Take me down
home on holiday
Lead me to
Your secret hideaway
Let your hair fall down into my face
Don't turn away
From the Flame
Lead me down
Show me the way
Don't turn away from the flame.
-The Clarks, "Flame"


       I've never been the type to wish for someone to be injured. Injuries are the worst thing that can happen to a hockey player. I would know, I've been out of the lineup all season. But I can't say I was completely disappointed that Mike Comrie would be in the press box on January 22, 2003. It was unfortunate that he had a broken thumb, but I was looking forward to the game.

       Mike and I are not strangers.

       It’s hard to believe it was five years ago when we first met. He was a phenom playing at the University of Michigan, and I had just won my second Stanley Cup in as many years. He was young and in awe and had a fire in him that I couldn't ignore. I was starting to feel the effects of two long playoff runs and two short summers, and he was the energy that I was lacking. No one knows about the affair; it was something that Mike and I agreed to keep a secret. It was an almost sacred connection, one that I didn't want to taint by letting others know.

       When I got to the arena, I found out that Mike and I wouldn't be alone. Ryan Smyth was also injured, and would be sitting with us in the box. I ignored the way my stomach sank, forcing myself to be happy to see my team mate from the Olympics the year before. He was there before I was, and we discussed our injuries and our families, and then Mike showed up. He was wearing a suit, with a white cast surrounding his right hand. Only the tips of his fingers stuck from the end of it, and it was obvious how much he hated being unable to play.

       It killed me to see him upset.

       By the third period, Mike and I were bantering back and forth, and Ryan was obviously more concerned with the game than anything I had to say. Mike had been eating popcorn, and it had drawn my attention to his mouth. The beautiful lips that I'd kissed so many times in the two years he'd spent in college.

       "Hey, Mike, I'm going to go to get some air," I said, hoping that he would remember the line we used back when we wanted to get a few moments alone. He glanced up at me and in a moment, recognition flickered and his eyes lit, and he grinned knowingly.

       "I'll show you around the arena," he offered, handed the rest of his popcorn to Ryan, who was still ignoring us. Silently, we left the press box and I followed him without a question. A few flights of steps lower, and a long hallway stretched out before us. He ducked into a room and grabbed my hand, flipping a light on as he closed the door behind us. His good hand still holding mine, he smiled shyly up at me. "Hi."

       "Hey," I replied, rubbing my thumb over the smooth skin of his cheek. Under my touch, it tinted a bright pink, and then he glanced away. "How are you feeling?" I asked him, not used to being the one asking that question.

       He shrugged, "It hurts sometimes, but not as bad as it did at first," he looked up and met my eyes, "it sucks to be watching the game and not play, though."

       I nodded slowly, "I know, Mike. Trust me, I know." Impatient, I leaned down then and caught his mouth in a quick, soft kiss. A quiet moan escaped from his throat, and for a moment, his balance wavered and he held my hand tighter. When I pulled away, his eyes were still closed, and it took a few seconds before he let them drift open. When they did, they were full of something warm and familiar, and I couldn't stop the smile from curling my lips. "I've missed that."

       "Me too," he said, then kissed me again. This was deeper, not as soft, but more passionate. His tongue slipped into my mouth, slipping against my own. He tasted slightly salty, like the popcorn he had been eating, and he smelled clean and musky and fresh. It wasn't cologne, because I knew he never wore any; it was just some mixture of soap and shampoo and him. So refreshing and pure, and I was flooded with memories of the nights we spent tangled and sweaty and sated. Blindly I reached for his other hand, and when I felt the hard plaster rather than soft skin, I pulled away from the kiss.

       He whimpered in protest, but I put a finger against his lips to quiet him. Then I pulled his hand up to my mouth and pressed a kiss to the middle of the cast. Then I did the same to each of his fingers; I kissed softly on the tip of each digit, then let his hand fall again. "My poor Michael," I murmured, then cradled his face in my hands and kissed the end of his nose.

       He rolled his eyes, "Yeah, yeah. Poor me. Boo hoo. Shut up so I can start stripping your clothes off."

       I laughed for a second, but he cut me off with a rough kiss that left the blood rushing out of my head and collecting somewhere lower. His fingers, deft despite the cast, started to work on unbuttoning my shirt, and before long a mixture of warm fingers and hard plaster were massaging the muscles of my stomach and chest. He spun us around until I was pressed hard against the door, and then he kissed his way from collarbone to navel, all the while tugging at my belt, then my zipper. Through the fabric of my boxers, he traced the line of my erection with his finger, then curled the digit into the elastic at the top. With one swift move, he pushed my boxers and pants to my ankles. I knew he was 22, but he could just as easily have been the shy 18 year old from long ago for his innocent smile and the wide eyes looking up at me through thick, dark lashes.

         Then he opened his mouth wide around the head of my cock, and I knew he wasn't. Gone was the uncertainty, the hesitance, replaced with an intense confidence that shone in his eyes. He took me deep into his throat, holding me to the door with his injured hand, with the fingers of the other hand teasing at my opening. I writhed as much as I could, but just as I was ready to explode, he pulled his mouth away from me. I growled and glared at him, but he just smirked and stood up. He kissed my lips and reached into his pocket, pulling out a tiny tube.

         "What, did you think I wouldn't be prepared?" he asked, grinning. He twisted the cap off using his teeth, then I grabbed the tube. We didn't need to ask questions, we didn't need to wonder what was coming next. He unzipped his pants hurriedly while I kicked mine to the side. I squeezed some lube onto my fingers, then coated his dick with it as fast as I could, knowing that we had to be quick if we didn't want to get caught. He lifted me a bit off of the ground and I latched my legs around him, wincing at the way my knee protested to the rapid movements. A moment later and I was wincing for an entirely different reason, biting my lip and trying to get used to the size of him.

         He was still for a few heartbeats, watching my face to gauge my _expression. When I opened my eyes, he smiled, then started to move. Slow and easy, thrusting me gently into the door, burying his face in the skin that was exposed where my shirt was pushed out of the way. I murmured his name, the way I always did when we were together before. As expected, he started to slide faster in and out of me, pressing me harder against the door, until my murmurs were strained breaths and his heart was pounding through his dress shirt. He stiffened against me, then shuddered, his teeth sinking into the skin of my shoulder. When he finished, he slid carefully out of me, then to his knees.

         He smiled sleepily up at me, and then he knowingly wrapped a hand around me. He stroked my length slowly, his tongue rolling around the head of my cock. After only a few moments of watching him, I came with a growl, gripping his shoulders for balance. He wiped his lips, then handed my pants to me. He zipped his, straightened his tie, then leaned against the wall to catch his breath. Once I had my pants on, I started to fix my shirt, but he pushed my hands out of the way and buttoned it for me. When he finished tightening my tie, I smiled down at him.

         He may have been almost five years older, but he still had the passion, the fire, that drew me to him at first. I just didn't realize how much I missed that flame until it burned me again.