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Doug's ankle is broken.
Xavier already knew that - he heard it snap and saw it bend completely the wrong way from just a few feet away, for fuck's sake - but it still makes his stomach drop to hear it said aloud.
"So," Coach Hortense continues, "in light of LaFlamme here digging his head out of his ass, he'll be wearing the A until Doug's back on the ice, and there's gonna be some line-shuffling for the foreseeable future. Got it?"
"Sorry guys," Doug mumbles, and that's just perfect. He's not even Canadian, but the guy's still apologizing for shit that's not his fault.
"Don't sweat it, Dougie," Gord says. "You just focus on resting up and getting better."
"Rest makes perfect," Stevesy adds.
Gord says, "We mean it. Go home and let that sweet girl of yours baby you for a while."
"Uh, I don't," Doug starts, then he grins lopsidedly and says, "I guess, but I mean, one night's not really a while."
That catches Coach's attention. "Glatt, the hell are you talking about?"
"Aren't we heading out tomorrow?"
"We are heading out tomorrow. You," and Coach pauses to push at Doug's shoulder with two fingers, "are not. You're on IR until further notice. Get outta here. Go heal."
Coach leaves after that, and everyone turns back to the business of gearing up for practice, but Doug's not moving. Xavier pauses mid-tape to nudge his knee and ask, "What?"
"We have a team doctor, right?"
Xavier furrows his brow. "Who do you think drove you to the hospital?"
"No, I know. Isn't he gonna be on the road, too?"
"Yeah. There are other doctors in Halifax, if you need one."
Doug nods slowly, and then just like that, his frown dissipates. "Alright." He hobbles out of the locker room on dented, barely stable crutches. Xavier has no idea what just happened.
"He is real man now," Evgeni says, proud.
Gord stares at him. "What, because he broke his fucking ankle?"
"Jeah," Oleg says. "Like Belchy's mother, is something all men must do."
--------
By the time Xavier stumbles onto the bus, a paper cup of coffee in his hand and a baggie of ecstasy in his coat pocket, most of the team's already on board. Including Doug.
He blinks, but Doug's still there. For a second, he thinks he's still sleeping, but then he notices the cast on Doug's ankle. He doesn't think he's ever dreamt of Doug being injured, at least not past a black eye or a split lip, so then this is real. This must be really happening. Doug's crutches are taking up the other half of his seat, so Xavier has to settle for sitting in the row ahead of him and glaring back over his shoulder. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Some number game," Doug says, and he raises a pad of paper with a neon cover into Xavier's view. "Eva said it would help pass the time, but it's really hard, so I don't know if it'll work."
"Not fucking..." He squints at the flopped over cover. "Sukduk, or whatever, on the bus! Why are you here?"
Doug shrugs. "Team's traveling. That means I'm traveling."
"Does Coach know about this?"
"He does," Kim cuts in from across the aisle. "He called me at two in the morning to ask if there was any way the bus ride could kill Doug."
"You couldn't make something up?"
"Guys," Doug says, "we're a team! Just because I'm not playing doesn't mean I'm off the team, right?"
"Yeah yeah, you're a real fucking hockey player," Xavier sighs, and he slaps his headphones on and tries to tune the world out before he forces Doug off the bus for his own good. Not like he'd win that fight, anyway.
--------
It's harder to ignore Doug when they check into the hotel in Albany. For one thing, he seems off-balance in more than a physical way, and for another, they're roommates. Doug hefts his crutches on the bed next to the door and flops down, then bolts back upright. "Oh, sorry, is this okay?"
Xavier sighs. "'S fine."
Doug lays back down, drumming absently on his stomach. For a minute, Xavier just watches him, watches his soft smile and the untroubled, loose lines of his arms. Finally, he says, "What is wrong with you?"
Doug pauses with one hand flat on his belly and cranes his head up to meet Xavier's eyes. "Broken ankle."
"I see that, you fucking teton," Xavier grunts. "You could be warm at home with good food and good fuck. Why are you here?"
"I told you, I'm part of the team. The team's here, I'm here."
Xavier chuckles. "It's all that simple, eh?"
"Yep." Doug shoves himself up on one arm and grins wide. "Don't worry - I can't skate, but I'll be suited up on the bench with all of you, and Gordy and Evgeni promised to watch your back while I'm out."
"You," Xavier says, and his chuckling breaks into genuine laughter, "you are crazy."
"Kim says all hockey players are crazy."
"Then he's fucking crazy, too." Xavier drops his duffel and finally takes a seat on the bed next to the window. "He's right, but he's crazy."
--------
Somehow, Doug's plan works. There's no way he could step foot on the ice even if he wanted to, but no one can see his cast behind the boards and his stare seems to be enough to keep most of the Patriots in line. Oleg gets a roughing penalty after some jackhole snow showers Belchior, but that's as chippy as the game gets.
It's so clean that nobody manages to slow down Xavier as he dekes past the defense and nails the twine high gloveside. And then high stickside. And then fivehole. He could really get used to this "natural hat trick in every game" thing.
The game ends 4-1, and the bar they all wind up in afterwards is thick with smoke and annoyance. Xavier knocks back a shot and gleefully flips off a guy in a Patriots hat before he carts a tray crowded with glasses back to their corner table.
"There he is!" Gord shouts, and Xavier could've sworn he was carrying the first round, but somehow Gordy's already glassy-eyed and slurring. "First fucking star!"
He can't help it - Xavier cackles with joy as he thunks the tray down on the table. "Fucking right I am."
Doug holds out his beer and Xavier clacks a shot glass against the bottle's neck before he shouts, "Salut!" and they both drink.
At some point that night (Xavier's not clear on when, because after enough shots, he's not clear on the concept of time at all) Doug calls Eva. He's sitting next to Kim, both of them pressing a finger to their other ears and shouting over the noise of the bar. Xavier can't make out Kim's conversation; Kim's girlfriend is Korean too (he thinks that's what Kim is, fuck if he knows for sure), so they're probably, hopefully, not even speaking in English. He can't hear much of Doug's conversation either, but what he does hear is so stupidly fairy-tale sappy that it makes Xavier's gut churn.
"Young love, eh?" Gord says, and he slings a heavy arm over Xavier's shoulders. "I don't believe in that bullshit anymore, but those mooks... they make me second-think."
Xavier stares at him blankly, and Gordy must take it for confusion, because he waves at Kim, who has his face pinched and his mouth moving a mile a minute, and Doug, who's tucking his phone back into his jeans and watching them. "Dougie and the doctor over there. Most guys pick up on the road, hump and dump, right? But those two cocksuckers have real hearts. If anyone can make this shit work, it's them."
Xavier tries to hide a wince.
Gord burps and slaps him on the back. "But what do I know? I thought my wife and I would be forever, but I lost her. She got sick of hockey. Sick of fucking hockey. Sometimes I think there's not a woman alive who wouldn't eventually."
"Hey," Doug says in a nervous chuckle, and Xavier didn't even realize he'd gotten up, but there he is, swaying awkwardly sans crutches behind Xavier's other shoulder. "How's it going, Captain?"
"Dougie!" Gord howls. He surges forward, arms open for a bear hug, misses Doug completely, and topples to the ground. Before either of them can react, Stevesy's hauling Gord up off the ground and dragging him back to their table.
"Fucking maniac," Xavier mutters.
"That's our captain," Doug says, and he grins, but Xavier doesn't miss that there's something a little off to it.
--------
Xavier's not stupid. He knows that hockey has its fair share of bromances - when you spend your days traveling and bonding and sweating with the same set of guys, it's pretty much inevitable. He also knows that what he feels when he looks at Doug isn't exactly platonic. It's not even bromantic or whatever bullshit term Evgeni and Oleg are cooing at him on any given day.
What he feels for Doug is flat-out gay.
That's not a slur. (He referred to Doug's who-knows-why friend Pat as "that skinny faggot" once, and the glare Doug leveled at him has been enough to keep him watching his words ever since.) It's just fact - he feels gay feelings for Doug. He still likes the ladies; he loves pussy, but fuck if he doesn't also love Doug's cock. Theoretically. He hasn't exactly had the chance to... experience it, or even really look at it beyond locker room glances. He has fooled around with a couple guys, though, and it's enough that he knows it would be good with Doug. It would be so fucking good.
Except Dougie's in love. He's in love with a girl who's nice and cute and everything Xavier isn't (except that they both have dirty pasts, but he's pretty sure that's not why Doug loves Eva). Maybe a few months ago, that wouldn't have mattered enough to stop Xavier from making a move. He didn't start wanting to fuck Doug until after he started liking Doug, though, a real first for him, and as a friend, he can't mess this up. Not when it makes Doug happy. Better to have a happy friend for keeps than a chance at a mopey lover.
... Fuck.
--------
They lose game two. Doug spends most of the night on the phone with Eva, and it sounds like he's comforting her more than the other way around. It's... sweet.
Xavier sandwiches his head between two pillows and pretends to sleep.
--------
They lose game three as well. They're on home turf now, so the bars aren't full of people celebrating their defeat, but it's still depressing as hell, especially since home means Doug (and Kim, but mostly Doug) have their consolation prizes by their sides. Xavier only makes it four shots in before he nudges his nose into the collar of his peacoat and staggers outside to call a cab. To his surprise, he's not alone.
"Hey," Stevesy says. He waves quickly before tucking his bare hand back into the protection of his anorak pocket. "Heading out?"
"Yeah." Xavier looks around - it's just the two of them. "Where's Ogilvey?"
"Gordy? He already left." Stevesy shrugs minutely. "He wanted to go home and call his ex-wife."
Xavier whistles. "Il a foutu."
Stevesy shrugs again, impossibly smaller than before. "Nothing new."
They stand in silence after that, avoiding each other's eyes, and Xavier wonders if maybe Stevesy would get it. Maybe he's spent enough time taking care of Gord, honing his listening skills and strengthening the shoulder Gord cries on, that he could handle taking care of Xavier as well. Maybe Xavier could actually tell someone that sometimes, after he scores a goal and rolls on applause through a celly, he wants more than anything to spit out his mouthguard, check Doug into the boards, and kiss him, and maybe Stevesy wouldn't look at him like he's crazy or pitiful or both. Xavier opens his mouth, unsure of what exactly he's going to say, and Stevesy cuts him off.
"You can share my cab."
Xavier swallows. "Uh."
"You don't have to ask. We're teammates; sharing is what we do."
"Cool," Xavier says, because even if this isn't where he was expecting to take this conversation, it is cool. "I'll pay you my part of the fare tomorrow."
"Sure," Stevesy says with a smile, and fuck it, Xavier smiles back.
When he gets home, he sits on the couch, looks at his own cardboard standee, and zones out. It's surprisingly entertaining - maybe those shots were harder than he thought.
It seems like no time passes at all before Doug leans into his field of view. "Staring contest?"
"I'm winning."
Doug smiles lop-sidedly. "Course you are."
"He'll blink any moment," Xavier says, and suddenly his eyes are burning, but fuck that cardboard clone. Asshole.
"I don't think he can blink," Doug says.
Xavier sucks on his lower lip. "So... are you saying I win by default?"
"... Yeah. Yeah, okay, that sounds fair."
"Fuck yeah," Xavier spits. "Suck on that." He drags himself to his feet. "And now, it's sleep time for the champion." He punches the standee as he stumbles by, and when Doug's laughter trails after him as he falls into bed, he can't help but laugh too.
--------
They're not scared anymore. The Patriots have figured out that Doug's not coming off the bench, and as bulky as Evgeni tries to make himself look, he's not the guaranteed fighter their thug is. They're down by two at the first intermission, Stevesy's lip is split, and they still have one and a half minutes of 5-on-3 to kill off. Xavier's doing his best to not audibly growl.
Coach Hortense yells at them and Captain Ogilvey sympathizes with them and Doug leans in close and says quietly so only Xavier can hear, "Don't drop your gloves."
"Fuck you."
"I mean it. No fights."
"I mean it, fuck you," Xavier grits out. "You think I can't fight?"
"No." Xavier stares at him, and Doug groans, "Okay, maybe, but that's not the point."
"Get to the point."
"You can shoot."
"Really. I hadn't noticed."
"I mean, that's your thing." Doug knocks their shoulders together, and Xavier pushes right back. "I fight. You shoot."
"Yes?"
"So go shoot."
He's going to snap at Doug again, because he's not saying anything Xavier hasn't known for years, but then it clicks. He gets what Doug is really saying. "I'll shoot. That goalie'll never see his water again."
"Yeah!" Doug claps him on the shoulder and shakes him around a little. It dims Xavier's anger, but only a hair. Not enough to stop him.
When his blades hit the ice, he takes all that rage, all that simmering energy that wants to burst out in swinging punches, and funnels it into his stick. He handles as good as he ever has, sends the puck between his legs and off one skate before he pulls it forehand, backhand, and buries it top shelf. The water bottle's still in place, but that's fine - gives him something to aim for on his next shot.
Gord doesn't tie it up until the third, but he does tie it up, and Xavier saucers the puck so beautifully to Evgeni in overtime that all he has to do is tap it in.
--------
Doug and Eva leave the bar early. Xavier tries not to think about what that might mean.
--------
Someone's shouting. It's muffled and tinny, and Xavier can just barely hear it filtering in from outside his door, but the tone is definitely angry. Then Doug says quietly, "I'm not being stupid." Uneven footsteps trail away, and Xavier hears Doug continue, "I am stupid, but I'm not being stupid," before the words are too distant to make out anymore. He smashes his face into his pillow and wills the sun to unrise.
Doug's voice stays low for a few minutes, but then suddenly it spikes and he's shouting, "No, you fuck off!"
Xavier drags himself out of bed and into a robe. When he pads into the living room, Doug's sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. "Uh.." Xavier says, and Doug's head snaps up.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."
"No, it's... yeah, okay. You're fucking loud."
Doug deflates. "Sorry."
He considers microwaving some water for instant coffee or maybe taking a shower, but in the end Xavier walks straight over to the couch and sits down next to Doug. "First fight?"
"What? Oh, no, this..." Doug laughs weakly. "Probably like our hundredst... th."
"Tabarnak," Xavier breathes. "You hide it well."
Doug furrows his brow and looks at him like he's missing the skin on his face or something. "What?"
"Well," Xavier says slowly. This is pretty much the last thing he wants to talk about. "You always seem happy. I know Gord's always talking about the ladies getting fed up with hockey, but Eva never seemed... she seems to love it."
"Yeah, she does. I don't..." Doug squints at him. "I don't know what you're trying to say."
"I'm saying... you fight? I never knew."
"It's what I do."
"No, you fight with Eva."
"I do?"
Xavier backhands Doug's arm. "On the phone, you fuckhead! This morning? Just now?"
"Oh. Oh!" Doug laughs like he can't help it. "No, that wasn't Eva. That was Pat."
Xavier blinks. "Oh. Well, fuck him. He deserves whatever you yell at him."
Doug laughs again. "I'll tell him that," he says.
"After practice," Xavier says, "you call him back and tell him he's an asshole. I'll remind you."
Doug grins, and Xavier can't help grinning right back, and really, what else is there to say?
--------
Xavier doesn't find out until right before game 7. He notices that Doug goes straight back to the hotel after game 5 - a disgusting 4-0 loss - but he's asleep when Xavier gets back, and then they bite and claw their way to a win in game 6, and Doug goes out to drink with the team. Kim's girlfriend shows up and gets messy drunk like the rest of them, mouthing at Kim's shoulder during Gord's drunken "you guys are like unicorns" post-win speech, but Eva's nowhere to be seen. That should strike Xavier as odd. If he's being completely honest, it does; it's just that they won, they're not out of this yet, and he's barely drained his Irish car bomb before Doug has him in a headlock, and he's so fucking happy. His brain can shut up for the night.
Doug's phone ringing wakes him up the next morning. The call sounds angry again, but Xavier's too hungover to muster up any semblance of caring.
--------
He's never answered Doug's phone before. This thing is, it's rung like five times in the past half an hour now, and Doug's not here - he's down at the hotel gym critiquing Evgeni's punch-throwing form or something like that. The caller just doesn't seem to be taking a hint. Xavier's almost conked out for a pre-game nap when the phone goes off again. He picks it up off the bedside table before he can think-talk himself out of it and snaps, "The fuck don't you understand about voicemail?"
"... Where's Doug?"
"Out. Who the fuck is this?"
"This is Pat, asswipe. LaFlamme, right?"
Xavier scowls. "Congratulations, you have ears."
"Fuck you. Why do you have Doug's phone?"
"I'm his roommate, you fucking monkey. Now leave me alone. Stop calling."
"I'll stop calling when Doug pulls his head out of his ass!"
"Fuck off," Xavier snarls, running on pure instinct, but then the noises resolve themselves into words in his head, and he says, "Wait. What are you talking about?"
"Jesus Christ, I'm talking about Eva! What else would I be talking about?"
"What about her?"
There's a beat then, where it's quiet enough that Xavier can hear the rumble of the elevator down the hall, and Pat sucks in a loud breath and says, "He didn't tell you."
"Tell me what? Fucking say it already."
"He dumped her."
Pat's still talking, ranting, "He fucking dumped her, can you believe that? They were so goddamned good together, and then bam, out of nowhere he loses his mind and pulls this shit..." but Xavier's barely listening. Eventually, he pulls himself back to the world of the living and asks, "Why?"
"That's the million fucking dollar question," Pat says.
The hotel door beeps, swings open, and Doug hobbles in, sweaty and smiling. "Hey," he says, then he looks straight at the phone and frowns. "What's going on?"
Xavier swallows. "It's Pat."
Doug stares at him for a moment, then he careens forward and snatches the phone away, hissing into it as he stalks (somehow, despite having one foot still coated in plaster) into the bathroom and slams the door. Xavier rolls to flop on his back and watches the ceiling.
It's probably only a minute or two between Doug taking the phone and him shuffling back out to sit on the edge of Xavier's bed, but it feels longer. It feels even longer before he says anything.
"So," Doug says, "he told you."
Xavier hauls himself up on his elbows. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"No, shut up. Why don't you want to be happy?"
"I do!" Doug says. "Just... not if it makes her unhappy."
"I..." Xavier scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't understand."
"I'm a hockey player."
"A real fucking hockey player."
"Yeah, and if I'm gonna do this, then I have to play hockey."
Xavier blinks.
"I mean..." Doug groans. "I have to play hockey. I have to go on bus trips and punch guys and train, and I think I get what Gordy's always saying."
"About women getting sick of hockey?"
"Yeah. It's not really hockey, it's... all the other stuff."
"Not hockey the game," Xavier says slowly. "Hockey the life."
Doug nods. "Right."
"So you're, what, saving her? From the horrible fate of being a hockey wife?"
"Yeah."
"You realize most hockey players get married, yes? You think Kim's selfish because he has a girlfriend?"
"No, that's not it," Doug blurts, and he looks absolutely stricken. "Kim's a hockey player, but he's also a doctor, and that's... it's different. And I know some guys can do it, or seem to, but I just... I don't see how."
Xavier pushes himself up all the way, slides to sit next to Doug. "So you're saying you're too stupid to balance being a hockey player and being a boyfriend."
"I didn't say that," Doug says. "But... kinda."
Xavier chuckles. "You fucking martyr."
Doug chuckles too, then says, "What's that mean?"
"What?"
"In English. That was French, right?"
Xavier laughs out loud at that, and Doug laughs too, and oh, Xavier is so fucked.
--------
At a bar that night, drunk and ludicrously proud, Xavier takes a break from jeering the disappointed locals to snag Doug's phone out of his coat pocket. "Hey," Doug slurs, but Xavier ignores him and scrolls through Doug's contacts.
"There," he says, and he holds the phone out to show Doug.
Doug squints at the screen. "Eva?"
"Text her."
"Xavier, I-"
"Text her," Xavier cuts in. "Even if she's not your girlfriend, talking to her has always made you happy. Hockey players can have friends, yes?"
Doug nods slowly.
"Okay, so tell your friend that we fucking slaughtered the Patriots, and the Victoires are going to suck our cocks next week."
Doug smiles and takes the phone.
--------
Doug starts texting Eva every day after that. Maybe it's not as much as he used to, but it's still a lot. When Xavier asks him about it, all he'll say is that they're friends. He says it with a genuine smile, though, so Xavier guesses he did the right thing.
--------
He's just trying to gather up everything he needs for a road trip (and double-checking and triple-checking and anything else to keep his mind off the fact that they're going back to Quebec) when he sees it, crumpled on the coffee table: a Sudoku book. It's not like it's something private, so Xavier lets curiosity get the best of him. He flips through it.
It's not even half finished. No, worse than that, there's not even one puzzle finished. Doug obviously tried - the scribbles and crossed-out numbers in the margins prove that - but he didn't succeed. Xavier thinks of Doug sitting on the bus again, trying to solve puzzles he's no good at (and why should he be? He's a hockey player) and maybe thinking about the girl who gave him those puzzles, and that's all it takes. He scrambles back into his bedroom.
It takes him twenty minutes and a terrifying encounter with a spider living between the boxes in his closet to find what he's looking for. He tucks it in his coat pocket and goes back to packing.
--------
"Thank you! What is it?"
"It's a bilboquet," Xavier says.
"Did you just say dildo?" Belchy shouts. He turns to Kim. "Did he just give Dougie a dildo?"
"Bilboquet," Xavier shouts back.
"Oh."
"Shithead."
"I think I've seen these before," Doug says. He runs his fingers over the spindle of wood to where the twine is attached, then he grabs it tight and wiggles his hand slightly. The flattened ball dangling at the twine's other end sways. "You try to catch the ball on the point here, right?"
"Right," Xavier says. "It's not a great bus toy, but..."
"No, it's perfect," Doug says, and he angles his knees out into the middle aisle so he can swing the ball up into the air without any obstructions. He misses catching it by a good three inches.
Xavier barks out a laugh. "You see, this is why you're no good at shooting."
Doug narrows his eyes at him, so Xavier continues, "No hand-eye coordination. It's okay - the bilboquet will teach you."
Doug flicks the ball up again mildly, watches it fall back down without nearing his hand. "Really?"
"It's how I learned," Xavier says with a shrug. He drops his voice and leans in a bit closer, because he's not sure if even Doug should be hearing this. "When I left home, Maman gave me that as a... a souvenir? Some bullshit like that. I was thirteen and I think she worried I would forget to do anything but hockey. I played that thing all the time - made my stick-handling better, I could tell. I guess the joke's on her, eh?"
"Wow," Doug says. He looks at the bilboquet like it's made of solid platinum. "Thanks, Xavier."
Xavier tips the other way to slam his shoulder against the bus window and mutters, "It's just a toy."
"Still, man. Thanks."
It's cold on the bus - Xavier hopes that's a good enough reason for the heat he feel rising in his face. "You're welcome."
--------
Doug plays with the bilboquet in their hotel room all the way up until game time. Xavier watches him for a while, then excuses himself to the bathroom. The baggie in his pocket has three ecstasy pills and a tab of LSD left. He flushes them all down the toilet.
--------
The door opens, and Xavier yells from his bunker between the bed and the wall, "I'm not going out! There's no way anyone will make me!"
"Hey," Doug says, "I'm not gonna make you."
Xavier swirls the bottle of Grey Goose in his hand - barely three shots left. He groans. "I fucking hate Quebec."
"I think they fucking hate you too."
The bed dips against Xavier's shoulder, and he's suddenly treated to a view of Doug's knees. He socks Doug in the leg, just because. "Why aren't you out drinking?"
"I don't know. You're not."
"I'm not because this entire province wants to murder me," Xavier says, and he's not pouting, because grown men don't pout, but it's a close thing. "It's not bad enough that they kicked my ass on the ice, they have to try to kick it now too."
Doug slides down to sit next to him on the ground. "People were trying to kick your ass?"
"Figure. Uh. Figuratively. They'd like to punch my face more, I think." Xavier rummages underneath a nearby pillow and comes up with a bottle of Absolut. Not top shelf, but it'll do. He untwists the top violently, grins as the safety seal cracks, and takes a long swig. Doug takes the bottle from him as soon as it's off his lips, and Xavier's about to yell that he doesn't need mothering, but Doug just takes a pull and hands it right back.
"Damn," Doug sighs. "That was a shitty game."
"You weren't even out there," Xavier says.
"It wouldn't have changed anything."
Xavier snorts. "I don't know. Even you might have shot better than I did tonight."
"Hey." Doug drops an arm around Xavier's shoulders and tugs him flush against his side. "Don't say that. You played pretty good."
Xavier freezes. It's not like Doug's never done this to him before - he's a touchy-feely guy, seems like - but he's never done it when they're alone in their hotel room. Drunk. Xavier holds his breath and, fuck it, he leans into Doug's warmth. With his mouth mashed against the soft knit of Doug's pullover, he says, "Bullshit."
"You'll see," Doug says. "I bet Coach won't even yell at you tomorrow."
Xavier going to argue with that. He really is. Then Doug's pulling him in tighter, and his other arm's closing in to clasp him in a hug. Maybe it's not the smartest thing to do, letting his body override his brain, but Xavier goes for it. He slings one arm over Doug's belly, drags himself closer, and nestles in.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, he falls asleep.
--------
They don't wake up in the same position the next morning. It's worse. At some point, they've slumped over, and when Xavier drifts back to consciousness, he's sprawled over Doug's chest, one leg thrown between Doug's thighs, and there are strong arms holding him there.
"Fuck," Xavier hisses. Maybe he can slide off before Doug wakes up.
"Hey," Doug says, and there goes that hope. "What's wrong?"
"Uh." Doug's watching him, gaze flicking side to side to look at each of Xavier's eyes, and Xavier coughs. "Are you still drunk?"
"I wasn't that drunk last night."
"Not really an answer."
"No. I'm not still drunk."
"Then." Xavier uncurls one hand and lets it press open against Doug's chest. "What are we doing?"
Doug smiles, face slack and hopeful. "Dating?"
"Oh fuck off," Xavier says, and he shoves off of Doug to land, hip-first, on the carpet with a dull thud. "You said you're too stupid to date."
"I was thinking about that," Doug says. He rolls to face Xavier and waits.
"Am I supposed to chirp you about that? Thinking?"
"It's okay if you don't."
"No, fuck you, what were you doing thinking?"
"You're a hockey player," Doug says, grinning like he can't hold it back. "You won't get sick of the hockey life."
There's a knot in his stomach getting tighter and tighter by the second, but Xavier forces his face to stay still and looks down his nose at Doug. "I might."
Doug laughs. "You won't. You're in the hockey life."
Xavier's trying to keep up an impassive front, he really is; it just doesn't seem to be working. He can feel his muscles relaxing. "You're very confident."
"You're not moving away."
Xavier wants to take this and run with it, but he has to ask. "Eva?"
Doug smiles and says, "We're friends."
"Oh." Xavier licks his lips, watches Doug watch him, and says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
It is. Even if they lost to Quebec last night, they have at least three more games to turn things around, and even if that doesn't happen, they have next year. Defeat used to be the worst feeling in the world. It used to absolutely crush him, but Xavier's not so concerned about it anymore. He has people who care about him now, and there's always next season. Next season, he'll still have his team. He'll still have Doug.
"Okay," Xavier says, and he pulls Doug into a kiss.