Not Ready

Rating: NC-17 for sex

Original Date of Completion: March 2003

Disclaimer: I own them, you can't have them. Really this is fiction from my demented little mind. So please don't sue me.

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Seven months. Seven months I watched him struggle, trying to adjust to life without hockey. He kept a smile on his face the whole time, answering questions about his knee, and about his comeback with seasoned ease. But when the reporters were gone, and we were alone, the smile tended to disappear. It hurt him, even if he'll never admit it. I'm not talking about the rehab, though I know there were times where that hurt him too. I'm talking about being away from the game; from the guys, from the road trips, from the body checks, from being the Captain of the Detroit Red Wings, from everything. He was always our captain, even if he wasn't there. But for those seven months, he couldn't be our captain where it mattered most. On the ice. And I could tell that hurt him more than anything else could ever come close to.

I'd like to pretend that he missed being with me all the time too, but I'm not going to kid myself. He got enough (more than enough if you ask him) during the summer. Together we had four days with the Stanley Cup. Then came his knee surgery, and me glued to his side, simply because I knew he hated me fussing over him. We lived to antagonize each other, that was one of the bigger parts of our relationship. And with the surgery, he couldn't really get away from me to combat it, though I did take a few shots from his crutches. Truth be told I didn't stay glued to him to annoy him, or because of my all consuming love for him or something lame like that. Don't get me wrong, I love Steve more than anything in the world, I just don't need to be around him every second. The reason I stayed glued to him is a lot simpler than all that. I stayed glued to him because I was worried. Not so much about his pain, vicodin and my mouth had a good way of handling that. I was worried about him, his spirit or whatever. Hockey was his life, and it was being taken away from him. And at that time, no one knew if he would ever get it back.

He knew, though. I think that entire time, even when things looked their bleakest, on the nights when I held him while he shivered in pain after a bad day of rehab, he still knew that come February he'd be stepping back on the ice. It's that desire that burns inside of him. I asked him one night, after the first bad rehab session I think, why he kept pressing. He didn't have to. He had nothing left to prove. He was already hailed as one of the best players to ever lace up the skates. His legend was written more beautifully than most could ever dream of. He could've easily went out on top and let the last memory of himself to the hockey world him standing next to Izzy with the Stanley Cup held high, and the C blazing on his chest where it had been for 16 years. But, he didn't. He looked at me that night I asked the question, and in typical Stevie fashion he just smiled. And then he kissed me, and said it oh so simply: "I'm not ready."

He wasn't ready to give up yet. At that time, I wasn't quite sure how I felt about it. I didn't want him to hurt anymore. Watching him through the playoffs last year was one of the hardest thing I ever had to do. Every night I had to lay there with him in my arms, ice wrapped around his knee, his tears dripping on me, and listen to him whisper how it hurt. I never wanted to experience that EVER again. I didn't want to see him in pain, and in the beginning I wasn't convinced that he wouldn't still be playoff Stevie if he came back.

But time went on, and his pain got less and less. By the first time he skated with us at practice and not on his own, any questions I had about him coming back were answered. If he could do it pain free, or to at least a lesser degree of pain than he'd suffered last season, I wanted nothing more than for him to come back. Because I knew that he lived for the game, and if he had to give it up, against his own terms, that would hurt him more than any knee injury ever could. But still, I like to imagine, just for the hell of it, what I would've done had his pain stayed and he still pressed on. I probably would've took him out for a nice dinner, got him nice and full, and then told him flat out enough was enough. And then he would've told me to shut up, and pressed on even harder to spite me. That's just who he was. He's Steve Yzerman, quiet, courageous, intelligent, caring, stubborn as a mule, and the guy who would rather get his leg sawed in half (again) than ever listen to me. But that was something I'd accepted a long time ago, and one of the many, many traits I'd come to love about him over the last six years.

"What?" He asked, snapping me from my trance.

I shook my head and smiled at him. "Just thinking about you, oh dear love of my life," I replied teasingly, leaning back against my locker.

He rolled his eyes, but the smile could be seen plainly on his lips as he bent to lace up his skate. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for even the slightest hint of pain. I myself was already dressed, so I had nothing better to do than sit and watch him. That was a habit I'd fallen into over the last couple years. I always watched him get ready, just in case he needed help. He never admitted when that was, of course, but I could always tell. And right now, I could tell something was wrong, since he'd spent the last five minutes with his skate laces in his hands and not done any actual lacing. So leaning forward, I put my hand at the small of his back and rubbed a small circle.

"Something wrong?" I whispered in his ear.

"I can't do this," He replied, dropping the skate laces and leaning back against his locker.

"Your knee?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, for the 900th time my knee is fine, Bren. I just don't think I can go out there and face the crowd. I should wait for a road game. I mean...what if I go out there and suck?"

"Steve," I spoke softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You didn't suck on one knee, and now you have 2. You're going to be great,"

"You're my boyfriend, you have to say that," He sighed, leaning into my touch. "I don't think I'm ready, Bren,"

I stared at him in silence, struggling through my shock to find something to say. I almost couldn't believe what I was seeing, or hearing. I don't think I've ever actually seen it before. He usually stayed calm through anything, but look at him now. Steve Yzerman was nervous. How's that for unexpected? I shouldn't be enjoying it this much, I know. But I couldn't help it. The moments where he let himself be human were few and far between, you had to savor them when you got the chance. Besides that, the fact that he was nervous about this game was too damned cute. But, I have to focus here and somehow make him feel better. I'm not really sure how to do that, like I said these moments didn't happen often. But I'm sure I'll figure something out. You don't date a guy for six years without knowing how he works.

"Steve," I started, kneeling in front of him. "If you don't think you're ready, then don't do it. You could just as easily come back against the Leafs. There will be a lot of focus on Cujo, so you can just slip right in under the radar like you want to,"

He sighed and shook his head. "No, I want to come back now. I'm sick of waiting. I'm just..." He trailed off, staring deep into my eyes.

I grinned, knowing very well what the rest of his sentence was, but asking my question nonetheless. "You're what?"

He growled softly, glaring at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Don't make me say it," He growled through gritted teeth.

"Is it really that hard for you to say?" I laughed, shaking my head.

"You suck, Bren," He pouted, pushing me down as he climbed to his feet. "You're supposed to be making me feel better, but instead you're making fun of me,"

He turned his back toward me, digging in his locker and grumbling in typical Stevie fashion. I was quite content to watch him from where I sat, his back was one of my favorite parts of him. And as he dug in his locker for whatever it was he was looking for, I got a pretty good view of it, so powerful, so beautiful, so Stevie. But, I knew that it was my duty as a good boyfriend to comfort him and make sure that he wasn't really upset. So, hopping to my feet I slipped my arms around his waist, and rested my chin on his shoulder. He breathed an exaggerated sigh, slapping at my hands as they played with his bellybutton.

"I hate when you do that," He grumbled, struggling meekly to get away from me.

I cinched my arms around his waist, and snickering softly against his skin, placed a light kiss to his neck. "You hate when I do a lot of things," I whispered, nibbling gently on his earlobe.

He shivered as my tongue traced along his ear. "It's because you're bad at them,"

I debated an objection, but as his fingers entwined with mine, I realized it would be much more fun to play along. "There are some things I'm good at,"

"Mmm? Like what?"

"Like comforting nervous boyfriends," I whispered into his ear.

He whimpered quietly as I sucked at his neck. I was waiting for a smart ass remark, something along the lines of "What other boyfriends are you good at that with?", but one never came. Instead he turned in my grasp and tossed his arms around my neck. I grinned at him, raising my eyebrows as suggestively as possible as I leaned in to kiss him. We shared a soft, passionate kiss; a simple meeting of lips, and the occasional tongue, before he trapped my bottom lip between his teeth and bit gently down on it. I growled into the kiss, garnering a snicker from him as he pulled away.

"I think I'd like to see proof of this thing you claim," He whispered, running his hand up my neck and clenching a handful of hair.

I grinned and simply nodded my head. No words were needed for what came next, it was one of those unspoken understandings we'd developed long ago. We wondered sometimes if we were setting bad examples for the rookies, sneaking off to have sex like this whenever we wanted, being captainish as we are. But we decided a while ago that if the rookies wanted to have sex somewhere in this building, the rookies were going to have sex, regardless of whatever we did or said. You get a crop of rookies like Avery and Williams, and you give up trying to be a good example pretty fast. Not that I ever was a good example. It's just somewhere along the line I perverted Steve too. But hey, you spend seven years together with someone and see where you wind up having sex.

Tonight, we wound up in the sauna. It was smaller than we were used to, but in a pinch it worked marvelously. And this was definitely a pinch, we had about twenty minutes until the warm-ups started. With that in the backs of both of our minds, we took no time in getting undressed, shucking gear hurriedly until we both stood pressed together as naked as we were going to get; he was still shirtless, so all I had to do was push his lower gear out of the way. Once that was gone, I pinned him against the wall and brought my lips to his neck. He whimpered as I bit and soothed the soft flesh, all the while working my own gear down. He eased it as far as my hips before burying his fingers in my hair and pulling my head from his neck.

"Proof now," He growled, a challenging smirk on his face.

I grinned, leaning forward and mashing my lips onto his. Our kiss lasted only seconds before he pushed me away and turned his back toward me. Instantly my lips were back to his neck, licking and sucking gently as I pressed a finger at his opening. He whimpered softly as I pushed it inside him and began thrusting softly. We'd done this just this morning, so I knew it wouldn't take much preparation. But, the less uncomfortable it was for him the better I felt. He'd dealt with more than enough pain for his lifetime, I didn't want to ever be the cause of any more for him. Except for the occasional pain in his ass. No pun intended, of course.

Letting my finger slip from him, I spat into my palm and quickly slicked my shaft. Once I felt it properly lubed, I placed myself at his opening and pressed gently inside him. He whimpered as I slid into him, moving as slowly as I possibly could until I reached the hilt. I stayed still for a moment to let him adjust, slowly jerking his cock to pass the time. He alerted me with a growl when he was ready, and slowly I began thrusting into him. He whimpered with each thrust, but a low growl continued to bubble in his throat. He hated slow, at anything, but especially sex. But me being the guy I am, I always started out that way. A tiny part of me was still concerned with hurting him, but it was mainly the big part wanting to drive him slowly to the brink instead of pushing him straight there. Like I said before, we lived to antagonize each other, and there was no better way to do it than this.

It never lasted though. He could drive me just as crazy as I could him, and he always did; clenching his muscles tightly around my shaft, forcing my thrusts to get that much more powerful. I gave in pretty damned easily most times, it felt too good not to. This time was definitely no different, especially since this was all about comforting him, really. Capturing his earlobe between my teeth, I sped my thrusts up. I quickly found a matching rhythm for my jerking, then settled into the pleasure. His quiet moans were the only sounds to be heard, beyond the occasional slap of skin on skin. The stolen moments like this were always quiet; yeah the entire team knows we do it, but they don't need to know where, or when for that matter. In the confines of our bedroom, no noise was spared. It almost became a contest sometimes; who can out moan who? But for these moments, we shared the pleasure in silence, as challenging as that sometimes is.

Biting down on his neck to combat the challenge, I lost it first, shooting inside him with one final thrust. His thrusts against my hand gained quickly in speed, and only minutes later he joined me in the afterglow, spilling over my hand and onto the floor. Sighing, he collapsed back against me and craned his neck back for a kiss. We shared a light peck and slowly I pulled from him, hissing slightly as he clenched his muscles around my now sensitive flesh. He snickered as he turned around, and leaned back against the wall with a satisfied grin.

"Thanks," He yawned, rubbing his thumb along my cheek.

I placed a soft kiss to his thumb, then leaned forward placed one to his lips. He smiled as I pulled my lips from his, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around my neck. With a contented sigh he collapsed against me, giggling slightly as I tickled the back of his neck. I think this might be my favorite part. The sex is good, annoying him is good, but just being like this after all of it is great. I can't explain how I feel in these moments. Loved, safe, protected...special, none of them seem to do the feeling justice. It's impossible to put into words really. It's just one of those things that is, I guess.

"So," I whispered into his ear, breaking a brief silence. "Do you feel up to your comeback now, mon capitaine?"

He giggled and shook his head against my chest. "I'm not ready,"

I grinned, tracing my finger down his spine. "Quite obviously. But how are you feeling now?"

He pulled away from me and leaned back against the wall. A happy smile came across his face as he bent down and pulled his pants back up. I raised an eyebrow at him as he slid down the wall, grasping the doorknob in his hand. He leaned forward and stole a quick kiss, then leaned back against the door with a devious smirk.

"I just spent a half hour having sex with YOU," He said in mock disgust, wrinkling his nose. "I'd rather deal with the crowd then sit here and watch you get all googly eyed,"

He giggled and opened the door behind him, disappearing before I had a chance to respond. I stood in shock for a moment before the giggles took over, then leaned back against the wall to let them pass. He's done that to me numerous times, but it got no less funny the more he did it. I don't think I say it enough sometimes, which is crazy because I say it a lot. But I really love that man. In all his stubborn, annoying, courageous, beautiful, perfect Stevie glory, he's the love of my life. He's not my husband (gag me, please), he's not my lover, not my soul mate, or just some guy I'd spent the last six years of my life with because he's good in bed. He's my Stevie. And that my friend's makes me the luckiest man alive.

END

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