny says, drawing the name out, sinking into it, part plea and part curse and, oh God, is he stopping? Jonny glances back over his shoulder and catches a flash of hesitation in Pat’s eyes, “Don’t fucking stop,” he says voice thready and choppy already.
Patrick’s hand connects again. Back and forth, and back and forth, and across the tender skin where ass meats thigh. Over and over. Jonny’s skin feels too small to contain him, too hot, too tender. Each slap sending shockwaves straight to his dick, now throbbing against suddenly too scratchy sheets.
Jonny loses himself in the repetition, eyes sliding shut and hands grasping handfuls of sheets as he rises his hips, just a little, wriggling back shamelessly to meet Patrick’s hand.
Just when Jonny thinks he can’t take another minute of this -- blood thrumming, ass throbbing, and cock so painfully hard -- Patrick grabs the meat of Jonny’s ass spreading him wide and licking in.
Jonny can’t stop the grunt that he makes, doesn’t really care, as he rides back against Patrick’s face. Patrick’s tongue is insistent, broad, and nasty. Patrick reaches under Jonny’s hips, drawing him up just enough to get his hand’s around Jonny’s cock. After that it’s only a few rough strokes and Jonny is coming all over himself and the bed, collapsing in the mess and too fucked out to care.
Patrick makes a harsh noise, thrusting his tongue into Jonny a final time, letting his finger hook and pull against the rim of Jonny’s hole. When Jonny looks back, Patrick has his head thrown back, lower lip clenched tightly between his teeth, stripping his cock with all speed and no finesse. It’s mere moments before Jonny feels Patrick’s come landing on the tender skin of his ass, an almost cool feeling on his burning skin. Patrick groans, dragging a finger through the mess. “So filthy.”
“Yeah,” Jonny hears himself agreeing, voice hoarse. Patrick grins, lazy and pleased, before manhandling the two of them out of the wet spot. Jonny thinks it’s a bit of a lost cause, but he lets himself be tucked into Patrick’s chest for some well deserved aggressive cuddling.
***
Epilogue
Chicago Blackhawks Report: Five Questions with … Patrick Sharp
By: Jesse Rogers
It’s time for another edition of Five Questions With ... This week is a special baby edition with new dad Patrick Sharp. He and his wife brought daughter Madelyn Grace home from the hospital on Sunday.
Knowing who has the hands to score around here, who do you trust to hold your baby or not hold your baby? If I bring Madelyn to the rink I’m going to keep her out of Dan Carcillo and John Scott’s cement hands. Little man Kane with his baby soft hands can hold her anytime he wants.
The following morning -- after an easy morning skate, a quick meeting with Coach Q, and a stop by the training room to get his shoulder worked on in preparation for the night’s game against the Ducks -- Jonny enters the locker room and finds most of the guys crowded around Sharpy’s stall, laughing loudly. (Sharpy’s laughing too, but in the way that Jonny always associates with Sharpy being the prankee, not the pranker.)
Jonny gingerly sits down on the bench near his stall, checking messages on his phone, downing another protein drink, and idly listening to the boys teasing Sharpy for a recent interview he gave after Madelyn was born. He shifts a bit on the hard bench, ass twinging, sore, but in the best way. Like a hockey bruise you want to press on after a particularly good game; tangible proof of something awesome.
Duncs clears his throat, affects his voice a bit, and reads a bit more from his phone. The guys are all laughing. Seabs is shaking his head repeating, “Little man Kane with his baby soft hands.”
Jonny makes a noise, head snapping up, and his eyes meet Kaner’s. Patrick’s eyes are laughing, and Jonny can feel his cheeks start to flush.
Patrick grins, wider and more shit-eating by the second, and says, “soft hands, soft hands.” It’s ostensibly directed at Seabs, but Patrick doesn’t once break eye contact with Jonny, so he knows exactly who that was for.
Jonny can feel himself start to flush, and ducks his head for a minute, before looking back up at Patrick and smiling.