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It’s Tyler’s fifth season in Dallas, and still none of his teammates know that he’s gay. He’s not even in the closet or anything, and he’s totally not subtle at all about it - and yeah, okay, that tweet had been a bad idea, he gets that now that he’s older and wiser and shit, but, like. The constant surrounding himself with shirtless bros! And calling his dogs his children! And, for fuck’s sake, he prefers stallions!
But this is the NHL, and sure, okay, like, the default is to assume people are straight because almost all of them are. Tyler’s not, though, and he’s really starting to wonder if there’s anything he can do to get them to figure it out, short of getting fucked by some dude right in front of them.
Maybe just telling them would be a bit less drastic, but the thing about that is that even if he’s not in the closet, he’s not exactly out of it either. He’s never sat down and told anyone he’s gay, never had a boyfriend to introduce to his family, never said the words out loud, even to his dogs, even in private with nobody else around at all. He could probably sit down and talk to someone who could help him figure out why that is, but then he’d have to tell them, and it just feels like way too much to worry about right now. Or ever. Yeah, ever, really.
Maybe when he’s retired, but probably not even then. Hey, maybe retiring will solve whatever his issue is and then he won’t have to worry about it?
Either way, he doesn’t have time now, because the season is starting and that’s way more important than his inability to say two fucking words. And the first couple weeks are good, kinda. They lose three but they win three, and Tyler feels like he’s starting the season off right, five points and a Gordie Howe hatty into it.
Then Jamie gets three points in Arizona, and smiles that goofy ‘aw shucks’ smile he always does, and want roars up in Tyler’s gut, because of course he can’t have nice things.
Tyler has been a little bit in love with Jamie since the day he arrived in Dallas. Jamie had looked at him, standing there with so much weight on his shoulders - weight he hadn’t known he was carrying in Boston until it was too late - and Jamie had seen him. “Let’s prove them wrong,” Jamie had said, like he’d also known the ugliness of other people’s hard assumptions, like he knew how to move past them, and that had been it for Tyler.
Jamie is still like that, still sees Tyler in a way nobody but his mom does. But even Jamie doesn’t seem to know he’s gay. So, like, whatever, right? Tyler hasn’t really been ready to settle down, and picking up randos is fun, sort of. Plus, it’s not like Jamie would even reciprocate if he told him about his feelings, and if he only told Jamie about the gay thing he’d probably figure the feelings part out and make it all awkward and shit anyway. God, Tyler wishes Jamie wasn’t straight. Life kinda sucks when you’re thirsty for someone who’s never gonna want you.
But maybe Tyler’s never quite managed to shed the part of him that totally lacks self-preservation, because he gets uncharacteristically drunk in this Arizona bar and winds up draping himself over Jamie’s solid shoulder. “Hey, captain,” he says in Jamie’s ear, low and slightly slurred. “What’s the difference between a drink and a boner?”
“Well, you’re probably incapable of getting either right now,” Jamie says, downing the last of his own beer.
“The difference, Chubbs, is that you’re not giving me a drink right now.”
Jamie frowns at him. “Of course I’m not giving you a drink. You’re a mess and I’m the captain, it’s my job to look responsible and shit.”
Tyler’s about to repeat the part about the boner, or at least say something about his emotions being, like, perpetually hard for Jamie, but Honks splutters loudly from the other end of the table and Rads is laughing his ass off, and Jamie has to shrug Tyler onto Spezz and go deal with it.
Tyler misses his warmth immediately. He puts on his saddest face and turns it on Spezz, who sighs, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “Spezz…” Tyler says, a whine in his voice.
“You really are a fucking mess, Seggy,” Spezz says, too kindly, and pats him on the head.
--
Goalies are weird, and Tyler should probably be used to his staring at him by now, but he’s not. Or maybe he was, but he’s not now. Before, it had been Lehts and Nemo exchanging whispered arguments in Finnish, far from any teammates who might understand them, glancing up at him before bending their heads together and disagreeing anew. Now, though, it’s Bish and Lehts, who give him the same looks as before but somehow seem to be in perfect agreement. At least, they argue less.
Then again, he doesn’t know that for sure. Maybe they’re just not doing it in the room, where their only shared language is the one everyone speaks. But he doesn’t think so - when he sees them talk, there are a lot of nodded yeses, few head shakes no.
He probably has better things to worry about than his goalies’ continued interest in him - why the team isn’t doing better, maybe, or why Jamie still hasn’t said anything about Tyler hitting on him - but this feels more harmless by a long way, and maybe the drunk part of Tyler has no interest in self-preservation, but the sober part still does. And not thinking about difficult stuff is totally a valid way of dealing with it, no matter what Hammer says.
Except - then Bish smiles at him, and Tyler’s heart belongs to his family and his dogs and Jamie, but Bish’s smile is too much for anyone to cope with and come out the same on the other side. It makes Tyler feel like he should be less of an asshole, like he should spend his off-days petting his dogs a lot (which he does) and helping little old ladies cross the street (which he’s pretty sure isn’t a thing). It’s also weirdly fortifying, makes him feel like he can do anything, and when Lehts beckons him over he wonders if that might be the point of it.
“Just talk to him, already,” Lehts says, giving him that look again.
“Talk to who? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tyler lies, because they can’t make him talk about this.
“You’ve been staring at him all morning, Segs,” says Bish. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
Tyler doesn’t think he’s been staring at Jamie. He just happens to be in his field of vision most of the time. It’s a total coincidence, for sure. Nope, Tyler is definitely not- okay, so he’s been staring. Shit.
Bish and Lehts are still sitting there, waiting patiently. “Okay,” Tyler says, “but what do I even say? ‘Oh, sorry, I was drunk, it won’t happen again’?”
Lehts sighs, banging his head gently against the back of his stall. Bish gives them both a long-suffering look. “Just, I don’t know, trust your gut or something,” he finally says, and turns to pat Lehts comfortingly on the shoulder.
--
That night, Tyler scores. It doesn’t occur to him until he’s in the middle of the pile that Bish and Lehts know he’s not straight.
He makes sure to congratulate them extra hard after wins, for that.
--
So Tyler also feels a little bit like he owes them something, even though all they did was not make assumptions. So he’ll do what they asked, and talk to Jamie.
Tyler brings his dogs with him, because they’re great and Jamie loves them and nothing can be awkward with them around. Also, they really love walks, and he loves seeing their happy faces when he takes the leashes down from their hook by the door. Gerry bounces around the room, a yellow blur of excess excitement, which is actually really helpful because it distracts Tyler from thinking about how settled he already is, that he lives close enough to Jamie to walk there.
The walk itself is pretty uneventful. Marshall refuses to stop sniffing the street sign on the corner, Cash has to stop to pee on every single mailbox, Gerry manages to wind the leash around his own legs, Tyler’s legs, and everything else they encounter, and all three of them nearly pull him over when they see a squirrel.
He still reaches Jamie’s front door far too soon.
Jamie is already waiting there, smiling as cold air seeps out from behind him. “I heard the barking and figured it was you,” he says, stepping aside to let them in. “What’s up?”
Tyler has to think about it for a minute. The door thunks shut behind him, and he’s never been claustrophobic but he feels a little trapped. “Uh…” he tries. “Well, we should probably talk. About, you know, the thing. Me. At the bar.”
“You were pretty drunk,” Jamie says, quietly. “Don’t worry, I’m not under the delusion that you meant it or anything.” He leans down to ruffle Cash’s ears, and Tyler can’t see his face. Jamie can’t see Tyler’s face either, now, and it would be so easy to just let him go on like this, to keep things the same, let him think Tyler was drunk-stupid and that’s all.
But Tyler doesn’t think that’s what Bish and Lehts had meant, and it’s not the lie he wants to live now, either, so he kneels down to scratch Marshall’s belly, for courage or whatever, and takes a deep breath. He gets a lap full of Gerry, too, and in between wanting to laugh and wanting to die, all he can manage is one word. “No,” he says, too quietly.
“No?” Jamie asks, hand stilling on Cash’s head. He doesn’t look up, but Tyler knows his face anyway - it’s the one with his brow furrowed and his eyes serious, his ‘please explain’ face, and Tyler wishes he could kiss the careful lack of expression off his lips.
“No,” Tyler repeats, and then, “I meant it. Not, like, literally, but I meant it. I kind of fucking love you, I guess? Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Jamie asks, and then he lifts his head, and he’s not wearing his ‘please explain’ face at all - Jamie is biting his lip, and Tyler’s heart jumps.
“Do you not want me to be sorry?” he asks, and Jamie looks at him, eyes large and hopeful and earnest, and Tyler feels all of that stabbing right into his chest.
And Jamie smiles. “No, yes - I don’t know the right answer, but don’t be sorry, not for this.”
“Good,” Tyler says. “I won’t be.” And he fists his hands into the ripped-out collar of Jamie’s shirt, leans in, and kisses him.
Gerry slides off his lap with the change in angle, bounces up to lick every inch of their faces he can reach, and they dissolve into helpless giggling under the onslaught, leaning on each other to keep from falling over. “Gerry, off,” Tyler commands, but it doesn’t really work, because Gerry is too excited now to listen at all well.
But Jamie keeps breaking into laughter, and that plus the way he looks at Tyler makes it pretty clear he doesn’t mind.
--
“Oh, fuck,” says Tyler.
“What?” Jamie asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“I just realised, I’m such an asshole.”
“You just realised?” Jamie asks, which, rude, but also fair.
“No, like, I was all mad the team pretty much assumed I was straight, but I kind of made that same assumption about you. God, I hate this.”
“How will I ever forgive you,” Jamie deadpans, and kisses him, the dogs barking joyously in the backyard.