Chapter Nine

New Year's Eve—January

It was funny, Ryan thought, as New Year's Eve snuck up on them, how insanely quickly his life had changed. Turned completely upside down. This time last year he'd been at home, coaching peewee hockey with a wife who resented him for it, ignoring the fact that she resented him for it.

This year, he was on the bench for a matinee game in Las Vegas as the head coach of his childhood hockey team and the assistant coach standing next to him had just spent a few choice seconds whispering behind his hand all of the things he wanted to do to Ryan after the game.

Ryan had managed, pretty admirably, he thought, to keep a straight face.

"Eat some bad airport sushi before the game?" Petey asked.

Okay, maybe he wasn't doing such a great job at that.

The coaching had been a pretty insane seesaw too. They'd had so many rough games where the team got blown out 6-1 or 5-0 or in one particularly memorable case, 10-1. Ryan had tried various ways to reset: intense practices that were not bag skates but about accountability, fun practices that engaged the brain, shuffling the lines repeatedly, rotating the unlucky thirteenth forward or seventh defenseman...pretty much everything that he could do except sitting down particular veterans on the bench and ripping them new assholes.

And then today, at a matinee game, the boys were decimating the Vegas Aces, who were consistently near the top of the Pacific Division. It was like a completely different team had shown up and Ryan felt the familiar pressure headache building up behind his eyes. The tantalizing glimpse of what he could have once everything started clicking. The thing that would always be just out of reach until he could start shedding roster deadweight, the kids started coming into their own and the team finally learned consistency.

It wasn't anything they could count on actually lasting. Not this season. Not when injuries made things unpredictable, not when the roster would inevitably regress, because that's what he had to work with. But he would have to enjoy it while he could, on the afternoon before the new year. He could enjoy watching the team play disciplined, crisp hockey, not even letting the antics of Vegas's resident rat, Leo Cohen, get to them. The game-winning goal was scored with Cohen in the penalty box, spitting mad.

After the game was over, Ryan faced the media with the usual questions. In the back of the room, he could see Petey and Eric watching him, Petey with sleepy eyes and Eric with sharper interest.

"Are you getting frustrated with Jesse Keen, Sully?"

He had to be careful with questions like these, the ones that were so pointed you knew that the reporter had a specific column in mind already and it was probably something like Coach Sullivan Finally Loses Patience with Veteran Forward .

"I'm not getting frustrated, no," Ryan said, shaking his head. "I would like to continue seeing a consistent effort from everyone on the team, and that includes Keener, but this will come with time."

"Considering we are almost into the new year, do you think that we are maybe running out of time?"

Ryan shrugged. He rubbed his face as he considered the question, fingers dragging down his chin, and realized belatedly that he was echoing something that Eric had done to him the night before—gripped his chin and forced him to look. In the back of the room, Eric had that smirk on his face, like he'd realized exactly what Ryan was doing, too, and Ryan could feel the back of his neck turning red.

"Uh," he said, trying to keep his composure. "To be blunt, this is a rebuilding year. Obviously, we would all like to make the playoffs, but we have to be realistic about what the team is and what state it is in right now. I'm happy with the performances we are getting from the younger players."

The questions were cut off, thankfully, after a few more minutes, and Ryan excused himself. He stood in the hallway alone for a few seconds before the guys started coming out of the locker room and heading back to the bus. He took the time to wish them all a happy new year, to check in and see what their plans were, whether any of them had any issues with the accommodations. To Cook and Williams especially, he said, "I know we're in Vegas tonight, but try not to go too crazy."

Williams laughed and said, "Coach, I'm headed back to my hotel room to crash. If Caleb wants to worry about American drinking ages, that's on him."

"You said we were going to play Call of Duty ," Cook groused, "come on, old man, it was a matinee game ," and Ryan shook his head. The league was certainly a different place than it had been when he'd been coming up if the boys were spending more time in their hotel room playing video games than going out on the town.

It was late, but the coaches had agreed to go out for dinner together to celebrate the new year and the progress they'd made. Heidi hadn't come on the trip with them, because her wife's birthday was New Year's Day and she'd asked to stay home. Ryan had let Petey make the reservations and it seemed like maybe he'd picked the spot solely based on the name, which was Peyote. He wouldn't have put it past Petey, who had exactly that kind of sense of humor. The restaurant itself was bright and trendy and very pink. Eric took a picture of the table setup, rolling his eyes just a little. It was a feast of the seven fishes kind of meal, though, and the food was good, so Ryan didn't complain.

Petey didn't drink, but he toasted the two of them with his sparkling water. "To the two of you finally figuring shit out," he said. "Sometimes felt like I needed to come to work in bomb squad gear just in case."

"Laying it on a bit thick," Eric drawled, knocking back his little champagne flute.

"Not at all. Sully, you can tell him he's wrong."

"He doesn't listen to me," Ryan said, taking another bite of the last dish, which was uni ice cream with a golden corn puff. It wasn't something he would ever have seen himself eating when he'd been growing up in Southie, but there were a lot of things he was currently doing that thirteen-year-old Ryan probably would have stared at, goggle-eyed.

"No?" Petey asked.

"Not at all."

"Hmm."

By the time they were done with dinner and had taken a cab back to the Strip, it was almost midnight; Petey had already broken off from the group to go, as he put it, explore the streets as an anonymous celebrant.

"Petey, are you gonna be okay?" Eric asked.

"I'll be fine. I like to do this. Spend the night alone. Let the adventures come to me."

"Adventures?"

"Don't worry. Whatever happens, I'll be on the plane tomorrow."

Neither of them could convince him to stay, and, instead, walked together back toward the hotel. Ryan caught Eric doing it again, from the corner of his eye: ducking down to pick up a smooth white pebble from a gravel garden.

"Eric?"

"Yeah, bud."

"What are you doing?"

"What?" Eric asked. He looked a little guilty, slipping the rock into his pocket.

"I noticed you do that in every city we've been in. Take a rock or a pebble or something. What are you saving them for?"

The Vegas Strip was chaotic on New Year's Eve, even before the actual new year rolled around, with neon and flashing lights everywhere; people spilling in and out of the casinos and restaurants. With all of the chaos, Ryan only had eyes for Eric, handsome in his rumpled suit and messy hair. Eric pushed his glasses a little farther up his nose and sighed.

"It's a Jewish custom, kind of...to put stones or pebbles on the graves of family members. These are for my father."

"You pick one up in every city we go to?"

"That's the thing. It's not really a mitzvah in the traditional sense. It's just a custom. You can do it however you want, but I always felt like... I never got to spend as much time at home as they would have liked, and they never really got to travel with me. So this is my way of bringing the places I've gone to him. I go back to the cemetery whenever I'm in Montreal, and I talk to him about them."

Ryan was warm and a little tipsy and very full from the meal, and there was a lump in his throat he couldn't entirely describe. "What do the stones on the grave symbolize?"

"It's just—I don't know. There are all kinds of interpretations. That it's keeping the soul in the world or keeping demons out. Sometimes it's just practical. They last longer than flowers. Or just a reminder that we've been there."

"That's really...that's really nice." They were still walking, their arms bumping. Ryan wondered what would have happened if he'd hooked his arm through Eric's.

Eric glanced sideways at him. "Thank you."

"I never really visit my mom's grave."

"No?"

"I feel guilty," Ryan said, the words coming out in a rush. "I never used to go home; you know? And I wasn't there for her. I knew she hadn't been feeling well, but I didn't know she had been that sick. I didn't get to spend more time..."

"I think once you get old enough, we all have our regrets with our parents. I never told my parents the truth about me, and I think about that every day. That he died not knowing who I really am. It just feels really shitty. They were so proud of me, but they don't really know me at all, in some ways."

When he had first taken the job and Eric had been such an asshole about it, Ryan would never have guessed that they would have had so much in common. Not in the obvious ways, of course—thank god Eric's parents didn't sound anything like Ryan's dad—but the regrets, and the secrets, and the losses. Eric understood . He felt warm again, from his chest down to his toes, the warmth of knowing that he was talking to someone who got it.

It must have been New Year's: the fireworks were loud and sudden, and Ryan jumped before he could catch himself. Eric was laughing at him, cracking up: his eyes almost closed when he was really amused, and Ryan wanted to grab him and shake him and probably also kiss him. They couldn't do any of that in public. Instead, Ryan gave him a little shove in the arm, and Eric, still grinning, shoved back.

"My room or yours?" Ryan said.

"Sully," Eric said, "surprise me."

Eric woke up on January 1 in Ryan Sullivan's hotel room, with the man himself draped over Eric's back like a barnacle and a mild hangover.

"Ow," Eric said, fumbling one hand over the side table to reach for his glasses.

"Mmf," Sully mumbled into his shoulder. For someone who was always at the rink early and insisted on everyone else getting there early too, he sure as hell hated mornings.

Eric tried to shift around so that he could look at Sully head-on, but it was difficult, because Sully was still stubbornly asleep, his face pressed against Eric's shoulder.

"We gotta make it down to breakfast, mon chum," Eric said, before he could stop himself.

Fuck , he had to be more careful about that. It was the kind of phrase that had two meanings, and he definitely didn't think that Sully knew either of them, but there was no need to complicate things when they hadn't discussed expectations or their relationship. No need except for the fact that waking up on New Year's Day in a forcible embrace did things to his stupid head.

Sully didn't seem to notice or realize, so Eric was safe to skate by on another day of refusing to define what was going on here beyond I'm sleeping with my coworker and also spending most of my spare time with him outside of work, but that's fine, because we're both very busy and also don't have any interests besides hockey.

He watched Sully demolishing a plate of hotel buffet breakfast with amusement, watched the boys drift down from their bedrooms, in varying degrees of exhausted or hungover or chipper, with amusement. His own headache subsided gradually after he chugged three cups of coffee in quick succession. It wasn't very good coffee, but it did the trick.

By the time they were all packed up and headed back to the airport, Petey had made his mysterious return and Eric was feeling much more like himself. Better than himself. The last few New Year's Eves he could remember, he had spent alone, and woke up in the morning with the knowledge that he was getting older, and opportunities of all kinds were slipping through his fingers. This year just having Sully's solid body in the bed with him had been grounding in a way he had never expected.

The good mood only lasted as long as the wait to get on the plane. Jesse Keen stood next to him on the tarmac, scowling.

"What's up, Keener?" Eric asked, a little wary. He knew the problem, of course. No veteran was happy about being healthy scratched or about the media digging in for quotes about how the coach was disappointed in him. Sully had been working with him extra, the way he always did with the scratches, but the sting wouldn't be easily wiped away.

"Am I gonna be able to play the next game or is it all gonna be the affirmative action line again?"

Eric could feel the cold fury that he'd always felt when he'd heard shit like that on the ice settle in. "Excuse me, what did you say to me?"

"I said am I gonna be able to play the next game or is it all gonna be the affirmative action line again?"

"Keen, beyond the fact that Williams and Sinclair are important parts of our top line and the only line that's regularly scoring any points? You can't say things like that. Not to me. I won't stand for it."

"What the hell, Aronson? You're old-school; you of all people should understand."

"I of all—do you have any idea who the hell I am and where I come from?" He was speaking quietly, so the rest of the team wouldn't hear him, but he felt like he was screaming it. He felt like he wanted to be screaming it, wanted to do all of the shit he would have done as a young man. All of those options would have ended in violence.

Keen must have realized his mistake as the words were coming out of Eric's mouth, but it was too late to take it back. His whole face shuttered, and for a second, it seemed like he was going to double down. "You're from Montreal."

"I'm a middle-aged retired fuck," Eric said shortly, "and I was one of the few Jewish players in the league. What kind of shit do you think I heard from opponents? On the ice?"

Keen stared at him, wordless.

"Yeah, you forgot that, eh? Well, don't fucking forget it again, Keen. Sully might be preaching patience and understanding, but I'm not that kind of a guy."

"Right," Keen said. He turned away.

On the plane back to Boston, Sully looked at Petey, already passed out in the chair across from them, and back at Eric. He frowned and reached forward, his fingers resting against Eric's wrist for a second. "What's wrong?"

"What kind of a guy do you think I am?" Eric asked.

"What?" Sully's broad, handsome face looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"You knew me as a player. You knew me on the ice, the kind of reputation I had. What kind of a guy do you think I am?"

The plane was always a little chaotic; guys chattering loudly in the back, other guys with their headphones on, the tinny music audible over it. Some of them snoring. Petey was, the noise like a buzz saw. Even so, Eric kept his voice down, and Sully echoed his volume. "I'm not entirely following. As a player? I thought you were kind of an asshole, I guess. You weren't dirty , not like some of those guys were. But you sure as hell had that temper."

"Okay," Eric said, leaning back in his chair.

"That wasn't the answer you wanted, huh?"

"I mean was I—do I look like the kind of guy who'd say something shitty? On the ice?"

Sully started laughing, and his face when he did it lit up, his stupid, loud laugh that Eric liked so much. "Eric, you don't remember calling me an Oompa Loompa?"

"...I did?"

"Come on, seriously? It was my fifth year in the league or something. I had to ask a teammate if you actually meant me ."

"Ryan Sullivan."

"Eric Aronson."

"That's not what I meant. Like, would you have assumed I was the kind of guy who'd say something racist."

"I mean, no? I knew you were Jewish, and you never—you just seemed like the kind of guy who'd chirp or try to get under someone's skin. I thought you were an asshole, I never thought you were a racist asshole."

"Okay," Eric said, but he still felt ill at ease, like his skin was too tight.

Sully was still watching him, brown eyes shrewd. "Just because someone made a stupid assumption doesn't mean the rest of us thought that."

"Okay."

Sully's hand, briefly, on his knee. "We can talk about it later. Once we get home."

"Yeah?"

"I have thoughts," Sully said.

And Eric, because he was a weak fucking bastard, said, "Okay."

Since he'd moved in, Ryan's apartment was pretty bare-bones. He'd had the time to furnish and decorate it, but not the inclination. It was a lot of effort and energy he didn't possess. Not after the end of a day when he had a game or travel or any number of other responsibilities. It was fine, but sometimes going home was kind of depressing. Acknowledging the piles of books he didn't have time to read, the boxes of stuff he'd brought home with him from New Hampshire that he didn't have time to unpack, felt like too much.

Instead of finding time to deal with it, Ryan spent a lot of time at Eric's apartment instead. This wasn't an ideal solution, either: Eric's apartment was one step above a studio, and particularly on the way back from roadies, with Ryan's suitcase spilling over everywhere on the floor of the bedroom, it got a little cramped.

Ryan liked watching Eric move around in it, though. He'd been here for long enough that he had bought everything he needed and knew where everything was. He moved with the ease that those things brought to him, even in the small galley kitchen, the minuscule bathroom. Only Ryan's presence threw him off his game, but he'd started adjusting to that, too, pivoting around him while he cooked or making space for him on the couch that was really too small for two former hockey players.

"So what exactly happened to make you have that crisis of conscience?" Ryan asked, once they had settled down a little and had some water and Eric had placed an order for Thai delivery. He listened while Eric briefly described the encounter with Keen, watched while his face darkened.

It was rare that Ryan really saw Eric angry these days, and it reminded him that the man had depths that he had barely plumbed. The way his eyes got dark and hot, the way it was like all of that tension and power crackled through his body, an energy he barely held in check.

Ryan hadn't been lying when he'd said that he hadn't thought of Eric as a dirty player during their playing days, but he had definitely been aware of that temper, that capacity for violence barely held in check. It was part of the game—deeply woven into the fabric of the game—but that had never been the kind of player that Ryan was. He had seen it in other players with a kind of fascination and envy. Had vaguely remembered Eric's numerous suspensions, all the while knowing that that would never happen to him.

Ryan had won the Sportsmanship Award twice, and it wasn't because he was such a nice fucking guy. It was because he had been a superstar who regularly got the shit kicked out of him, but also rarely took penalties. There was a distinction.

"What thoughts did you have?" Eric asked, after they had gone over the basics. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked very different in this context, barefoot, rumpled from the plane, glasses slipping down his nose.

"There's a certain kind of guy who really regrets the fact that things are changing, you know? Especially guys like Keen. He came up right around the time when things weren't like they were for us, but it was close enough that I think he really regrets he wasn't around for the worst of it."

"Maybe," Eric said, shortly. "It just...we were both products of a different era, but I never—I talked shit on the ice, sure, but I never said shit like that. It just fucks me up, Sully, you know? I played the way I did because of who I was. Because of all of the shit I had to prove. If people were going to give me crap, I was going to make sure they regretted ever looking at me funny. And it's the same way now. I didn't get this job because of who I was. Or maybe you got the job because of who you were, but..."

Ryan took a step forward. "You really wanted this, huh?"

"I've been working my whole fucking life to prove people wrong. This was the next part of that. I'm going to be a head coach one day. I might not have the Cup, I might not have the hardware, but I'm fucking good at what I do, and I'm going to show all of them."

Ryan had thought about what it would mean to come into a team where the coaches had been employed before him and been passed over for the promotion, but in a general sense. He hadn't really thought about what it would mean for Eric, even after all of this time. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

Eric just looked at him from under the sardonic line of his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching. "At this point, Sullivan? It's fine. I resented the hell out of you at first, and I still think you're too fucking nice, but it's...we're fine now. Whatever the hell we're doing."

"You'll be a head coach one day. I don't doubt it. Hell, depending on the way the rest of this year goes, you might even be a head coach as soon as next year."

Eric laughed, then, a dry chuckle. "Sully, you're a fool if you think they're not going to offer you an extension, no matter what the team's record is."

"You don't know that—"

"With the way Cook's playing? With the way Williams is playing? With the way all of our baby d-men have stepped up to eat twenty-five minutes a night? I remember how miserable they were last year under Leclerc. It's so different now. You're getting your extension."

"Turn that same confidence on yourself. If an opportunity comes up—you know, like, I won't hold you back."

Eric's phone buzzed and he glanced down at it. "Food's here," he said, and fled, like that alone would be an excuse to avoid having to talk about what Ryan had just said. By the time he had returned, Ryan was sitting on the couch, still thinking about it.

"You really think your reputation is preventing you from getting these opportunities?"

"Maybe not all of it," Eric said, sitting down next to him, "but at least some of it's definitely got something to do with the fact that I've had so many suspensions and teams think that says something deeper about me ."

Under Ryan's hand, Eric's thigh was warm and muscular and solid. "I just feel like once people get to know you, they'll understand. That that's not who you really are. They just have to talk to you, and I feel like you'd convince them."

Eric raised one eyebrow, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I just have to plead my case, huh? All right, Department of Player Safety."

"You had the hearings, right? It's not like you didn't have the opportunity to try before."

"Are you kidding?" The snort was disparaging. "Like any of them actually listened to what I had to say."

Before he could even think about what he was doing, Ryan found himself sitting up straight, posture ramrod formal. He took his hand away from Eric's leg, raised his own eyebrows and said, "This is an in-person hearing for Eric Aronson to discuss potential consequences as a result of the biting incident committed on the ice against"—Ryan racked his brain, trying to remember the actual details of Eric's incidents—"Jason Martin of the Vancouver Vanguard."

Eric stared at him. "You're serious."

"This incident occurred on the ice during a game. Words were exchanged during the course of play, and the two grabbed hold of each other, wrestling briefly, before Aronson took Martin down to the ice—"

"You can't be serious."

"I would caution the player to avoid interruptions," Ryan said severely, "as that shows he is not taking the process seriously. This is an opportunity to be heard."

He could see the line of Eric's full mouth, pressed thin in an expression of disbelief, twitch. The emotions that flickered across his face went in quick succession: confusion, annoyance, amusement and finally they settled into that sardonic smile, like Eric had decided he was going to play along, however stupid Ryan's game happened to be.

"My apologies, Senior Vice President," he said, "I'm taking this very seriously, actually."

"Good," Ryan said. He lifted his chin. "Because this is the major leagues, and we are representatives of the sport. Incidents of this nature are not—"

"Excuse me," Eric interrupted. "Do I get to say anything in my own defense?"

"You are a repeat offender who is familiar with the process. If you continue interrupting, then I will have to take that into account when deciding on your punishment."

"Okay. Please finish, Senior Vice President." Eric's mouth was still twitching, like he was trying so fucking hard not to laugh but was finding it very difficult. His face was admirably straight as he inclined his head slightly to the side, waiting for Ryan to continue.

"Before I was so rudely interrupted," Ryan said, "we were going over the facts leading up to this hearing. Once Martin is down on the ice, their bare hands are in each other's faces and words are continuing to be exchanged, and it appears that Aronson bites down on Martin's hand with force."

Eric was still watching him. His hands were folded in his lap as he sat there, the very picture of a contrite schoolboy. "If you—"

"Silence, please," Ryan said sharply. "We will need to review the video before you can present your defense." He realized, belatedly, that he had no video to review, and pulled up YouTube on his phone. He typed in Eric Aronson biting fight Vancouver and found a clip someone had uploaded. They watched it with the sound off, Eric's dark brown eyes searching, like he was remembering exactly what had led up to it.

"Excuse me, Senior Vice President," Eric said, when they were done. He had moved a little closer on the couch while they were watching, and Ryan could feel the heat of Eric's body against his thigh. It was objectively insane, the way Eric's physical proximity could do that to him: like there was some kind of invisible magnetic force between them that he was minutely attuned to. "Can I present my defense?"

"Yes," Ryan said, and swallowed hard. He wasn't really doing a very good job of being an intimidating authority figure; he was trying to concentrate on the role he'd chosen for himself, but all he could do was watch Eric's hands, the way he had twined his fingers together to crack his knuckles. The way he knew those same fingers felt, bruising against his body or twisting inside of him.

"My defense," Eric said, leaning in. His voice was low and throaty, the kind of voice anyone else would have used when you were flirting with a woman in a bar. "My defense is that he liked it."

"That's—that's not a defense," Ryan said. He lifted his chin up again. "I need you to take this seriously, Mr. Aronson. You are a repeat offender, and you are facing a stiff suspension."

"Stiff, huh?" Eric asked. His mouth was twitching again, just the corner. His eyes were dancing. "I can provide physical evidence."

"This is highly...highly irregular," Ryan managed. Eric's hand was on his thigh, now, gripping hard enough that Ryan could feel his fingers digging in. If he was really committing to the bit, he would have knocked his hand away, he would have said that there wasn't physical evidence to offer, that everything was on video.

"I can be very persuasive when I need to be. Come on, Senior Vice President. It's in the CBA that I'm allowed to present evidence in my own defense at DOPS hearings. Are you going to violate the CBA?" His hand crept higher up Ryan's thigh. An inch or two to the side, and he'd be cupping Ryan's balls, at this rate.

"You may present your case," Ryan said. His voice sounded thick and a little strangled, but it was hard to make it come out normally when Eric was looking at him like that, like he was hungry, like he wanted to devour every little bit of Ryan right then and there. "But be quick about it. We have other hearings lined up this afternoon."

"I really need to take my time to convince you," Eric said. He took Ryan's hand in his own and turned it over so that it was facing palm-up. Weirdly enough, Ryan's hand felt sweaty, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Eric didn't look away from him when he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against it. Lips first, then his teeth.

"I don't like this," Ryan said, sharply. "I don't think he would have liked this, either."

"I'm just getting started," Eric murmured against Ryan's skin. And unfortunately it turned out that he was right. It also turned out that Ryan's palm was fucking ticklish, and his whole body jerked in response when Eric kept moving, his tongue teasing against the skin, his teeth nipping to follow it. The palm first, and then his fingers; tongue teasing around Ryan's thumb.

"I—this isn't biting," Ryan said, his voice cracking. "This is another offense entirely."

"Okay. We'll move on to the main part of the case."

"Mr. Aronson," Ryan started, desperately trying to get things back under control, and failing just as miserably when Eric shifted forward to straddle his thighs and trap him in place, when he leaned forward, his mouth against Ryan's neck. His breath was hot and humid in the small space between, and Ryan's entire body jerked in shocked reflex when he pressed his teeth against the tender skin below Ryan's ear. "Shit. Oh— oh ," he gasped. Whatever Eric's mouth was doing felt like Ryan had touched a live wire, like a current ran through his whole goddamn spine.

"Exhibit A," Eric said. His tongue was hot and wet against Ryan's overheated skin, and Ryan shifted uncomfortably underneath him, already kind of hard. He was teasing Ryan, now, his mouth never staying long enough in one spot for it to feel truly satisfying. "I think I'm beginning to convince you."

"This isn't—this isn't biting."

"You really want to know, huh?" Eric asked. Ryan couldn't see his eyes from this angle, but his voice was soft and dangerous, and neither of them was laughing anymore. "Do you think, Senior Vice President, that maybe this whole hearing was a pretense—I think you fucking wanted it—"

Eric's teeth dug in suddenly, sharp, the pressure not that bad at first but steadily building the longer he worried Ryan's skin between his teeth. It was exquisitely painful, and Ryan squirmed underneath the pressure, unable to hold himself still. He could hear his breath in his own ears, the ragged, harsh noise of it. His hands moved again without his own conscious volition, scrabbling at Eric's back for purchase.

"Yes?" Eric asked when he let go. His thumb rubbed against the bite, wet with his own spit, and Ryan could already feel how tender it was, how it would probably bruise tomorrow.

Ryan couldn't say anything at first. His brain was running a million miles a minute but couldn't focus on anything except the way it had felt when Eric hurt him like that. "What was Exhibit B?" he asked, finally. "We have to be thorough in this hearing. I need to know all of the evidence for and against you."

"I can be thorough," Eric said, and the laughter was back in his voice. He tugged at the hem of Ryan's shirt, like he wanted to lift it up, and Ryan went with it. It was chilly in the apartment, once he was shirtless, and he could feel his nipples pebbling, from the cold and from the force of Eric's eyes on him. "Do you demand a hands-on demonstration from everyone in these hearings?"

"I—" Ryan managed. Eric was kissing his neck again, working his way down. He whimpered when Eric's teeth dug painfully against the muscle and tendon of his shoulder, pressing down. It hurt so fucking bad, but it was also like something was lighting up under the skin with every second Eric did it, like the part of him that had always pressed his fingers against his bruises was suddenly putting two and two together. "I—need to be fair. And—and thorough. I..."

"Who would've thought that the Head of Player Safety's such a little slut?"

"I'm not a—I'm tough but fair," Ryan said, his voice cracking again when Eric twisted his nipple, sharp and sudden and surprising. "I have to be, when all of you insist on, on breaking the rules."

"Well. If you have more hearings this afternoon. Maybe I better get back to work convincing you. Maybe I better leave some marks so that the guys who are here after me know."

Ryan wondered if it was possible to be so turned on that your entire body burst, just exploded into a cloud of bloody mist and viscera. "I think maybe you should do that," he managed. He wondered how he looked right now, his neck bitten and bruised from Eric's teeth and wet with Eric's spit, his hair messed up from Eric's hands, his whole body flushed red from how much he fucking wanted this. His eyes felt huge and wide and crazed and—

Eric wasn't talking anymore. His mouth trailed down Ryan's chest, and his teeth dug into skin again, unexpected and painful. Ryan's body tried to curl into and curl away from it: Jesus, his chest was going to be a mess tomorrow, too, the way Eric was torturing him.

"Excuse you," he gasped, "this wasn't where the bite occurred on the ice."

"I'm giving you the full experience," Eric mumbled into his skin. His tongue flicked against Ryan's nipple, then his teeth. "I told you: this is so the other hearings, so they all know who had you before them. Who left you looking like a fucking—"

"Like what?" Ryan asked, squirming underneath him, increasingly desperate.

"Like a fucking mess. Like you fucking begged for it," Eric said. He'd slid off Ryan's lap so he could reach his chest more easily, and he was on the floor between Ryan's legs. His eyes were wide and dark when he looked up at Ryan again, his mouth red and swollen, and on instinct, Ryan reached out and took his glasses off, set them gently on the side table.

"I have to beg now?" Ryan demanded. "That's not—how you treat the Head of the Department of Player Safety."

"I think that's how the Head of the Department of Player Safety wants to be treated," Eric said, palming Ryan's dick through his sweatpants. "I think maybe the Head of the Department of Player Safety better let me know exactly what he wants, because I'm just a repeat offender, and I want to make sure I'm not going to get an unfair suspension."

Ryan froze. Eric wasn't touching him anymore, and he felt the lack of hands or mouth or anything on his body like a physical ache. But he also didn't want to beg—there was being easy for it and there was giving in immediately. Eric ran one finger down his inner thigh and Ryan shuddered. Just the light touch, the hint of what he could have, set his heart knocking against his ribs again.

"Bite me again," he said, after a long pause. "My thighs."

The look Eric gave him then, heated and hungry and all-consuming, was almost too much, but Ryan couldn't look away. At least he couldn't until Eric did what he'd asked, tugged his sweats down while Ryan shifted his hips eagerly to help him along. It was almost worse than anything on his neck, the sensitive skin on the inner thigh and the hard muscle he couldn't help clenching against the pain. It was almost better because Eric's hot breath was so close to his dick, because his hands were gripping Ryan's legs so tightly he couldn't have squirmed away even if he wanted to.

"Okay," he managed, "okay, okay, okay, please, you've made your point. He liked it—I like it—I—"

"I didn't show you Exhibit C," Eric said. His unruly hair was even messier where Ryan had been clutching it, his eyes equally wild when he pressed his hands against the bruises he'd left behind on Ryan's legs and Ryan shuddered helplessly under the force of it.

"Wh—what's Exhibit C?"

It turned out that Exhibit C was Eric spitting in his palm and wrapping his warm fingers around Ryan's dick. He wasn't laughing anymore, watching Ryan's hips jerking up into his hand, listening to Ryan's desperate, panting breath. "This doesn't—this isn't a mitigating factor," Ryan gasped, one of Eric's fingers teasing the entrance of his ass. "You still, you're still going to get a f-five-game suspension."

"Oh?" Eric asked. His voice sounded just as breathless, although he was preoccupied, alternating between digging his teeth into Ryan's thigh muscle and pressing wet, sloppy kisses along his abs, and torturing him with his hands. "What do I have to do to lessen my punishment, Senior Vice President? The playoffs are coming up and we're fighting for a wildcard spot."

"I'm—" Ryan said, twisting on his fingers, his whole body shuddering, "I'm offended you'd imply—imply I could be bought—"

"Who said anything about buying?" Eric said, licking his lips.

"What are you...what are you gonna do?"

"I thought," Eric said, stroking one hand along Ryan's thigh, the other gripped just too loose to be satisfying around his erection. "I thought we should see how you look on my dick. I think probably that's what you've been angling for this whole time, huh?"

"I... I..."

"It's okay if you want it," Eric murmured. His voice was gentle, coaxing. "You've got a really stressful, busy job, I think maybe you should just let me..."

It was so fucking ridiculous and it felt so good that he almost broke, but Ryan was so determined to keep a straight face, to remain committed to the bit, even as Eric let go of him, shuffled on his knees over to where he'd dropped his suitcase that had his bathroom kit and the lube and condoms, fumbling eagerly through it until he could return to Ryan's side.

"What do you want?" he asked Ryan.

Ryan looked at the condom in his hand and looked at Eric's face and shuddered again. "I want you to—to fuck me raw. I want you to leave it so everyone after you knows what I've—what you did."

Eric froze; the stillness itself felt like a slap. For the first time, he broke the scene, and said, "Ryan...you're sure?"

"There hasn't been anyone else," Ryan mumbled. He could feel his face heating up, which was ridiculous. His whole chest felt red, and it wasn't just because he had the imprints of Eric's teeth pressed along it. "Not for a little while now. If you're okay with it. I really wanna feel it. Feel you ."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Eric said, almost reverently. "Okay. Well. If that's what the Head of the Department of Player Safety wants..."

Ryan hadn't been sure what to expect at all when he'd offered, but somehow, the reality blew it out of the water anyway. By the time he'd relaxed enough to try, by the time Eric lifted Ryan into his lap, he felt like he was going to shake out of his skin anyway, so keyed up by the game they'd been playing, by the way Eric had been touching him, by everything , that he thought it would have been insanely intense no matter what they were doing. But it was different without a condom, too. It did feel more, more of everything, electric and hot and vulnerable. With every stroke and drag and thrust he felt every single inch of Eric inside of him, and it drove all of the conscious thought out of his head. All he could do was move, all he could do was chase the orgasm that was almost, almost —

He looked down at Eric, sitting with his back against the headboard, eyes closed, fingers grabbing Ryan's ass and moving him exactly the way he wanted it, and for a second the breath caught in his throat. It was objectively insane, that they were doing this; it was objectively insane that it worked.

Eric opened his eyes and saw Ryan watching him and said, "Is—is the Head of the Department of Player Safety—satisfied?"

"You feel—" Ryan said, and swallowed hard. "I'm so close. You have to come inside of me. Mr. Aronson—you have to—Eric—"

Eric swore, something in French Ryan didn't understand. He shifted his hips, angling up, and all Ryan could do was hang on. It wasn't even that it was faster, but the steady, punishing force of it was too much. Ryan could feel his whole body tensing up, and then the release, obliterating. By the time his dick was desperately trying to empty itself all over Eric's bare stomach, Eric was still moving, and it was almost too much to bear. Ryan was determined— determined —to do this, so even though he was shuddering and overstimulated, he ground down on Eric until he could feel him tense and come, his head dropping down to rest on Ryan's abused shoulder.

He could feel it inside of him, too, messy and wet and somehow, exactly what he had wanted, as objectively disgusting as it should have been.

"Two games," he gasped. "I'm reducing your suspension to two games."

"You're...you're unbelievable," Eric managed, mouth pressed up against Ryan's sweaty skin. " God , Ryan."

It took them a while to recover, but eventually it dawned on Ryan that their food had been sitting, forgotten, on the kitchen table. Eventually, they had to move, Ryan wincing when Eric slowly pulled out.

"That's what you wanted, though," Eric said, lips twitching with suppressed laughter again.

"Yeah, I know," Ryan said, "but you weren't complaining either, Mr. I'm Leaving Marks for All Those Other Guys."

"You better go get yourself cleaned up," Eric said, smirking, and Ryan could tell he was enjoying it , from the way he stretched and looked over the damage he'd done to Ryan's body. It felt like a secret Ryan would have to keep, but one that he'd treasure, turning it over and over again in his mind. The way that Eric looked at him just in that moment. Fond and hungry and satisfied. "Before you get that all over the floor."

"Disgusting, Aronson."

"Mmm. You begged for it, remember?"

He did. He shivered again, thinking about it.

"How the hell have you managed to boss an entire team of guys around all these years?" Eric asked, groaning, as he hauled himself to his feet. "When you're this easy."

"It's just with you," Ryan said, a little embarrassed. He turned away quickly, before he could see too much of Eric's face. He didn't know what he would find there, and he was almost afraid to look.

And then there was the food, and the bathroom, and he was distracted.