Familiar Places
So now I know these familiar places, that I had been before
No I won’t run to escape feelings, that I had felt before...
And how will I live like this
With everything I did
No one has ever made me feel like you
And how did we get this way
When everything seemed okay
No one could ever take the place of you.
- Familiar 48, "Place of You"
This is probably stupid.
Scratch that. This is definitely stupid. When I picked up the phone last to call Andrew, he told me--with a smirk in his voice--that he couldn't talk to me, because we were playing against each other in the post-season. What makes me think that now, coming to his house in Calgary, he'll react any differently?
I mean, other than the fact that my head coach told me he has no faith in me, and that I may never again play a game as a Vancouver Canuck?
I sigh to myself and knock on the door, hoping he doesn't turn me away. I can't handle going back to the hotel, dealing with my teammates, the pity and the accusations and the bullshit. I just want to be with Andrew; I want to remember the good times three years ago when I was playing as well as he is now. When I was unstoppable, unbeatable. When we were both successful, instead of just one of us being effective.
He opens the door, and a grin curls his lips. "I'm not supposed to be talking to you, you know that, right?" he says, but still steps aside, inviting me in.
"I know, I know. I just...wanted to talk to you."
He smiles sympathetically, leading me towards the living room. "Have a seat. I'll grab a couple of beers, and we can sit around and bitch. It'll be like old times."
Old times, I think when he disappears into the kitchen. Old times in Pittsburgh. There were only a few short weeks when life was good for us. Completely good, anyways. I fell so madly in love with him in those weeks. His smile, his excitement, his passion for hockey and life and me. For that small moment in time, I was the happiest I have ever been. At home, I was sharing a hotel room with Andrew. On the road, I was still sharing a room with Andrew. We spent so many nights up until dawn, talking about anything that came to mind. It was during one of those late nights when everything changed.
Andrew was, and still is, one of the most attractive men I've ever known. Back then, though, he had a boyish, innocent charm to him, something that is now hindered, made more masculine by the tattoos covering his chest, the stubble roughening his cheeks. But at twenty-two years old, he was so damned sweet. So blatantly exhilarated to be playing in the NHL during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. It was endearing, and I couldn't stop myself from developing feelings for him.
Within three games with Pittsburgh, I found myself staring at him too long, laughing too much at his jokes, and he started to notice. He didn't say anything, he was entirely too shy then. It was in celebration of our first win when things changed. It was the world's most innocent kiss that started it, just the softest, lightest, barely-there brush of my lips on his. But it was perfect. After that one kiss, we spent every night snuggled up together in a hotel bed, giggling softly, touching hesitantly, smiling shyly. On the evening when New Jersey eliminated us, searching for comfort and distraction, we fell onto the mattress again--and this time, it was heated, passionate, desperate. It is still my most memorable, most powerful sexual experience, despite spending another year with Andrew, much of it in bed with him.
I'm still not sure why we ended. Or rather, why I ended it. I know that I felt terrible. I was married, and had a boyfriend--and it simply wasn't fair to him. With a wife and two daughters, I couldn't give him the attention he wanted and deserved. So I let him go. He was never bitter, never hateful. He was the same Andrew, only now I wasn't sleeping with him. Watching him with Kris Beech, watching them fall in love with each other, was the most painful thing I've ever had to be witness to. I was happy for him, for both of them, but at the same time, I was so jealous of Kris. No one was like Andrew.
Time went on, and the two of them broke up. It was the worst six months of Andy's life, I'm sure. He'd had a disappointing sophomore season, after such a promising playoff run, and he heard it from everyone. The media, the fans, the coaching staff, all of them ate away at his confidence, broke his spirit. The trade to Calgary was the best thing that could possibly have happened to him. He went from a regular scratch on a bad team to an integral part of one of the most effective defenses in the NHL. He's happy now. He's confident. And God help me, he's sexier now than he ever was before. His body has filled out; he's short, as always, but he's pure muscle, stronger than his height belies. The tattoos don't hurt. And neither do the cuts, bruises and stitches he's sporting now, after taking two pucks to the face early in the series.
He comes back into the living room, breaking my nostalgia by holding a bottle of beer up for me. I grab it, taking a long, slow drink, letting the cold alcohol chill my insides. "I heard a little bit about what happened, but...what's your side?" he asks, sitting sideways on the couch so he can face me.
I shrug a shoulder, lips still on the rim of the bottle. "I didn't play well enough, apparently. I should've stopped everything you guys shot my way. Don't ask me how that affects the fact that my team couldn't score on your goalie if they killed him first, but it does, according to Crow. He doesn't have faith in me. Screw my qualifications, screw my experience. He'd rather go with a minor league guy than play me." I'm trying to be nonchalant, but it hurts. Fuck, it hurts so much. I wanted to have a repeat performance of the 2001 playoffs. I wanted to be the savior. I wanted to take this team to the next level. And I just couldn't do it.
Andy rests a hand on my knee, smiling sympathetically, "With all due respect, Johan...your team sucked in game four. You could've put up a brick wall, and it wouldn't have mattered, because the guys in front of you could not buy a goal. That loss wasn't your fault."
"Auld held you guys to only two goals. I let in three. Maybe that one goal would've made a difference," I hate the way I sound right now, so fucking defeated. But sitting on the bench, watching a child playing in net because your team doesn't trust you to hold them in the game, is a surefire way to kill your confidence. Mine hadn't been at its highest anyway, after spending most of the last few weeks observing rather than contributing. They were trying to build Cloutier's confidence. They wanted him to win for them. They didn't realize it killed me to just sit by and watch.
I suppose I came to Andrew because he's been here. He's been the scapegoat. He's been called a disappointment. And look at him now, one of the most effective defensemen for the Flames in this series. I think I want him to remind me that its only one game, one series, one season. Or maybe I just want him to hold me. To comfort me. Maybe I want heat and passion and desperation again, like the last time I was crushed because of a playoff game.
He isn't saying much, but he does have his arm around my shoulders, and his hand is rubbing reassuringly up and down my arm, and it feels so much better than it should. The warmth of his skin is so refreshing, so familiar; I can't believe just how much I've missed it. "You'll come back from this, I promise. I mean, hell, no one in Pittsburgh expected me to do anything. No one in Calgary did either. And now...now I'm playing okay."
I glance up at him, smiling weakly, "Okay? Jesus, Andrew, half of my team is ready to murder you. And that's a good thing, because that's how you play your best. And you are at your best, don't pretend you don't know that."
Andy, ever gracious, shrugs and glances away, turning the attention back to me. "The point is, Johan, you are a great goalie, you have the experience and the numbers to prove that. Crawford is an idiot for not playing you. He gave up way too soon on you. But he'll realize he was wrong. He'll figure it out eventually."
I take a deep breath, leaning into him, half thinking about what he said, half savoring the feel of him around me. He hugs me tightly and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, just a feather light brush of his lips. I look up, meeting his gaze, and my breath hitches. His mouth is only inches from mine, so close that I have to cross my eyes to look at it. Slowly, he moves closer, and my heart stops, waiting for the inevitable.
His lips are hot. Soft. A little bit wet. Just like I remembered. His kiss is firmer now, more confident, but still sweet and sensuous and intense. His tongue traces over my lower lip, coaxing my mouth open, and then it slips past. He slides it along the edges of my teeth, massaging against my own tongue, letting it glide along the roof of my mouth as he deepens the kiss even more. I realize, suddenly, that my hands are clenched tight in his shirt and I'm practically crawling into his lap. It's so much like our first time, so much like that night three years ago, that I have to stop and force myself to accept that its real, that it's happening right now. This time Andrew isn't crying, he isn't hurting from a hernia suffered sometime in the playoffs, he hasn't just suffered the most painful loss of his life.
But there is a similarity, he is hurting, he does have battle scars. I break the kiss, pulling back reluctantly, and meet Andrew's wide, questioning eyes. His lips parted slightly, the lower one shining with a bit of moisture, I want to just throw myself back into what we were doing, but there is something I have to do. Something I've wanted to do since the first game of this series. I press my lips softly to the cut next to his right eye. Then I kiss the wound along his left eyelid. Finally my mouth rests on the stitches just above his lips, where the beginnings of a moustache tickle my tongue when I dart it out to taste his skin. He shivers, slipping his hands around my waist, and pulls me closer.
It's happening again. Just like three years ago. He knows it. I know it. I may be the enemy until one of us is eliminated, but it doesn't change history. It doesn't change that there has never, ever been anyone who fit me as well as Andrew. It doesn't change that I have never stopped wanting him, never stopped loving him. It doesn't change the fact that I need him right now, in any and every way that I can have him.
He tugs my shirt up, his fingertips tickling along my stomach and chest. I pull the buttons free of his, easing the fabric from his shoulders, moaning softly despite trying to stay silent. His skin is so soft, so fucking beautiful and pale, a sheen of perspiration making it luminous in the dim light. God, I missed him. I missed this. He moves me close again, kissing me deeply, whimpering into my mouth as I lay back, pulling him on top of me, his chest hot and heaving against mine. I fumble with the zipper of his pants, trying desperately to get them out of my way. I need him so much, I can barely think straight. The only thoughts that are coherent are short phrases, all in Swedish, because I'm too far-gone to even think about translating. When his jeans are down, kicked away to the floor, he yanks mine off, cursing under his breath.
Once his boxers are gone, and my briefs have been tossed somewhere behind him, my heart starts to race. Jesus, he really is beautiful. Even more so than when we were together. His body has bruises, some faint, some vivid, all over, from blocked shots, from hard checks, from my teammates. For a moment I hate them, for ruining my confidence, for taking me out of the series, for making me look like an idiot. But most of all I hate them for hurting Andrew, for giving him the wounds that are tinting his skin.
"I need you," I whisper, or at least, I think I do. I'm not entirely sure which language I said it in, but it doesn't matter, because he understands. He pulls my legs up around his hips, his dick, hard and thick and so fucking hot I want to scream, nestled right up against mine. He reaches over me, to the table next to the couch, and pulls a bottle of lube from the drawer. For a moment there's a flash of jealousy, and I want to know who he has that makes it important for him to have the bottle so handy. He kisses me again, softly, reminding me that it isn't important. He's with me tonight, even though he's no longer mine.
He spreads the lube easily over his shaft, and my eyes follow his hand, entranced by the leisurely glide of skin over skin. He notices me staring and laughs softly, his cheeks flushing pink, and he stops stroking, much to my chagrin. The disappointment is short-lived, though, because at that moment, he pulls me close, settling in against me, and begins the slow, deliberate act of pressing his dick into me. He's hard and thicker than I remembered, but it feels so good I can only concentrate on memories for a split second before the present takes over. He rocks his hips gently, easing inside unhurriedly, while his lips press kisses to my cheeks, forehead, lips, jaw, throat. By the time he reaches the hilt I'm gasping for air, writhing around beneath him, my nails scraping lightly along his shoulders and down his back.
He feels even better now than he did three years ago.
I tighten my legs around his waist, clenching lightly around his cock as he thrusts easily, just as sensual and seductive as the first time I felt him inside me. I never thought anything could be better, but this might be. Hockey is a million miles away, the stress of the playoffs, the disappointment of losing the faith of the team--none of it matters. Not even the fact that we've been broken up for years can have an effect on this. Nothing can change this, break this bubble we're in, where its only him inside me, his skin on mine, his teeth grazing my collarbone, his breath echoing in my ears. I can feel his dick throbbing, the pulse matching my own heartbeat. Gradually he moves faster, thrusting deeper, one hand drifting over my hip, fingers curling around my shaft, squeezing gently, stroking slowly. I arch my back, moaning his name softly among a few Swedish phrases and curses, knowing that I'm close. If he just shifts a bit...
And he does. Moves just enough that he hits that spot, where time and space end and everything goes black and swirling. I cry out as I come, clenching hard around him, my nails digging into his shoulders. He thrusts deep once more, growling, his teeth sinking into my shoulder, and he joins me, shuddering and whimpering and gasping for air. He mutters a curse, collapsing against me, and I slide my arms around his shoulders, surprised to find my hands shaking.
Long after my heartbeat returned to normal, long after his dick softened and he slid slowly out of me, he stays laying with me, his face buried against my neck. I sigh contentedly, hugging him tighter, and whisper my thanks. His lips curl into a smile that I feel rather than see, and I realize that this was far from stupid.
This may be the smartest thing I've ever done.
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