Chapter Text
Toronto, December 2008
World Junior Championship Final
Larry Campbell: It’s below zero tonight in Toronto, but here at the World Junior Championship Final, fans are hoping for something hot on the ice.
Max Donaghue: That’s right, Larry, this crowd’s in for a treat. We’ve got our long-awaited Canada-Germany final showcasing the two most talked about prospects in the world: Canada’s Marco Bodt, and Germany’s Jean Kirstein.
Larry Campbell: First, you’ve got Toronto’s own center, Marco Bodt. The locals know him and love him! But he’s a hell of a lot more than that sparkling personality we’ve all seen in interviews and team promos. From everything we’ve heard, this is the kid with the highest hockey IQ out there. Incredibly smart, and incredibly dedicated to the game.
Max Donaghue: On the other side of the line, you’ve got Germany’s Jean Kirstein, all-star center. Strong on the puck, and a strong skater. He’s definitely one to watch.
Larry Campbell: And word on the street is, he really gets under other players’ skins. A king in his own room, not exactly well-liked in his opponents’.
Max Donoghue: My kind of player!
Larry Campbell: Boston’s kind of player, too.
Max Donoghue: There’s no doubt about it, Larry. With these two rising stars facing off tonight, things are bound to get heated.
Larry Campbell: Let it burn, baby. Let it burn.
The wind chill in Toronto had a way of seeping into Jean’s bones, no matter how many layers he wore. He welcomed the sting of it. It kept his thoughts quiet.
Jean leaned against the brick wall, shoulders hunched, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He cupped his hand around his lighter, striking over and over, a futile effort. He resisted the urge to hurl the damn thing across the empty parking lot. After a dozen failed tries, it finally lit. At last, he inhaled deeply, relishing the acrid taste and the burn of the smoke settling in his lungs.
Behind the arena, watching the smoke he breathed out vanish into the sky, the world felt stripped down. Not so loud, not so demanding.
Distantly, Jean heard the door swing open, footsteps shuffling through the snow. “I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here,” a guy’s voice called out.
Jean translated the words slowly—with French and German already rattling around in his head, it was still difficult to think in English a lot of the time, let alone speak it. He chose not to respond to the newcomer, or even to look at him, instead taking another defiant drag of his cigarette and exhaling a plume of smoke.
“There are, like, specific areas for that, you know,” the other guy said, closer now. He kind of sounded like he was stifling a cough.
Jean’s lips twitched in amusement. He lifted his head, staring at the designated smoking area halfway across the parking lot, unprotected from the snow and harsh wind.
“Eh,” Jean said, shrugging as he leaned back against the wall. “Looks windy. Looks like… how do they say? Could freeze your balls off?”
The other guy laughed at that, and Jean’s stomach clenched. He was suddenly self-conscious. Had the joke landed properly, or had he terribly fucked up his English, and now this guy was mocking him?
But when Jean turned his head at last, he didn’t find an ounce of cruelty on the other guy’s face. His laugh was genuine, his eyes crinkled shut as he grinned.
“Jean Kirstein, right?” he said after a moment, still smiling brightly as he held out his hand to shake. “Marco Bodt. I just wanted to introduce myself.”
Jean hesitated, staring at the outstretched hand for a beat too long, before he pinched his cigarette between his lips and clasped Bodt’s hand to shake. He said nothing. He already knew who Marco Bodt was—playing in Toronto for tonight’s game, how could he not? Bodt was their darling hometown hero, his face plastered across billboards surrounding the arena, his stats and performance a common topic of discussion on the local sports network that broadcasted to Jean’s hotel room. Everywhere Jean fucking looked in this city, the golden boy was there. He was thought to be a shoo-in for the NHL draft next season, likely for Montreal, the oldest and most respected Canadian team in the league.
For the first time, Jean had a chance to study Bodt up close. He told himself that was all it was, just sizing up his opponent before a game, but he noticed nothing of practical use. He did notice that even in the dead of winter, Bodt’s skin was tanned, as if he’d been kissed by the sun before it disappeared for the season. He noticed the imperfections in Bodt’s smile—not so out of place in a sport where they were often tackled and slammed against the boards—except Bodt’s teeth were pretty much perfect, save for one crooked canine. Most of all, he noticed the freckles Bodt had in abundance, the smattering across his nose and cheeks, along his jaw, on the backs of his hands. Little stars across his skin.
Then, Jean pulled his hand away sharply and looked straight ahead, because he didn’t want to notice any of those things anymore.
Bodt said nothing as Jean fumbled once more with his lighter and cigarettes. Silence hung over them for several seconds, but Bodt didn’t leave, despite his apparent distaste for Jean’s smoking. He leaned against the wall beside Jean, hands shoved deep in his pockets now.
Finally, Bodt said, “You’re an amazing player to watch.”
“Yes,” Jean replied. He knew he was good. It was very important that he was. He didn’t feel the need to compliment Bodt back—here in Toronto, it seemed like he received more than enough praise.
Bodt chuckled, ducking his head. “So, are your parents here with you for the game?”
Jean shook his head. He swallowed hard, trying not to let show how alone he felt in this goddamn country. What he wished for didn’t matter, wouldn’t change reality to his liking—and it surely wasn’t any of Bodt’s fucking business.
“Sorry, man. That’s rough, with Christmas and everything. My parents can’t always make it to the away games, either. International gets tricky. They’re here for this one, though. My siblings, too—I’ve got a ton of them. They love to come support when they can.”
Jean struggled a bit to translate so many words at once, but he got the gist of it. “Cute,” he bit out sarcastically, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the thought of the perfect Bodt family unit.
Silence again. Bodt sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Well, anyways, I guess I should get back. They’re probably waiting for me.”
Inexplicably, Bodt stretched out his arm again for another handshake, as if he’d already forgotten their first one just minutes ago. Jean almost laughed. He never would have suspected the golden boy, such a natural charmer on the TV in post-game interviews, would be painfully polite to the point of awkwardness in real life. He shook Bodt’s hand again, staring at him skeptically.
“Good luck in the tournament,” Bodt said after he let go. He turned to walk back inside.
Jean let him leave, but just as Bodt reached for the door handle, Jean said, “You will not be this nice when we beat you,” although he kind of suspected he actually would.
Bodt turned to face Jean again, a competitive spark in his eyes. “Oh, that won’t be happening,” he said with an easy smile.
Jean tilted his head, as if to say, We’ll see.
Bodt laughed, shaking his head and looking down at his feet, before pushing the door open and disappearing inside.
Right before the door slammed behind him, Jean called out, “See you at the draft,” just to be a little shit.
Germany destroyed Canada that night, right there at home. But Jean never found out how nice Marco Bodt would or wouldn’t have been about it. They wouldn’t meet again for another six months.
Max Donaghue: A heartbreaking loss tonight for our young Canadian team, despite an incredible showing from the teenage phenom, Marco Bodt.
Larry Campbell: He just couldn’t get past that elite German defense, Max. And more importantly, Jean Kirstein kept getting past Canada’s.
Max Donaghue: This won’t be the last time we see those two go head-to-head.
Larry Campbell: [laughs] This season’s NHL draft is shaping up to be one for the books.
Los Angeles, June 2009
National Hockey League Entry Draft
The air buzzed with a nervous energy Jean could practically taste. The bright overhead lights and camera flashes seared his eyes, and his tailored suit felt too tight, suffocating him. He sat stiff-backed in his chair, fingers laced together in his lap so tightly, his knuckles ached.
Video cameras swept the floor in lazy arcs, catching glimpses of proud parents and hopeful players. Jean kept his own expression locked down, remaining carefully neutral and unimpressed. He’d had a lot of practice at that. Beside him, his father lounged in his seat, one of the few times lately that Jean had seen him clear-headed. His eyes flicked toward Jean every so often—appraising him, measuring out what he might be worth tonight.
Jean wished his mother were here with him instead. An impossible dream.
Across the aisle, Marco Bodt was impossible to miss. He was flanked by his parents and a small army of freckled, dark-haired sisters, all of them leaning in close, whispering and giggling. Perfect together, so perfect. Bodt nodded along, and though he smiled with them, he didn’t seem completely at ease—Jean noticed his knee bouncing, noticed his shoulders tensing when the commissioner stepped back up to the podium.
Against his better judgment, he noticed how good Bodt looked in his damn suit.
Jean clenched his jaw and tore his eyes away, banishing the thought from his mind as soon as it surfaced.
Marco was restless, despite his best efforts to be still.
His mom’s hand rested on his forearm, grounding and warm. His younger sister, Anneke, murmured something encouraging that Marco barely heard. Cameras panned across the floor, and Marco smiled when they passed—what else was he supposed to do? Canada’s golden boy wasn’t meant to look nervous on national TV.
Maryse, his older sister, leaned across their father to whisper, “Say, that’s Jean Kirstein, isn’t it?” She gestured discreetly across the aisle.
Marco had been trying to avoid staring at him, but it was exceedingly difficult not to stare. Tonight, Kirstein looked carved from stone. He sat rigid beside an older man with dark, close-cropped hair who must have been his father. Kirstein’s jaw was tense, his eyes locked straight ahead, like he was bracing for impact instead of a celebration.
“That’s him,” Marco replied, searching for any trace of warmth in Kirstein’s hazel eyes, and finding none.
“Mom told me you met him before the Canada-Germany final. What was he like?”
Beautiful, Marco would have said, if he could be honest about this sort of thing. Cold. Kind of an asshole, but that was easy to look past. He seemed… lonely.
“Hard to tell,” he said instead, shaking his head and looking down at his hands. “He’s not exactly the most talkative guy.”
“And with the first overall pick,” the commissioner announced, voice booming through the speakers, “the Boston Bruins are proud to select—”
Jean’s stomach dropped. The moment stretched, elastic and cruel.
“—Jean Kirstein, center, from Mannheim, Germany.”
The room erupted in a blast of noise. Applause washed over him. He stood automatically, his body carrying him toward the stage before his mind caught up, and shook hands as they came at him from all sides.
Jean’s father walked with him to the base of the stairs. A hand landed between his shoulder blades, firm and corrective.
“Stand straighter,” his father murmured in German. “You look ungrateful.”
Jean faltered, but he kept moving, climbing up to the stage and leaving his father behind. He held up the black and gold jersey they handed him, the weight of it settling on his shoulders, something earned and something owed all at once.
When he glanced at the crowd, Marco Bodt was clapping along with the rest of them, genuine warmth on his face, even as his eyes flickered—just for a moment—with an emotion Jean couldn’t help but understand, because it so often crawled under his own skin. Jealousy.
When Kirstein accepted the Bruins jersey on stage, his nonchalant smile never quite meeting his eyes, Marco felt it—sharp and sudden, the ugly twist of envy in his gut.
He doesn’t even look like he wants it.
He swallowed down that feeling, ashamed when it lingered, and blinked away the embarrassing sting of unshed tears before anyone could notice his eyes shining. Second pick wasn’t failure. Second pick would still give him everything he’d worked for, everything he’d ever wanted. But first pick was first pick, and Jean Kirstein held that title now, forever.
“With the second overall pick,” the commissioner announced, “the Montreal Canadiens are proud to select—Marco Bodt, center, from Toronto, Ontario.”
The crowd cheered, louder even than the uproar after Kirstein was picked. Marco’s mother cupped his face, a few happy tears spilling down her cheeks. His sisters crushed him into a group hug. His father looked on, more stoic than the rest of his family, but he was here and he was clapping politely. For now, that would have to be enough.
Marco tried his best to let any residual bitterness slip away. He grinned, the moment bright and breathless, as he walked up to the stage and accepted the red jersey of Montreal.
After the third overall pick was selected, the three guys were instructed to pose for photographs. Marco’s shoulder brushed against Kirstein’s, too close for comfort so they could all fit into frame.
“Come on, boys,” one of the photographers called out. “Look right over here. Flash me those numbers, alright?”
Marco hesitated. Beside him, Kirstein lifted his hand with a cocky grin, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. Number one.
It shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t. He had bigger things to worry about than some stupid, fabricated competition with Jean Kirstein.
But deep down, Marco knew it wasn’t entirely a fabrication. His career in the NHL would now be inescapably linked with Kirstein’s. If one of them had been drafted to a team in the Western Conference, maybe this rivalry the media was pushing between them never would have gotten off the ground. Of course, that would have been asking for too much. Kirstein had instead been drafted by Montreal’s archrivals—every game they played against each other from now on would only heap more kindling onto the flames.
“Alright, number three’s excited… number one… where’s number two?”
Marco recovered quickly and lifted two fingers, beaming for the cameras as was expected of him. Kirstein glanced over at him, staring for longer than was necessary, a goading smile playing across his lips. The camera shutter clicked, capturing the moment.
That damned photo would be all over ESPN and Sportsnet by morning.
The banquet blurred together in Jean’s mind as he was paraded from sponsor to sponsor like an expensive racehorse. All of the executives spoke in brisk English that made Jean’s head spin if his concentration slipped for even a second.
His father hovered nearby, often answering questions directed at Jean before he could open his mouth. He was nursing his third glass of whiskey, and it was starting to show. Liquor always loosened his father’s tongue, made him the worst version of himself, letting cruel words flow more freely.
“Yes, he is talented,” his father said to one of the Bruins executives, with a bear mascot pin on his lapel. “But what is talent without… how do they say? Strictness? No, no… discipline! Yes, without discipline. He has always been a bit… lazy.”
Jean’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
The executive chuckled awkwardly, looking bewildered. “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Kirstein, with the way your son plays.”
“I will work very hard for you, sir,” Jean promised, his pronunciation deliberate and clear.
The executive smiled and nodded, his eyes flicking uncomfortably between Jean and his father. Jean felt heat crawl up his neck, humiliation sinking its teeth in. He took a tiny sip of champagne he didn’t even want, casting his gaze toward the lower level of the banquet hall.
Downstairs, Marco Bodt was holding court. He was radiant in a way Jean could never hope to compete with, laughing easily with sponsors, nodding along as if every word they spoke mattered. His cheeks were a little rosy, maybe from the champagne. It made his freckles stand out in stark relief.
As if he could sense Jean’s attention, Bodt looked up.
Jean was too startled to look away. Their eyes locked for a split second. Bodt lifted his glass in a small, private salute, but Jean didn’t return the gesture.
Bodt turned back to his conversation, his smile still firmly in place, but Jean could pick apart the cracks in him the longer he looked—the tension in Bodt’s stance, the way his shoulders hunched just a fraction in the brief moments when he thought no one was watching him. Happiness, yes. Pride. But underneath it all lurked something restless, anxious.
Hours later, when Jean finally managed to slip away from the endless conversations with sponsors and his father’s criticisms, he found the door to a balcony on the upper level and stepped outside. He closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp night air, refreshing despite the dry heat of Los Angeles. The noise of the party, agitating and too loud, finally fell away.
Of course, he wasn’t alone. Bodt was already there, of fucking course he was, leaning against the railing and staring out at the city. Jean couldn’t escape him. He let out an annoyed sigh and lit a cigarette, and only then did Bodt turn to notice him.
“So, Boston,” Bodt said slowly as Jean approached the railing.
“Montreal.”
Bodt smiled, but his voice carried a hint of sadness. “Guess we got what everyone expected.”
“Wow.” Jean dragged out the word amidst a plume of smoke. “You sound happy.” His English still needed so much work, especially now that he’d been drafted to an American team, but he was pretty confident his dry sarcasm could transcend language barriers.
“I am happy,” Bodt said too quickly, defensive. Then he hesitated, fingers tightening around his champagne flute. “It’s just… a lot to take in.”
Jean scoffed. “But you got what you wanted, yes? Montreal. Home. Fans already love you.”
Bodt stiffened. “You think that makes it easier?”
Anger bloomed in Jean’s chest, flaring bright and hot. He was so fucking angry, all the time. It wasn’t Bodt’s fault, not really, but he just so happened to be in the line of fire tonight.
“Doesn’t it?” Jean snapped.
“You were first overall,” Bodt said. “Drafted to Boston. You think I don’t know what that means? You’ve got it made, man. Everything is lined up perfectly for you.”
The nerve of him. This load of crap, coming from Mr. Perfect himself? Bullshit.
Jean stepped closer, narrowing the space between them, tension thick in the air. “You think I asked for… asked to have to be—perfect?”
Bodt was the one who scoffed, now. “You don’t have to ask when everything just falls into your lap.”
Jean’s vision went red. But everything he wanted to say in French, in German, evaded him in English, forcing him to fume in silence. Some sick part of him wanted to throw a punch. He wanted to see Marco’s stupid, perfect face bleed. But he clenched his fists tight, holding himself back—his reputation as a volatile player didn’t need any more fodder.
Bodt hesitated when he noticed Jean’s annoyed silence, but he didn’t back down. “You play like you don’t care,” he said. “You stood up there on that stage today like it didn’t even matter. Like none of this touches you. But believe it or not, some of us actually feel the weight of it.”
Jean laughed bitterly. “You think… you think I do not feel it? That I do not wake up every day, and know that one… one mistake—” He cut himself off with a frustrated noise, language fucking failing him yet again.
Bodt opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. His eyes darted away from Jean’s face, his jaw tight.
Jean exhaled harshly. “Forget it. Fucking congratulations. Second pick. Quelle putain de tragédie.”
What a fucking tragedy.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, trembling with pent-up anger, but he stayed put. The sad truth was, he would rather stay out here trading insults with Marco Bodt and getting riled up beyond belief than return to the party—and then have to face the humiliation that would come afterward, dragging his drunk father back to the hotel and enduring the brunt of his malice.
Finally, Bodt shook his head, voice low. All the fight seemed to have bled out of him. “Look, we’re not on the ice right now. No cameras, no one playing up this… this stupid rivalry they’re pushing between us. You don’t have to make me the enemy.”
But Jean knew that wasn’t true. Their careers were being built on the backbone of this ‘stupid rivalry.’ Without Marco Bodt, Jean was just some foreign gamble, a risk not worth taking. Without Jean Kirstein, Bodt was just another boring golden boy in a sea of boring golden boys. But together, facing off on the ice, they told a story that fans would clamor for. They would always depend on each other, whether they liked it or not.
“Everywhere I go,” Jean tried to explain, “you are there. ‘Marco Bodt’ this, ‘Marco Bodt’ that. And now…” He chuckled humorlessly, gesturing vaguely between them with his cigarette. “Now, even here.”
Bodt’s eyes flashed. “Yeah, well, I never asked for that.”
“No,” Jean shot back. “Neither did I.”
Silence fell over them, thick and choking. Neither of them spoke again. Jean couldn’t tell if minutes or hours had passed when he finally crushed out his cigarette against the balcony railing and walked away, leaving Bodt alone under the night sky.
Marco stared at the ceiling of his hotel room, unable to shut his mind off.
His father and sisters had already taken a late flight back to Toronto. Only his mom remained in L.A. to accompany him to press appearances the following day, and she had been asleep for hours already. Marco glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 03:02.
Marco had started off his spiral by replaying every word of his conversation with Jean Kirstein at the banquet. Of course Kirstein had stepped out for a smoke onto the very same balcony Marco had escaped to, hoping to decompress.
The banquet had been lovely, but the gravity of expectations, of Montreal’s legacy, was beginning to press down on Marco. Sponsors and executives had praised his dedication, his skating, and his intelligence. He’d nodded and smiled, thanking them earnestly, every word polished. But roiling beneath the surface of him, he’d felt the pressure of tradition, of fans who would love him fiercely until the moment they didn’t. He’d felt the weight of his secret like a cinderblock on his shoulders.
He’d gone out onto the balcony for some air, to calm his racing thoughts. Then there came Jean Kirstein, intent on disturbing his peace and pushing all his buttons.
Marco’s jealousy over the draft pick had already subsided by then. He hadn’t even been thinking about that anymore, for Christ’s sake. It had been a brief moment of bad character, of poor sportsmanship. He wasn’t proud of it, but he had put it to rest.
But Kirstein had insisted on provoking him, his anger sparking, bringing up the sense of competition being forced between them again and again, until Marco had snapped.
He felt guilty about it in retrospect. He suspected Kirstein was one of the only people in the league who even partially understood what Marco was going through right now. They were both rookies being drafted to old, highly esteemed teams, handling that pressure in the public eye. There was solace in that, in knowing someone else out there shared the same fears as you. Marco didn’t want to be the object of Kirstein’s hatred. There was no point in isolating themselves from each other.
But Kirstein seemed to disagree.
Fine. Marco could live with that.
He’d forced himself to stop thinking about Kirstein, only for the anxieties he’d been trying to suppress in the first place to rise to the surface of his mind again. He was thrilled to be drafted, he was. His love for hockey rang true in everything he did. But he couldn’t help it—there would always be a thread of apprehension lurking beneath that joy, tainting the perfect image of his future in the NHL that he’d dreamed of since he was a kid.
He’d been thirteen when he first realized he might be different, that he was most likely one of the insults hockey players hurled at each other in the locker room or on the ice. That kind of language, the slurs falling unchecked from the mouths of his teammates and opponents alike, reminded Marco constantly that the hockey world would never fully accept him as he was. Growing up while carrying that burden became isolating. He worked hard to hide it behind beaming smiles and a sociable personality, to pretend the loneliness of his secret didn’t ache, and no one ever suspected anything amiss with their so-called golden boy. But the hurt grew inside of him, putting down roots. He didn’t think it would ever stop hurting.
As Marco tossed and turned on the hotel mattress, this train of thought became unbearable. He flung the sheets aside and rolled out of bed, practically vibrating with restless energy. He dressed quietly in the dark, careful not to wake his mom, before slipping out into the hallway.
He ended up in the hotel’s gym, pedaling on the stationary bike with resistance until his quads burned and his hair dripped with sweat, until he couldn’t worry or even think. With his head bowed low against the handlebar and his wire earbuds in, Marco faintly registered the sound of someone else entering the gym, but couldn’t see who it was. He kept his focus and didn’t think much of it until he heard the bike right beside his start up, the pedals whirring.
Marco turned his head to the left, only to find Jean Kirstein already looking back at him with the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.
Jesus, this again?
Marco looked straight ahead again, jaw tight. He tried to give Kirstein the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just here because he couldn’t sleep, either. Maybe time zones and jet lag were messing with him.
But at this obscene hour of the night, Kirstein showing up felt deliberate, like he’d come hunting for a rehash of their argument at the banquet. Marco pedaled resolutely, daring Kirstein to say something. To his shock, Kirstein stayed quiet.
Then, Marco heard the unmistakable beep of the speed being turned up on Kirstein’s bike, a single level faster than Marco’s.
Marco let out a shaky breath through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief. You’ve got to be kidding me. Well, if this was how Kirstein wanted to communicate, two could play that game.
He increased his own speed just a level above Kirstein’s, muscles firing, the burn settling deep into his thighs. Sweat dampened his shirt, pooling at the small of his back. Neither of them spoke. Only the sound of their rough, heavy breathing filled the empty gym.
Beep. Kirstein cranked his speed up a notch again.
Beep. Marco responded immediately, despite his lungs screaming at him to call it quits.
He smokes, for Christ’s sake, Marco thought absurdly. There’s no way he can beat me at this. His heart thudded like a jackhammer in his chest.
The pace climbed. The gym around them faded to nothing but motion and heat. They were just two bodies locked into the same rhythm, pushing each other without looking, without speaking, tension taut between them like the moment before the first puck drop on the ice.
Beep. This time, when Kirstein increased his speed, Marco glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Kirstein stared straight ahead, but he wore the cockiest grin Marco had ever seen.
Marco couldn’t stop himself from laughing, because what the hell were they doing, this was all so stupid—and then his foot slipped off the pedal. Cursing under his breath, he slammed his hand on the emergency stop and lurched off the bike, his chest heaving to bring in more air. His thighs trembled with overexertion, and he dropped to the floor, leaning heavily against one of the equipment racks as he fought to catch his breath.
A moment later, he heard Kirstein’s bike whir to a stop. The other man dropped down across from him with a soft grunt, breathing hard, the collar of his gray tank top dampened with sweat. His long legs stretched out in front of him, the tip of his sneaker just barely touching one of Marco’s ankles.
They locked eyes. They matched each other, breath for ragged breath. Kirstein took a swig from his water bottle, not breaking eye contact.
Despite sitting on solid ground, Marco could feel himself tipping off-balance, too aware of Kirstein’s nearness, as if the hum beneath his skin had been dialed up to one-hundred. His racing pulse stood no chance of calming down, not with the way Kirstein was watching him. Kirstein’s gaze trailed down Marco’s body, lingering for a moment on his thighs, where his shorts had ridden up on his legs. Marco thought he noticed a hitch in Kirstein’s breath, but convinced himself he’d imagined it.
“Even in hotel gym,” Kirstein murmured after taking another sip of water. “Here you are.”
“I was here first,” Marco replied, his voice unsteady, only realizing after the words were already out how immature they sounded.
But Kirstein just huffed a quiet laugh, still staring at Marco unabashed, his gaze traveling back up to Marco’s face. Kirstein ran a hand through his damp hair. It was unfair—criminal, really—how he could somehow make an awkward, half-grown-out undercut so goddamn mesmerizing.
“Shut up. Stop laughing.” Marco wiped his face with his shirtsleeve and glanced up at the ceiling, his cheeks feeling very warm, before forcing himself to meet Kirstein’s eyes again. “Look, about earlier. I don’t feel right about how we left it, okay? I was already wound up, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”
Kirstein studied him for a long time. The heat of his gaze was unrelenting. Then Kirstein said, simply, “Okay.”
Marco snorted. “Okay? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He should have known better than to expect a more elaborate answer than that—or, God forbid, an apology. He sighed, shaking his head.
They sat there longer than either of them probably intended, the post-exertion haze stretching long and endless as their breathing slowly steadied. The sharp edge of their ridiculous competition had ebbed, leaving behind an electric charge in the air. Kirstein took another drink, his movements slow and languid, his eyes never leaving Marco’s over the rim of the bottle. Marco tried to convince himself that the only reason he was staring longingly at Kirstein’s mouth was because he had forgotten to bring a bottle of his own.
He had the distinct thought that he should probably go back to his room.
He didn’t move a muscle.
Kirstein lowered the water bottle from his lips and held it out between them. When Marco waved him off, Kirstein scoffed and leaned forward, shaking the bottle in front of Marco’s face. “Drink,” he insisted. His mouth curved into a lazy smile.
After a moment’s hesitation, Marco took the bottle from him. Their fingers brushed, their touch lingering for a beat too long. Marco pulled away and drank, ignoring the pang in his chest at the accidental contact.
“More,” Kirstein panted after Marco lowered the bottle, mouthing the word almost inaudibly. His eyes glinted like vats of liquid amber, still pinning Marco in place.
Marco was tipping the water bottle up to his lips again before he’d consciously decided to, responding instinctively to the command. As he drank, his gaze slipped downward. It snagged on the curve of Kirstein’s lips, the pulse in his throat, the rise and fall of his chest, his skin slick with sweat. Cool water spilled into Marco’s mouth, but he felt like all of his nerve endings were on fire. Between his legs, he ached.
Slowly, Marco leaned forward to hand the bottle back. Kirstein’s fingers brushed his again, grasping for several seconds, and this time Marco knew it wasn’t accidental.
“We will be seeing each other,” Kirstein said, looking unrattled by this entire exchange, whereas Marco was starting to think he might actually die.
“Yeah,” Marco ground out, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt. “Montreal and Boston play each other often.”
“Hm. Yes.”
The corner of Kirstein’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He reached for the hem of his tank top and wiped his mouth, thoughtless. The movement exposed a strip of skin at Kirstein’s abdomen, and the trail of hair that snaked below his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts, before he let the fabric fall back into place.
Marco had to look away, his mouth going very dry.
Before Marco knew it, Kirstein was pushing himself to his feet, ending whatever the hell sort of strange time warp they’d been caught in. Disappointment flared, sharp and irrational, in Marco’s chest.
For a moment, Kirstein just stood there, looking down at Marco with an infuriating, unreadable expression. Then he leaned in, fingers catching the edge of the equipment rack near Marco’s shoulder, close enough that Marco could feel the heat radiating off him.
“Should be interesting,” Kirstein murmured, and then he was walking out. The door swung shut behind him, the soft click echoing through the empty gym.
Marco stared for a long time at the space where Kirstein had been sitting. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts tangled and overheated. He let his head fall back against the equipment rack with a low, frustrated groan.
Later on, whenever he thought back to the night of his NHL draft, if his most vivid memory just so happened to be of getting himself off in the shower to thoughts of Jean Kirstein, muffling the sounds of his pleasure—well, that was his own private burden to bear.
He just didn’t think he’d ever live it down.