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Logan is on the couch staring into space, silent, chocolate brown eyes unfocused and far away, watching and rewatching the four goals play and replay off his phone. He’s been like that for the last thirty minutes, ever since they got back from the game.
The game.
A 3-5 loss to Tampa on home ice, one of those car crash kinds of games where you’d rather just squeeze your eyes shut until it’s over. Logan certainly started the game, but he did not finish it.
Because for the first time since Charlie and Logan have been goalie partners, Spencer Carbery pulled a netminder for performance reasons.
It wasn’t really Logan’s performance per se… more of the team as a whole. Because Spencer trusts his goalies, is known to give them the benefit of the doubt, generous forgiveness where other coaches would’ve already sat their asses on the bench. That’s how you build trust on a team—start with the guys between the pipes.
But everything has its limits. Carbs’ is 4 goals in the first 18 minutes and 19 seconds of the game and a team that’s 20 minutes late coming back from its smoke break.
And it’s Logan who pays for it; it didn’t matter in the moment that Logan wasn’t wholly at fault, the optics read as sending their starting sheep to slaughter—a sacrifice—by yanking him after the fourth unanswered goal to send a message to the rest of the flock in hopes of forcing a momentum change. A sort of look what you made me do kind of move.
And yeah, it wasn’t Logan’s best start, and it was clear from the first goal that he wasn’t himself and it didn’t help that he was given a string of somewhat weird, unlucky situations with minimal help from his skaters right from puck drop. Nonetheless, Charlie hadn’t seen Logan play like that very often, and he has a hard time remembering the last time he’d witnessed that version of #48. Like Logan was there physically, but mentally, he was ice fishing on a frozen pond in Alberta. Angles just slightly off. Puck tracking a quarter second delayed. A few inches too deep in the crease, so subtle but at this level is enough to bury you if you don’t fix it soon enough. And normally, Logan could do that, bounce back after one or two medium-soft goals—Logan rarely lets in a softie, annoyingly so, because Charlie can make a diving superman glove save but then he goes and passes the puck into his own fucking net—but tonight, Logan couldn’t.
What makes it sting even more, like getting punched in the arm when you’re standing in the fucking freezing cold, is that Carbs didn’t leave Logan in for the last one minute and forty-one seconds left in the first, didn’t allow him to finish out the period and start Charlie in the second. No, to make the impression he wanted to, it had to be that way. So, in front of 20,000 blinking, hopeful eyes, Carbs pulled Logan. Not out of punishment, but it’s hard to not feel that way as it’s happening to you.
As Logan’s going through the motions of his post-goal head-clear following that fourth goal—water bottle squirt, spit, followed by another water bottle squirt and another spit—Charlie can read Logan’s lips as they form the words fuck off. Fuck off to the Lightning for making Logan look like a sieve, fuck off to the Caps for leaving Logan out to dry, and fuck off to Logan for his own underperformance. Fuck off to the universe for putting him in the situation where Spencer Carbery is now calling down the bench to Charlie and giving him the nod, a certain restrained frustration beneath his professional, ironed-suit neutrality.
As Charlie passed Logan on his way to take over the crease, he caught a glimpse of the other goalie’s face—numb, foggy, gaze blank and straight ahead. It was clear his goalie partner’s brain was either roaringly loud or deathly silent and Charlie can’t decide which is worse: all the pain or less than none. At the same time, they both know they’re professionals. This is part of the game. Painful, but part of it still. Even so, the moment when a guy gets pulled is deeply humanizing. Hidden beneath the gear and sweat and rituals, there’s a very real person in there, now taking off his helmet and gloves, trading them for a baseball cap and becoming a spectator when he was just the beating heart of the team. Charlie can empathize; he knows the ache.
In all their time together, stall to stall and crease to crease, Charlie has come to know Logan as a quieter type of guy. He’ll laugh at your jokes down the table at team breakfast, but rarely will go out of his way to crack his own in a group larger than five. They’ve got a lot of loud personalities in the locker room already and Logan has found peace in just being present and positive. Charlie allows himself to secretly and distantly appreciate this about the other man, Logan’s quiet energy, his reassuring reserve. Grounded. Consistent. The calming presence of a weighted blanket.
But here and now—this is a different type of quiet. It’s almost eerie. Silence thick as a raincloud and consuming Logan’s little apartment. And although Logan’s stillness is calm, gentle even, it’s deceptively so, and if Charlie peers further into the thick misty fog, he can see the big stone castle walls Logan has put up around himself for protection. Because just as Charlie gets mad when he’s hurt, Logan gets sad. Silent, pretending it’s all ok, sad.
A type of sad that looks like sitting on the couch, still wearing his gameday clothes, staring emptily into the carpet as he winds and rewinds the goal replays to death, sipping absently at a glass of chocolate milk because it’s supposedly the most optimal post-exercise recovery beverage with its perfect combination of carbohydrates to protein ratio in addition to providing fluid and electrolytes.
Logan isn’t necessarily droopy or mopey about it. Most anyone would think he’s fine. But Charlie can see it immediately, a dimness about the goaltender where usually there is a gentle glow, a warmth. There’s no light in his eyes as he smiles through post-game niceties, the boys giving him the old “Chin up, bucko” shpiel that any goalie cringes through. His voice is just a hint quieter as he says “Thanks, dude” and his eye contact is delayed, not shy this time, but embarrassed. Embarrassed as if he’s embarrassed for you that you have to talk to him after a game like that.
And sad.
Charlie’s on the couch next to him, legs outstretched so if he extended his foot another several inches, he could kick Logan’s elbow with his toes. He’s sort of scrolling Twitter but mostly not, eyes watching Logan’s profile as the other man now observes his phone blankly as it plays off the fourth goal once more.
Sending in on the breakaway… Kucherov…. He scores….
The stillness of the room, of Logan’s melancholy eats away at Charlie. Weighs heavy on him. He studies his goalie partner, big form bowed over in concentration, pulling a hand through his messy long hair, features of a lumberjack but soft as all hell underneath it.
Something about it makes Charlie’s head light.
Because Charlie knows Logan kinda well by now.
He knows that Logan hates when the guys shoot below the knees in practice. He takes sewer ball way too seriously. And he always has like fifty fucking water bottles in his stall at all times.
Sending in on the breakaway… Kucherov…. He scores….
And Charlie knows that this Logan, just out of toes’ reach, is not really Logan.
The video cuts off and #48 revisits the first goal once more, commentating filling the living room.
It’s fucking depressing is what it is.
And Charlie feels like he’s somewhat responsible for fixing this. That’s what good teammates do, right? It’s not weird or anything. Because Charlie doesn’t think about how he’s sitting on Logan’s couch in Logan’s apartment, and probably will be sleeping in Logan’s bed tonight too. It’s not weird. They’re just teammates. This is just something they also do.
“LT,” Charlie says, and Logan doesn’t register it.
Hagel… Shorthanded… has tied it.
Logan’s phone informs them. Again.
“Logan,” Charlie says, giving him a nudge with his socked foot.
“Yeah?” the other man replies, not looking over, finger dragging the playback bar to the beginning.
Charlie didn’t really have a plan for this. “You good?” He says and Logan looks over, face calm and pleasant, perfectly staged.
“Yeah,” Logan says with a faint smile, and they both know he’s lying. Maybe that’s why he can’t look at Charlie for a moment before drawing his attention back to the screen that reminds them:
Hagel… Shorthanded… has tied it.
That kind of reaction is typically code for: I don’t want to talk about it.
“Want to talk about it?” Charlie asks anyway.
“Talk about what?” Logan says, as if he genuinely doesn’t know, getting up from the couch casually and heading to the fridge for seconds on his chocolate milk, “Want anything?” And Charlie wants to shake him by the shoulders and say Stop being so fucking polite!!!
And really, Charlie could just drop it here if he wanted to. Logan had given him an out: deliberate ignorance and avoidance that Charlie could play along to. If it was any other guy on the team, he probably would have taken that escape. But Logan is different, even though Charlie wants to tell himself he isn’t. Because Logan will nudge Charlie’s leg during film when Charlie makes a big stop, a secret I see you and I recognize you and I know how challenging that save really was at a fundamental level that Charlie appreciates a more than he’d let anyone know. And when Logan enters the locker room, his eyes find Charlie so easily, and they light up just a little and no, Charlie’s heart rate doesn’t pick up an extra several beats. And Logan always gives Charlie the better half of anything they split, takes the lemon lime Gatorade so Charlie can have cool blue, naturally and unspokenly putting Charlie first. The thought of it makes Charlie’s brain feel heavy and staticky, irritatingly.
So, Charlie feels obligated to stand up from the couch and follow Logan to the kitchen. He keeps a respectful distance, the kitchen island a mountain between them, Logan’s back to the room as he pours his refreshment, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. Charlie eyes the BioSteel Logan set out for Charlie even though Charlie didn’t ask for anything. Why does he always fucking do that? And BioSteel honestly would hit the spot right now and Charlie doesn’t want to think about how that annoys him too.
Logan’s shoulders shift and relax beneath his suit jacket and Charlie can read the goals weighing on his form, sinking their teeth into his muscles:
I.
Hagel dancing through the middle of the zone and ripping it from the juicy slot, low blocker. Logan’s reaction is slow and Logan knows he should’ve gotten it, immediately after the puck has slipped by him. It’s an abnormal goal for Logan Thompson. A direct shot? Typically doesn’t go in that easy. If Charlie can see it, then the other guys must see it too, and Logan must feel it deep in his core.
II.
On the PK, puck beams off the crossbar and directly to a stick wearing a white jersey. And then the goal light is burning red. It’s as if #48 is beat twice on one goal, ringing iron first and then stretching twine immediately after; Logan can’t track either of them. As the other goalie is resetting for the next play, Charlie sees something in his expression: he’s thinking about it. Goalies have to have a memory of a goldfish, Charlie’s Pewee coach used to tell him. But now Logan’s playing it over in his head. Might as well have been beat three times on that one.
III.
A choppy broken play.
Who’s got which guy?
Wide open slapshot from the fucking slot.
It’s now 1-3.
IV.
The finale.
Nikita Kucherov is a Hart Memorial Trophy winner (2019), a two-time Ted Lindsay Award winner (2019, 2025), and a three-time Art Ross Trophy winner (2019, 2024, 2025).
And he’s wide open for a stretch pass at the Washington blueline.
It’s just Logan Thompson alone with Kucherov and the big Russian delays, freezes Logan left, and roofs it right.
The energy on the bench deflates a little and Logan is sweeping the puck out of the back of his net as if he could wash the taste of it out of his mouth. Sour. Bitter. Defeating. 1-3 is very different from 1-4. Because a two-goal lead is a temptation to the winning team’s hubris and there’s still a way out. A three-goal hole is a closing elevator.
As Logan’s stream buffers, the apartment is quiet. Outside the darkened windows, DC’s lights glimmer and wink.
Charlie doesn’t pretend to be amazing at this kind of stuff. He’s a good friend, a great teammate, but anything that looks close to… feelings… fondness… that’s not really his thing. He’s not a relationship guy; the strings are never attached. Because deep down, Charlie knows he’s too sensitive for something like that, would Alice in Wonderland himself down that rabbit hole and it’d consume him. What would his hockey look like? His head game would be fucked.
But watching Logan with his stupid chocolate milk and his soft gaze on his phone screen trying to figure out the Wi-Fi that is only ever an issue for Logan’s phone and literally nobody else’s and how he’s so painfully non-confrontational that he’d rather act like all of this is ok than share any of his pain with Charlie because he cares more about Charlie’s emotions than his own… it has Charlie’s stomach tightening in on itself.
Because Logan—
Logan is goofy-awkward. A kind, genuine smile, those big thoughtful eyes, watching Charlie like he has the most interesting things in the world to say when he’s really only talking about something as dumb as how he prefers no-stir peanut butter but the kind you have to stir is better for you. His hair is somehow always a little weird looking, combed the wrong way or parted in three separate places, and Charlie wants to fix it so, so bad but that would be too… domestic. That would be softer, more affectionate than what their arrangement allows. Teammates with benefits or whatever it is.
But sometimes Charlie finds himself, despite himself, listening to Logan’s voice from across the locker room, so calm and warm, discussing waxed vs. unwaxed laces with TVR as if there’s really something there to debate about. Finding importance in something, in anything, where really Charlie couldn’t find any. And for a brief moment, he’d think about what it would be like to cross that line—tell Logan how he really feels when he’s wrapped in his arms, tangled in Sunday morning sheets, or sitting across the island talking shootout saves over overcooked pasta—before quickly shoving it out of his mind. Because the line is there for a fucking reason, Charlie. It’s there for you, to keep you safe. Everyone leaves in the end, anyway.
“Hey,” Charlie says, pushing from the kitchen island to make his way around it, sort of sliding a bit in his socks on the smooth hardwood, “Need some help?” He means with the phone. Sort of.
Logan replies with a delayed, distracted, “It’s alright,” still tapping uselessly at the settings, the tech skills of a grandmother. Sure it is.
“Ok then. Want some help?”
“No, it’s ok. I’m fine,” and this time Logan does pick up his eyes from the screen to give Charlie a mild, slightly pained smile, those eyes so fucking kind as they look at Charlie. Like Charlie is made of sunlight.
“You seem weird.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like quiet or something. What’s going on in there?” Charlie taps his pointer finger against LT’s forehead. It’s affectionate, Charlie realizes, and then he berates himself for that too, folding his arms across his chest so he doesn’t pull that shit again. Cut it out.
“Oh y’know. Just elevator music.” Because clearly Logan doesn’t want to be perceived as a burden, and does part of Charlie want him to be? Does he want Logan to let those walls down so Charlie can be there for him, even though they’re not—
—And God, this is so fucking stupid.
Most of Logan’s nature is that he doesn’t complicate things. What you see is what you get, which Charlie appreciates. Logan is transparent.
But now he’s not. And Charlie isn’t the most patient of people and this isn’t a role he usually plays—the thoughtful, comforting one. He makes sure those situations don’t arise while he’s around. Strategically out of reach.
“So, we’re playing this game?” Charlie focuses his gaze on Logan, fully and shamelessly and in return, Logan’s eyes read Charlie’s face curiously. A tension hangs suspended in the air between them.
“Seriously. It doesn’t bother me.” Logan says calmly, “it” being the fact that he was pulled tonight. And no one believes that for a fucking moment, Logan. No one gets over that kind of public shaming within the same diurnal cycle.
“Clearly,” Charlie says, pulling Logan’s phone from his hand easily and sliding it onto the counter. The movement is smooth, concise, confrontational. It’s clear Logan doesn’t want the argument; he prefers a picnic over a boxing match.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Chuckie,” is Logan’s safely neutral reply, a classic Switzerland.
What you’re feeling, is Charlie’s knee jerk response, but he doesn’t say that because who, in Charlie’s position, would say that? “How about what happened tonight?” and that sounds much better.
Logan says nothing. The kitchen aches with the stillness.
And in that silent space, Charlie’s brain briefly remembers how Logan automatically does Charlie’s laundry when he stays over, washes and dries and folds it neatly at the foot of the bed. There’s an empty drawer in Logan’s dresser for the small collection of Charlie’s unmatched socks and a t-shirt or two that he’s too lazy to bring home. And why is he thinking about this, he shouldn’t fucking be thinking about this and Logan’s got that look on his face again, soft at the edges and fond as all hell beneath his Eeyore sadness. Temperate and pleasant at a time where Charlie would be throwing shit around the room angry because that’s how he feels after getting pulled. But Logan isn’t anything like that. It’s not endearing, he tells himself, it’s really, really not.
“Does watching the replays help?” Charlie leans into Logan’s space ever so slightly, noticing the way Logan’s breathing subtly quickens, chest rising and falling a tad more deeply. Charlie’s adrenaline spurs to life. Because this. This Charlie can do.
“Not really,” Logan replies and as Charlie grins a little, Logan’s gaze rests vaguely in the area of Charlie’s mouth, the taller man parting his lips unconsciously. Charlie wants to close the space between them, to pull Logan’s bottom lip between his teeth, make him come undone with just his mouth. But, Charlie waits. Waits for Logan to crack first. He usually does anyway.
“So why do you do that to yourself?” Charlie pushes, the proximity and the interrogation demanding Logan to move a piece in the chess match.
“Oh, you know.” And Charlie does know, but that’s not the reply he’s looking for, chiding Logan by placing his hands on the counter on either side of his goalie partner, space dwindling between them but deliberately keeping them apart.
“Tell me as if I don’t,” and Charlie hopes his eyes are whispering promises to Logan. Promises that Charlie will listen, that Logan can trust him, make him feel good.
Logan must be reading something in Charlie’s gaze, whether it’s hunger or honesty or affection, because Logan’s gone quiet, pupils dark and big. Charlie notices the line of Logan’s neck and how temptingly bitable it looks, a paintless canvas for him to pretty up with his mouth. He knows Logan is going to taste so good. He always does.
“How about this,” Charlie begins, because he can feel himself losing a grip on his own self-control. “We can talk this out like professionals,” and they’re so close, the space between them vibrating with anticipation, “Or I can fuck you until you forget about it.”
In the stillness, that aching anticipation, Charlie’s thoughts hum.
Because Logan is the breeze on an Autumn day.
He’s the third shot of tequila at the bar that has Charlie’s brain comfortably buzzed, warm and soft and glowy.
He’s a “hey you forgot this” when Charlie forgets his phone charger in his dry stall and he definitely could’ve gotten it later, but Logan wanted to make sure Charlie had it anyway.
Logan’s observing Charlie’s face, waiting. So, Charlie poses the question, “What’s it gonna be, LT?” and that’s enough for Logan to break, closing the short distance between them and connecting their mouths fast and determined enough to chip a tooth. Charlie pushes back the laugh in his throat, at how predictable Logan can be.
Hands find their way to Charlie’s mid-back, tugging at the fabric there, hands broad and firm. Insistent. In return, Charlie slots their hips together, feeling the line of Logan’s already semi-hard cock through several layers of fabric against his own, and fuck that’s intoxicating. As Charlie threads his fingers, just rough enough, through Logan’s chestnut locks, the other man lets out a moan against Charlie’s bottom lip. Chest-to-chest, Charlie can feel every intake of breath, pinning Logan to the counter, snaking a hand between them, rubbing Logan’s cladded cock, aroused by the way it swells and stiffens beneath his touch. Logan’s breath stutters, rocking against Charlie, hungry for more friction.
When Charlie breaks the kiss, surveying his canvas, the other man is painted with the most endearing strawberry tint high in his cheeks, gaze hazy and far, far away. And yet there’s something hesitant in his expression; he’s waiting. Because Logan’s got the kind of build that could cage Charlie in and press him up against a wall and take control if he wanted to.
In this moment, Charlie understands that Logan doesn’t want to take control. He needs Charlie to reach for the reins, show him what to do, tell him how to be. Because even if Logan wasn’t his best self in the game tonight, he can be good for Charlie; he loves to be good for Charlie. It’s such a fucking turn on. That even when Logan is at his lowest, fresh off a shitty lost, he trusts that Charlie will make him feel good, take care of him when he needs it. And, in return, Logan will allow himself to enjoy it, despite the outcome of the evening’s icetime.
So, Charlie undoes Logan’s belt, then his pants, and sinks to his knees, observing the heavy bulge at the front of Logan’s boxers. Stroking the other goalie’s length through the fabric, Charlie watches Logan’s face, infatuated, laced and dark with desire. Charlie is enamored by it, skin hot and prickling with Logan’s unabashed want.
Charlie distantly remembers that Logan likes the side of the bed closest to the window. He doesn’t like sushi. He knows Charlie’s coffee order and—
—And Charlie’s running his mouth along the sensitive skin at Logan’s inner thigh, watching the other man’s now freed cock twitch with interest, drowning in the way Logan moans low in his throat as Charlie slowly licks his length, reveling in the weight of it on his tongue, the taste of precum, salty and bitter. In the cadence of Logan’s panted, uneven breathing, Charlie swallows back the other man’s cock without warning and Logan almost chokes on his own spit. Charlie takes care to suck him slowly, drawing out the pleasure, creating a leisurely, blasé rhythm that has Logan unconsciously rocking his hips to pick up speed; Charlie pins them still, sucking Logan’s length to the hilt and holding the head at the back of his throat. Logan’s hands are gripping the countertop. Charlie has bigger plans in store than this. He gags himself on Logan’s cock a few times for good measure before pulling his mouth off with a deliberate pop.
Charlie stands, palming his own arousal straining against the fabric of his boxers. Logan looks already wrecked, hair mussed up, mouth wet and rewetting it, and fuck, all the things Charlie wants to do to him, for him. He gives a grin and without waiting for Logan, exits the kitchen to the bedroom. Logan shuffles around a moment in the kitchen, no doubt putting his cup of chocolate milk in the fridge for later, and really, who does that?
Piece by piece, #79 tosses his gameday fit in an area sort of near the laundry basket with a chorus of gentle thuds. Logan’s in the bedroom doorway, suit jacket mysteriously absent and unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt. Logan’s hands are big and wide, deliberate and sure, on and off the ice. Charlie’s quite fond of the feeling of those hands, gripping his hips, stroking his cock, open palm grabbing his ass. They make some pretty solid glove saves too.
Logan slips off the button down and hangs it nicely on the back of the door, cloaked in the dim navy light of the bedroom. He looks like a painting. Like he’s made of daydreams. A reverie that Charlie could get lost in if only he’d let himself.
He doesn’t.
Because, if he doesn’t think about the way he thinks about Logan, then it’s not an issue.
Instead, Charlie’s crowding Logan’s space, drawn to him like a magnet, hands exploring their way across the other man’s chest, nipples raised beneath his touch. Pinching experimentally, Charlie earns himself a subtle gasp from his goalie partner. It goes straight to his cock. Logan returns that magnetic pull, stuck in Charlie’s orbit and leaning shamelessly into the friction. As if Charlie is made of effervescent sunlight and Logan’s shifting ever closer to bask more in that golden heat. All the while, Logan’s body is a fucking furnace, skin hot to the touch when he gets all worked up. Because Logan’s want is heavy and all-consuming; once he’s reached this level of undone, he’s free falling into it, off to the races. Charlie’s teeth graze teasingly across Logan’s neck, tongue tasting the heat off the other goalie’s skin, drunk on the way Logan lets out a raspy, “fuck,” with the delicious sensation. If they didn’t have practice tomorrow, if they were just two normal people with two normal lives, Charlie would leave memories across Logan’s skin from jawline to chest in the form of plum and fig-colored splotches. But that’s not their reality.
Between them, Charlie brings their cocks together, and at the same time, catches Logan’s mouth for a deep, filthy, slow kiss. It’s a clash of touch and sensation and arousal, a slide of hands down the dense muscle of Logan’s quads, the thick of his trunk, the warmth blooming across his taut stomach. Charlie has always admired Logan’s thicker build—solid legs, a broad chest to press against, strong arms that he could get wrapped up in—but Charlie would never say that. That Logan kind of ticks all his boxes for really fucking hot. Tattoos down his arms, hair long enough to tug, body type closer to that of a power forward than a beanpole goaltender.
Charlie can feel his own desire starting to take over, backing them up to the bed until Logan’s sitting on the corner of it, Charlie cupping Logan’s face in his hands and Logan’s looking up at him with those genuine eyes, big and thoughtful. There’s so much care in the way Logan just looks at Charlie, lips kiss swollen and red as they get, smiling just a bit. The flooding heat of a hearth glows in Charlie’s stomach. Because Logan’s the type of guy that gives his whole vulnerable and authentic self to things, honestly and fully. And instead of giving himself over to that trashcan fire of a game they’d just experienced together, he’s letting Charlie be that something because if Logan’s drowning in the drag of Charlie’s nails across his skin and the little kisses Charlie leaves across his collar bone, then he’s not drowning in four goals and a skate to the bench. Easy trade, Charlie thinks as he swipes Logan’s hair out of his face, slowly, tracking Logan’s eyes as they track his. Like they’re both following the same play, the same cross-ice pass, mimicked in the other’s pupils reflecting back.
“Open yourself up for me,” Charlie says quietly against Logan’s bottom lip, “I want to see you.” Logan manages a nod, finding the lube in the side table and, spreading out on the bed, long limbs sprawled and tattoos across the landscape of his skin and it’s like seeing the mountains and deserts and forests from high up in the clouds of an airplane, all of it together, magnificent. Logan’s messily dripping the lube over his fingers, squeezing it from the midsection like a bottle of Elmer’s glue and an art project with too much glitter, and it’s something close to adorable… something that Charlie understands about his teammate in a softer way.
Absently, Charlie remembers how Logan looks after a big win, hunched in his stall and hiding his dumb little grin behind a face towel as the team cheers him on, “LT!!!” Shy and modest to a fault, even after pulling a ridiculous 2-1 victory from the jaws of fate. Logan’s not good with that kind of attention. But this attention, when it’s just Charlie and Logan, Logan and Charlie, #48 flourishes, becomes a version of himself that Charlie recognizes between the pipes. Full control of his performance, reading each situation thoughtfully, anticipating the flow of it all. It’s poetry.
But Charlie’s not thinking about that right now, pulled back to the present with Logan pressing the first finger inside himself, slowly, a quiet release of air at the back of his throat with the intrusion. Charlie strokes himself in time with Logan’s conscious pace, and unconsciously, Charlie’s gravitating closer until he’s stationed between Logan’s legs. He finds himself placing his hand on Logan’s inner thigh, running his touch down to the inside of his knee, soft and sincere, observing the way Logan bucks his hips ever so slightly, curling his finger deeper inside himself.
“So good,” Charlie utters, and he doesn’t even register he’s said it until Logan’s watching his face, mouth lagged open, nodding. Logan adds another finger. “You’re so good,” Charlie says again, this time more intentionally. And Logan takes his time fucking himself open with his fingers, slowing the pace of their passion to something more thoughtful. Always knows when to take his foot off the gas when Charlie’d rather just floor it and fuck. Sweat dews across Logan’s skin, and Charlie crawls his way to lean over the taller man, infatuated by Logan’s soft little smile when he makes hazy eye contact with Charlie as if to say oh, there you are, even though Charlie wasn’t going anywhere and that stupid expression reminds Charlie that Logan is just happy that Charlie’s there. He’s always happy Charlie’s there.
Ready? Charlie’s expression asks; Logan nods absentmindedly, wordlessly and familiarly on the same page, and when he removes his fingers, Charlie positions his cock at Logan’s entrance. At this point, Charlie’s aching, craving the feeling of Logan’s heat around his cock, letting out a heavy breath as he sinks into the other man slowly, Logan’s teeth caught on his own bottom lip in concentration.
Fully sheathed in the other man, Charlie pauses a moment before rocking his hips back slowly, almost pulling out all the way before sinking back in as carefully as before. The rhythm is purposely lazy; Logan likes Charlie to start that way. Like a warmup. Gentle. With what love would feel like, Charlie thinks. If Charlie felt that sort of thing. To be taken care of and to take care in return. As Logan gazes up at him, his eyes are so, so dark. They look oddly innocent. But Charlie knows how Logan can fuck him and he knows he’s anything but innocent. He can picture those eyes gazing up at him as he bobs his head down Charlie’s cock, those long eyelashes, lips plush and stretched around his throbbing hard on. Trying so, so hard to be good for Charlie.
The thought has Charlie’s hips stuttering, halting forward a little quicker than expected. Logan gasps with the unpredictability, captivated by the change of pace. The surge of momentum. Like the speed of a game, whiplashing in the other direction in an instant and suddenly it’s tied. A screen and a tip in the slot and you’re forced to adapt and react. Charlie’s skin prickles with adrenaline. It’s fun. Exciting. Makes him feel alive.
“Yeah?” Charlie breathes out and Logan’s grinning a little; Charlie tries to slow the pace back down again, but that look, that grin, is something like a smelling salt to Charlie’s brain, igniting more movement. Charlie lies to himself that he’s trying to resist the urge, but the heat and pressure around his cock is dizzying, and he leans into the cadence just a little more so Logan’s bouncing on his cock on the way back in and out. Hands make their way to Logan’s ribcage, steadying the other body in place to thrust into with more control, more force, picking up speed and strength.
The effect is wonderful, Logan muttering a string of curses, dropping his head back into the sheets, eyes fluttered shut, something akin to bliss falling across his features. Charlie takes the moment to bite a mark against Logan’s chest before he thinks better of it. It wins him a choked off moan from his goalie partner. Logan’s fingers fall into Charlie’s hair as if to lightly keep Charlie’s mouth where it is as Charlie navigates to nibble Logan’s nipple and the man beneath him squirms and gasps with pleasure; he knows Logan comes apart at the seams with his commanding teeth, their reward, their punishment, all of it pleasure.
Between Logan’s panted moans and trying to pull himself back down onto Charlie’s cock, Charlie leans upright and snaps his hips forward, pace increasing still, hands strong at Logan’s hips as Logan’s hands settle gently at Charlie’s lower back. In the dim light, Logan’s features are hued silver and smooth. The sound of skin hitting skin surrounds them, Logan’s soft touch turns to nails blunting into Charlie’s shoulders, at the lines of muscle there. The temperature in the room is ticking up to boiling, the press of skin and untethered desire. Their rhythm is perfectly in synch and Charlie knows that if he continues like this, he won’t last much longer.
But Charlie remembers Logan staring at the replays on his phone, dead-eyed, torturing himself to teach himself a lesson. At the same time, he can easily picture Logan in practice, sending perfect rebounds into the boards, a stream of impeccably landed thuds. And then there are the goals tonight, blindsiding and endless as an ellipsis... That’s not Logan. Four goals in one period and pulled for it. In the grand scheme of things, that’s nothing; Charlie’s done close to worse for himself within the past month. But the least Charlie can do in this situation is to fuck some sense into him.
“How do you think you did tonight?” Charlie asks suddenly. He shifts his weight back and slows his momentum a little until he’s fucking with short, shallow thrusts, filling Logan up but not enough.
“What?” Logan blinks, still foggy beneath arousal’s spell.
“Tell me how you played tonight,” Charlie says and it’s not a question. He pulls Logan back onto his cock forcefully for a few thrusts.
Logan turns his head away, eyes shifting off to the side. His hair is sweaty, cheeks pink with exertion and pleasure, but he’s also embarrassed, maybe even a little sad.
“LT,” Charlie says as gently as he can, and it feels weird to be this sort of sensitive, “Look at me,” and those obedient eyes meet his. Charlie stills with his cock inside Logan, the most restrained self-control he can muster.
“I’m not moving until you answer me.” He doesn’t know why he pushes it. Feels important in the moment though.
It becomes a stalemate. Sort of. Logan tries to push back onto Charlie’s length to no avail. His cock is leaking against his stomach, so Charlie helps him out by stroking it all too slowly. It has the desired result: Logan digging his nails into Charlie’s shoulders again, a low grunt stuck in the back of his throat.
“Fuck. I was shitty ok? I was shit,” Logan lets out. It sounds pained.
Charlie swipes the pad of his thumb over the slit of Logan’s cock, the pressure sensitive. Logan hisses.
“Really?” Charlie moves his hips languidly, thrusts drawn out and too slow for either of them. Excruitiating.
“What do you want me to say? That I did a good job?” Logan gets out.
Charlie moves his hand faster around Logan’s erection, matching the speed of his own cock pumping into his goalie partner. Logan arches into the touch. Still not fast enough. “Fuck,” Logan grits.
“You did your best,” Charlie says, remembering words that Logan’s said to him in the past, aiming for neutral but it sounds breathy. Logan just stares at him.
“Say it,” Charlie says, gripping Logan’s hips with both hands, thrusting hard and deep once.
Logan pants one short breath. “I did my best.”
“And that’s good enough,” Charlie returns, picking up speed again. Harder. Faster. Skin against skin and getting louder.
“Yes,” Logan nods.
“Do you believe that?” Charlie manages.
“Yes,” Logan replies hands moving to grip the sheets as Charlie pounds into him again and again, balls slapping against his ass, fucking him hard into the mattress.
Good, Charlie thinks, lost in the sensation of Logan all around him, feeling so fucking incredible. And Logan’s reaching for Charlie, pulling him closer, needing him deeper, but Charlie stays upright, observing the other man, his eyes squeezed shut and consumed by the sex. There’s a gentle flush down Logan’s neck, muscles taut, skin so sensitive to touch.
“You look so good,” Charlie says as Logan takes his cock. The other man’s eyes blink open, brightening with the compliment. Charlie could devour that look. This time, he lets Logan pull him in for a kiss, deep and aggressive, getting lost in that too, that his pace unevens, irregular as he tries to pleasure both the other man’s hole and his mouth.
And Charlie can’t think like this, nerve endings firing and sprinting off in his wasteland expanse of a brain. Images of Logan flash in his mind as he’s surrounded by his pleasure and he doesn’t have the bandwidth to block them.
Snippets of Logan in the post-game media scrum giving the most thoughtful answers, headphones on and knocked out on the plane to New York, that soft smile close-up, eyes scrunchy at the edges as Charlie gives him the congratulatory head pat after a win…
“So good, babe.” Charlie moans into Logan’s mouth and his rhythm falters a moment, pulling away just a bit, because that’s not something they say. Babe.
Because yeah, all the guys call each other babe—everyone’s a babe on the Caps—but this is not that. This is—
This is Logan knowing when to give Charlie space after a shitty game and when to kiss him hard enough to forgive himself. It’s Logan finishing Charlie’s crossword when he can’t find the last stupid fucking word on his own. And it’s Charlie waiting an hour more after practice for Logan to finish his cooldown with the intention of carpooling back to his goalie partner’s apartment to make out on his couch, afterwards sleepily tracing the lines of Logan’s tattoos with his fingertips.
Logan’s noticed it too—babe—eyes big and shrouded with blatant, unfiltered desire, reading Charlie’s face like he put the stars in the sky. And when has anyone else ever looked at Charlie like that? Surging forward again, Charlie meets Logan’s mouth who meets him halfway, as always. Charlie’s slowed his pace again, lost in the way that Logan’s kissing him back like that word set something on fire inside him. Leaning over Logan to open him up more, Charlie fucks him slow so he feels every inch. It’s deep but it’s tender. With what love would feel like, if Charlie felt that sort of thing. But Charlie doesn’t. He doesn’t.
Their individual and combined flexibility leaves them together a twisted sculpture of movement and limbs and lust in the sheets. And this deep, Charlie has found the perfect spot and Logan is suddenly needy, hands moving to touch Charlie’s face then hold him close then grabbing his bicep as if to tell Charlie yes please more without a single goddamn word. So close, practically nose to nose, Charlie watches his goalie partner’s face, swiping a thumb across that plump bottom lip and falling into Logan’s big eyes, pupils blown with yearning. And Logan’s perfect like this, gazing at Charlie as Charlie fucks him deep. So much trust in those eyes. So much care. Because Logan really does care.
Pleasure pools in Charlie’s abdomen and he knows he’s close, knows Logan is too. He wants this for Logan, wants him to crash out and give in to the passion. But Logan’s holding his breath, holding back his moans, his pleasure. Waiting. Again. Waiting for Charlie.
“It’s ok,” Charlie whispers, running out of air, the adrenaline practically filling his lungs until there’s no room for oxygen. Logan’s nodding. Yes, it’s ok.
It’s ok that Logan wasn’t his best tonight.
It’s ok that Charlie cares about Logan.
It’s ok.
And that’s the permission Logan needs. To fully come apart, seams ripping from their fabric. Nails at Charlie’s back voicelessly demand for deeper and faster thrusts. Charlie can feel Logan’s orgasm tightening around his cock, and he’s losing control of the moment as Logan cums between their sweat-slick bodies with a heavy, low moan, breath hot at Charlie’s cheekbone. Charlie can hardly register it a beat after Logan’s finished, seeing stars and black at the edge of his vision as he pulls out and strokes himself through his own climax.
Vision clearing, chills across his skin from the rush and come down, Charlie manages to sit back, catching his breath. He tries to swallow but his mouth is dry. The glass of chocolate milk in the fridge floats through his subconscious.
In the aftermath, Charlie thinks to apologize for “babe.” He doesn’t want things to be confusing between them, prefers clean, well-ironed lines as to where they stand. But he’s daydreaming about Logan for chrissake. This is supposed to be a professional relationship. But Charlie recognizes that after a year or so of this, with Logan, Charlie doesn’t really know how to do that anymore.
Before the translucent white can dry on Charlie’s skin, Logan’s handing him a handful of tissues, already dressed back in his boxers and a rumpled t-shirt. Charlie knows if he connects eye contact with LT as he’s coming down, head fuzzy and dizzy with feelings, he’ll say something stupid. So, he opts to pull a page from Logan’s book and stare numbly into space, wiping himself off.
“You good?” Logan says, and it’s so gentle, so understanding; it makes Charlie angry almost. Because no, Logan, I’m not really all that ok. I’m thinking about you, I’m—
“Yup,” Charlie says. It sounds irritated, because yeah maybe Charlie feels that way about a few things right now. He blinks and unfolding himself from the bed, shifts to find something to pull on. To bring him back to reality without the fog of lust.
But without the fog of lust, Charlie’s just left with that fondness that makes his stomach twist, followed shortly by a fear of what that’s supposed to mean. With anyone else, Charlie would already be halfway dressed and looking for the door, thinking about what’s in the fridge that he can have when he gets home. But Charlie doesn’t feel like going home. It’s a lot like that these days. He’d rather be at Logan’s apartment looking out at the city. Because Logan’s apartment has Logan and Charlie’s doesn’t.
“You know, those games happen, right?” Charlie adds. It comes out quiet. Logan doesn’t say it, but Charlie can read it on his goalie partner’s face: Not to me. They’re not supposed to happen to me.
“I could’ve read the play better. I don’t know. My angles were just off and—,” Logan trails off, still in his own head but not as bad as before. He looks lost. Charlie knows the feeling.
But for the first time that night, Charlie’s brain has gone suddenly silent. No beating himself up for feeling certain ways or certain things. Charlie knows that he could now try to say a million different platitudes to try to get Logan to that point too. But the right thing to do in the moment seems like just being close to Logan so Logan’s not alone. So, Charlie’s not alone.
He studies Logan’s face, something like optimism lilting into his expression and without thinking, Charlie pulls Logan in for a somewhat hesitant hug. It’s weird. Who hugs their teammate? That’s not something the guys do. And Charlie isn’t a big hugger. He feels awkward with his long limbs and thin form, like there’s not enough to hug and too much to hug at the same time. Logan seems taken aback somewhat too, at the unexpectedness of it, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t flinch away. He hugs Charlie back. Honestly and fully. His whole self in it.
Logan’s warmth is a comforting fireplace. His form is sturdy, grounding. The calming presence of a weighted blanket. A solid embrace in the pale darkness, they stay. An embrace that grows more confident as the long seconds stretch by and Logan doesn’t pull away and it becomes apparent that Logan isn’t going to until Charlie does. That reassurance has Charlie melting against the familiar body, tension at his shoulders relaxing, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in for so, so long. He lets himself get lost in it.
Because just as Logan needed the sex, Charlie realizes that he needed something too. Something as dumb and simple as holding another and being held in return. But it feels like more than just that, expressing something beyond words. And it says what they both need to hear:
It’s ok.