Overseas (Patrick Marleau/Evgeni Nabokov)
Jan. 16th, 2009 10:53 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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2minsforslashingTitle: Overseas
Pairing: Patrick Marleau / Evgeni Nabokov
Team: San Jose Sharks
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Summary: During the lockout; Evgeni is going overseas, Patrick is not. Insecurity and smut ensues.
Author's Note: Written as a present to me! I am so loved. All grammatical errors are intentional, to show accents.
“Fuck Gary Bettman and fuck all of the other guys! It’s hockey, I’d play for nothing! This is so stupid, none of this needs to happen!” shouted Patrick.
Evgeni looked at him calmly and patiently despite the fact that they had been having the same conversation with Patrick shouting the exact same things over and over again for nearly two hours. “But it is happening, and you and I can’t change that.”
“I just won’t go!” Patrick choked. “We don’t have to go. There’s no reason that we can’t train by ourselves and stay here in San Jose and everything can stay the same.”
Evgeni, retaining his calmness sighed and said, “Patrick, you are just starting to come into your own as a player, just starting to reach your potential. Now is not time to abandon that for something that isn’t going anywhere. I don’t want to do this either, but you know that this we have to do. Quit thinking you have a choice, because you know that you do not.”
Patrick stared at his feet, his eyebrows arched in expressive anguish and frustration. He did know that he didn’t have a choice. The lockout was happening and he, like all the other players, had to keep playing so that they could keep their skill level high enough to keep their spots when the league restarted.
This was how being in the NHL worked. Everything had to come second to hockey. He, like all the others, was forced to live and die by it. All that crap they all tell the media about wanting to be healthy and have a good and happy family, it was all just bullshit. All of that stuff they had gotten as a product of hockey. It was really a lonely kind of life and it had been eating away at him for years, since he was fourteen. All that had finally changed when he had met Evgeni.
***
Patrick loved playing hockey. He could truly lose himself and finally escape from his own head every time his skates touched the ice. Actually, it probably isn’t right to say Patrick’s skates touched the ice, no—Patrick’s skates flew across the ice.
Everyone knew that Patrick Marleau could skate. His speed was certainly his greatest attribute as a player—the thing he could do that nobody else could. It was the first thing Evgeni had noticed about him. Now certainly Evgeni hadn’t been alone in noticing the fresh-faced 18 year old kid who carved up the ice his first time out with the big boys, but while the other guys stood around and guffawed and made comments like “Fucking shit, that kid is fast,” Evgeni noticed the subtleties, Evgeni noticed the beauty in Patrick’s skating.
Patrick skated with an ease and a technique that suggested that he had been skating since he came out of the womb. There was absolutely no wasted motion in his strides. No arms flailing, no poorly placed thrust, and he got down so low when he skated that his torso was parallel to the ice. Patrick’s streamlined position displayed his powerful hamstrings and gluts for all the world to see. Even through his hockey pants, the alternating bulges of Patrick’s buttocks that rose up and down like powerful tidal waves suggested a machine-like efficiency in his skating that all started with his powerhouse of an ass. Evgeni still felt the chill running down his spine days after he had first been mesmerized by Patrick’s skating, and he knew that Patrick was going to be a special kind of hockey player.
There was something more still. It was Patrick’s face. While his powerful legs and arms rapidly and powerfully churned, his torso, neck, and head never moved. And the expression on his face was like stone. There was no strain in his look, just a look of concentration and focus. There was also a calm kind of confidence, a self-trust rare for someone so young, but completely lacking the arrogant swagger that was so common in a rising star. And Evgeni knew that Patrick was a special kind of person.
But as soon as young Patty stopped skating the calm, collected confidence disappeared. As compliments and back-slaps cascaded upon him, a nervous look appeared. He responded dumbly with thank yous and darting glances, and the whole uncomfortable look of him was punctuated by his arched eyebrows, which always gave away Patrick’s doubting and unsure demeanor.
It was like the first time they kissed. After weeks of stolen glances and awkward run-ins, Evgeni had finally cornered him alone. Everything about Patrick leading up to the kiss and everything afterward betrayed how scared he was. But in the moment of the kiss itself, his lips had met Evgeni’s strongly, confidently, locking into his with a surety that matched Patrick the confident skater, rather than Patty the bumbling talker.
It was the intensity of Evgeni Nabokov’s stares that had first attracted Patrick to him. They projected a kind of sincerity in Patrick’s mind—a look that just dared you to look away unless you were truly willing to bare yourself to his probing and demanding gaze. Other guys hated it. The whole team seemed to complain of Nabby’s intensity. But Patrick knew why: it was because they couldn’t sincerely meet his gaze. They were two-faced. They said one thing and did the other. They would have your back on the ice, they really were good teammates, but off of it, they could give a shit. They hated Nabby’s stares because they felt like he was judging them—and he really was. Some people say that it is hard sometimes to stare at yourself in the mirror. It’s ten times harder to stare at Nabby. But Patrick felt like he could pass every test. He always met Evgeni’s gaze with confidence and excitement, even if he couldn’t seem to meet anyone else’s.
Patrick hated them. He hated all of them. He knew deep down that they had experienced and continued to experience the loneliness thing the same as he was, but they dealt with it in ways that he just didn’t understand. Everything seemed to be about distractions and instant gratifications, rather than dealing with what was truly going on. Plus, they didn’t give a fuck about who they hurt in the process. It flew in the face of everything that Patrick had been taught to believe.
And yet, he went along with it because he thought that this was just the way it had to be. He was too afraid to be courageous and go against the tide, and although deep down he knew it was his own fault, he hated them for having corrupted him.
There was the one time when Brian Marchment and Vinny Damphousse took him to the bordello in Redwood City. They had hooked him up with a prostitute, and in between their jokes they acted like they were doing him a grand favor. He remembered how he had felt sick to his stomach right after he came; how he had vomited in the trashcan by the bed; and how the prostitute, twice his age, had rubbed his back while he silently sobbed until he was composed enough to face Vinny and Marchie. And that wasn’t the end of it.
Obviously, none of that ever did it for Patrick. Every moment he spent after he stepped off the ice just didn’t seem right. He didn’t have a friend on the team, he didn’t have anyone that would make his loneliness go away—until Nabby kissed him.
At first it was not much more than stolen moments. Patrick was always excited around Nabby, but never really sure of what was actually transpiring. Evgeni, on the other hand, knew that he was dealing with a kid, and a fragile one at that. It had taken him weeks to seduce Patrick because he felt like he was doing something wrong when he did, like he was risking shattering a stained glass window, of breaking something beautiful but fragile.
Yet Nabokov didn’t break Patrick, he made him stronger. Patrick talked at Nabokov constantly. He would relate every small feeling that he had, every minute detail of his existence. The clammy nervous kid became a blathering fool, convinced that Nabby would hang on his every word—and he really did. To Evgeni, Patrick really was better than them all. Patrick was a man of action. He spoke by what he did, he really had no need to talk. People assumed he was passionless, robotic, but this was not the case at all. Patrick was full of passion. The way that they made love was proof enough of that. But even as a hockey player, Patrick Marleau was full of passion. It’s just that he kept it below the surface—it was like his skating. He reserved everything for the task at hand. He didn’t need to whoop or holler, because that was energy taken away from the next faceoff. He didn’t need to bark at other players, because that would be less energy for the next battle along the boards. He didn’t argue with Vinny or Marchie because that would be less of himself that he could give to Evgeni.
***
Now he was the captain, and now he had to leave Evgeni.
That calm leadership, the deep confidence that Patrick had developed seemed to fly out the window. The even-keel captain that his teammates had come to respect couldn’t calmly deal with the idea of being apart from his Nabby. He felt desperate again. And Evgeni couldn’t calm him down.
“I love you Patrick,” said Nabokov, ever patient, never getting frustrated. “You need to trust that I still will when we get back.”
“I do,” said Patrick, “It’s not that. I just don’t want to do this. Everything was wrong before you. I don’t want to go backwards. Why can’t we do what we want? What is right?”
“It’s not up to us. This is way it goes sometimes,” said Nabby as he held Patrick’s head in his lap, caressing his hair. “We’ll make it because this real.” He bent down and kissed Patrick’s eyes, tasting the salt as well as the anguish in his tears.
“You fixed so much of what was wrong with me,” said Patrick.
“No, no, I did not,” contested Evgeni. “You fixed it. I did not do nothing.”
“You loved me,” said Patrick.
“That was easy,” smiled Nabokov. “And I still do.”
Patrick stared into Evgeni’s steely blue eyes—meeting his probing stare for the thousandth time. He slowly lifted his head up to Nabby’s, urging his lips towards his goalie’s. It was a hard position from which to lift his head, but Nabby’s hands eased his ascension, as they had in the previous years. With Nabby’s help, Patrick reached the top, and he was rewarded with a kiss.
Evgeni had to admit how arousing it was to be kissed like that. The desperation in Patrick’s lips was more than exciting. Nabokov had been with other guys. There were the two years with hotshot Ilya Kovalchuk in Russia—the brash, handsome goal scorer who was as arrogant in bed as he was on the ice. Ilya never really cared. Patrick did, and he never stopped caring. It would have exhausted someone who wasn’t as steadfast as Evgeni. But he wasn’t thinking about that now. He was thinking of how wet Patrick’s lips were when he kissed him and how badly he wanted more of Patrick.
After the passionate kiss, Patrick smiled, and then laughed. “You’re holding me like I’m a baby. A big cry baby.”
Nabby smiled back, and then slyly let his hand run up Patrick’s leg as he then squeezed the center’s powerful and shapely ass. “Not exactly!” laughed the Russian.
But Patrick wasn’t laughing anymore. A serious expression passed across his face. “I want you Nabby. I want you now.” Patrick’s words as well as the longing in his eyes, flipped a switch somewhere deep in Nabokov. He felt all his blood start moving quicker and a growing pressure in his loins. He felt an instinctual, bestial longing and he felt hot enough that he would have been warm in the coldest of Russian winters.
Nabby’s quick, sharp intake of breath alerted Patrick that his goaltender wanted him too. Patrick rolled off of Evgeni’s lap and lay on his side, reaching towards Evgeni’s crotch. Slowly reaching up his leg, determined to reach his crotch. When his hand finally met Evgeni’s dick, he was already rock hard and when he breathed in again sharply, Patrick felt Nabby’s cock flex against his palm, and then it was Patrick’s turn to match Nabby’s quick intake of breath.
While Patrick squeezed and massaged his dick, Evgeni’s breathing quickened, as did his movements. He bent down to pull off his Captain’s shirt, practically tearing it off him, and threw it across the room, subconsciously wanting to get Patrick’s clothes as far away from him as possible. Had he been thinking straight, he would’ve been more deliberate in his motions so as not to disconnect Patrick’s probing hands from his crotch. Luckily for Evgeni, Patrick bent over backwards, literally, in order to ensure that his hands would not leave Nabokov’s hard and flexing penis. He twisted and switched hands in order not to separate himself from his Nabby. Patrick always made those kinds of efforts for Nabokov, and his twisting and focus just intoxicated Evgeni even further.
His lips came down hard on his Captain’s, pushing roughly and wetly against Patrick’s shapely mouth. Without looking, the Russian unzipped and quickly pulled off Patrick’s pants and boxers in the same motion. As soon as the pants were off Patrick’s ankles, Nabokov’s hands flew to Patrick’s crotch, enthusiastically stroking his cock which was every bit as hard as his own. Patrick looked to the ceiling and softly moaned in ecstasy.
Patrick, beginning to lose control, sat up suddenly and pinned Nabby’s arms against the wall by the bed and ripped off his gaudy scarf—nearly strangling him in the process. Nabokov groaned loudly as Patrick pulled his gray, thick sweater over his head. As soon as his chest was bared, Patrick covered his pale chest with kisses. Nabokov, groaning more still, worked around Patrick’s muscular, bare body, to unzip his own pants and wriggle them (with some difficulty) off of himself. Suddenly, Patrick’s hand had returned to Nabokov’s dick and the Russian, groaned, “Patrick,” in a hoarse and husky voice.
Evgeni didn’t wait long to enjoy Patrick’s firm and surprisingly soft hands. He aggressively shoved Marleau down on the bed and fell down on top of him. But Evgeni did not cover Patrick’s chest with kisses. Instead, he roughly placed his hands on Patrick’s hips and then used the leverage to force his head lower to line up with Patrick’s crotch.
Without hesitating, Evgeni brought his mouth down on Patrick’s throbbing cock. His lips quickly tightened around Patrick, with a familiarity only born from experience. He began to bob up and down while vigorously sucking his lover’s dick. He knew how Patrick liked it: wet and hard, lots of pressure.
Evgeni, despite his aggressive nature, was generally more artful when performing a blowjob on Patrick. But this time, he began with a fast rhythm, going up and down seeming desperate to make Patrick come as soon as possible. Patrick’s hands grabbed at Nabby’s tangled, long, thick hair, and he moaned louder still, but still a soft moan compared to those of his goaltender. Nabokov began using his hand to stroke the last couple inches that weren’t engulfed by his moist, hot mouth. He occasionally twisted his head slightly side-to-side as he continued blowing Patrick, but only enough to make Patrick moan for more.
Only thirty seconds in, Patrick pulled Nabokov’s head up off of his dick, using his hair as handles, like one would grab at a naughty child. Nabokov, breathing huskily, flashed him a look of slight irritation, as if to say, “How dare you stop me in the middle of performing on you?” But Nabby’s look quickly returned to one of ardent desire as Patrick softly whispered, “Make love to me.”
Evgeni grunted his approval and his hands grabbed Patrick roughly by the hips, in order to turn him over, but Patrick’s hands roughly grabbed Nabokov’s wrists, restraining him from doing so. Their eyes locked and Patrick’s look seemed paradoxically to be one of both lustful desire and an innocence that logically should have passed away long ago.
“No, I want to see you. I want to watch you,” whispered Patrick almost inaudibly. Nabokov grunted loudly and mumbled something in Russian that Patrick did not understand. Patrick afforded himself a quick smile, content that he had pushed Nabby to the point where speaking English was no longer possible, as he pulled his knees to his chest, exposing himself completely to Nabokov.
Despite all of Nabokov’s excitement, despite his bestial longing and animal like sounds and motions, he entered Patrick slowly and gently. Patrick moaned quietly and closed his eyes as he felt Evgeni’s dick enter deep inside of him. His lips remained slightly open as Nabokov’s hands replaced his own at the back of his knees, freeing Patrick’s hands for other things.
Despite all of Evgeni’s gentleness in entering Patrick’s sublime ass, he lost all control once fully inside. Grunting roughly, he moved inside of Patrick hard and fast. After the first few seconds of having his eyes locked on Patrick’s ass and the fabulous rippling that his thrusting was creating, he looked back up at the Captain. Patrick’s eyes were still closed and he was stroking himself, moaning very softly all the while. Watching Patrick masturbate only excited Evgeni even more, and his rhythm and force increased as the bed began to shake.
Patrick, hearing the volume of Nabokov’s groans continue to grow and seeming to feel Nabokov’s gaze piercing his closed eyes, opened his eyes to have them met by another fierce Russian stare.
This was too much for Patrick. He had already been close after Nabby’s brief, but spectacular blowjob, but hearing Nabbby’s loud grunting and having Nabby stare at him like that made him start to come immediately.
It was that stare that Patrick loved so much: the stare that gave him confidence because Patrick knew he passed Nabby’s tests; the stare that communicated that he would never give up on Patrick; the stare that said “I don’t care about anybody, but you”; the stare that said “I’ll fight for you; the stare that said “I’m yours”; the stare that said “I love you.”
But Patrick wasn’t thinking about any of that. Patrick wasn’t thinking about anything. Patrick was just feeling how good Nabby felt inside of him, and how good his own rigid dick felt. He furiously stroked himself as he felt all his muscles tighten as he climaxed.
Evgeni knew that this was not going to last much longer. Watching Patrick masturbate had seemed to catapult him towards the finish. There was no way this was going to last more than a couple more minutes, but when Nabokov felt Patrick’s ass tighten around him, and saw the semen erupt from Patrick’s dick, stream after streaming shooting up onto Patrick’s hairy stomach, Evgeni, too, started to come.
Yelling loudly, Nabokov tightened inside of Patrick, and as his own dick became as hard as a goal post, he gripped the back of Patrick’s knees roughly, holding onto them for the duration of his long and pleasurable orgasm. After a few extra thrusts after his dick had relaxed, Nabokov grunted in exhaustion. His eyes remained locked on Patrick’s, and they both breathed heavily.
They stayed in that same position for several minutes, neither being able to think straight enough to move. Eventually, Patrick tilted his head in the direction of the bedside table. Nabokov, realizing what Patrick wanted, grabbed the roll of toilet paper, and unraveled several sheets. Still breathing heavily, Evgeni slowly and gently pulled out of Patrick and then helped him clean up both of their orgasms—not exactly and easy or speedy task.
As soon as they were done, Nabokov collapsed down onto his back, deftly snaking his arm under Patrick’s neck and rolled the younger man’s head onto his chest. Patrick responded on cue not solely by laying his arm across Nabby’s chest and linking his hand with Nabby’s, but also by swinging one of his legs across Nabby’s hips—completing their tight embrace.
They lay like that without speaking for several moments. Then Nabokov said, “We can do this Patrick, I know we can.” Tears welled up in Patrick’s eyes, but this time his gaze remained controlled, determined. The courage, determination, and confidence had returned to Patrick’s eyes. Evgeni saw it too—it was the same look as Patrick had when he was flying up and down the ice.
“I know,” said Patrick.
And then, at the exact same time, they both said, “I love you.”
They both laughed—Nabokov with his loud, Russian cackling and Patrick in his mild-mannered chuckling.
Their eyes locked again and they both, intentionally this time, simultaneously said, “I love you, too.”
They shared a long and gentle kiss and squeezed each other even tighter.
***
Pairing: Patrick Marleau / Evgeni Nabokov
Team: San Jose Sharks
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Summary: During the lockout; Evgeni is going overseas, Patrick is not. Insecurity and smut ensues.
Author's Note: Written as a present to me! I am so loved. All grammatical errors are intentional, to show accents.
“Fuck Gary Bettman and fuck all of the other guys! It’s hockey, I’d play for nothing! This is so stupid, none of this needs to happen!” shouted Patrick.
Evgeni looked at him calmly and patiently despite the fact that they had been having the same conversation with Patrick shouting the exact same things over and over again for nearly two hours. “But it is happening, and you and I can’t change that.”
“I just won’t go!” Patrick choked. “We don’t have to go. There’s no reason that we can’t train by ourselves and stay here in San Jose and everything can stay the same.”
Evgeni, retaining his calmness sighed and said, “Patrick, you are just starting to come into your own as a player, just starting to reach your potential. Now is not time to abandon that for something that isn’t going anywhere. I don’t want to do this either, but you know that this we have to do. Quit thinking you have a choice, because you know that you do not.”
Patrick stared at his feet, his eyebrows arched in expressive anguish and frustration. He did know that he didn’t have a choice. The lockout was happening and he, like all the other players, had to keep playing so that they could keep their skill level high enough to keep their spots when the league restarted.
This was how being in the NHL worked. Everything had to come second to hockey. He, like all the others, was forced to live and die by it. All that crap they all tell the media about wanting to be healthy and have a good and happy family, it was all just bullshit. All of that stuff they had gotten as a product of hockey. It was really a lonely kind of life and it had been eating away at him for years, since he was fourteen. All that had finally changed when he had met Evgeni.
Patrick loved playing hockey. He could truly lose himself and finally escape from his own head every time his skates touched the ice. Actually, it probably isn’t right to say Patrick’s skates touched the ice, no—Patrick’s skates flew across the ice.
Everyone knew that Patrick Marleau could skate. His speed was certainly his greatest attribute as a player—the thing he could do that nobody else could. It was the first thing Evgeni had noticed about him. Now certainly Evgeni hadn’t been alone in noticing the fresh-faced 18 year old kid who carved up the ice his first time out with the big boys, but while the other guys stood around and guffawed and made comments like “Fucking shit, that kid is fast,” Evgeni noticed the subtleties, Evgeni noticed the beauty in Patrick’s skating.
Patrick skated with an ease and a technique that suggested that he had been skating since he came out of the womb. There was absolutely no wasted motion in his strides. No arms flailing, no poorly placed thrust, and he got down so low when he skated that his torso was parallel to the ice. Patrick’s streamlined position displayed his powerful hamstrings and gluts for all the world to see. Even through his hockey pants, the alternating bulges of Patrick’s buttocks that rose up and down like powerful tidal waves suggested a machine-like efficiency in his skating that all started with his powerhouse of an ass. Evgeni still felt the chill running down his spine days after he had first been mesmerized by Patrick’s skating, and he knew that Patrick was going to be a special kind of hockey player.
There was something more still. It was Patrick’s face. While his powerful legs and arms rapidly and powerfully churned, his torso, neck, and head never moved. And the expression on his face was like stone. There was no strain in his look, just a look of concentration and focus. There was also a calm kind of confidence, a self-trust rare for someone so young, but completely lacking the arrogant swagger that was so common in a rising star. And Evgeni knew that Patrick was a special kind of person.
But as soon as young Patty stopped skating the calm, collected confidence disappeared. As compliments and back-slaps cascaded upon him, a nervous look appeared. He responded dumbly with thank yous and darting glances, and the whole uncomfortable look of him was punctuated by his arched eyebrows, which always gave away Patrick’s doubting and unsure demeanor.
It was like the first time they kissed. After weeks of stolen glances and awkward run-ins, Evgeni had finally cornered him alone. Everything about Patrick leading up to the kiss and everything afterward betrayed how scared he was. But in the moment of the kiss itself, his lips had met Evgeni’s strongly, confidently, locking into his with a surety that matched Patrick the confident skater, rather than Patty the bumbling talker.
It was the intensity of Evgeni Nabokov’s stares that had first attracted Patrick to him. They projected a kind of sincerity in Patrick’s mind—a look that just dared you to look away unless you were truly willing to bare yourself to his probing and demanding gaze. Other guys hated it. The whole team seemed to complain of Nabby’s intensity. But Patrick knew why: it was because they couldn’t sincerely meet his gaze. They were two-faced. They said one thing and did the other. They would have your back on the ice, they really were good teammates, but off of it, they could give a shit. They hated Nabby’s stares because they felt like he was judging them—and he really was. Some people say that it is hard sometimes to stare at yourself in the mirror. It’s ten times harder to stare at Nabby. But Patrick felt like he could pass every test. He always met Evgeni’s gaze with confidence and excitement, even if he couldn’t seem to meet anyone else’s.
Patrick hated them. He hated all of them. He knew deep down that they had experienced and continued to experience the loneliness thing the same as he was, but they dealt with it in ways that he just didn’t understand. Everything seemed to be about distractions and instant gratifications, rather than dealing with what was truly going on. Plus, they didn’t give a fuck about who they hurt in the process. It flew in the face of everything that Patrick had been taught to believe.
And yet, he went along with it because he thought that this was just the way it had to be. He was too afraid to be courageous and go against the tide, and although deep down he knew it was his own fault, he hated them for having corrupted him.
There was the one time when Brian Marchment and Vinny Damphousse took him to the bordello in Redwood City. They had hooked him up with a prostitute, and in between their jokes they acted like they were doing him a grand favor. He remembered how he had felt sick to his stomach right after he came; how he had vomited in the trashcan by the bed; and how the prostitute, twice his age, had rubbed his back while he silently sobbed until he was composed enough to face Vinny and Marchie. And that wasn’t the end of it.
Obviously, none of that ever did it for Patrick. Every moment he spent after he stepped off the ice just didn’t seem right. He didn’t have a friend on the team, he didn’t have anyone that would make his loneliness go away—until Nabby kissed him.
At first it was not much more than stolen moments. Patrick was always excited around Nabby, but never really sure of what was actually transpiring. Evgeni, on the other hand, knew that he was dealing with a kid, and a fragile one at that. It had taken him weeks to seduce Patrick because he felt like he was doing something wrong when he did, like he was risking shattering a stained glass window, of breaking something beautiful but fragile.
Yet Nabokov didn’t break Patrick, he made him stronger. Patrick talked at Nabokov constantly. He would relate every small feeling that he had, every minute detail of his existence. The clammy nervous kid became a blathering fool, convinced that Nabby would hang on his every word—and he really did. To Evgeni, Patrick really was better than them all. Patrick was a man of action. He spoke by what he did, he really had no need to talk. People assumed he was passionless, robotic, but this was not the case at all. Patrick was full of passion. The way that they made love was proof enough of that. But even as a hockey player, Patrick Marleau was full of passion. It’s just that he kept it below the surface—it was like his skating. He reserved everything for the task at hand. He didn’t need to whoop or holler, because that was energy taken away from the next faceoff. He didn’t need to bark at other players, because that would be less energy for the next battle along the boards. He didn’t argue with Vinny or Marchie because that would be less of himself that he could give to Evgeni.
Now he was the captain, and now he had to leave Evgeni.
That calm leadership, the deep confidence that Patrick had developed seemed to fly out the window. The even-keel captain that his teammates had come to respect couldn’t calmly deal with the idea of being apart from his Nabby. He felt desperate again. And Evgeni couldn’t calm him down.
“I love you Patrick,” said Nabokov, ever patient, never getting frustrated. “You need to trust that I still will when we get back.”
“I do,” said Patrick, “It’s not that. I just don’t want to do this. Everything was wrong before you. I don’t want to go backwards. Why can’t we do what we want? What is right?”
“It’s not up to us. This is way it goes sometimes,” said Nabby as he held Patrick’s head in his lap, caressing his hair. “We’ll make it because this real.” He bent down and kissed Patrick’s eyes, tasting the salt as well as the anguish in his tears.
“You fixed so much of what was wrong with me,” said Patrick.
“No, no, I did not,” contested Evgeni. “You fixed it. I did not do nothing.”
“You loved me,” said Patrick.
“That was easy,” smiled Nabokov. “And I still do.”
Patrick stared into Evgeni’s steely blue eyes—meeting his probing stare for the thousandth time. He slowly lifted his head up to Nabby’s, urging his lips towards his goalie’s. It was a hard position from which to lift his head, but Nabby’s hands eased his ascension, as they had in the previous years. With Nabby’s help, Patrick reached the top, and he was rewarded with a kiss.
Evgeni had to admit how arousing it was to be kissed like that. The desperation in Patrick’s lips was more than exciting. Nabokov had been with other guys. There were the two years with hotshot Ilya Kovalchuk in Russia—the brash, handsome goal scorer who was as arrogant in bed as he was on the ice. Ilya never really cared. Patrick did, and he never stopped caring. It would have exhausted someone who wasn’t as steadfast as Evgeni. But he wasn’t thinking about that now. He was thinking of how wet Patrick’s lips were when he kissed him and how badly he wanted more of Patrick.
After the passionate kiss, Patrick smiled, and then laughed. “You’re holding me like I’m a baby. A big cry baby.”
Nabby smiled back, and then slyly let his hand run up Patrick’s leg as he then squeezed the center’s powerful and shapely ass. “Not exactly!” laughed the Russian.
But Patrick wasn’t laughing anymore. A serious expression passed across his face. “I want you Nabby. I want you now.” Patrick’s words as well as the longing in his eyes, flipped a switch somewhere deep in Nabokov. He felt all his blood start moving quicker and a growing pressure in his loins. He felt an instinctual, bestial longing and he felt hot enough that he would have been warm in the coldest of Russian winters.
Nabby’s quick, sharp intake of breath alerted Patrick that his goaltender wanted him too. Patrick rolled off of Evgeni’s lap and lay on his side, reaching towards Evgeni’s crotch. Slowly reaching up his leg, determined to reach his crotch. When his hand finally met Evgeni’s dick, he was already rock hard and when he breathed in again sharply, Patrick felt Nabby’s cock flex against his palm, and then it was Patrick’s turn to match Nabby’s quick intake of breath.
While Patrick squeezed and massaged his dick, Evgeni’s breathing quickened, as did his movements. He bent down to pull off his Captain’s shirt, practically tearing it off him, and threw it across the room, subconsciously wanting to get Patrick’s clothes as far away from him as possible. Had he been thinking straight, he would’ve been more deliberate in his motions so as not to disconnect Patrick’s probing hands from his crotch. Luckily for Evgeni, Patrick bent over backwards, literally, in order to ensure that his hands would not leave Nabokov’s hard and flexing penis. He twisted and switched hands in order not to separate himself from his Nabby. Patrick always made those kinds of efforts for Nabokov, and his twisting and focus just intoxicated Evgeni even further.
His lips came down hard on his Captain’s, pushing roughly and wetly against Patrick’s shapely mouth. Without looking, the Russian unzipped and quickly pulled off Patrick’s pants and boxers in the same motion. As soon as the pants were off Patrick’s ankles, Nabokov’s hands flew to Patrick’s crotch, enthusiastically stroking his cock which was every bit as hard as his own. Patrick looked to the ceiling and softly moaned in ecstasy.
Patrick, beginning to lose control, sat up suddenly and pinned Nabby’s arms against the wall by the bed and ripped off his gaudy scarf—nearly strangling him in the process. Nabokov groaned loudly as Patrick pulled his gray, thick sweater over his head. As soon as his chest was bared, Patrick covered his pale chest with kisses. Nabokov, groaning more still, worked around Patrick’s muscular, bare body, to unzip his own pants and wriggle them (with some difficulty) off of himself. Suddenly, Patrick’s hand had returned to Nabokov’s dick and the Russian, groaned, “Patrick,” in a hoarse and husky voice.
Evgeni didn’t wait long to enjoy Patrick’s firm and surprisingly soft hands. He aggressively shoved Marleau down on the bed and fell down on top of him. But Evgeni did not cover Patrick’s chest with kisses. Instead, he roughly placed his hands on Patrick’s hips and then used the leverage to force his head lower to line up with Patrick’s crotch.
Without hesitating, Evgeni brought his mouth down on Patrick’s throbbing cock. His lips quickly tightened around Patrick, with a familiarity only born from experience. He began to bob up and down while vigorously sucking his lover’s dick. He knew how Patrick liked it: wet and hard, lots of pressure.
Evgeni, despite his aggressive nature, was generally more artful when performing a blowjob on Patrick. But this time, he began with a fast rhythm, going up and down seeming desperate to make Patrick come as soon as possible. Patrick’s hands grabbed at Nabby’s tangled, long, thick hair, and he moaned louder still, but still a soft moan compared to those of his goaltender. Nabokov began using his hand to stroke the last couple inches that weren’t engulfed by his moist, hot mouth. He occasionally twisted his head slightly side-to-side as he continued blowing Patrick, but only enough to make Patrick moan for more.
Only thirty seconds in, Patrick pulled Nabokov’s head up off of his dick, using his hair as handles, like one would grab at a naughty child. Nabokov, breathing huskily, flashed him a look of slight irritation, as if to say, “How dare you stop me in the middle of performing on you?” But Nabby’s look quickly returned to one of ardent desire as Patrick softly whispered, “Make love to me.”
Evgeni grunted his approval and his hands grabbed Patrick roughly by the hips, in order to turn him over, but Patrick’s hands roughly grabbed Nabokov’s wrists, restraining him from doing so. Their eyes locked and Patrick’s look seemed paradoxically to be one of both lustful desire and an innocence that logically should have passed away long ago.
“No, I want to see you. I want to watch you,” whispered Patrick almost inaudibly. Nabokov grunted loudly and mumbled something in Russian that Patrick did not understand. Patrick afforded himself a quick smile, content that he had pushed Nabby to the point where speaking English was no longer possible, as he pulled his knees to his chest, exposing himself completely to Nabokov.
Despite all of Nabokov’s excitement, despite his bestial longing and animal like sounds and motions, he entered Patrick slowly and gently. Patrick moaned quietly and closed his eyes as he felt Evgeni’s dick enter deep inside of him. His lips remained slightly open as Nabokov’s hands replaced his own at the back of his knees, freeing Patrick’s hands for other things.
Despite all of Evgeni’s gentleness in entering Patrick’s sublime ass, he lost all control once fully inside. Grunting roughly, he moved inside of Patrick hard and fast. After the first few seconds of having his eyes locked on Patrick’s ass and the fabulous rippling that his thrusting was creating, he looked back up at the Captain. Patrick’s eyes were still closed and he was stroking himself, moaning very softly all the while. Watching Patrick masturbate only excited Evgeni even more, and his rhythm and force increased as the bed began to shake.
Patrick, hearing the volume of Nabokov’s groans continue to grow and seeming to feel Nabokov’s gaze piercing his closed eyes, opened his eyes to have them met by another fierce Russian stare.
This was too much for Patrick. He had already been close after Nabby’s brief, but spectacular blowjob, but hearing Nabbby’s loud grunting and having Nabby stare at him like that made him start to come immediately.
It was that stare that Patrick loved so much: the stare that gave him confidence because Patrick knew he passed Nabby’s tests; the stare that communicated that he would never give up on Patrick; the stare that said “I don’t care about anybody, but you”; the stare that said “I’ll fight for you; the stare that said “I’m yours”; the stare that said “I love you.”
But Patrick wasn’t thinking about any of that. Patrick wasn’t thinking about anything. Patrick was just feeling how good Nabby felt inside of him, and how good his own rigid dick felt. He furiously stroked himself as he felt all his muscles tighten as he climaxed.
Evgeni knew that this was not going to last much longer. Watching Patrick masturbate had seemed to catapult him towards the finish. There was no way this was going to last more than a couple more minutes, but when Nabokov felt Patrick’s ass tighten around him, and saw the semen erupt from Patrick’s dick, stream after streaming shooting up onto Patrick’s hairy stomach, Evgeni, too, started to come.
Yelling loudly, Nabokov tightened inside of Patrick, and as his own dick became as hard as a goal post, he gripped the back of Patrick’s knees roughly, holding onto them for the duration of his long and pleasurable orgasm. After a few extra thrusts after his dick had relaxed, Nabokov grunted in exhaustion. His eyes remained locked on Patrick’s, and they both breathed heavily.
They stayed in that same position for several minutes, neither being able to think straight enough to move. Eventually, Patrick tilted his head in the direction of the bedside table. Nabokov, realizing what Patrick wanted, grabbed the roll of toilet paper, and unraveled several sheets. Still breathing heavily, Evgeni slowly and gently pulled out of Patrick and then helped him clean up both of their orgasms—not exactly and easy or speedy task.
As soon as they were done, Nabokov collapsed down onto his back, deftly snaking his arm under Patrick’s neck and rolled the younger man’s head onto his chest. Patrick responded on cue not solely by laying his arm across Nabby’s chest and linking his hand with Nabby’s, but also by swinging one of his legs across Nabby’s hips—completing their tight embrace.
They lay like that without speaking for several moments. Then Nabokov said, “We can do this Patrick, I know we can.” Tears welled up in Patrick’s eyes, but this time his gaze remained controlled, determined. The courage, determination, and confidence had returned to Patrick’s eyes. Evgeni saw it too—it was the same look as Patrick had when he was flying up and down the ice.
“I know,” said Patrick.
And then, at the exact same time, they both said, “I love you.”
They both laughed—Nabokov with his loud, Russian cackling and Patrick in his mild-mannered chuckling.
Their eyes locked again and they both, intentionally this time, simultaneously said, “I love you, too.”
They shared a long and gentle kiss and squeezed each other even tighter.
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