2minsforslashing | Czechmates

Title: Czechmates
Characters: Marc Savard/Vladimir Sobotka/David Krejci; appearances by Marco Sturm, Zdeno Chara and various other Boston Bruins
Time period: Late in the 2007-08 regular season
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Marc Savard should be happy. So why is he miserable, and what can be done about it?
Disclaimer: All absolutely fictional, totally


	David Krejci. Vladimir Sobotka. The Bruins had made the playoffs, and the party was on. Zdeno Chara had had the foresight to reserve a banquet room at the hotel. Tubs of ice crowded with bottles of champagne decorated the tables. After dinner, the party had grown louder and louder as the champagne flowed freely. Marc Savard had never been so happy. He'd never been in the playoffs before. Now they had a shot. This is what every hockey player lives for. He stood with Marco Sturm, Glen Murray and PJ Axelsson, listening to Muzz tell some horrlble shaggy-dog story about the wilds of Nova Scotia or some such nonsense -- he was really only tuning in with one ear -- while scanning the room. In one corner, Tim Thomas and Alex Auld appeared to be engaged in an Extremely Serious Discussion about goaltending. Not far away, Dennis Wideman and Andrew Alberts talked over each other while Shane Hnidy looked on, with that typical Hnidy half-puzzled look on his face. Savard grinned. Cam Neely had Milan Lucic by the arm as Lucic, too young to booze, sipped from a Coke can and studied the floor, nodding every once in a while as Neely lectured. And Chara, as usual, was holding court, surrounded by several of the younger players: Petteri Nokelainen, his broad Finnish farmer's face intent; Vladimir Sobotka and David Krejci, the two young Czechs, thick as thieves; and Phil Kessel, looking up at Chara with what appeared to be pure hero-worship -- or was that lust? -- shining on his face. Savard scowled, feeling a sudden, shocking stab of jealousy. And just who was he jealous of? Kessel, or Chara? At that moment, Chara raised his head and looked directly into Savard's eyes. Savvy, face flushing, turned away and got a faceful of Sturm, who was standing at his elbow, watching him intently. Savard's face turned an even deeper shade of red. Sturm glanced at Chara, who continued to look at Savard, his face inscrutable. "Savvy? Have an argument with Zee or something?" he asked. Savard shook his head. "Look, Muzz and Axie want to go to--" Sturm broke off as Savard shook his head. "I'm tired, Sturmie. It was a tough game today. I think I've had enough." Savard suddenly couldn't stand it. His head swam. It was just yesterday.... "Daddy, I don't wanna go! Wanna stay with you!" the little boy stood in front of Savvy, tears starting in his eyes. Marc crouched down and took him in his arms. His ex-wife shifted impatiently. Savard shot her a look -- just give me a couple of minutes, OK? -- and patted his tiny son's back. "You know I've got to go on the road. You have to go home with mommy and take care of her. Nobody's going to be here, and I can't take you with me, can I?" "I'll go with you! I'll be good!" "I know you'd be good. You'd be great. But I don't think Coach Julien would let me." Tears dropped from the child's eyes. Behind him, his older brother stood stoically, but his little sister started to sniffle in solidarity. Oh great, Marc thought, just what we need -- two of them with the waterworks. Hastily, he said, "You know we're trying to win the Stanley Cup -- if we do win it, you can take it to school with you, you know. I promise." "Really?" The child tried to smile through his tears. Behind him, Marc's ex-wife rolled her eyes and looked exasperated -- more promises you won't be able to keep, her face said -- the Bruins don't have a chance in hell at winning the Stanley Cup, and you know it. Savard frowned at her, then smiled at his son, who was trying valiantly to stop crying. He kissed the boy's cheek, said "I'll see you very soon," and watched as the children and their mother turned away, leaving him behind. "Savvy--" Sturm's hand was on Savard's shoulder, and Savard shrugged it off; fury was gathering in his chest, and he didn't want to take it out on his best friend. Marco Sturm and his perfect wife and perfect kids and perfect fucking dog living in his perfect house in suburbia, like some fucking All-American family, even though they're German, for crissakes, and while wer'e at it, why was it that Marco could skate so beautifully that he made Savard feel like a goddam cow on ice, and damn, he's always so fucking happy all the time, how come he's never mad and why am I so pissed off at him? "Gotta go," Savard said, turning on his heel and bolting from the room, reaching out to grab an unopened bottle of champagne as he went. "What the--?" Muzz said, as Axie looked puzzled. Sturm watched as Marc left, and after a few moments of indecision, he started to follow. He'd gotten only halfway across the room when a large hand reached out and grabbed his arm. It was Chara. Sturm looked up at his captain. "Let him go," Chara said. Sturm looked doubtful, but the look in Chara's eyes convinced him. He returned to Murray and Axelsson. "Savvy wants to be alone," he said. Axelsson shook his head. "I never thought I'd ever hear THAT." Sturm continued to keep an eye on Chara. He watched the big defenseman put an arm around Sobotka, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Vladimir listened, head cocked, then nodded. About 10 minutes later, the young Czech quietly slipped out of the room. Sturm watched, wondering what the captain was up to, but he kept his thoughts to himself. ___________________________________________________________________ Savard smacked the elevator button angrily, mad at Sturm, mad at Kessel, mad at Zdeno fucking Chara, mad at his ex-wife, and above all, mad at himself. Why was he so pissed off on what was supposed to be such a glorious day? He couldn't get to his room fast enough. Slamning the door open, throwing the unopened bottle on the bed, he ripped off his suit jacket and threw it across the room. The rest of his clothes followed until he was standing in fury, naked, swearing to himself. He looked at himelf in the mirror. What an asshole. The image in the mirror nodded in agreement. "Fuck!! Savard bellowed, sitting down on the bed, his fury -- dammit, call a spade a spade -- his jealously finally ebbing down to rational levels. Why was he feeling sorry for himself? He was playing fucking hockey for a living, getting paid a ridiculous amount of money, he had great teammates, and he had a shot at the Stanley Cup. So what if he didn't see his kids often enough? There were plenty of other guys in the same boat -- or worse. He deliberately steered any thoughts of Kessel or Chara away. He knew they both cared for him. He didn't own either one of them, and they didn't own him. They were all free to form whatever attachments they wished. And that's enough of THAT, he thought. Where's that champagne? Savard found a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt in his half-packed suitcase, pulled them on, and popped the cork. It ricocheted off the ceiling, and he held the bottle up to the mirror and grinned, if somewhat grimly, at himself. "Salud!" A knock sounded on the door. Who could that be? Not Marco, please. Savard took a swig of champagne, put the bottle on the desk and strode over to open the door. There stood Vladimir Sobotka, an odd half-smile on his face, the last person Marc expected to see. "Vladie?" he asked, as his eyes dropped to Sobotka's left hand; the young Czech held it out as if presenting a bouquet of flowers. But it wasn't flowers -- Marc's eyes bulged as he recognized what Sobotka was holding -- a pair of handcuffs. "Shit!" Savard slammed the door in Sobotka's face and slammed his back against it, his mind racing. Wha--? How--? Who--? Him--? Then it struck him that Vladie was probably still standing there, fucking handcuffs in his hand, and he turned and ripped the door open. There the rookie was, rooted to the spot, looking confused. Savard reached out, grabbed a fistful of Sobotka's shirt, and yanked him into the room, slamming the door behind them. Caught off guard, Sobotka flew across the room; his hockey instincts saving him from slamming into the desk as he pivoted and struck the bed instead. The handcuffs -- and something else -- sailed through the air, clanging off the ceiling as Vladimir bounced off the bed and landed on the floor. He giggled and hiccuped. "You can not just say 'Come in'?" he asked. "What the hell are you doing here?" Savard asked, as Sobotka got up, a bit unsteadily. The young Czech center picked up the handcuffs and tossed them on the desk, along with -- what the hell was that, anyway? "What's this?" Savard picked up the device. It looked like a small racquetball, with leather straps hanging from it. "Gag," Sobotka said. He tapped his mouth. "I scream, Zee says." "Chara," Savard muttered, dropping the gag. So that was it. Zdeno didn't want him to be lonely, so he'd sent him a present. Jesus. He looked at the young center. He must think, after Kessel, that I like 20-year-old blonds. Sobotka appeared to read Savard's mind. "Zee didn't TELL me to come. He ask. I want, I say yes, I like Savvy. I not know you like..." he raised his eyebrows. Well, Savard didn't know about Sobotka either. Secrets, Chara had said. He was right -- the captain does know how to keep them. "Have a drink, Vladie," Savard said, offering the bottle. "Though you're not old enough -- but who gives a shit?" Sobotka grinned, took the bottle, swigged and hiccuped again. Deliberately, he put the bottle on the desk, pulled his jacket off, and reached for Savard, pulling the older player to him and kissing him, hard. Marc didn't resist. Soboltka tasted of champagne and chocolate. Desire exploded in Savard's chest, running down into his groin. Sobotka grinned and shoved Savvy backwards onto the bed, then slowly, carefully, started to strip. Savard watched. Sobotka was on the lean side, but he had well-defined abs and a beautiful, tight ass, smaller across the beam than Kessel's. Forget Phil, Savard told himself. Enjoy the moment. Gloriously naked, Vladimir climbed on to the bed between Marc's legs, pulled the older center's sweatpants off, and bent down to kiss his swollen cock. His tongue delicately probed its hole as a drop of semen oozed out. Sobotka ran his tongue around Savard's cock, then up and down the length of the shaft. Savvy moaned. Sobotka kissed Savard's stomach and sucked on his protruding hipbone, then took almost his entire shaft in his mouth and started to suck in earnest. A knock rattled the door. "Shit!" Savvy almost screamed, then, attempting to control his voice as Sobotka continued without missing a beat: "Who is it?" "Krejci!" came the reply from the hallway. "What the fuck?" Savard said, as Sobotka lifted his head. The young center shouted something in Czech. Krejci answered in the same language. Sobotka got up and headed for the door. Savard panicked. "Vlad, what are you doing? Hey!" He reached for the sheet and hastily threw it over his lap as the naked rookie opened the door. David Krejci swaggered in, carrying a half-full champagne bottle. "What's up?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the unruffled Sobotka and the very ruffled Savard. Before Savard could answer -- though he had no idea what he was going to say -- Krejci grabbed Sobotka by the back of the neck, yanked his fellow rookie in close, and kissed him. Sobotka responded, twining his hands in Krejci's long brown hair and shoving his hips against him. Savard watched, stupidly. "Christ, is every damn Czech on this team a fucking perv?" he asked. Krejci broke the kiss. "Who you call a fucking perv, fucking perv?" Quick as lightning, he reached down and snatched the sheet off Savard's lap, revealing Savvy's monstrous hard-on. Savard blushed, then laughed. Krejci grinned. "Don't let me interrupt," he said, flinging himself on the other bed, ripping off his jacket and tie and taking a gulp of champagne. Sobotka turned back to Savard, who felt pretty weird with the two Czech rookies in the room. But Krejci just sat with his back against the headboard, eyes closed, taking sips from his bottle now and then, and Savard soon lost himself as Sobotka lavished his tongue and attention on Savvy's cock. He was close to climaxing when Sobotka stopped, lifted his head and pulled Savvy up to a sitting position. He shoved the older center aside, taking his place, lying back on the bed, lifting his legs,wordlessly offering himself. Savard wasted no time; his throbbing erection slick with Vlad's salivia and his own early essense, he hooked the rookie's legs over his shoulders and plunged. Sobotka cried out. Savard pulled back, then plunged, harder. Sobotka's cries increased in volume. Shit, Savard thought. Chara was right -- he IS a screamer. Where's that gag? Suddenly Krejci dove across the opening between the beds, clamping his lips over Sobotka's. The screams were choked off. Vladimir flailed his arms for a moment, then tangled his hands once again in David's hair. Savard pumped, fucking hard, fuck yes, oh fuck yeah, as Sobotka's fingers clenched and Marc's ass clenched and he tried in vain to muffle his own cries of ecstacy as he came deep inside the rookie's oh-so-tight ass. Panting, Marc slid off to the side of the bed, over Sobotka's leg, as the two rookies held their embrace. Krejci licked the sweat from Sobotka's neck, sliding his tongue into the 20-year-old's ear, watching him shiver. Then he looked down and saw Vladimir's still-throbbing erection, high and tight against his stomach. "Oh, poor Vladie," he said, and smiled. Nudging Savard out of the way, Krejci lay on his stomach between Sobotka's legs and took his fellow rookie's shaft in his mouth. Savard watched in near disbelief as Krejci swallowed the entire length, pressing his nose to Sobotka's stomach. It didn't take long -- three or four quick movements and Sobotka was coming, his cries muted by apparent exhaustion. Krejci's shoulders shuddered and his throat convulsed as he swallowed, his eyes closed. Vladimir sighed. Krejci sat up, reached for his champagne bottle, took a healthy swig, belched, then grinned at Savard. "My party trick," he said. "Bet you can't do that to Chara," Savard said. Krejci shook his head ruefully. "No, I cannot," he admitted. "My only failure." Savard laughed. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Krejci asked if he could stay; Chara, his roommate, had company. Savard figured as much. "Sure," he said. Krejci took off the remainder of his clothes and curled up on the other bed. Soboltka appeared to be already asleep, his face looking almost obscenely young and innnocent. "Penguins day after tomorrow," Krejci said. "Yeah," Savard said. "Nice to win, but we don't have to." 'I want to fuck Sidney Crosby," Krejci said, out of the blue. "Huh?" Savard said. "Seeedneey," Sobotka said. "Want to fuck you, Seedneey...." "I thought you were asleep," Savard said. "Almost," Sobotka said. "I like to fuck Crosby, too. We should all fuck Crosby." He giggled. "I'm serious," said Krejci. "I'm going to fuck him, right on the ice." "What?" said Savard, his mind suddenly filled with an image of Krejci humping a screaming Crosby at center ice in the Garden, the Boston crowd cheering them on. "How the hell you going to do that?" "Here," Krejci responded, tapping his temple. "Going to fuck his mind. Going to fuck him over. Drive him crazy. You'll see." Sobotka snorted. "I thought you mean FUCK him, David." "Yes," Krejci said. "I will. First I fuck his mind, in the game, Then I fuck him for real, after." "Bet you can't," said Savard. "No way." "Sure I can," Krejci said. "He fucked Ovechkin, you know." Savard laughed. "No fucking way. Not Ovechkin. Nobody fucks Ovechkin." Krejci pouted. He looked like a GQ model. "Chara told me they did." "Chara's pulling your leg," Savard said. Krejci looked puzzled. "He's joking. No way. I KNOW there's no way Ovechkin fucked Crosby, let alone the other way around." Krejci shrugged. "Anyway, I fuck Crosby. I bet you anything." "I only want one thing," Savard said. "Two things, actually." Krejci looked at Savard, expectantly. "Let me help with the mind-fucking," the older center said. "Me too," said Sobotka. "And then, after, you have to tell us every little fucking gory detail, start to finish," Savard said. Krejci grinned. Savard had never noticed before how wolfish that grin was. "Deal," he said.

Czechmates

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