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It’s Johnny’s turn to take the team out to dinner. Truthfully, he’d thought that by this point in his career - if he was lucky enough to have one - he’d know his city better, but he doesn’t.
He tries to Google things like “good food in Calgary” and “restaurants near me,” but he doesn’t really trust the results; Steeger once told him people can pay to have their sites show up closer to the top of the page. So he gives up and calls the steakhouse they almost always end up going to, feeling lucky that their function room is indeed available on the day he needs it to be.
Which is today.
Because he’s really bad at planning.
He’s surprised when nobody chirps him for not being more original, but they do all play hockey; there’s something to be said about familiarity and routine, which none of them are completely free from.
Speaking of familiarity and routine, he ends up sitting next to Mony, who hums and smiles at him as always before they turn and listen politely to whatever it is Smitty is talking about, because it’s good to humor goalies.
The conversation dies down with the arrival of the food, so Johnny’s more than a little surprised when Mony elbows him in the side and leans in. If it was anyone else, Johnny would think a joke was coming, but Mony’s face is his usual blank and unreadable. Even though Johnny’s been on his team - been his friend - for years, now, he still isn’t always sure what’s on Mony’s mind.
“Hey, Johnny,” is what he says, and it’s definitely going to be a chirp. “Do you come here often?” The corner of his mouth tips up into a smirk.
Johnny almost chokes on his steak.
--
It’s Johnny’s turn to get his keycard. The hotel is the one they always stay at in Vancouver - familiarity again. Sometimes he thinks there might be some kind of kickback system going on, but it’s probably just good business relationships and that pesky ‘routine’ thing. Coach hands it to him, in the usual numbered sleeve so random passersby don’t hear that Johnny Hockey is in 513, and he goes up to his room to get out of the way.
Having a single is definitely one of the perks of not being a rookie anymore - he’ll never trip over someone else’s things when he has to pee at midnight, never be woken by snoring or worse - but it does sometimes get lonely. As he ponders whether to ask in the group chat who his neighbors are, there’s a knock on the connecting door. Johnny opens it.
It’s Mony, leaning on the doorframe in a way Johnny might call flirtatious if he only had the expression to match. “So, come here often?”
“Not this specific room, I’m pretty sure,” Johnny says, slightly confused. Mony snorts out a tiny bit of laughter.
Johnny gapes at him.
--
It’s Johnny’s turn to host the team, technically, but Gio always does the Halloween party and Johnny is perfectly happy to defer to next month. Realistically, though, he probably shouldn’t have dressed up as a greaser again.
Up to an hour ago, it had seemed like a great excuse to wear his leather jacket without having to worry about whether it actually looks good on him. He’s pretty sure it does, but if it doesn’t it probably makes him look like a dick, and he really can’t deal with the overkill politeness he usually feels he has to put on when he wears it. Which is well and good, but doesn’t change the fact that pretty much the entire team has chirped him for wearing the same thing twice in a row.
He’s barely lost Backs and Ferly, escaping into the backyard, when he runs into something large and apparently purple in the shadows behind a tree.
It’s Mony.
He’s dressed as a Teletubby.
Johnny resists the urge to ask him why. Mony apparently has no such compunctions about asking his own question. “Do you... come here often?”
Johnny has had just about enough of the chirping. “I really don’t need you to start this too.” He sighs. “I don’t know why I keep trying to wear this jacket anyway.”
“I better shape up, then,” Mony says, grinning. Johnny is still trying to process this when Mony grabs his lapels and tugs him in close. His heart pounds in his ears. “Because I think it looks good on you.”
He’s already smoothed the jacket back into place and wandered off by the time Johnny’s brain stops short-circuiting.
--
It’s Johnny’s turn to be crushed up against the glass by his much-larger teammates. It’s amazing how much he scores now that his hands aren’t constantly being slashed into oblivion.
Mony’s eyes are bright, his face flushed. He shouts, “Hey, come here often?” and Johnny knows he understands.
--
It’s Mony’s turn to be surrounded by the media. Johnny’s thankful for it; they’re in Montreal, and even though most of the reporters are familiar faces from the Calgary beat, there’s no telling what the local ones might ask. Or, for that matter, in what language.
So he answers the few spillover questions he gets, mostly about why he decided not to pass to Brods, then just listens to Mony, who’s always good for a few cliches. He’s trying not to laugh at the last one when they ask about the OT goal.
“I was just thinking, ‘I better score, because Johnny will be upset if I don’t.’”
And Johnny really does have to excuse himself then.
--
It’s Johnny’s turn to keep Matty occupied on the plane. This mostly requires a deck of cards and a lot of patience. It also requires a certain amount of money: Matty is a very good cheater.
Mony is the one who usually catches him, so it’s a relief when he peeks over the seat back. “Oh, Johnny, come here often?”
“Come where?” Johnny has to ask.
“To the loser’s seat, of course,” Mony says, adding, “and Matty drew two; there’s one up his sleeve.”
“Oh, fuck off,” says Matty, throwing his cards down in a huff.
It takes Johnny a solid minute to stop laughing.
--
It’s Johnny’s turn to buy a round, so he’s at the bar when someone comes up behind him and murmurs, “Come here often?” in his ear. Johnny turns, ready to tell them that he’s not interested.
It’s Mony.
Maybe he can’t.
There’s a hint of an expression on Mony’s face that Johnny can’t read. He’s not sure if that’s because he actually can’t or he doesn’t want to. He makes himself laugh. “Don’t ask me that in a place like this, I might think you’re serious.”
“And if I am?”
“Oh,” breathes Johnny, and the bartender arrives.
Mony helps him take the drinks to the table. Despite Ritty’s protests, Johnny takes a shot of something that burns all the way down, following Mony out the door.
--
It’s Mony’s turn to drive, so Johnny’s not surprised to end up at his own house. Inviting Mony in isn’t uncommon either. Like every other time they’ve hung out, they end up on the couch, watching some cooking show Mony likes. This time, Mony doesn’t seem to be watching.
Then again, neither is Johnny.
Instead, he’s staring at Mony, watching his defenses come down, thoughts flitting across his face. Then he chuckles. Johnny stops pretending not to stare.
“Sorry, I was just thinking…” he hesitates. “‘I better score here, because Johnny will be mad if I don’t.’”
Then it’s Johnny’s turn to laugh. “I’m such a fucking idiot,” he says, and, taking Mony by the hand, drags him to the bedroom.
It takes no time at all to get Mony out of his shirt, and when Johnny shoves him onto the bed he goes down easy. He scoots up slightly as Johnny takes his own shirt off, propping himself against Johnny’s pillows, making an expansive gesture with both arms. “Come here often?” he inquires, shit-eating grin on his face.
“Oh my god, Mony,” is all Johnny can say, equal parts delighted and disgusted. He can’t help but kiss him.
“Two things,” says Mony, afterwards. “First, don’t call me Mony in bed, oh my god.”
“And second?”
“How would you feel about fucking me?”
Which is not at all what Johnny expected him to say. “Please,” he blurts out, eyes wide, and starts digging through his sock drawer to hide his embarrassment. It takes a while, because he hasn’t had time recently to sit back and jerk off nice and slow; by the time he finds it the tension seems to have gone out of Sean’s body, like he’d thought Johnny could possibly say no.
He holds up the lube, feeling stupid when Sean tenses again, laughing when he lunges at Johnny to try to steal it. Johnny lets him take it, watches him strip off, slick up, ease a finger into himself like he’s had a lot of practice. The idea is weirdly hot. So is Sean trying to muffle the noise he makes when he adds another.
Johnny wants to ask him not to be quiet, but his dick is hard, his pants are too tight, and by the time he’s done fumbling with his belt Sean’s already on three.
“You’re sure?” he asks, catching Johnny staring. Johnny figures that should be his line, but he doesn’t say so.
“Yeah,” he says instead, taking out a condom. “You want…?”
“Either way,” says Sean, so Johnny rolls one on, because it’s late and it’ll make cleanup easier, and he’s also a little worried about not lasting.
Sean rolls onto his hands and knees. Johnny’s a little disappointed not to see his face, but he doesn’t argue. He has to nudge Sean’s knees a bit farther apart, though, and Sean shivers when he does. Something to remember, maybe.
As he presses in, Sean muffles another sound. “Hey, no, I want to hear you,” Johnny says. Sean freezes, but, to Johnny’s relief, nods.
“Go on,” he says, after a moment. Johnny does, slowly. Sean moans, long and low, and Johnny manages to jerk him off a little, in encouragement. “Just - harder,” Sean says, pushing back on him, a hint of an edge in his voice, and Johnny has to move both hands to Sean’s hips for a little extra leverage.
He pulls him back, fingers digging in to muscles, shifting himself up, and Sean gasps like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Johnny does it again, and again, and then he has Sean panting, needy little noises pulled free every time their hips meet, clutching at Johnny’s sheets.
It’s a lot for Johnny, trying to hold off until Sean comes, to be unselfish, to be good enough that he’ll want to do this again. “Touch yourself,” he says, and Sean shudders, complying hastily, flush creeping down the back of his neck, before -
“Oh, fuck,” Sean groans, and comes, Johnny following right after.
When he comes back after throwing the condom away, Sean is looking around, right hand angled a bit awkwardly. “Do you have a tissue? I tried not to get too much on the bed.” Which is very considerate; still, Johnny’s kind of disappointed he’d had the presence of mind.
He gets a tissue, cleans off Sean’s hand, throws it on the floor to deal with later. Then he notices a little bit of come on Sean’s stomach. “Missed a spot,” Johnny says, and licks it up without thinking.
Sean freezes. Johnny waits.
He’s tackled to the bed before he knows what’s happening, being kissed to within an inch of his life. He tries to give as good as he’s getting - he could definitely get hard again, and skate tomorrow is optional anyway. Sean grinds against Johnny’s hip, making him gasp.
“Sorry,” says Sean, pulling back.
Johnny catches his hand. “You trying to save energy for next time or something?” he asks, and Sean kisses him again.