Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night they won the cup was insane.

If Matthew was honest, most of his recollection was faded memories of smiling until his entire face hurt, vodka, his teammates’ screams, and, yeah, more vodka. The first tangible image was of him and Sasha, stumbling up the stairs as the half of the team filed into Matthew’s house, the rest still out partying. The white walls warped in front of Matthew’s eyes, which — hah, definitely a sign he was hammered.

“Dude, ‘m like, so fucking hammered right now,” Matthew, very eloquently, mumbled into the crease of Sasha’s neck, fully leaning all his body weight onto him as the other man pulled the two up the stairs, his grip never faltering on Matthew’s waist.

“You don’t say,” Sasha responded, sounding far too sober for the amount of drinks Matthew had seen him down. Totally, colossally unfair.

“You c’not be that sober, man”

Sasha just snorted and continued manhandling Matthew up onto the second floor’s landing, and, fuck, since when had the stairs been this steep?

Seeing his bed was definitely a top 10 moment of the night (not ahead of lifting the literal Stanley Cup into the air, but still up there). His body ached from each check like nobody’s fucking business, and he couldn’t even begin on the absolute agony that his head was in. There was definitely a prehistoric phenomenon where your body had to hold off all the pains until safety, or something — that made total sense.

Falling into the aforementioned bed, however, was easily top five. The two men collapsed into each other, limbs overlapping to the point that where one ended and the other began, was unclear.

Matthew’s head was still pressed into the space in between Sasha’s collarbone and chest, with his arms splayed out around the older man, effectively trapped them both; drool was steadily forming a wet spot on the nondescript shirt Sasha had worn to the club despite the chirps it garnered from the rest of the team (“Really, Barky, who wears a black tee and jeans to the club?”). Sasha’s long legs were hooked around Matthew’s thighs, causing their groins to be pressed together with every inhale. It was, um. Very clearly beyond the threshold of “no homo” behavior.

In the moment, there were three things at the forefront of drunk-Matthew’s brain: 1) It was common knowledge that a healthy adult Dominant or Submissive should scene at least once a week. That’s like high-school-health-class-taught-by-the-gym-coach type knowledge. But with the chaos of the last few days, he hadn’t managed to fit it in — between the constant practice, media duties, and bone deep exhaustion that came with the playoffs, Matthew wasn’t too focused on his dynamic needs.

2) As of the 24th, he, Matthew Brendan Tkachuk, was a Stanley Cup winner. And Stanley Cup winners were allowed to make dumb fucking choices. Like hooking up with his team captain.

Lastly, 3) everyone fooled around in juniors. Matthew had given a fair share of hand jobs, and received quite as few from his teammates as well. He even scened a couple of times with Muncy back when they were both on the Flames, so it’s not like this was completely uncharted territory. But exchanging handies in the locker room showers or scening with a friend because they were about to drop and you were stuck on a roadie, is quite different from this.

This being panting into the neck of the very same man that had said he felt like he had known Matthew for 10 years when they’d first met. This being slowly inching towards the man Matthew had openly called the best player in the world. This being moving the mess of tangled limbs so that their lips finally lined up, and their bodies met. This being total absolution in the form of Aleksander Barkov.

“Fuck, Matt, please. I need it so bad. Needed it since the fucking buzzer, fuck,” Sasha managed, face red and chest heaving underneath Matthew’s hand. A bead of sweat pooled in the older man’s clavicle, and, really, only a monk could resist feverishly lapping it up. And Matthew had never claimed to be a monk.

It was good. So fucking good. Like a-breakaway-at-the-end-of-overtime-in-your-home-stadium good. That’s what really hurt the most.

Matthew had drunk his body weight in martinis at the Elbo Room hours later, taken an ocean dip with the Cup and some of the other boys (which was apparently, like, not allowed. Whoops). Paraded around in the championship belt, watched not Ryan, but The Fucking Lombergini, scale a pole — it was the shit Matthew dreamt about the second he learned what the playoffs were.

And it wasn’t even weird with Sasha! The two had spent the majority of their time at E11even clinging to each other, to the point that Matthew could practically see the news headlines (“Does Florida Team Captain Aleksander Barkov Rely on His Dominant Teammates Too Much?” or even more ridiculous, “Barkov Gets on His Knees for Tkachuk!”). It was all so goddamn good. How could Matthew have known?

That’s the other thing: maybe if the vibes between them were off, Matthew could’ve seen this coming, although June-24th-2024-Matthew conjuring up this outcome was less likely than the fucking Sharks advancing to the finals (aka very extremely, incredibly, most definitely unlikely).

Downing the remaining liquor left in his — now deserted — house was no longer a celebration, but an ending. Life had turned from a dream come true, to despair, at a breakneck speed. It was riding a rollercoaster and getting to the very top, waiting for the rush of adrenaline, and falling through the fucking floor, or like, ordering a Coke and the waiter brings you a Pepsi. Whatever. Whichever metaphor is the closest to his current dilemma, Matthew had no fucking clue. He used to, maybe — have a clue, that is. It all used to make sense: years of training on various teams, all to end up in Florida, his home, with a set of teammates who were basically family. Rocking a sunburn and a mullet with the fucking Stanley Cup at his side. But, clearly Matthew had no earthly grasp on anything, no fucking clue.

Maybe it was Sasha trying to preserve the team’s joy. Maybe Sasha, himself, was blindsided by the joy, but then, days later, the magic had run out. Or maybe there was no reason, and Sasha had no say in the matter; maybe Zito got sick of Matthew’s smartass attitude and decided his points weren’t worth the hassle. His performance last year, the 40 goals, the 8 game winning goals, weren’t enough. His stats this season, his 88 points in 80 games, his +19 rating, they weren’t fucking enough to keep him.

Sure, some of his stats went down, but he was still 2nd overall when you looked at the team’s stats! But the truth was that no matter what, motive or no motive, stats or no stats, Matthew Tkachuk was no longer a member of the Panthers. One second he’s a Panther. The next? Well.

Goodbye, Fort Lauderdale.

Hello, Edmonton.

Chapter Text

There was little opportunity to mourn the playoff loss with Connor’s wedding days ahead. Kim had called multiple times to not-so-subtly ask if Leon was seeing and “letting himself be vulnerable” or some shit like that. Leon had a very convenient excuse: his groomsman duties took priority. Which they definitely did! Someone had to make sure that, yes Connor, the catering team had his list of approved snacks, because “there is no such thing as a cheat day”. Not during the off-season, not during your literal wedding. There were a million tiny details that Connor and Lauren technically had handled, but anything that kept Leon busy was a welcome respite.

But it’s not like there was anything to actually take priority over.

During the disco party that Leon had spent a frankly concerning amount of time modifying the playlist for, an old friend of Connor’s — from Team Canada, maybe? — approached Leon, stepping a bit too close into his personal space. Leon could have smelled the cologne, pungent and heady, from meters away, but up close it produced a visceral reaction. The caviar-topped eggs Leon had eaten earlier were churning in his stomach.

“Leon, right?” the guy asked, which is something that had always pissed him off. Like, not to hype himself up too much, but the guy obviously knew who he was, and wouldn’t have bothered with the whole haha-I-don’t-seem-to-recall-who-you-are bullshit if Leon was a dom. It was just another reason the body he was born in was a prison sentence rather than an opportunity.

“Yes. And you are?” Leon responded, which — although he thinks all the discourse on bratty subs is just sexism — was definitely a reason Josh had called him a brat all those months ago. Leon was a shitty sub, but he was aware of the fact. That had to count for something.

The man’s eyebrows raised, accentuating the too-blue — Leon was on the fence if he thought they were contacts or not — of his eyes, eyes that seemed to bore a hole into Leon’s soul; his mouth was stuck in a stagnant smile. Like he was waiting for Leon to confirm something unspoken.

“Bayne,” the man chuckled, his chapped lips brushing against each other as they moved, “Bayne Pettinger. I’m an agent over at Apollo Athletics. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

Leon had, in fact, heard of the company and Bayne himself. “No, sorry, I don’t think I have,” he managed, smiling his fakest smile and bringing his glass up to his lips. Hopefully, if the universe decided to go easy on him, the conversation would be interrupted by some other drunk guest wanting to talk about how the Oilers could win next year. Even that would be better than this. Honestly, how could one man have such a sleazy feel?

“Well, I’m sure I could get you more acquainted, if you’d like.” Which — talk about zero to a hundred real fast. Leon might have been mentally calling him a douchebag, but, damn. “No, thanks,” he said, starting to turn away, but —

“Don’t be that way! C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’m sure you’re feeling neglected with Connor getting hitched, and I haven’t gotten any complaints yet.”

Leon didn’t know a lot about this Bayne Pettinger, but he did know a creep when he saw one. And this guy most definitely had gotten complaints. If not from past subs, then from Leon. But his smile lingered — too confident, too self-assured. His fingers twitched along his glass like they were holding back from wrapping around Leon’s neck and pressing hard.

“No,” and with that, ignoring any and all protests, Leon turned and beelined for the elevator. It was too early for a groomsman to be abandoning the dance floor, but it was well into night four of partying, and everyone else was preoccupied with either a drink or a date.

The smell of Bayne’s cologne followed Leon all the way to his room.

It’d been difficult to find something that Leon could take abroad, something that wouldn’t get taken at airport security, because, fuck. Sometimes, the itch under his skin, the agony of existing day after day, there was only one solution. But in his second or so year as an Oiler, when he still had to room with a teammate, Connor had pulled out a set of nail clippers one night (yes, nail clippers. You’d be surprised the damage it could do). And if Leon suddenly gained an obsession with keeping his fingernails short, well, who would notice?

There wasn’t even a sense of guilt anymore. It didn’t interfere with his playing, and as long as Leon stuck to the very top of his inner thighs, no one knew. Was it really so bad of a habit, then? The nail clippers were in their designated spot in his toiletry bag, nestled in the side pouch, between the tube of Crest whitening toothpaste and shaving cream.

(He couldn’t afford to lose them, not again; the nail clippers had been haphazardly thrown in the bag once, which, not a good idea. First round of the playoffs. Game 3. Dumb penalty. Back at the hotel, Leon had frantically combed through the contents of his entire suitcase, breath tight in his chest — growing shallower, shallower, and shallower still. The nail clippers were nowhere in sight. Finally, he’d found them tucked away in the bag, underneath the mess of toiletries. But ever since then, the nail clippers were kept in the side pouch. Always.)

Pain was scientifically proven to stave off drops, but as the weeks went by and Leon didn’t scene, it was harder and harder to prevent. And, look, he wasn’t stupid, okay? He knew that it was crucial for a Submissive like him to be scening enough, and if he didn’t take care of his needs, his body would be fucked. Utterly fucked.

But how could he scene when every time he got close to going under he was filled with memories of badhurtJoshpainbad. And it’s not like his hockey was taking a toll — maybe the lack of scening was actually what was leading to his hockey prowess. You never know.

The all-too-familiar fuzz of subdrop creeped around his thoughts, slurring them from somewhat rational to borderline panicked. The edges of his vision blurred, and his hands shook. Dropping never got easier. No matter how many times it happened.

Leon’s entire mind ached, every slight mistake becoming catastrophic, every crumb of hurt snowballing into an avalanche. The kind that buries you alive.

It almost made him want to crawl back into Josh’s arms and beg for forgiveness. Almost.

Letting out a shaky breath, Leon sat down on the bathroom tiles — cold, but not cold enough — taking the sharp edge along the crease of his groin and thigh, and pressed. Hard

Hardhardhard-

A distant noise.

Blood pooled along the blade, and Leon hissed at the pain.

Then another noise. Louder this time. Closer. Real.

“-Drat? I know you’re in here. Open up, man!” cut through the ever-growing haze in Leon’s mind, Nursey’s concern becoming evident. “One sec,” he called out from the bathroom, quickly realizing he would have to yell to be heard, which his vocal cords — scraped raw from the whimpers he hadn’t even realized he’d been letting out — did not want to comply with.

“Coming!” Leon yelled louder, trying to ignore the dots darting around his vision as he got up from the bathroom floor, scrambling to shove the nail clippers back into the bag and pull his dress pants back up. The walk to the door was a short but painful one, with Leon’s legs aching from disuse. He could’ve sworn he’d only been on the floor for a few minutes.

Nursey was standing outside the door: his tie was almost fully off, and shirt unbuttoned to the point where it served more as an accessory rather than a top. He looked between a man who’d had enough drinks to shamelessly give up on looking put together, and a man who was three days into a wedding ceremony and way too tired to be dealing with another one of Connor’s “emergencies”.

His brow furrowed in something that a stranger might have overlooked as tipsy nonchalance, but Leon could recognize the sharpness in them.

“Dude,” Nursey said, peering past Leon into the hotel room, seemingly searching for someone, and pushed past Leon to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been knocking for a solid five minutes. I thought I was gonna have to call security and like, bust your door down”.

“Sorry,” Leon responded, which was really all his brain could muster up.

“I figured you found someone to hook up with, but guessing by the state of the room, I’d say probably not,” Nursey turned from his perch on the bed to inspect the rest of the room — looking for a secret hookup, Leon’s mind helpfully supplied, “So… what’s up?”

“Nothing much, just needed a quick minute,” Leon sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“Same, dude. If I have to hear another Taylor Swift club remix, I might lose it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against a little T-Swizzle, but, c’mon, she should not, in any world, be put over a techno beat.”

Leon hummed noncommittally, mentally praying that the conversation didn’t end up with Nursey telling him about some wedding drama the groomsmen and bridesmaids were being asked to fix, again; if he’d known it would take this much effort to help run a wedding, he would’ve thought twice before accepting (that’s actually far from true — the distraction was currently the only thing keeping Leon from a days long, laying-on-the-floor-unconscious drop. And, there wasn’t a lot he wouldn’t do for Connor, anyway).

“Well, in other news, Connor is currently freaking the fuck out about the drinks downstairs. Something about the wrong kind of champagne being passed out. Or maybe the wrong kind of glasses? I’m not actually sure, I totally tuned out after the fifth ‘this is unacceptable’, so.”

Leon groaned, rubbing a sweating hand across his face until dots swam in his vision. His plea was clearly not being granted. “Jesus. It’s his wedding, does it really matter?”

Nursey smirked. “Tell him that. Also, if you’re interested, Lauren, Mikayla, and some of the other girls are plotting to lock him in a cupboard or something, so you should probably go before they get to him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Leon muttered, regretting every cocktail he’d had earlier, taking his suit jacket from the chair nearest the hall.

As he turned the door knob, Leon chose to ignore the ways his hands shook against the handle.

Unfortunately, although the McDavids had a lengthy wedding ceremony (ceremonies, really), the week did have to come to an end, and with it, Leon’s escape.

He left the morning after the wedding ended. It’s not like there was much waiting for him in Ontario, anyway. Going back to Cologne always felt a little bit like a death sentence — like returning to where it all began meant the end, or something.

Coming home after losing in the finals was salt in the open wound.

Leon almost started crying the other day in some random café. He tried to avoid social media as much as possible after the game, but sometimes, on days when Leon was aching to twist the knife, he couldn’t help it.

Really though, he didn’t need strangers on the internet telling him what he did wrong. Every mistake he made, each face-off he lost, the blocked shots, every shot that went wide, each pass he missed — they all flashed through his mind.

So maybe he teared up a little, but that was between him, his latte, and the underpaid barista.

Despite the constant mist of guilt that thickened into a fog with each passing hour, it was nice to fall into a rhythm again.

Part of this rhythm was working out, of course, and while he could just use the treadmill in his personal gym, Leon much preferred running outside. There was truly nothing like the burn in his lungs and the cold touch of wind on his face.

Running outside did have its downsides. For example, other people; specifically, other people Leon was very comfortably ignoring the texts from.

Tim Bender was a nice guy — not Leon’s favorite person, or even someone he really liked, but he was decent. Treated subs well and all that. They had spent a year or two formative years playing for the Adler Mannheim together, when they were both just growing into the second skin that was their dynamic.

Leon first knelt for him — the first time he knelt, period — after a brutal loss, in the deserted locker room, hours after the final buzzer sounded. They had both played badly and needed to blow off some steam. And it was fine; not life-altering, not traumatic — fine.

It quickly became a pattern: one of them would need to go under, they’d signal to the other, and they’d find someplace to kneel for a bit. Leon had knelt in storage closets, bathrooms, everywhere.

But with both of them off to different teams, and Tim’s new girlfriend (and now wife), it was clear the arrangement wasn’t going to last. Which was fine.

Until Tim had decided to text Leon a few days after their loss, asking if he wanted to meet up sometime this summer. He phrased it that way, too: “Do you want to meet up?”

Not “I want to meet up.” Leon hated that — just fucking say if you were interested instead of leaving the responsibility to him!

Tim never got a response.

“Leon?”

There went his plans of making a hasty retreat. Fuck his life, honestly.

Not bothering to smile, Leon stopped in his tracks, awkwardly fitting his hands into the pockets of his running shorts. He hoped he looked unapproachable. Let Tim think he was an asshole, it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

After a silence that made it clear Leon was not going to respond, Tim cleared his throat, “Hey, it’s been a long time.”

Leon wasn’t a particularly social person by any means, but he did have manners — and media training. But he was tired. Tired of opening his phone to countless “you’ll get them next time!” messages from friends. Tired of the emails from his agent about his contract negotiations. Tired of working hard and sweating until he molded all the imperfections out of his body, just to wake up as a sub — a sub who couldn’t keep someone’s love for more than a few months. A sub who hadn’t scened in over a year. And, fuck, did his body need it.

“Um, I texted you earlier, but you probably didn’t see it with all the other texts you’re receiving!” Tim laughed, somehow managing to make a normal sentence feel self-deprecating. “I just wanted to reach out and see if you were interested in hanging out sometime? Reliving the old days?”

Leon was not at all sure if Tim was still married to Jane or whatever her name was, but clearly the relationship must have been on the rocks if Tim needed Leon to kneel for him.

Looking up into the sky — like maybe it held the answer — Leon sighed and ran his hand along his chin, the stubble that was growing there prickly against his fingers. He needed to shave.

It was the perfect opportunity, at least on paper — Leon needed to go under and still wasn’t comfortable doing anything intense. And here was an old friend offering; someone Leon knew he could trust — because despite the fact that Leon doesn’t even like him, and they haven’t talked in over a decade, he had never shown any signs of toxic or manipulative behavior.

But that’s what Leon thought about Josh, and look where he ended up.

No, he couldn’t risk it. And he had it under control.

It was fine.

“Sorry, man, but I can’t really fit it into my schedule. I’d love to grab a beer or something, though.”

He would not, in fact, love to grab a beer or something — he would love to continue his fucking run.

“Are you sure? I mean, no pressure at all, but it would be totally casual, y’know? No strings attached or anything.”

Yeah, their marriage was definitely falling apart, talk about desperate.

“I already have a scene partner, so…” Leon responded, which—

False. Could not be farther from the truth, actually.

“Oh. Oh! Okay. Well, um, I’ll text you? For a beer sometime? Try to respond this time,” Tim chuckled, embarrassment palpable from kilometers away.

“Yeah, hah, okay,” came Leon’s response. And. That was that.

The rest of the run passed in a blur, with all of Leon’s mind focused on what it had been like back then. What it had been like to have someone to kneel for, anytime. Before everything went to shit, before Josh.

Where would he be now if things hadn’t gone down the way they had? Would he be on some tropical island with a boyfriend right now? Would he be scening regularly, the ache in his mind no longer a constant presence?

Walking into his entryway Leon almost fell to his knees as he toed off his shoes, the phantom pain in his knees that was urging his to just get the fuck down and kneel, overwhelming him for a moment. Maybe it was the walk or maybe it was the encounter with Tim, but Leon’s vision was suddenly swimming, the familiar landscape of his living room spinning around him.

Bowie came running in, probably just waking from a nap in Leon’s bed upstairs, and ran up to him, paws resting on Leon’s knees.

“Hey, buddy,” Leon managed, although peaking was becoming an incredibly hard feat: his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, and his lips stuck together every time he closed them. Leon would need to take him out for a walk soon — he should've earlier, but the pup had looked too peaceful to be disturbed, fur spread out against the white of Leon’s sheets in his sleep. But, honestly, with his body in this state, he might just have to make do with a trip out to the backyard.

Leon made his way up to the shower, clothes sticking to his skin with sweat, even though the run hadn’t been anything crazily strenuous. He quickly closed the bathroom door behind him, blocking Bowie from entering — he definitely would need to give him a treat and an extra long walk tomorrow. Stripping the clothes from his clammy body was a relief, the cold air raising goosebumps on his arms.

The shower tile was cool against his abused feet as he stepped in and reached for the temperature dial. Lots of the guys took ice baths or freezing showers, so it wasn’t that odd for Leon to crank the handle all the way past “C,” so blisteringly frigid that Leon wouldn’t have been surprised if steam rose up from where the droplets hit his skin; it burned in the way hands did after a few minutes of throwing snowballs without any gloves — so cold it was hot.

Leon hadn’t had a bad drop for a few days and was hoping that it was a sign that he was healed. Evidently, that was not the case.

The worst part wasn’t the physical aspect. No, as long as he held it off until after practice or a game (nothing a switchblade or cold shower couldn’t handle!), it never impacted hockey.

Delaying the inevitable only resulted in worsening the symptoms, but still, nothing too bad — you don’t survive in the NHL if you can’t handle pain. So, he’d pop some painkillers, lie in bed, and wait for his body to stop screaming at him in protest.

It was the mental pain that was killing him slowly.

Chapter Text

Halfway through a circuit of ab workouts, the Spotify-curated “Beast Mode” playlist (the one that said it was tailored for Leon but had enough pop songs to make a sorority girl seem bland) cut off, his phone screen lighting up with an incoming call.

“Leon! Hello,” his sister chirped, German rolling over Leon in waves of comfort. “I was just calling to make sure you’re doing well.“

Of course. Another wellness check.

Being home meant proximity to his family — his mom’s recipes, his dad’s lectures, and his sister’s routine phone calls. And look — of course it was nice to see his parents and sister regularly, but the mother-henning tended to get suffocating fast.

“Yes, I’m still doing well. Nothing has changed since the last time you called to ask, okay?”

And. Not the way he meant that to come out. He appreciated Kim’s care, really. It was just… hard. Really fucking hard.

“Okay, Leon. Okay,” Kim said, voice so tender it brought tears to his eyes. Why did he have to be such an asshole? God, it was like he was a teenage girl: slamming a door shut just to slide down it and let the tears fall. He was going to cry. Again. It genuinely couldn’t be normal to break down this much, to feel this much.

Kim continued despite Leon’s outburst, “I was at ‘Mommy & Me’ yoga the other day, and—“

“Mommy & Me yoga?”

“Yes, Leon. Anyways, I ran into Janina, and we were catching up when she happened to mention that Tim said you weren’t interested in meeting up with him because you were already scening with someone.”

Leon went deathly still. He should have known no one in the neighborhood could keep something on the down low for more than a few days.

Well. Tim and Janina-not-Jane were definitely still together then, though how happy they were was still up in the air. Did she even know what Tim had wanted to do during their little meet-up? Maybe she had no idea — or they were in some polyamorous relationship thing. Either way, Leon did not care; as long as he was left to his own devices, he was content.

“Oh, yeah. I’m just not trying to start anything new, you know? I haven’t even scened with him in, like, years. But yeah.”

“I didn’t know you were scening with someone. Is it Connor? Probably not — another guy in the team? Do I know him? Her?

If God had any mercy for Leon, lightning would have struck him down, because. What. The. Fuck.

“I don’t have a scene partner.”

Silence.

Anytime now would be perfect for the lightning... any day now.

“So you told Tim that you were already scening regularly so you could get out of kneeling for him without just saying ‘no.’”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Leon answered anyway: “Yes.”

The answer felt like it was choked out from his very being.

“That’s lying, Leon. You lied.”

“Well- no, not exactly.”

An exasperated sigh. “Leon. Do you know how concerning that is to hear?”

And, fuck. Leon could take criticism, a rant on why lying is bad, or why he should have more compassion for Tim. But worry? That was the last thing he wanted Kim to feel — that’s why he wasn’t scening in the first place!

“Please tell me you are scening regularly, or so help me God.”

He couldn’t make her worry more. He’d done enough already.

“Yes,” Leon lied through his teeth.

No.

“Enough?”

Also no.

Leon’s entire stomach seemed to rearrange itself, twisting into an intricate pattern of knots. “Kim, look, I really don’t—“

“Okay, okay, I’ll drop it,” Kim rushed, seemingly placated with Leon’s answer (or just waiting for another time to strike), “I’ll drop it. I just… I worry. I know this summer has been hard on you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, well, if that’s it, I do have to finish this workout, but I’ll come over soon to see the little guy, yeah? Tell Niklas I say hi,” Leon said, effectively cutting off any possible attempts at drawing out the conversation (what was up with him and ending conversations abruptly?), “Love you!”

Another sigh. “I love you, too, Leon. Come over soon, we miss you.”

The line went silent. He was a fucking coward.

Now, Leon could’ve spent a few seconds emotionally processing the fact that his sex life was getting so dry his sister felt the need to intervene, or how, based on the pounding in his head, he was pretty sure he was going to drop again very soon, but he still had 27 more sit-ups to go. Priorities.

Connor would be proud.

The offseason ended as fast as it arrived — a brutal transition Leon never really managed to get the hang of. This year, Leon’s offseason was cut short, and in late August, he was back in Canada.

The news came out a few days later when Leon was lounging on his sofa watching a shitty movie and the headlines were everywhere — ESPN and all the other sports associated websites had articles out in no time: “Draisaitl (Submissive) signs 8-year, $112 million contract with Oilers,” “Edmonton Oilers Lock Up Submissive Leon Draisaitl With Historic Contract Extension,” “Draisaitl becomes highest paid Submissive in the NHL after Auston Matthews,” etc, etc.

Leon threw the phone onto the nearest surface, because if he had to see another fucking article about the goddamn extension-

He should have been happy. He should have been cracking open a bottle of champagne and celebrating. Instead, he was moping around in his living room.

Why wouldn’t—no, couldn’t he have been happy? Hell, he was making history, paving the way for other subs in the NHL! But it was just another thing he had to manage, another reason his head was pounding. Another plate to add to the stack resting upon his head.

If it had been Connor who signed the contract, no one would be talking about how he was the highest paid dom — it would just be “Connor McDavid, highest paid NHL player.” But, of course, Leon couldn’t be mentioned without his defect being listed, too; God forbid someone read about him and think he was a dom. The world would never recover. It might actually implode.

A soldier’s yell cut through the storm in Leon’s mind, calling out in broken English as he ran into battle on the TV. Leon wondered what it would be like: waging war in some foreign land, fighting for a country you didn’t believe in. When life was that bleak surely no one cared who was a dom or sub or whatever — they were all just fighting to see another day. To return home.

Closing his eyes, Leon turned his head back towards the ceiling, just like that day in July when he saw Tim. It didn’t relieve the ache in his skull. And it still didn’t provide an answer.

The bananas didn’t bleed, not like Leon did. They just fell into the blender, soft and silent, into the mix of yogurt and protein powder.

Connor’s call came as he was finishing off the cup. There were still a few hours until he had to be at the rink for camp, and he had a sinking feeling deep in his gut that told him exactly what Connor had to say. Accepting the call felt much heavier than it should have, like watching in slow motion a puck perfectly hit an opponent’s tape and fly into the net.

“What’s up?”

There was no need for pleasantries, the meaningless how-are-yous and I’m-fines. After almost a decade of being teammates with Connor, Leon knew what a Captain-Connor talk was compared to a regular-Connor talk. The media always thought that there was no work-life balance, that Connor always had hockey-mode on, but that wasn’t true. He was just… Connor. Overwhelmingly so, yes, but that was part of his appeal.

“Hey. Just wanted to let you know that Matthew is going to be at informal skates tomorrow. And, uh, I’m sure you know what I’m going to say, but please just try to start fresh,” Connor said, voice somewhat distorted over the phone’s speakers. It made him sound older.

Leon let out a heavy sigh. “I mean, I’ll try my best, but it’s not my fault if he starts asking like a pest. Someone needs to let him know that his behavior in Florida isn’t going to fly here.”

Connor’s disapproval was evident before he even began to speak again. “It’s been hard for him, okay? At least give him a chance.”

“I just think it’s fucking stupid how management traded Bouch for the asshole who beat us in the finals-“

“Yes, and a lot of the boys think so as well. Which is why you, Leon, as an Alternate, need to set a good example. Please.”

It was the “please” that always got Leon; even though he was beyond pissed (and since when was he “Matthew?”), he could only imagine how Connor felt about the whole situation, especially with the media tour they had coming up — the amount of ridiculous questions he was going to get about Matthew and last year was going to be insane. Leon didn’t envy him at all.

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”

“Thank you,” Connor sighed, the weariness evident in his voice, “I have a good felling about this, Leo. He’s a good player, you can’t deny it — they wouldn’t have traded Bouch for just anyone, yeah?”

“Yeah. I guess,” Leon conceded, not-so-graciously accepting defeat. “How are you, though? You sound like you’re going gray over there.”

Connor snorted, “I think I might be. But, you know, that’s how it goes.”

“Yeah, that’s how it fucking goes.”

Connor rambled on about Colorado for a few more minutes until hanging up with a promise to touch base on the “Matthew Situation” later that night. Leon stared aimlessly at the banana smoothie. It no longer seemed very appealing.

Leon only had a few days to put up with Tkachuk at informals until he was en route to Vegas for media. It didn’t make seeing the rat-faced bastard in blue and orange any less jarring. Tkachuk even had the audacity to stroll into the locker room ten minutes late, acting like he’d been on the team for fucking years instead of a month or two — and that was only legally. He looked exactly the same as he had in June, beard maybe a bit longer, and skin a little darker from whatever he spent his summer doing. The worst part, though, was his sunglasses. He had on those obnoxious sunglasses that covered half his face and reflected the entire rainbow when the sun hit them. What the fuck was he going to do with those in Edmonton? There wasn’t enough sunshine in all of Canada for those to be needed.

Perry turned to him and raised an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and humor in his eyes — very much silently communicating a “get a load of this guy!” that Leon could not help but snort

Nursey (who had probably gotten a call from Connor telling him to be Tkachuk’s guide or whatever so that Leon wouldn’t start a fight within ten minutes of his arrival) strode over to Tkachuk, who was now standing and observing the locker room like it was an ancient artifact in a museum.

“Matthew! It’s great to see you, man,” Nursey yelled, slapping the other man violently on the back, “We’re so excited to have you here.”

“Yeah, no, I’m glad to get a chance to bring you guys to the Cup!”

And.

Looking over to his right, Leon saw Nursey and Nuge exchange a quick glance, both eerily silent.

The entire room, actually, was eerily silent if Leon was honest — especially for a bunch of rowdy hockey players.

“You’ll be a great addition to the team,” Nursey responded, turning to show Tkachuk to his locker.

After years of spending time with Nursey, Leon would tell when he was lying — it was something about the tone of voice — and he couldn’t help but hope that Tkachuk could sense how much of the greeting was bullshit. That was as much hatred Leon would let himself feel. He had instructions after all.

With it being Leon’s first day of informal as well, most of the free time in between drills was spent catching up with the other guys. He heard stories from Connor’s wedding that he wasn’t even aware of himself, tales of toddlers running into oncoming traffic (which made him thank his lucky stars that he couldn’t relate), and definitely did not stare at Tkachuk out of the corner of his eye. Because why would he do that? He was being peaceful, okay, Connor?

Filing onto the ice, Leon let his eyes close, mind finally — finally — going blissfully empty. He might be fucked in every other respect of his life, but this, this he knew how to do. And it was fine.

At least for the first 30 minutes.

The whole thing about informal skates was that they were casual. No coaches, no cameras, no pressure. Just a bunch of NHL players getting back into the rhythm of the game.

Matthew Tkachuk, however, had no regard for rhythm whatsoever.

Nuge had suggested a few one-on-one puck protection drills (fine) and had everyone separate into two lines, splitting off into partners to practice. But Leon just had to end up paired with Matthew-fucking-Tkachuk (not fine).

The drill had barely begun when Tkachuk slammed into Leon — elbow digging into his ribs through the padding of the shoulder pads, knocking him fully off balance, and the puck flew out from in between them.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Leon spat, shooting a glare Tkachuk’s way, “it’s informals not the goddamn playoffs.”

So much for peace.

Tkachuk laughed, all teeth and ego, eating the whole thing up. “That’s the attitude that lost you the Cup, Drai.”

Leon felt his blood pressure spike — the bastard was so annoying, God. “The team that traded you days after winning? Yeah, I’m not feeling very envious of that. At least I’m wanted here.”

Tkachuk’s shit-eating grin faltered — just for a second, so fleeting Leon might’ve imagined it — before coming back, albeit eyes duller than before. The laugh he let out was sharp enough to cut through the tension between them; he shook his head like Leon was an idiot. “We both know it means fuck all to be ‘wanted’ if you are left with a shit team that can’t help but choke in the finals.”

Leon’s fingers flexed against the shaft of his stick, “fuck you,” he growled out, turning to skate back to the blue line.

“Hit a little too close to home?” Tkachuk called out, following from his position near the net. “Face it, Draisaitl, your pissy lone-wolf act doesn't scare me; you wanna be mad? Be mad at yourself for fucking it up when it really counted.”

Leon lunged. Not to start a fight — he wasn't that hot-headed — just enough to show this asshole that he wasn’t here to play around. If Tkachuk thought he could get away with that fucking attitude, he was way off base.

Before anything could happen, however, a whistle blew and cut through the tension. Leon backed away, watching Tkachuk from the corner of his eye the entire time. Nursey shot him what was clearly a knock-it-the-fuck-off look. Leon exhaled, jaw clenched so tightly it was starting to burn, and started on the next drill.

The media tour was, as Leon had predicted, hellish.

It seemed like every reporter in Vegas wanted to ask about Tkachuk — how was it seeing him at informal skates? (“Uneventful.”) Were they friendly? (“As much as teammates are.”) or was there still bad blood from All Stars? (“Take a guess.”)

When not being grated on that, it was either critiques on his performance against the Panthers or his contract — both arguably worse topics than Tkachuk, which is saying a lot. It was safe to say that Leon was extremely happy to be boarding the flight back to Edmonton.

As much as the summer had fucking sucked, it was time for training camp, and there was nothing better than hockey to take his mind off everything.

The universe, however, had different plans for Leon.

Maybe Leon was in a bit of a bad mood that day, but, fuck, who could blame him? He spilled his smoothie all over the floor and had to shove a few protein bars in his bag instead so he was on time, some idiot almost rear ended him on the way, and then fucking Tkachuk.

Everyone had their designated parking spots. That’s just how it was — the sky is blue, grass is green, and the spot three to the right of the garage entrance was Leon’s.

Of course, some rat-faced, loud-voiced, sunglasses-wearing bastards decided that it didn’t matter. No, it’s not like Leon had been parking there for the past five years!

So maybe Leon stormed in, and maybe called Tkachuk a cunt. Maybe. Okay, definitely.

“Hello to you, too, Draisaitl.”

Tkachuk was hunched over his stall, busy lacing up his skates. The picture of a perfect hockey player.

“The fucking audacity-“ Connor’s eyes flicked back and forth from Leon to Tkachuk, so fast it was almost comical. “Why the fuck is your fucking car in my parking spot?”

“Well, my fucking car is in your fucking parking spot because, if you took a second to look around, you’d see that there were no other open spots,” Tkachuk said, still putting on his skates. “Not my fault you came late.” He finally looked up from his position, eyes fiery with the urge to fight.

Leon’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he was sure his veins must have been bulging — at this rate, he was gonna burst a blood vessel.

Tkachuk had no right to come on the team and act like he’d been there his entire life. So what if he was a good hockey player? Leon was fucking better! He had absolutely no right.

Before Leon could launch into yelling these thoughts aloud, Connor stood up, pushing his hand on Leon’s chest and firmly guiding him away from Tkachuk’s stall — defending the ugly bastard. “Look, Matthew probably didn’t know it was your spot, Drai. And you found one anyways, so… let’s move on.”

Bullshit. All of it. Tkachuk knew damn well Leon parked there every single day. He was practically grinning behind Connor, of course he fucking knew! Taking a deep breath like he was supposed to whenever he felt like bashing someone’s head — or his own — into the nearest hard surface, Leon stormed off to put on his own gear.

In for four.

Whatever, he’d be the bigger person. It wasn’t worth starting a fight or getting lectured by Connor.

Hold for four.

He’d prove he was leagues better than Tkachuk. Letting himself get angry would only prove he was nothing but an emotionally unstable sub who needed a firm hand.

Out for four.

This wasn’t Leon being defeated or surrendering, just waiting for the right moment.

Hold for four.

Tkachuk might have walked into the room thinking he was some hotshot who could do whatever the fuck he wanted because he had a Cup behind him, but he was going to humbled — fast.

It was time to get on the ice, anyway.

Chapter Text

Playing in the NHL meant that any moment, any time, everything could be over. One wrong move, one bad hit, and your career was over. It’s something every guy has to have made peace with.

Blinking his way into the world of the living, the first thing Leon was aware of was the blinding pain in his chest. His ribs were on fire, and the blood that coursed in his veins was gasoline.

The second thing Leon realized was that he was in one of the examination rooms. Neither good signs.

The shape of a man started to form in Leon’s vision; the man — a trainer, most likely, was reviewing something on a computer screen.

“What happened?” Leon rasped, voice raw from disuse. The sterile walls of the room were spinning, and the overhead light was burning itself into his eyes.

“Oh! Glad to see you’re up, Leon. You suffered a minor hit in practice this morning, that’s all,” the trainer, whose name Leon couldn’t recall, responded. “We checked your shoulder and nothing is dislocated or fractured, so that’s the good news,” the man continued. “The bad news, though: when we got you off the ice, you appeared to be in subdrop, which is pretty uncommon. We drew blood, but the results won’t come back for another few hours. We just wanted to ask if there is a possibility your exorine levels are low? A prolonged period in between scenes, maybe?”

Shit.

Shitshitshit-

“Um, yeah. Maybe. I guess.”

“When was the last time you scened with a partner?” and — such a routine fucking question. But.

The trainer (Joseph? José? Definitely a “J” name) had abandoned the computer and was now solely focused on Leon.

“I’m not sure of the actual date…”

“An estimate is fine.”

Maybe it was the painkillers they’d given him for his shoulder, or the fact that he’d been keeping this secret for half a year. Maybe it was the earnest look in the man’s eyes, like he truly cared, cared about Leon.

Whatever the reason, Leon finally told the truth.

Leon was called into the arena the next day, receiving nothing but a time and a place. The conference room he entered was similar to the one where he’d signed his contract extension. Then, Kris and Stan had been beaming, making small talk and laughing without a care in the world. Not anymore.

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp nose that Leon hadn’t seen before sat in between Kris and Stan. She was talking quietly with Katy, the dynamics counselor for the team, who sat across from the trio. Leon hadn’t talked to her for more than a few seconds — only exchanging a couple of words during medical form discussions — but he’d heard from the other guys that she was nice.

The big-nosed woman gestured for Leon to sit next to Katy, breaking him out of his stupor. The black leather of the chair was cool to the touch, soothing the fire in his body as he sat down.

“This is Dr. Ivanov,” Katy said as she reached over to clasp Leon’s hands between her’s before quickly letting go. “She’s a specialist in long-term neglect of one’s dynamic, specifically for Submissives. But I’ll let her explain more in depth.”

“I’m not going to beat around the bush or sugarcoat the situation — you’re in bad shape,” Dr. Ivanov said tersely, the consonants harsh around her thick accent. “. A healthy submissive should be at around 50, and a professional athlete aims for around 60.”

Leon internally scoffed — he wasn’t stupid, he was just not scening. There was a difference.

Dr. Ivanov, apparently a mind-reader as well as a specialist, said sternly, “And if you think this lecture is unnecessary, let me remind you that you have shown absolutely no regard for your body’s needs, so, yes, you will be treated as an uneducated child. Because that is how you’ve been acting.”

Katy’s eyes were wide, and her mouth was twitching minutely with the urge to interrupt. Everyone else in the room seemed equally as uncomfortable, but Dr. Ivanov was confused before anyone could object to her comment.

Your blood test came out with your exorine levels being at 23. Not surprising, since it has been brought to our attention that you have not scened in over six months, and possibly have not entered subspace in even longer. This would qualify as an extreme case of sub withdrawal, one of the worst I’ve seen, actually.”

No.

God, no.

What had he done in his past life to deserve this, honestly?

Look, Leon knew he wasn’t in perfect health, but that bad? It couldn’t seriously be that bad — his play was fine, wasn’t it? It all seemed so over the top when he was clearly doing fine.

“So, not only is your health in quite rancid shape, but I looked back on your annual Dynamic Care form, and you had previously stated that you were regularly scening, and, if at any point that changed, you would alert a medical official immediately.”

Dr. Ivanov raised a perfectly straight eyebrow and ceased speaking, seemingly having said her piece — which, yeah, that she definitely did.

Stan, sensing the impending silence, quickly continued where she had left off. “Leon, lying on that form is a punishable offense in Canada. The team, the doctors, and the entire organization could be brought to court if you went down during an official game. But seeing as it only happened in practice — which is still unacceptable, do not think otherwise — we have a few options. Katy?”’

Katy cleared her throat, ready to speak as if they’d rehearsed this lecture before. They probably did. “There are three possibilities for our next move. We could place you on IR and hire a professional Dominant to scene with you regularly (around four times a week) until your hormone levels are back up; if you choose this option, the Dominant would come to Roger’s Place for all scenes or be accompanied by a trainer to your house. I know this is uncomfortable for you, but,” she looked over at him with badly concealed pity, “we can’t trust you right now.”

This could not be real.

“The second option is to scene with a teammate. We would send out a form asking if anyone was willing to become your Dominant for as long as needed, and then we would narrow down the options using a preference form, so as to ensure the best fit.”

“And,” Leon hastily licked his too-dry lips, “and the third?”

Kris answered this time, the first words he’d spoken the entire meeting. “We would be forced to terminate your contract immediately.”

Oh.

The pain creeping up in the back of his head became a pounding agony, and Leon couldn’t help but grimace.

Hockey was non-negotiable. Hands down. So it was between the other two. What was worse, having some stranger see him at his most vulnerable and possibly exploit him, or losing a teammate’s respect after his true nature was revealed?

Dr. Ivanov was steadily staring Leon down, not meant to be intimidating but not quite comforting either, and Kris’ brows were still furrowed to the point where they fused into one.

But could Leon actually handle seeing the disgust on Connor’s face? Nursey? Nuge?

To hear the whispers about how incapable of goodness he was, everyone going silent as he walked into the room?

No. That’d be unbearable. With a professional dom, at least, there’d be little-to-no preconceived notions about him — he couldn’t disappoint someone who didn’t know him, right? Or, well, he could, but it would hurt less. Yeah. Yeah, that was the only option.

“I’ll sce- work with the professional dom.”

“You’ll scene with a professional Dominant,” Dr. Ivanov cut in, not as much asking a question as stating a fact. And, really, what did she have against Leon? Give him a goddamn break.

The company they hired for the professional dom required a shit ton of interest forms before anything could begin — nothing Leon hadn’t done before, but he was dead on his feet and filling out forms was not how he planned on spending the night. But the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could put all of it behind him.

The entire thing was seven pages long, split into different sections by kinks; to the side, there were boxes to indicate if you had tried the kink before, your rating, and if you would like to try or do again.

Bondage was easy: yes to gags, blindfolds, cuffs, collars, rope, and chastity devices; no to suspension, leashes, muzzles, and mummification.

Most of the bodily functions section was a hard no — scat, piss play, blood play, injections. Fetishes were similar: no to everything except lingerie. Leon ignored all the subsections in the humiliation and marked everything as a hard limit, and moved straight to impact play: with that, Leon honestly had no preference as long as it didn’t interfere with hockey. He paused on praise. Hesitated. Then brought the pen up to check the box. And moved on.

The rest of the form went by in a similar fashion — Leon wasn’t a picky sub, but he also wasn’t the type to be into crazy shit. He’s just, like, normal, at least in terms of his taste.

Leon hesitated before finishing off with a final note — the dom was a hired professional, but they were still a dom.

“I know I’m not the best sub, but if you give it some time, I’ll get better.”

Leon was exempt (barred, actually) from the usual training camp activities, so there wasn’t much to do but wait until Katy contacted him. That and spiral.

There was a reason Leon hadn’t scened in so long. Everyone thought he was a fucking idiot, but the importance of his dynamic was clear. God, how could Leon have been oblivious when the drops got more frequent and more painful with each passing day? But the alternative to actual scening was far worse.

So much worse, actually, that Leon had to do ten straight minutes of his box-breathing routine before he could even open the email Katy sent him two days later.

It was short, straight to the point, just like the message he received after the injury — time, place, be there.

Leon had never been to the arena’s dynamic rooms before, so finding the room (which was tucked in between a storage closet and conference room, obviously) was a bit of a struggle. But after aimlessly wandering around the arena he was supposed to know like the back of his hand, Leon did manage to find his way.

The door was like all the others, white and unassuming. No windows, decorations, or anything — just a plaque reading “Dynamics Room: 4A” in bold silver letters.

To the left of the entrance was a wall of shelves, lined with everything from chocolate-flavored lube to a leather cat o’ nine tails; the right side held a Saint Andrew’s Cross and spreader bar, and the middlemost wall had a king-sized bed in front of it.

Definitely a dynamics room.

It was everything a dynamics room should be, everything Leon had been expecting, but it still settled wrong in his stomach.

The dom — Layla, Leon was informed earlier — was already there, sitting crisscrossed on the bed’s black sheets. Totally calm, not a wrinkle of concern etched on her face. Like it was just some Tuesday, not the end of Leon’s life as he knew it. But it was just another day for her, though — just another sub to handle.

Her outfit blended in: an all black outfit comprised of a fitted top, jeans, and loafers. Maybe it was supposed to make her look professional, but it just seemed like a funeral getup.

Fitting.

Layla didn’t bother introducing herself or anything. She just stared at him for a few seconds before continuing to rifle around in her bag. It made sense: she was getting paid to scene with him, not coddle him.  What had he been expecting? A hug? A get-to-know-you session? He needed to keep his expectations in check if he was going to make it out alive.

“I looked over your form, and I thought we could start with some basic kneeling, maybe add some bondage in as we progress to work on trust.” Layla shifted through her bag as she talked, giving Leon the luxury of avoiding eye contact.

God, it was a miracle she wasn’t looking at him because Leon wasn’t sure he could stand her clinical gaze as she said those words — kneeling, bondage.

Maybe once upon a time, hearing that would have sparked a fire in his gut, made him want. But now, the lust settled like ash in his throat, constricting his breathing.

“How does that sound?”

Leon stood frozen where he was, fists repeatedly clenching and unclenching — a nervous habit — unable to step any further into the room. It felt like he would be sealing his fate. What fate, he had no idea. All he knew was that it wasn’t one he ever wanted.

“Leon?”

Right, he was supposed to answer. Shit.

He tried to respond, but his lips just flapped uselessly like a fish out of water, slowly choking to death in the presence of oxygen. He tried again. And again. Layla was still waiting. He had to do it — he had to answer. Finally:

“Fine,” his tone sounded clipped, even to his own ears, but Layla didn’t seem to be bothered (odd, but Leon hadn’t ever been with a professional, so maybe it was different?).

No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t back out. Not now. Not without losing everything.

Layla smiled, the first hint of emotion she showed since Leon walked in. “Okay. Remember: you can always say ‘no’ or use your safeword. This is a safe space.”

Right.

Okay, he could do this.

Leon shifted from where he still stood at the door, moving to the space in front of the bed. Taking a breath, he quickly folded his knees, dropping to the floor violently. The ‘thump’ of impact was jarring in the otherwise silent room.

“Oh, I have a kneeling pad for you, it isn’t good on your knees to kneel without it,” Layla said, her voice hurried as she spun around to grab a black (shocking) pillow from her bag.

“Sorry, sorry,” his voice was timid, so Leon swallowed and steeled himself — showing weakness would only make it worse.

In for four.

“No problem, honey,” Layla hummed, placing the pad down on the floor. And yeah. That did feel a lot better.

Straightening his spine, Leon brought his hands behind his back so that his wrists were touching and leaned his head down toward where Layla was sitting on the side of the bed. It might have been a while, but he could still kneel. Take that, Josh.

Layla’s palms, smooth and scented — something fruity, like peaches — ran through Leon’s hair, coming to rest on the nape of his neck. The touch was light and clearly feminine, but Leon couldn’t help but flinch, and Layla rubbed her hands up and down, almost like she was calming a spooked horse (not that different, actually).

The hands moved back up to his hair, slowly running through the dark strands until they met resistance. Layla gently pulled against the knot — the pain was nothing, really, just a pinprick. But, fuck.

Leon jerked forward from her hold, praying that she didn’t continue or, worse, escalate. But nothing happened. The peachy scent didn’t turn into musk, and the soft skin didn’t turn coarse. Layla’s hands returned a few moments later, warm against his collarbone, stroking that same pattern.

Hold for four.

“You okay?” Layla asked, voice soft, not low. Not Josh. She was not Josh.

“Yeah. Just keep going.”

It was okay. He was okay. For hockey, he would have done anything.

“Okay, honey.”

Out for four.

God, his mind clearly hadn’t processed it the first time, its focus was to kneel perfectly, but now that he noticed. It caused a warm wave of something to wash down Leon’s being. Soothing, yes, but in its wake, it also left him sensitive to the cold air.

As much as Leon tried, his mind would not stop turning. He was pretty sure it was supposed to, at this point. He hadn’t gone down in what felt like years, but surely anyone normal would be in subspace by now.

“Relax,” Layla murmured, which, yeah, if it was that easy, they wouldn’t have been there.

Hold for four.

The hands were still gentle in his hair, but that’s how it always started. Gentle, gentle, and then all of a sudden, chunks of his hair would be pulled violently, the roots burning.

Fuck, fuck, fuck — why was he here? He knew it was a mistake. They were all the same: hired, boyfriend, whatever — a dom was a dom, through and through.

Out for-

“Okay, honey, this clearly isn’t working.”

No.

Of course.

She was literally getting paid by the hour, and she still couldn’t put up with Leon. How did he always manage to ruin everything? He really tried this time, he really did.

Leon jumped to his feet, legs wobbly from the time spent on the floor, causing Layla’s hands to rip from his hair. He had to leave. Now. Even if it meant Josh won. He just couldn’t take it anymore.

The room spun around Leon as he rushed out, Layla’s voice a buzz in the background, growing loud and urgent — she was probably saying how useless he was, couldn’t even go down properly. Josh was right.

Yanking the door open, Leon was met with the gray walls of the hallway, slowly turning darker as black spots enveloped his vision. Everything hurt, everything was wrong.

The world was off its axis, and Leon was left to shift and stumble and try to find his balance. He couldn’t tell if he was moving or if the world was shifting underneath him.

He was lost, lost in a mess of gray and memories and pain, and-

And everything went dark.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing that the past few months taught Matthew, it’s that trades suck. Being traded to the team you beat for the Stanley Cup… a whole different level of suck. Astronomical suck.

Besides the obvious issue mentioned above, trades also sucked for the following reason: you have to pick up your entire life and just- leave. Like, what?

Then, you have to remake the life you just packed and shoved into boxes in fucking Canada. Yeah, Canada.

It could not get any worse than Canada. Actually, correction: it could not get any worse than some Oilers higher up having Matthew live in the Marriott two minutes away from Roger’s Place. And with the way house hunting was going, Leon knew he was going to be slumming it there for well into the season.

He hadn’t unpacked a single box yet. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to. Maybe it was because none of it felt like his anymore, anyway.

So, yeah, trades fucking sucked.

Regardless, Matthew was not a quitter, and, honestly, the Panthers could go shove the Cup up their asses for trading him, and he’d just have to show them why it was their biggest mistake ever, trading him. And if it took a meeting with Connor McJesus on a Saturday to discuss team bonding or some bullshit like that, so be it.

Or, it would have been if Matthew could find the goddamn room he was supposed to be in. Turns out, not all arenas were made the same — at least not Canadian ones — and Matthew ended up lost in the depths of Rogers Place. Life just got better and better, didn’t it?

Matthew had been ambling through gray hallway after gray hallway, each turn leading him, you guessed it: another gray hallway! A sudden longing for Florida's warm air and blue skies hit him like a puck to the face. At least the arena there didn’t look like a fucking Soviet bunker.

Matthew was sure he’d ventured through the entire arena. There was no way he hadn’t. But, because Google Maps doesn’t work indoors, Matthew had to resign himself to a fate of never-ending grayness. Until- An agitating, grating voice.

Something caught his attention. Roger’s Place had the typical sounds of any arena — people talking, machines whirring, etc, etc. But what was not typical was heavy panting and some whiny ass voice bitching.

Turning the corner, Matthew whipped his head around to find the source of the commotion — ideally some couple having a spat or something. But, no, what awaited Matthew was not a fight, but Leon Draisaitl.

Yeah. You heard that right. Leon ‘At least I’m wanted here’ Draisaitl.

In front of him, Matthew Tkachuk.

His face was deathly pale, hands shaking where they were attempting to grip the concrete wall.

And, all of a sudden, the day just got a whole lot more interesting.

Look, Matthew’s a jerk, but not enough  to ignore someone very clearly in subdrop, even if it was Draisaitl (and, let’s be real, he wanted to know what the fuck was happening — who was the chick? Did the Oilers know one of their star players was… whatever Draisaitl was?).

It wasn’t because something twisted in his gut.

It wasn’t worry, definitely wasn’t pity.

Just… something.

But before Matthew could say or do anything, Draisaitl was slamming to the floor. Which definitely had to hurt. Matthew did not envy him at all.

A door down the hallway flung open, revealing some goth wannabe looking around startled. Probably the bitch talking to Draisaitl. And what would a good teammate do other than take the limp body slouched on the floor, and make for what was (hopefully — please god) the exit to this pit of Hell?

Of course, the chick, whoever she was, did not appreciate Matthew’s chivalry and decided to put up a fight.

Bitch. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she quipped with a hand resting on her hip.

Dumbass question — what did it look like?

“I don’t know who you are, but my dear teammate here is clearly in need of medical attention, so I plan on getting him that.” Matthew gave her his best judgy-PTA-mom eyebrow raise, courtesy of Chantal Tkachuk, herself. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Matthew: 1, Blondie: 0.

“I cannot disclose my relationship with Mr. Draisaitl.”

Mr. Draisaitl? What?

“Yeah, not suspicious at all,” off-brand Kesha shot him a glare. “Look, I have no idea who you are, but for all I know you’re some crazy stalker who drugged Draisaitl or something. So. Scram.”

“I cannot turn him over to you.”

News flash: you don’t have a choice, bitch.

“Too late!” Matthew gave her a grin that screamed ‘fuck you’ and turned, attempting to drag Draisaitl.

Damn, he was heavy.

“Stop-“

Jesus Christ.

“I will call security if you don’t get lost in the next thirty seconds,” maybe not the best way to get rid of this girl, but eh. Whatever works, works, right?

And work it did. Apparently, the threat of security was enough to scare UnnamedBitch123 away, thank god.

Because there were far more interesting things to worry about. Such as the 6’2’’ hunk of a German currently passed out in Matthew’s arms.

Despite what many thought, Matthew was not, in fact, out to kill Draisaitl. So, like the gentleman he was, he deposited him with a trainer and left.

10 minutes later Matthew had finally made it to the room Connor had indicated — a regular weight room. Not a meeting then. Small mercies.

McDavid was already there — of course — along with Hyman, both sporting a white athletic tee and black shorts. Matthew glanced down at his all-black getup. He must’ve missed that email.

“Matthew, hey,” McDavid greeted, his tone flat, the smile on his face automatic, like he had practiced it until it became second nature. He moved through interactions with the efficiency of someone who had long accepted the burden of being the team’s anchor, offering the bare minimum in warmth while his mind was likely already on the next play.

Typical, Connor, huh?

Hyman had been watching McDavid greet Matthew like a dog — and when he got permission from his owner, he greeted the guest. Quaint. “What’s up, man? Glad to see you made it.”

Matthew's lips curved up. Like he had anything else to do in this shithole of a city.

Anyone who looked at Hyman’s face would think that he was at a barbecue, not some weird team-building exercise on a random Saturday, his smile was that bright. It wasn’t a blinding grin, per se, but rather a warm one. The type that had grandmothers swooning, you know?

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Matthew replied, swinging his small duffel down on the nearest bench press.

Hyman smiled while McDavid remained passive. Tough crowd. Or maybe he was just rebooting — wouldn’t be shocking with the way he was standing: shoulders pulled back, spine ramrod straight, hands pressed to his sides.

Hyman was the opposite, posture open and inviting. He continued, apparently not done talking, “Davo over here was just saying that maybe since I was traded somewhat recently, I could give you the low-down. And what better place than the gym? What’d ya say?”

A pinprick of pain sparked behind Matthew’s ear and he could literally feel the headache coming. He forced his smile (smirk) wider. “My own welcome committee — I’m honored.” He didn’t bother answering Hyman’s question; it’s not like he could refuse, anyway.

Davo seemed to remember he was conscious and nodded, still not really smiling. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. Yeah, definitely malfunctioning or something.

“You’re a great player, Matthew. We’re excited to see what you can do with the Oilers,” McDavid finally said. It was probably the most honest thing Matthew had heard since he stepped foot in Edmonton- no — since he raised the Cup above his head. He didn’t want to examine that too carefully.

“Well, what can I say? It’s just the Tkachuk charm.” The words came out flat, like champagne left open overnight. “So… what’s the agenda for today? Friendship bracelets, braising each other’s hair?” Matthew questioned, just to be a dick — he already knew they were here to work out and bond over their leg press capabilities.

Hyman faltered — good — but McDavid just responded curtly, scratching the nape of his neck with his left hand, “Just some light weight training. Nothing much.”

Knowing McDavid, “nothing much,” was code for a brutal workout — but that Matthew could do.

He was still a high-performance athlete, dammit.

“Yeah, ‘cause nothing says ‘welcome to the team!’ like a gym pissing contest.”

McDavid didn’t laugh. Neither did Hyman. Matthew focused on taping his wrists up instead of whatever was happening there.

The seconds stretched, tense, and awkward. Neither McDavid nor Hyman looked mad, but their silence felt like its own kind of pressure. Matthew had never liked that. He wanted to escape, to do something that would shake him out of this whole goddamn feeling.

The Canadian air must have killed his classic American charm.

After the workout, Matthew was going to leave. Really, he was!

But his feet just happened to lead him away from the exit, and lo and behold, he ended up in a hallway where he had dropped Draisaitl off with a trainer just hours earlier!

Okay, so maybe he couldn’t resist it and went back.

What, he’s just a man? Who wouldn’t be curious? The blondie called him ‘Mr. Draisaitl’ for god's sake. If that wasn’t absurd Matthew didn’t know what was.

And it was a treasure seeing this part of Draisaitl.

In front of the cameras, it was all “fuck Tkachuk, I’m so much better, blah blah” and on ice, it was just. Well, typical hockey, but Draisaitl had an ice-cold exterior — one that Matthew reveled in thawing, thank you very much. So seeing him all… fucked up, it was shocking. Beyond that.

Matthew hadn’t been taken that off guard since he found out Titanic wasn’t a real story (he still hasn’t forgiven his mom for that one).

Nevertheless, it didn’t seem like too much for him to wait for Draisaitl and demand answers and-

Draisaitl emerged from a door furthered down the hall. His hair looked disheveled and his eyes held nothing of the cold determination Matthew had come to associate with him. Nothing.

He still was too pale to be healthy, but he must have been fine enough to be set free, but the drop was still evident in the way his hands shook where they were clenched by his sides. Clearly not fully out of it, then. Huh.

Matthew had actually contemplated his first line for quite some time, and had settled on quiet, casual, and unbothered: ‘Hey.’

It... didn’t go as planned.

“Hey, Mr. Draisaitl,” Matthew drawled, pushing off the wall. “Didn’t think you’d make it out alive. Thought maybe blondie was gonna lock you in the dungeons or something.”

Draisaitl nearly fell back and looked a few wrong movements from dashing back to the exam room, and really, were they on that bad of terms? Okay, maybe Matthew was a bit of a dick to him lately, but, c’mon — not enough to warrant the scared look in Draisaitl’s eyes. It was full deer in headlights.

The look quickly disappeared, morphing into a blank slate, a shield of nonchalance. The only indication Draisaitl let through was the tick in his jaw.

“Oh, c’mon,” Matthew says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I helped you out earlier, so you could at least pretend to like me.”

That spurred Draisaitl into action — in a few strides he was up in Matthew’s face, his chest all puffed up. His stare was sharp, and his shoulders were still too tight. “I don’t like you.”

“Yeah, you and half the NHL,” Matthew replied, unbothered.

“I don’t think you get it: no one wants you. Not your team, not us,” Draisaitl said, too calm for the sentiment he was relaying. “You’re a fucking clown. That’s why the Panthers traded you — that’s why we’re going to trade you as soon as you step out of line.”

Draisaitl’s shoulders were raised so far above their normal position that they must have ached. “And in a decade or two, I’ll be sitting at home with a wife who loves me and a handful of Cup wins under my belt.”

The lights were really bright. Too bright.

“And you’ll be alone, somewhere in a deadbeat part of the States, provoking anyone who comes near just to be spared a sliver of attention.”

After his speech, Draisaitl turned to go, but before he could get far, Matthew grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. It was only a small point of contact but Matthew swore he could feel heat radiating off the other man.

“You must be getting old if subdrop has got you like that, man.” The void in Draisaitl’s eyes turned to stone. Good. “And who’s the chick? I guess no one wants to go with a Stanley Cup  runner-up so they had to hire someone, huh?”

Draisaitl’s hands shook harder, though it was most likely due to how hard he was clenching them now, and his lips turned up into a snarl.

Bingo. It was a guess, but a good one if Draisaitl’s fury was anything to go by.

“Shut the fuck up, Tkachuk,” he growled.

He growled.

Yeah.

Growled.

Like those cringe videos, Taryn sends him of Panthers fans growling. Ok, maybe not that level. But up there!

The way he said made it sound like a slur, his brow furrowed and his emphasis heavy on the end. It made his heart race. This was better. This was what Draisaitl was supposed to be. Not that cowering fool from earlier.

“Wonder what everyone would say if they found out you couldn’t keep a dom happy?”

Another guess. Matthew had no idea why Draisaitl was working with a professional. Hell, it could’ve been convenient. But, again, bullseye.

“And the media! They would feast on that stuff.”

And- okay. Was Matthew being shitty? Maybe. Would Taryn and his mom have his head if they heard him talking like this?

Yeah.

But chirping was chirping, and that was something some people didn’t understand.

They also would never understand the absolute thrill of seeing Draisaitl pissed. The way the tips of his ears turned pink and his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his neck bobbed. The way his lips were turned downwards in a snarl.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Tkachuk.”

Matthew moved closer to him, their faces inches away, and Draisaitl visibly stiffened. “Wouldn’t want them to find out, would we?” he hummed, ignoring the comment.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Matthew whispered into his ear. Draisaitl instantly backed up. Where did the other Draisaitl go? What did Matthew do to lose him again? What did he have to do to get him back? “On one condition.”

Matthew will admit that he had no idea where he was going with this. There were only two things he knew for sure at that moment: he never wanted to see Draisaitl that despondent, and he needed to know why he was scening with a professional and then dropping afterward. But he’s always been good at making shit up, anyways.

Draisaitl’s voice was gruff when he responded: “What do you want.” Not a question but a statement, a final sentencing.

If Draisaitl wasn’t Draisaitl, Matthew would have liked to have his voice rough for other reasons. Oh, well.

Matthew turned and twisted his car keys around in his hands. The goal was to be aloof — no, he didn’t care about Draisaitl’s response, and no, he wasn’t foaming at the mouth for it to be ‘yes’. That would be stupid.

“Come over. Tuesday, after practice,” he responded. The metal of his keys pressed into his flesh. “It ends early — we’ll have plenty of time.”

Plenty of time to do what exactly? Matthew would love to know, because he really went into this whole conversation with the intention of getting answers. Really.

Actually, he didn’t want to know.

To his surprise, Draisaitl didn’t argue or anything, just spat out, “Send me your room number” and stormed off.

As much as he bitched and moaned a little, Draisaitl didn’t put up a fight — Matthew knows what it looks like when he fights. And that’s not what this was.

And that — that was the worst part.

Matthew stood there for a few moments with the metal of his keys pressed into his palm and a pit in his stomach he wouldn’t name.

Chapter Text

In the hours before Draisaitl was allegedly going to arrive, Matthew spent most of the time pondering the situation; he thought more in those hours than he probably did the entirety of his education.

There were a few main issues that didn’t make sense: why was Draisaitl with the girl who turned out to be a professional dom? Didn’t make sense. What happened that made him drop? Not a clue. Why did Matthew invite him over? Million-fucking-dollar question right there.

But, and this is what Matthew wanted to know above all else — was Draisaitl actually coming? It didn’t make any sense — they hated each other. Matthew was an asshole to him. He wasn’t gonna show.

Why would he? It just wouldn’t make sense. He had no reason to come. No, not one single reason.

He came.

Yeah.

Matthew had been pacing around the hotel suite — at least the Oilers weren’t cheap — for the past half hour. At practice, Draisaitl ignored Matthew and gave him the usual amount of icy energy as he would do any day. Or maybe less, actually, since the normal amount would count as antagonism. This was more… acceptance? With a hint of resentment? Or a lot of hints of resentment?

So, yeah, it seemed pretty clear that Draisaitl wasn’t gonna come over, and, what? Have a movie night or some shit? Put on “Mean Girls” and bring over a pint of ice cream?

They weren’t teenage girls, Christ.

But during Matthew’s nth lap around the room, a knock sounded. It was only one knock, which is so stupid. No one normal does that.

Matthew, however, had been waiting for this moment since he got out of his post-practice shower.

And if there was even a chance that Draisaitl did come over, then the dignity he lost in his mad dash toward the door would be worth it.

And guess what.

Draisaitl was still in his workout gear (ew) and his hair was sopping wet. No jacket, no bag. No anger in his eyes.

He honest-to-God looked like he’d see a ghost. His eyes were flitting back and forth from Matthew to the hallway and back again like he was on the lookout for any witnesses. Like they were sneaky links or something. Forbidden lovers. Romeo and Juliet (Matthew was Romeo, obviously).

Neither of them spoke.

Seconds passed by.

There was a mark on the door handle that kinda looked like Texas. Huh.

Matthew swallowed. His tongue was raw and he could feel his tastebuds against the top of his mouth.

Then.

Movement.

All of a sudden, Matthew was being shoved back against the wall, so hard the breath was knocked out of his lungs. The resounding slam of the door echoed in his ears until it all stopped. Because-

The kisses on his neck weren’t shy or featherlight. They were brutal. Teeth and tongue and spit. It burned.

Nails raked down Matthew’s clavicle, the other fisted so tight in his hair it hurt. Draisaitl was everywhere. And, fuck. Fuck.

It might’ve been the fact that he was getting mauled by a hot hunk of muscle, but Matthew’s head was woozy from the blood beelining to his dick.

Fuuuuuck.

“Why’d you come?” Matthew managed through a grunt.

“Shut up.”

Gritting his teeth, Matthew slammed his head forward into Draisaitl’s skull, taking the moment of shock to yank the hand fisted in his hair, twisting it so that Matthew’s hand covered Draisaitl’s so Draisaitl was choking himself.

With the new advantage, Matthew got his mouth on the other man’s cheek. And he sunk his teeth in. Hard.

“You’re a fuckin’ animal,” Draisaitl spat out through clenched teeth, his saliva spraying into Matthew’s eye. 

Matthew pressed harder, and Draisaitl’s hand went limp against his throat. Good.

“This why you’re such a little bitch, huh?” The words were flowing before Matthew could rationalize them, his tongue loose with desire. He licked the red marks his teeth had left behind. “Yeah, you just needed someone to knock you around a bit.”

Draisaitl stumbled back, only causing Matthew’s grip to tighten.

“Bet McJesus doesn’t give it to you like this.”

Draisaitl paused, falling to his knees with an ungrateful thunk. His entire body was contracting, like Matthew’s touch was a chill racking his body or some shit. It made a wave of something rush up to Matthew’s head, leaving him woozy with something, with, with-

With power.

Matthew loved being a dom; it was clear since birth that that’s who he was meant to be. The control he held, the thrill of making all the choices — it was addictive.

But this-

If his previous scenes were weed, Draisaitl was crack. And Matthew was happily snorting the lines in a shabby motel after spending his rent on the stash.

It was the shine in Draisaitl’s eyes and the beads of sweat gleaming on his brow. The muscle twitching in his jaw. The spot on his lower lip that was cherry red from his teeth. God, it was so good.

Draisaitl’s shoulders were quivering, his head bent over where he sat kneeling on the hardwood floor. From his viewpoint above him, Matthew could see the way his knuckles were turning white as Draisaitl clawed for reprieve; his chest was heaving, each breath uneven and pained.

Matthew quickly noticed that he was mumbling something under his breath, a mantra of desire. The movement of his lips was so subtle it would have flown under the radar if Matthew hadn’t been staring at them and picturing what they’d look like wrapped around his dick. It took him a few seconds to discern the words.

“No, n-no, no, no.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

A mere 5 minutes ago Draisaitl was egging him on, practically begging for it. So, what the fuck was happening?

Did he not like biting? Or was he drugged up? Or — fuck — maybe he’d been in subdrop the entire time and Matthew didn’t realize like the idiot he was, and now everything was horrible.

Thankfully being a Dominant does in fact come with built-in protection instincts, so before he could question the situation more, Matthew was reaching a hand out to Draisaitl’s hair. It was supposed to be a calming gesture, a “Hey, you good man?”

Keyword: supposed.

Because instead of melting into his touch, maybe even letting out a content hum, Draisaitl flinches. Fully falls back off his knees and onto the floor. His eyes are wide, knees knocked open, and his hands are scrambling for purchase against the floor.

And, look, what kind of dom wants to see a sub flinch away from their touch? Okay, maybe under different circumstances, but now? Hell no.

“Okay, okay,” Matthew wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or Draisaitl. “I’m backing away, okay? Not gonna touch you.”

This has never happened to Matthew. During scenes, his subs have safeworded only a handful of times, and most of the time it isn’t a full stop.

And, fuck, a sub has never dropped during a scene with Matthew. Taking Draisaitl to the trainers mid-drop is very different from being the cause of said drop.

Matthew raked his memories from anything that would be helpful. He vaguely remembers a movie where a sub had dropped and the dom wrapped them up in a blanket and fed them crackers. Chocolate? Draisaitl probably didn’t like chocolate. Regardless, that would would require touching him which did not seem like the best course of action.

God, why didn’t he pay attention in health class?

Glancing over, Draisaitl’s condition was steadily worsening: his hands were now clenched so tight Matthew’d be surprised if blood was drawn, and his frantic breaths were hyperventilations.

Fuck.

It was either leaving him like that and hoping for the best or tackling him into a blanket.

Draisaitl’s pants were a start clash with the steady whir of the AC. In between gasps, he was letting out these soft whimpers. And not the sexy kind.

Okay, blanket it is —  no one could argue with a blanket.

Matthew almost twisted an ankle turning towards the bed, stumbling forward and grabbing the duvet. He had to rip the thinner white blanket off first — because of course hotel bed sheets were tighter than a goddamn straitjacket — which just led to a mess of fabric and limbs, but he managed. The gray duvet was a heavy one, free of Matthew’s sweat after its daily cleaning, thank god. Though he doubted Draisaitl was in any shape to comment on his hygiene.

Throwing that over his shoulder, Matthew crossed the room to the alcove with a mini kitchen. The mini fridge was stocked with a plethora of Gatorade, all of them fruit punch flavored, of course. Hopefully, Draisaitl wasn’t a Cool Blue type of guy.

Next to the mini fridge were a few shelves of snacks, and Matthew quickly grabbed the one granola bar that didn’t look like Draisaitl would sue him for purposely straying from his diet plan.

With these clenched in his right hand and his left holding onto the duvet, Matthew made his return to the bedroom.

Draisaitl hadn’t moved much, except for curling into his side in the fetal position. He was still hyperventilating with a mumble of words shakily mumbled that Matthew could not, for the life of him, make out.

Okay.

Still bad.

Jesus, to think 5 minutes ago he felt like a god with Draisaitl underneath him, but now. Now.

Matthew tried to make his steps light, but look, he’s a 200-pound grown athlete, not a ballerina. But the way the thump of his heel against the floor only seemed to cause Draisaitl’s rambling to grow more franticly incoherent, leaving Matthew with a sticky feeling in his throat.

Like he was some asshole who was kicking the living daylights out of a sad, starved puppy or something. Which he wasn’t by the way.

Placing his horde of supplies down on the bedside table, Matthew began to approach the man cowering on the floor. He couldn’t really make it any worse, right? Might as well bite the bullet?

Yeah.

With an inhale that was more to feel the expanding muscles within his chest — proof he was alive and breathing — rather than to gulp down air, Matthew moved. The most pressing issue was Draisaitl’s hands, still drawing blood from his palms.

Brady’s first girlfriend was the type of girl who would take home injured animals, a real Snow White-type. Once she had brought home a stray cat and Brady had sent him a video of her basically swaddling the guy in a blanket so he wouldn’t take her eyes out when she was cutting his claws. It seemed like a good idea.

Same logic, right?

He couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen, he wasn’t gonna leave him curled on a hotel floor like a fucking dog and hope it worked itself out.

Tackle, blanket, food, sleep. Foolproof plan. What could go wrong?

So, Matthew took a deep breath. Steeled himself.

And launched—

Blanket in hand, he tackled him by his waist and pinned him to the floor, full “Get Down Mr. President!” style.

It was really fucking fun. Matthew would never turn down a chance to throttle the bastard. But maybe it actually wasn’t that good of an idea since Draisaitl was already on the floor and it managed to do was slam his head against the floor. It made a sickening crack.

Whoops.

Instead of, maybe screaming or something, Draisaitl froze. No movement, barely breathing. Just like, still. And either Matthew had given one of the Oiler’s best players a major concussion, or Draisaitl was in shock.

Not ideal.

Worse than that. The opposite of ideal. Unideal? Non-ideal?

Just fucking bad.

Clearly treating Draisaitl like a feral cat wasn’t gonna work. The seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Matthew’s entire body was covering Draisaitl from the collarbone down, and the other man was just staring at the ceiling —  still.

The curls at the base of Matthew’s neck were clinging to his skin, the brown strands black with water. It still felt like there was a layer of sweat and grime, though. One that wasn’t gonna come off with a mere shower.

And.

You know what.

Maybe it was time to cut his losses.

Looking back, Matthew’s pretty sure it must have been some brain short-circuiting for both of them. Maybe the mix of desperately wanting to shove his dick so far down Draisaitl’s throat that he couldn’t bark anymore, and then following the whiplash of the drop killed Matthew’s common sense.

Because the worst thing for a dom to do in this situation was leave.

But.

Matthew’s finger curled against his palm, a pathetic mirror of Draisaitl. He wasn’t made for this. This wasn’t normal. This was raw and ugly and intimate in a way that was just… wrong.

The arousal that had flooded his veins so viciously now settled. Wrong.

Matthew’s knees cracked as he got up, and he really would need to do some stretches for that, ow. The nondescript blanket was where Matthew had left it, halfway covering Draisaitl. Who, again, was still not moving.

The mumbling had stopped but the silence felt more jarring than any noise could have.

And so maybe Matthew turned as he left the hotel room — his hotel room — and walked out. And maybe he didn’t return until 7 hours had passed and it was time for him to go to bed.

He left the Gatorade. He left the blanket. He left the mess.

He left Draisaitl.

And maybe he came back to an empty room.

Chapter Text

The world kept on turning.

Overthinking was never productive, especially in hockey. You missed a shot? Figure out why, fix the problem, and score next time. No time for moping around. That shit killed your game before you even got on the ice.

Matthew’d done the right thing in leaving Draisaitl alone — he knew that now. It’s not like his presence had been helping.

And look, Draisaitl was fine at informal skates the next day. A little more haggard than usual, but fine nonetheless. He was fine.

They didn’t talk about it. Not that they talked normally, just backhanded comments and not-so-friendly chirps muttered under their breath. But they didn’t even do that now. Just. Silence.

Silence was better than whatever went down Tuesday, anyway.

It was for the best.

McJesus ran a tight ship so no one blatantly told Matthew to go fuck himself.

But the animosity was there. In the look that Brown gave him when he went to put back his dumbbells, in the way Nurse moved his gear bag just far enough that there wasn’t room for Matthew’s beside it.

The rookies still looked at him like he pissed gold. A couple of wide-eyed call-ups asked him what it was like to raise the Cup. He told them the truth — it wasn’t something you could put into words — and walked off.

Nothing he could ever say would do the moment justice. There was no way to describe the way the cheers seemed to fade into the background, all of Matthew’s senses tunnel-visioned into the guys crowded around him. The way his arms were sore from a hard-played game, yet the Cup was weightless in his hands.

The ecstasy of being so drunk you couldn’t see straight. The ecstasy of touching someone who was at your side the entire time, feeling them. Loving them.

Matthew didn’t get the inside jokes yelled across the locker room. They might have added him to the official team group chat, but there was definitely one without him.

Perry ignored his stick taps during a scrimmage. Kulak laughed a bit too hard when someone asked if Matthew knew how to shoot.

But he moved on with the fire in his heart burning brighter with each passing day.

It didn’t matter. The Oilers wanted to be pussies? So be it. Because Matthew wasn’t there to be all buddy-buddy with them. He was going to get himself the Cup. Again. Because he was Matthew motherfucking Tkachuk.

Sasha called one day. Well, he actually called every day, but this was different because Matthew picked up for once.

Look, Matthew wasn’t ghosting him. He just happened to be busy when Sasha called and texted and called again, wanting to see Matthew off from the FLL airport. And also the entirety of the offseason. And also every day since Matthew touched down in Edmonton.

It’s not his fault. He’s a very busy guy, okay?

Matthew didn’t even mean to pick up the fucking phone. Really! He had just raided the suite’s minibar (not in a pathetic neck-beard-who-has-no-friends-and-drinks-Fireball-straight-from-the-bottle way. More of a neck-beard-guy-who-does-in-fact-has-friends-but-just-doesn’t-feel-like-going-out way) and was a tiny, tiny bit drunk. Just a tiny bit. It was a slip of the finger.

“Matthew, I wasn’t expecting you to pick up.”

Not to be dramatic, but hearing Sasha’s voice after all the sleepless nights Matthew had spent wondering why, was kinda sorta insane. It felt like a blow to his chest, completely knocking the air out of his lungs until he was gasping for oxygen. Like a check that really should be called for unsportsmanlike behavior but you know the refs won’t do shit.

“Neither did I,” Matthew responded, something between a laugh and a groan. The light buzz from the alcohol was quickly fading into nothing. “Surprise?”

“Are you drunk right now?” The disapproval was evident in Sasha’s tone.

But that didn’t make sense. He had no right! It’s not like he was Matthew’s captain anymore.

Not anymore.

“You can fuck right off.”

Sasha laughed, low and fond, like he couldn’t help it. It made something in Matthew’s chest ache.

“Well, it’s good to see Edmonton hasn’t wore down your spirit, huh?” he replied. “Seriously, Chucky, you haven’t picked up my calls in forever. You good?”

What a fucking question.

“Yeah, no, Sasha, I’m doing fucking amazing. I love living in a fucking hotel suite and ordering room service every goddamn night.”

Once he started, it felt like he couldn’t stop. Matthew hadn’t told anyone about... anything, really. Not his mom or dad, not Brady, not one of the guys. It was all, "yes, mom, I'm settling in just fine" and "no, dad, I won't let McDavid fuck me over". He just kept his head held high. But, Jesus, his neck was tired.

“And don’t even get me started on how amazing it feels to know that my new team would happily trade me for a bag of Doritos. So, yeah. Peachy.”

It was harsh, rude in the way Matthew never wanted to be to Sasha. But it was the truth.

Sasha didn’t reply. All that Matthew could hear was his breathing, sharp and even. He wanted to hang up. Wanted Sasha to beg him to stay.

Silence.

So unlike them, this distance.

“Did you tell them?” Matthew asked. He had to. Rip the bandaid off and shit.

“Tell them what?” Sasha countered, calm enough that it was starting to piss Matthew off.

“Oh, c’mon, you’re not a fucking idiot. Be honest. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

Matthew knew that wasn’t going to get him an answer. That never worked, not with Sasha. So, in a softer voice, he continued, “You know what. You. Me. The night we won.”

Sasha didn’t answer right away. It was one of those things he did, pausing to respond when he really needed to think about his reply. It made Matthew want to punch him.

But, fuck, did he miss it.

Sasha exhaled, the sound of it making Matthew’s throat close up. Fuck.

“No, Matthew,” he said quietly, “I didn’t tell them.”

He believed him.

And that made it worse.

Okay, so maybe Draisaitl wasn’t fine.

Clearly he was some type of fucked up. That much was clear from the two fucking times he’d dropped in front of Matthew. But it just became weirder and weirder.

When he put on his gear his eyes were glassy, movements stiff. Okay. Fine. Allergies probably. Or maybe he didn’t sleep well. Or maybe he got food poisoning.

Or maybe he was plagued by thoughts of that night, just like Matthew was.

Draisaitl even managed to look more miserable than usual, which is truly impressive since he had the resting face of a man who had lived through the apocalypse and survived. But, like. It’s Edmonton, who wouldn’t be miserable?

Then, whenever they were in the locker room changing, Draisaitl took forever. Obviously, Matthew didn’t expect him to be dashing out as soon as he got off the ice, but still. Still.

The most shocking, though, was that Draisaitl was pissy with McDavid.

One workout sesh, McDavid had offered to spot him like the gracious captain he is (barf). And Draisaitl told him to fuck off. Yeah. Told his bestie Davo to fuck off. Which. Hello? Draisaitl would probably get on his knees for McJesus any day. So what the fuck.

Whatever was happening, it wasn’t Matthew’s fault. It’s not his problem that Draisaitl was mental. Not his problem at all. And 1000% not his fault. Amen.

Maybe Matthew spoke too soon. Maybe definitely. About literally everything one person could possibly be wrong about.

Because, all of a fucking sudden, he gets called in for a meeting. Normally, this would be totally cool. Happens all the time. Especially when you just got traded. Normal meeting, right?

Wrong.

The email Matthew was sent is titled an ominous “Urgent Meeting Sept 16”. That was cause for a little eyebrow raise, but nothing crazy yet.

But wait. It gets crazier.

The email is quick and to the point, while still being formal enough, Matthew had to double-check his response for typos.

It said:

Dear Matthew,

Hello!

I trust that this email finds you well. I hope that your transition to our organization has been a smooth one, and I know that Edmonton is lucky to have you. Go Oilers!

My name is Katy Parker, and as you may know, I am the Dynamic Counselor for the Oilers. Unfortunately, I have yet to meet you in person, but I have read over all your medical documents that were sent over. I’m hoping we can chat sometime soon about your dynamic, ideally before the preseason starts.

The reason I’m reaching out is to ask for your help; there is a difficult situation that my fellow specialists think you could help us with. I understand that this is entirely unprompted, and I welcome you to have your agent present for the meeting. However, we require a response within 24 hours of receiving this email to move forward.

Thank you for understanding.

Sincerely,

Katy Parker

PhD in Dynamics Health

Oilers Head Dynamics Counselor

Graduate of Harvard Medical School

[email protected]

Chapter Text

There’s this suffocating feeling when you have no way out.

As the realization that you’re truly stuck dawns, the walls start to close in — your throat closes up, and you trip over gasping breaths. Your chest contracts and burns and squeezes until all you can do is curl in on yourself. It’s opening your mouth for air, just to be met with water; it’s desperately swallowing water that won’t stop coming.

Layla had to report back. Leon knew that they wouldn’t let it continue, but it didn’t make the fallout any easier. 

That night, it had been everything and nothing at all.

Leon didn’t remember much after, just the intoxicating smell so distinctly Tkachuk — Axe body spray and oranges and concrete pavement after a sunshower — then darkness. Deep, all-consuming black.

He’d woken from the haze to an empty, empty hotel room. A hotel room just like the thousands he had stayed in before, in countless cities — but this one was different because it was Tkachuk’s.

Tkachuk had looked at him at his worst and walked away — not surprising, not even unreasonable,  but to see that- to picture him standing above Leon, enough for a bruising kiss, maybe a quick fuck, but never enough to stay the night. Leon was mostly sure that Tkachuk hadn’t had sex with him when he was dropped, as the only marks marring his skin were a ring of blue around his neck and two vicious marks on his cheek. But nothing else.

If Tkachuk thought he could walk away, that he was above Leon’s mess, that he could have Leon for just the night — he was dead wrong. He didn’t get to leave.

That was always the worst part. The leaving, the loneliness, the abandonment. But Leon wasn’t going to let Tkachuk leave again; no, this time he’d be stuck with him.

So when Katy and Dr. Ivanov told him it was either choose a teammate to scene with or rescind his contract, Leon didn’t think before the words left his mouth.

The trainers would prioritize Leon above Tkachuk any day, and with the added desperation of his situation, if Leon happened to say he would only scene with Tkachuk, then…

Then Leon would get his way. It was a wreck. But at least he was in control of the chaos now.

It wasn’t fair to Tkachuk; it was probably some type of morally dubious, but no one had cared about “fair” before. If Matthew didn’t want to be involved, he shouldn’t have touched him in the first place.

Katy, whose face Leon had come to recognize faster than he wanted, was skeptical. He snorted. It made sense she was confused; if you had told him a month ago — no, even a week ago — that he would be requesting to scene with Tkachuk, he would’ve walked off thinking Canada’s universal healthcare didn’t cover antipsychotics.

How things change.

But it made perfect sense. If Leon was going to suffer at the hands of one of his teammates, it might as well be someone who never had any respect for him to begin with.

You can’t lose something you never had.

The animosity would only make an already bad situation worse for Leon, yeah — so much so that even the thought caused him to grit his teeth with a phantom ache in his knees, his neck, his wrists — but he had survived Josh. And, despite what Tkachuk probably thought, no one hated Leon more than Josh. Tkachuk had to get in line.

Katy’s voice was soft when she spoke. “You’re sure about this?”

Soft, but Leon could hear the strain underneath it — like maybe she also knew this was a bad idea, but didn’t want to be the one to say it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he confirmed, “we’ve already scened together, so it makes sense.”

His voice was steadier than he thought it would be, not with the trembling of his fingers beneath the table.

Katy shot a glance over at Dr. Ivanov, seated by her side, who just gave him a look. But then she nodded.

Katy beamed at Leon, her smile too wide, too bright. “Leon, this is… I’m glad you were able to make this choice,” she reached out a manicured hand to Leon, but having nowhere to put it, quickly brought it back to her lap. Leon just wanted the floor to open up and pull him in. “This is huge progress. We’re both very proud of you.”

Jesus.

“Matthew’s outside now, but of course we can talk more before we bring him in,” she fumbled with the tablet in her hands, nails flying across the screen. “There’s no rush, as long as we get the contracts signed by tonight.”

Leon couldn’t respond. His lips forgot how to move, how to form syllables with his tongue.

This time tomorrow, he’d belong to Tkachuk. But there was no other choice. This was the easiest way out. He had no choice.

Getting up from the chair, heels clicking all the way to the door, Katy looked back at Leon as her hand fell on the doorknob. She wanted verbal reassurance he couldn’t give her, so he just nodded instead, hoping that was enough.

She turned the handle.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

Leon felt the muscles in his hands seize. The footsteps were familiar, like the feeling of digging your fingers into a day-old bruise.

Tkachuk strode in with his lips pulled in that fuckass smirk of his, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t walking into a meeting that determined Leon’s future. Asshole. He wore shorts. Of course, he did — it could be below zero with inches of snow, and Tkachuk would be clad in an outfit fit for the beach.

You’d think that the frequency of Tkachuk’s presence would have worn down the ire Leon felt every time he saw him, but no. He was just as annoying as when they were years younger, playing at All Stars — if not more.

"I’m sure you boys are eager to enjoy your off-day, so l’ll make this as brief as I can,” Katy laughed.

Brief was merciful, brief was kind.

And a curse.

The band-aid was being ripped off, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting.

Leon hoped it wasn’t brief.

“Matthew, Leon was just telling me about the intimate dynamics experience you two shared,” Katy continued, as hopeful as ever.

Leon had to bite his lip to suppress his laughter; Tkachuk looked absolutely baffled, completely taken off guard. Leon could practically see the loading symbol turning in his head. His eyes were wide with a glimmer of… anger? Or maybe fear? What would he have to be scared of, though, the bastard?

He had everything he could ever want.

Whatever he was thinking, he was clearly taken aback — he could lean back in his chair and return to that smirk, but Leon saw the moment of confusion.

Good.

Let him be caught off guard.

Trapped.

Just like Leon was.

Overall, the conversation wasn’t much to write home about.

Dr. Ivanov spoke little, only interrupting Katy to explain some medical shit that Leon really couldn’t care less about. His attention was laser-focused on how Tkachuk was reacting to Leon’s fucked-up-ness. If he was surprised or disgusted, he didn’t show it. Just kept scraping his hand down the stubble on his chin repeatedly.

Fuck him.

Fuck Matthew fucking Tkachuk for having the luxury of being unbothered, when Leon was stuck thinking about it — about him — tortured in the prison of his mind during all his waking hours. Even in his nights now, too.

Fuck him.

Katy droned on about the role Tkachuk would take on-

(“Leon is required to engage in a minimum of three sessions every week, where he reaches subspace for an acceptable amount of time. This is a non-negotiable, and if this standard is not met, Leon’s exorine levels will not be at the necessary level. Which, as I’m sure you can already guess, will result in him being unable to play. You, Matthew, as his Dominant, are expected to ensure the scenes are carried out safely and with the consent of everyone involved: so, safewords, aftercare, and all that. If you need more information on the specifics of what the expectations are, I can go over the Safety clause with you.”)

Tkachuk just kept on staring.

The entire time.

Blink. Run his hand over his beard. Pause. Bring his hand down to his lap. Blink again. Run his hand over his beard. Pause. Bring his hand down to his lap. Blink again.

It made Leon’s own hands feel strange, slightly like when you’ve been in the same spot for too long, but more distant — out of reach.

Leon was right, of course: after the sob story Katy had spun for Tkachuk, there was no way to say no to the agreement without looking like a horrible person. It was fine for Tkaachuk to be a dick on and off ice, but being a dom who doesn’t help a sub in need was crossing his moral boundaries.

Because that made sense.

And so, 20 minutes and a few signatures later, Katy and Dr. Ivanov had filed out — each with a toothy grin and an unreadable look, respectively — and it was just him and Tkachuk.

Alone.

Again.

Again, again, again.

Leon wasn’t expecting anything crazy, maybe just a few heated words and nasty comments from Tkachuk — if he was really pissed then maybe a punch or something. But nothing came. He didn’t even look mad! The smirk was gone now, but Tkachuk's face remained impassive.

After a few seconds, he just got up, checked his phone, and asked if Leon would rather meet at his place or the hotel.

Like they weren’t enemies who hated each other. Like Tkachuk hadn’t done God-knows-what to Leon that night, just to leave him to wake up alone. Like Tkachuk wasn’t being forced into taking on the responsibility of a whole human being.

Whatever. If he wanted to play it cool, that was fine. Leon could do that; he was cool.

It was an easy choice: his house, where he’d be most comfortable. But his place in Edmonton was clean, not yet marred by memories like his apartment in Prince Albert was, and Leon was not going to give that up, much less to Tkachuk of all doms.

His voice was firm when he responded, “The Marriott.”

As he silently followed Tkachuk out, Leon finally caught sight of the faint pink claw marks peeking out from where he had left the first two buttons of his polo open.

Leon looked away.

The walk to the hotel passed by like scenery in the window of a speeding car. Leon couldn’t tell you if it was cloudy or clear out, warm or hot. It just was.

Crossing the threshold into the crisp hotel air brought him back to himself, to reality. It was a nice hotel, not someplace Leon would want to live in, but pleasant nonetheless. And yet it could’ve been a ratty motel on the side of a highway, and it wouldn’t make Leon feel better. What good is a five-star Yelp review now?

His mind — and body, too — was held in suspension, waiting for the fall. The only comfort was that this was Leon’s choice, his decision to let Tkachuk drop him from the precipice.

“The fuck are you doing?” Tkachuk sighed noisily when Leon Leon fell to his knees right as the door closed. Christ, he really could find anything to nitpick at — Leon knew his posture was good: his back was straight, knees pressed together, hands intertwined behind his back.

Not good enough for Tkachuk, apparently.

Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes and snap at the other man. That would only cause more problems for him in the long run. It was better not to do anything at all, stay silent and pliant for a dom to use.

“…Draisaitl, what the actual fuck?”

It was good that Tkachuk was still using his last name; Josh never used it, he was either ‘Leon’ or whatever new insult he came up with that day.

The moment held a certain sense of déjà vu — him on his knees, Tkachuk above him. The pale walls of the room and the whir of the AC. Same man, same place, same outcome.

Tkachuk was walking over now, his sneakers beating against the floor. Who doesn’t take off their shoes at the door? Only a fucking American.

At least they weren’t anything chunky like boots. Who knows, Tkachuk could easily say that a few kicks to Leon’s ribs would be fine since the preseason hadn’t started yet. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before.

The steps stopped in front of him.

“I didn’t tell you to kneel,” Tkachuk said flatly.

Leon kept his eyes on the carpet and said nothing.

“Uh, hello?”

He was getting annoyed, that was good — the worse it was at the beginning, the easier it was towards the end.

“Look, man, we can’t have a repeat of last time.”

Last time.

Leon looked up, brows furrowing — how was he supposed to know? He didn’t remember shit.

“What’d I do wrong last time?” he asked, which seemed like a normal and very reasonable question, but Tkachuk just scowled.

“I don’t know, maybe drop in the middle of a normal make-out sesh — one that you initiated by the way,” his voice was sharp, honed to draw blood. “Or maybe it was that you’ve brought me into your mess when I have absolutely nothing to do with it? I don’t know what type of fucked thing you have going on, but I’d have preferred not to be involved.”

It wasn’t easier hating Tkachuk, Leon thought, but worse. He wasn’t in the habit of bickering with Josh, never had wanted to, but Tkachuk made it so easy. He pressed his lips together, bringing his gaze back down to the floor. The carpet felt scratchy, even through the material of his jeans.

Don’t respond. Don’t fight back. It only makes it worse. Let it happen.

Nothing happened for a second, just the crushing weight of Tkachuk’s glare. Then Leon heard him shift, looking for something in his pockets. He found whatever he was looking for and started tapping away — his phone.

Wow.

Maybe he was going to back out after all, despite the bad look.

“C’mon, get up,” Tkachuk said as he worked. “And get your phone. I sent you a questionnaire that you’re gonna fill out.”

Leon looked up to the sight of Tkachuk staring at him with a bored gaze, phone haphazardly held in his left hand.

…What?